By Peter W. Marty
Elements of the Lord’s day
Passing the peace It involves taking honest interest in eyes, life of one we’re greeting
A
seminary classmate of mine used to tell the story of a regular guest in her New York City church. Joe showed up every week. Like any number of other street people who found their way into Sunday worship there, Joe had an interesting background. He was homeless for as long as anyone could remember. Mental illness had turned his mind into a labyrinth of confusion. His hygiene was miserable. But Joe had a winsome gap-in-the-teeth smile, and he loved coming to worship. Joe’s favorite part of the liturgy was the passing of the peace. But it quickly became the least favorite part for some of the women. He made a practice of beelining his way toward any young single woman he could find in the pews. Then he would lunge at her, angling to plant a big juicy kiss smack on her lips. This wasn’t exactly what early Christian bishops had in mind when the “kiss of peace” was formulated in the church’s liturgy. It’s hard to picture that Paul had a heat-seeking missile of romantic love in mind when he admonished Christians in Rome to “greet one another with a holy kiss.” Still, Joe knew an opportunity when he saw one. It just happened to be the wrong opportunity. Last I heard, Joe’s pastor was trying out etiquette sessions with his zealous kisser of 54th Street. Your church has its own traditions for exchanging Christ’s peace. Those
practices likely have more to do with the gregarious or reticent personalities of your people than they do with actual scriptural accounts. Your pastor’s own warmth or coolness may shape the whole moment. A raised eyebrow is about the extent of interaction in some British churches. In parts of Ghana, worshipers wave hankies during the peace, much like Pittsburgh Steeler fans wave towels after a touchdown. You may have the habit of everybody warmly embracing everyone else in your church—a five-minute exercise of joy. Or perhaps a grunt and minor head nod is about all your congregation can handle.
Recently I visited a church where every pew had a mounted hand-sanitizing
bottle for every three seats. I couldn’t find any action noted in the bulletin, but right after the prayers, in synchronized fashion, the whole congregation sud- denly reached for a spritz. The next thing I knew, people were furiously rubbing their hands together as if trying to build a fire. A polite and fireless passing of the peace ensued. Early Christian writings indicate that the exchange of peace was an oppor- tunity for worshipers to reconcile when they had a quarrel. As a takeoff on Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:23-24, liturgical people situated the peace before the offertory. Without reconciliation, one’s gift might prove unacceptable. Most modern worshipers don’t have obvious quarrels to dislodge with
people who sit nearby. So they tuck in extra words around the expression peace be with you. They mention how good it is to see Brianna home from college, or what a lovely sweater they see you wearing. These little addi- tions make liturgical police nervous. Yet they also happen to be natural human interactions. They build community.
At heart, the passing of the peace involves a personal desire to connect what- Eighth in a series of 10
ever is healthy and hopeful in any one of us with what- ever might be healthy and hopeful in the person we’re greeting. Believing that Christ Jesus gives us a peace that can only be known as wholeness, we want that wholeness for one another. Ideally, it involves tak- ing honest interest in the eyes and life of the one we’re greeting, no matter how momentary the connection. I have a pastoral friend in the Baptist
tradition who established a delightful liturgical practice in his congregation. When passing the peace, worshipers enjoy a weekly ritual. Instead of saying, “Peace be with you,” worshipers turn to one another and say: “I love you. And there is nothing you can do about it.” Al’s congregation covers a lot of
territory in those 12 words. Reconcili- ation. Unconditional love. Wholeness. Peace. It’s all in that greeting. So is laughter and sincerity, both of which, I suspect, Jesus might have had in mind when he said to his followers, “My peace I give to you.”
Marty is a pastor of St. Paul Lutheran Church, Davenport, Iowa, and a regular columnist for The Lutheran.
At heart, the passing of the peace involves a personal desire to connect whatever is healthy and hopeful in any one of us with whatever might be healthy and hopeful in the person we’re greeting.
February 2013 3
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