I’ve always
liked the Sign of Peace. As a child, it was my favorite part of our all-school
liturgies. The Sign of Peace provided an excuse to move around a little — to
stretch across pews and vigorously shake hands with as many classmates as I
could before the teacher reined us in for the Lamb of God. In college, when I
attended daily Mass at Marquette University’s tiny Joan of Arc Chapel, the Sign
of Peace was a chance to hug a friend who had an exam the next day or a
roommate whose mom was ill.
It wasn’t
until I was married, however, and my husband, Bill, and I had the Big Camping
Fight, that I started integrating the Sign of Peace into my daily life.
I don’t
remember exactly how the Big Camping Fight started. It was late on a Friday
night, and we were scheduled to leave for a camping trip early the next
morning. Bill couldn’t find the poles for the tent, I had forgotten to buy
batteries for the flashlights, and Jacob, our toddler, had ripped into our food
bag like a hungry baby raccoon. There were marshmallows everywhere. As it got
later, more and more things went wrong and Bill and I each thought the other
was at fault. We both yelled. I cried. And by the time we put Jacob to bed and
started tying our duffle bags onto the roof of the car, we weren’t speaking at
all.
We
packed in silence for at least an hour. I was so upset I couldn’t think of
anything to say. While I knew that I should say I was sorry, I felt that Bill
should apologize first, because while I hadn’t behaved perfectly, he was more
in the wrong. The longer we went without talking, though, the bigger the gulf
between us seemed. By the time my anger had cooled enough for me to begin
thinking of apologizing first, the words didn’t seem large enough to cover an
entire evening ruined.
“Peace
be with you,” is what I finally said, extending my hand to Bill. He looked
surprised, but returned my handshake with an embrace.
“Peace,”
he said. “I’m sorry.”
In the years since that night, we’ve used the Sign
of Peace in a similar way a handful of times. Sometimes Bill has initiated it,
sometimes I have, but regardless of who has been the first to extend the hand,
our Signs of Peace in the kitchen, the family room and the garage have brought
more meaning to our Signs of Peace in church.
What I’ve
discovered about the Sign of Peace is that it offers more to the other person
than does a simple apology. Peace, as given by Christ, is a gift. An offer of
Peace does not so much seek to retract angry words as it seeks to establish
something new and better. A Sign of Peace, genuinely given, brings Christ into
a situation. While smaller disagreements warrant a quick apology and equally
quick forgiveness, larger or more hurtful arguments should remind us that we have,
at least momentarily, moved away from God’s love. And as we realize that we
have separated ourselves from God, we understand that we must rebuild. Jesus’
first words to his disciples after his crucifixion and resurrection were “Peace
be with you.” Jesus’ starting point can be our own.
In the
liturgy, the prayer that directly precedes the Sign of Peace asks Jesus to
"look not on our sins, but on the faith of your church and grant us the
peace and unity of your kingdom where you live for ever and ever.”
Essentially,
in this prayer, we’re asking Jesus to look past our sins, to focus on our good
parts — our faith — and to give us a slice of heaven on Earth. It’s a gutsy request. But it’s a request that
also requires action on the part of the congregation. After the prayer, the
presider says, “Let us offer each other the Sign of Peace.”
With that
sentence, our bold prayer for the peace and unity of Christ’s kingdom is tied
inextricably with our own offering of peace to one another.
And so we
turn to our neighbors and offer peace, believing that somehow, Christ is
present in these handshakes and hugs. We offer each other peace believing that
the kingdom has already begun. A kingdom not just of stained glass and
songbooks and statues, but also of tents and poles and spilled marshmallows.
Peace.
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