Homilies & Thoughts

There is a kind of noise that does not merely fill a room. It takes possession of it. Leave a television running long enough, keep the phone close enough, let the commentary pour in day after day, and the soul begins to change. The noise takes root. What was once a stranger begins to sound familiar, it begins to sound like the truth.

That is the danger Jesus calls out on this Good Shepherd Sunday. The stranger does not always sound strange at first. He may sound like courage itself. But his voice carries a hidden deception. It pulls the sheep away from the gate and into places where the heart grows suspicious and hardens.

Several years ago, when I bought a car, I did everything carefully. I researched the options, compared features, went on test drives, talked to other owners, and slowly narrowed it down until I found exactly what I wanted. Then I bought it, drove it home, and before long I had the same thought everyone eventually has: it was good, but something was missing. There was some feature I wished it had, some improvement I could already imagine.

A room can be crowded and still feel empty. The disciples are together, but the room feels hollow. The doors are locked and the news of the resurrection has not yet settled their hearts. They are afraid, but something deeper is wrong. They have stepped back from the very work for which the Lord chose them, and so they have stepped away from themselves.

That is why the peace of Christ does not come as a vague comfort. It comes as a summons. He enters the room they sealed off in fear and speaks the words they most need to hear: “Peace be with you.” Then he does more than calm them. He shows them his wounded body. He sends them as the Father sent him. He breathes his Spirit upon them. He entrusts them with the work of mercy and reconciliation. Peace arrives together with mission.