‘Peter and Paul’, by Carlo Crivelli.
“Put your sword back into its sheath.”
Jesus delivers this sharp reprimand in the Good News according to John, just after his arrest. He is in trouble — big trouble. Peter, in his anxiety, in his panic, had drawn his sword and cut off the ear of a slave. John the evangelist goes to the trouble of telling us the slave’s name: Malchus. The word ‘malchus’ finds its origin in the Hebrew root melech, which means ‘king’ or ‘ruler’. Put it all together: we are meant to understand that Peter, acting in desperation, is trying to slay the powers of this world. He is trying to win a human political battle. He is returning violence for violence.
No. “Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus says. We do not win that way. We do not even fight that way. We do not carry weapons on our mission.
This is a hard teaching. Who among us does not want to rise up and overcome the powers of this world? Isn’t that what resistance inherently is? These powers destroy human beings, they separate human families, they foment division and war, and they seem almost intentionally to be rendering the planet uninhabitable for the human race, and countless other living species. They seem to be un-creating the world. If we could only draw a sword and cut off the ear, as it were, of the ruler of this world! If only we could score a strong win, and do that for the good side.
But look again at what happens when Peter attempts this. He harms not the king, but a slave. He damages one of the least powerful people in the detachment of soldiers. If we respond to violence with violence, we only harm those who are most vulnerable, and they are not the ones causing all this destruction. The slave Malchus is every helpless refugee, every immigrant with a target on their back, every civil servant in government trying to make life a little bit better for their fellow citizens, every person along the gender spectrum whose identity has been judged either inferior or nonexistent.
These innocents will suffer if we retaliate. And so, when the powers come for us or for those we love, when they attack, when they destroy, we must not respond in kind. Put your sword back into its sheath.
But it is vital that we understand what, then, we can do.
I want to discover what we can do by spending some time with one of the saints, one of the big ones, one who is deeply familiar to us. Given all we know from Jesus about the problem with swords, it is curious that much of the iconography of our patron saint, Paul of Tarsus, pictures him holding not an olive branch like Blessed Noah, not a lily like Saint Joseph, not a jar of ointment like Mary of Bethany: no, Paul is holding a sword. And that sword is clearly not in its sheath. Paul brandishes it, or at the very least holds it proudly.
But there is a straightforward explanation: Paul was killed by a sword; he was beheaded; and like all martyrs, he holds or stands near the instrument of his own death. St. Stephen sometimes has stones on his icon, aloft around his head. St. Lawrence holds a flaming grill. (Legend says when they grilled him, Lawrence taunted his executioners by saying, “You can turn me over, I’m done on this side.”) St. Lucy, in her icon, presents the viewer with two eyes on a plate, because legend says her eyes were gouged out. This seems like a strange (and more than a little grotesque) form of Christian heraldry. If we Christians had coats of arms, they would boast the instruments of violence that defeated us.
But I confess I don’t want to limit our imaginations when we reflect on the sword of Saint Paul. I don’t want to domesticate or neutralize his sword. Yes, he was a nonviolent apostle who willingly went to his own death in his proclamation of a new way of being, a new realm of peace and justice, that continually is dawning on the face of this weary earth. He lived as a peacemaker and only died by the sword. But I confess: I want him to brandish the sword that claimed his life. I want Paul to take his sword out of its sheath.
But I don’t mean this literally. I don’t mean it violently. And I am being exceedingly careful here. I am not being light or funny: I do not, I will not, I will never condone violence for the sake of our faith. We are watching helplessly while violent insurrectionists are set free, and their victims, recovering from traumatic brain injuries, are forced to hire personal security services as they retreat into their homes. Worse, many of the enemies of public safety are absurdly, ridiculously taking up Christianity as their rationale. If we are following Jesus Christ, we do not behave that way. We do not take up arms as attackers, as aggressors, as warriors in pursuit of a self-righteous cause.
And Paul, sword firmly in hand, would not do this. Paul does not do this. When Paul brandishes his sword, this dreadful weapon takes the shape of a pen: his words sound down the ages, calling people into mission, forging people into faith communities, slicing away dangerous doctrine, puncturing the power of evil, stirring and sending people into the work of evangelism — the work of proclaiming the Good News.
Now, the word evangelism: this is something of a trigger word for many of us, so please understand me. To be an evangelist is not automatically to be a Christian conservative, let alone a hostile or even violent person of faith. It simply means that we proclaim the Good News.
And the Good News is this: Christ has trampled death by death, and to those in the grave bestowed life. Christ has trampled death by death, and to those in the grave bestowed life. Christ tramples death not by killing, but by submitting to death himself. Christ aligns himself with the victims of injustice, and gives them a future, by becoming a victim of injustice himself. Christ responds to the outrageous evil run amok in the world by drawing alongside us as we turn our faces into that storm. And when God in Jesus does this, when God in Jesus joins us in our mission, in our predicament, in our crisis, in our hour of extreme need, we all go down together.
But then, by the power of the Risen One, we rise up. A sword is a deadly weapon, but in the hand of the risen Christ, in the hand of his apostle Paul, in the hands of all of us who gather here, supported by the prayers of Saint Paul himself, our sword pierces death itself. Our sword cuts away the brambles and the tangled vines of ignorance, indolence, and anxiety, opening up a way forward into a resurrected future.
And here is what that looks like, right here and right now.
BJ and Barbara are but two of several Neighborhood Action missioners who literally save the lives of our friends who suffer housing insecurity.
Adam and Hazel and Damian are but three of nearly two dozen youth and children who evangelize us with their insights, their enthusiasm, their critiques, their hearts that remain broken open despite all that is roiling in the world.
Laura and Laura and Laura — the three Lauras — are but three of many dozens of missioners who tend to our newcomers, sweep our sidewalks, train our servers, steward our finances, and nurture this mission base as we all, by God’s power, transform this neighborhood.
This past week, the Episcopal Church has been stirred to action by a bishop who is wise as a serpent yet innocent as a dove. The Right Reverend Mariann Edgar Budde, Bishop of Washington, brandished Paul’s sword in an appeal for mercy, speaking directly to some of the human world leaders who hold countless lives in their hands. Bishop Budde rightly inspires us to enter the fray, following her example of courageous truth-telling on behalf of the last and least. This is good.
But we also can see that same courage here, today, in this room. We receive that same courage here, today, at this Table. We will not violently overthrow the powers and principalities that cause great suffering worldwide. We enter into that suffering ourselves, like sheep in the midst of wolves, and, in company with all who suffer and with all in peril, we die with Christ.
And then we rise with him. Even if it takes all of human history, we participate in the triumph of good over evil, of wisdom over ignorance, of life over death. Do you find this hard to believe? Then look again at our companions. Consider the witness of their lives: BJ and Barbara and Adam and Hazel and Damian and Laura and Laura and Laura, and so many more. We will hear about several more at our annual meeting today. Look at them and consider their witness, and then hear and heed the call of the Risen One, who appeared in dreadful splendor to Saint Paul, and steadied his hand to hold the sword of righteousness. Hear the Risen One say this to Paul, to me, to you:
“Get up and stand on your feet… I am sending you to open the eyes of the people so that they may turn from darkness to light.”
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Preached on the Feast of the Conversion of St. Paul (transferred), January 26, 2025, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Acts 26:9-21
Psalm 67
Galatians 1:11-24
Matthew 10:16-22