Peace to This House

Speaker: Met. John Gregory

Occasion: The Fourth Sunday in Metanoia

Readings: Isaiah 66:10–16; Psalm 66; Galatians 6:1–18; Luke 10:1–10 (GNT)

Opening

“Whenever you go into a house, first say, ‘Peace be with this house.’” (Luke 10:5, GNT)

Two weeks ago, we witnessed yet another mass shooting. Last week, Supreme Court rulings left vulnerable communities uncertain about their rights and protections. And just days ago, Congress advanced the so-called "Big Beautiful Bill" a sweeping piece of legislation that, beneath patriotic rhetoric and promises of prosperity, guts funding for Medicaid, imposes new work requirements on SNAP, slashes housing aid, and strips support for green energy and vulnerable populations.

What are we to do with all this? What are we to say in the face of such sustained harm, much of it dressed in respectability and legality?

Some of us weep. Some of us rage. Some of us go numb.

If these events have left us heartbroken and weary, imagine what God must feel. God, who has entrusted creation and one another to our care. God, who calls Jerusalem a mother nursing her children, who promises comfort, and who sees justice not as punishment but as restoration.

Today, the Creator and the created stand together, grieving. And that grief points to something deeper: a spiritual and moral fracture. Not just in our policies, but in our hearts.

The Heart of the Matter

I no longer see the violence in our society as problems to be fixed or policies to be adjusted—though those things matter. I see them as symptoms. Symptoms of a deeper condition: a human heart at war.

Whether it shows up as nationalism, discrimination, violence against LGBTQ+ persons, or political rhetoric that divides rather than unites, what we see around us is the result of internal conflict that has spilled outward. Jesus knew this. That’s why He never told us to go out and fix people. He sent us to offer peace.

In Luke 10, Jesus sends out seventy-two disciples with no purse, no bag, no sandals. No security. They are told to enter homes and offer only one thing: Peace.

But peace is not weakness. It is not avoidance. It is not silence. Peace is a spiritual discipline that demands more courage than control. It begins not between two people, but within one heart.

Jesus didn't say, “Fix this town.” He said, “Say peace.” That’s our first word. Not judgment.

Not critique. Not superiority. Peace.

This is why every Divine Liturgy begins with the words, “In peace let us pray to the Lord.” It is the foundational posture of our worship, not just toward God but toward one another.

How might the world be different if every home, every decision, every policy began with that same invocation of peace?

What Does a Heart at Peace Look Like?

Paul says in Galatians 6:2, “Help carry one another's burdens, and in this way you will obey the law of Christ.” (GNT)

So let’s ask: what does peace actually look like?

It looks like a person who sees their neighbor not as a label, a threat, or a competitor, but as someone made in God’s image.

It looks like someone who doesn’t need the other side to lose in order to feel safe.

It looks like choosing mercy over judgment. Forgiveness over revenge. Solidarity over suspicion.

And peace looks like saying NO to laws that shift the burden from the powerful to the powerless. The so-called Big Beautiful Bill is not a policy of peace. It is a declaration of indifference. It is a hardening of the heart against those who are sick, poor, or struggling.

Let’s linger here for a moment.

This bill, passed with fanfare and marketed as progress, disproportionately affects those who are already struggling to stay afloat. People with disabilities. Immigrants. Seniors. Single parents. Rural families. It moves resources away from those in need and places additional barriers between them and the help they depend on.

It’s legislation crafted not from a heart at peace, but a heart at war, a heart that sees the vulnerable as expendable, the poor as lazy, and the sick as burdens.

How does this square with Isaiah 66:13, where God says, “I will comfort you in Jerusalem, as a mother comforts her child”? (GNT) Or with Psalm 66:9, “He has kept us alive and has not allowed us to fall”? (GNT)

God’s justice is not retributive. It is restorative.

Jesus didn’t say, “Change the system before you speak peace.” He said, “Speak peace, and live peace, and let that disrupt the system.” We are called to offer peace not as an abstract idea but as a tangible, embodied practice.

And so, when we chant in the Great Litany: “For the peace of the whole world, the good estate of the holy churches of God, and the union of all, let us pray to the Lord” - we are not uttering ancient words for tradition’s sake. We are forming our hearts to live differently.

Living the Peace of Christ

The peace Jesus speaks of is not conditional. It's not something you offer only to people who vote like you, worship like you, or live like you. “If a peace-loving person lives there, let your greeting of peace remain on that person; if not, take back your greeting of peace.” (Luke 10:6, GNT)

Either way, Jesus says, the Kingdom of God has come near.

So how do we do that in our world today?

• We begin by listening. Deep, courageous, active listening to people who are not like us.

• We challenge unjust policies not only in the ballot box but in our conversations, in our pulpits, and at our tables.

• We embody peace in our homes, especially in moments of conflict. Do our children and partners experience us as peaceful people?

• We support the vulnerable not just with charity but with advocacy, bearing their burdens alongside them.

  
  

And when we come to the Anaphora, the central prayer of the Eucharist, we hear again the phrase: “Offering you, your own, on behalf of and for all people.” That is not poetic flourish. It is a call to sacrificial solidarity. What would it mean if our daily lives echoed those same words?

Peace as a Way of Being

All of this leads to one central truth: peace is not just something we do. It is who we are called to be.

Jesus tells us to go with no purse, no bag, no sandals. In other words, go unencumbered.

Go unarmed. Go unclenched.

What baggage do you carry that prevents peace?

• Is it fear of people who are different?

• Is it pride in always being right?

• Is it exhaustion that turns into cynicism?

• Is it unresolved pain that shows up as control?

To be people of peace, we must unlearn our reflexes of suspicion, self-preservation, and entitlement. We must put down our emotional weapons.

And when the liturgy draws to a close, we hear the deacon proclaim: “Let us go in peace.” That is not a dismissal. It is a commissioning. A reminder that the peace we’ve received in Christ must now be carried into the world.

Practical Invitation

Let’s return to Galatians: “So let us not become tired of doing good; for if we do not give up, the time will come when we will reap the harvest.” (Galatians 6:9, GNT)

We may be tired. But we are not defeated.

We may be grieving. But we are not powerless.

We may not change Congress today. But we can speak peace into our own homes, our workplaces, our parish, and our streets.

We can:

• Offer dignity to someone the world has overlooked.

• Refuse to echo language of cruelty or mockery.

• Write a letter. Make a call. Vote with our conscience.

• Serve a meal. Share a ride. Lend an ear.

• And above all, pray with sincerity: “Peace be with this house.” (Luke 10:5, GNT)

Closing Blessing

In a world that legislates hardship and calls it virtue,

In a time when justice is filtered through what is politically convenient,

In a culture that trains us to respond to threat with anger,

The Gospel calls us to walk a different path.

Let us be those who speak peace, even when it's risky. Let us be those who bear burdens, not shift them. Let us be those whose hearts are open, not closed.

Because when you say, “Peace be with this house,” you’re not just greeting someone.

You’re declaring the nearness of God.

And when you declare peace, you do more than imagine the Kingdom. You reveal it.

Let us depart in peace.

Amen.