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07 min reading in—Sermons
A sermon on the peace Christ gives to ordinary, inadequate people — and the commission that follows.
Delivered at Immanuel Church, Tel Aviv — April 26, 2025
Readings: John 20:19–31
שלום עליכם!
These are the first words Jesus says to his frightened followers after his resurrection. His disciples, eleven minus Thomas, are hiding away in the upper room, where all twelve were present less than a week ago to hear "This is my body."
A lot has happened since the disciples were in that upper room earlier in the week:
Then, some women told them all that they had seen Jesus alive again. Peter saw the empty tomb, and finally, Cleopas and his companion rushed in to say they had met Jesus on the road to Emmaus.
And now, back in this upper room these frightened, confused followers of Christ hear the words שלום עליכם, Peace be with you. It must have felt overwhelming!
These words aren't Jesus just saying "hello"; these words fulfil a promise Jesus had whispered to his disciples only four nights earlier:
"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you… Do not let your hearts be troubled."
The peace Jesus gives to his disciples is not the tranquillity of always having safe circumstances: Jerusalem is still dangerous, and Pilate and the Sanhedrin are still hunting for them.
But instead, it's the peace, the shalom that comes from having already broken the spine of humanity's oldest enemy, Death:
You may know the wonderful quote from one of St John Chrysostom's sermons,
"Christ is risen, and death is overthrown! Christ is risen, and life reigns!"
But if death itself has actually been defeated, what power do lesser threats truly hold for each of us here this morning?
The room where the disciples are sitting could be described as a catalogue of human inadequacy — fishermen, a former tax collector, men who fled at the critical hour, two dusty travellers fresh from Emmaus, and likely some of the women who first saw that the tomb was empty, and all of these people weren't powerful, but they were hiding away in this room scared and frustrated. Weeks later, the Sanhedrin will go on and publicly dismiss this crew as "unschooled, ordinary men," yet even the council had to admit: "they had been with Jesus."
So what makes them special? Their only credential is Jesus himself. Jesus is the One who chose them. This collection of people will later become known as the ἐκκλησία, the Church.
And to that assembly, Jesus gives three things: peace, a commission, and the Holy Spirit.
The time has passed, and in our turn, Jesus called us to join his ἐκκλησία.
The Church that Jesus founded is a new kind of community. And it's built on different foundations than any other community in our city. Here in Tel Aviv, this reality stands out quite well. It's not built on human foundations. It's built on Christ. Where else in this city can you walk in, enjoy a coffee or a snack, and feel safe just as you are? It's a space without demands, welcoming everyone coming in good faith.
For many of us who grew up in Christian cultures, we might take this for granted. But in our context, this sacred space becomes something extraordinary — a place where we meet our brothers and sisters in Christ. It's a place where we meet our family. It's a home. Our church is the one room where everyone can breathe the words that Jesus still speaks:
"Peace be with you."
Even today, Jesus proclaims peace over the fearful, footsore, and the penniless, over men and women alike in his church. Our sole qualification for receiving this peace, like it was for those disciples back then, is that Jesus has called each one of us. This is both our blessing and our responsibility. Jesus has given us his peace to go out into the world and to offer God's peace to everyone we meet, by inviting them to come into his new community of peace, which is his church.
This is what Jesus said to his very first disciples:
"As the Father has sent me, I am sending you."
Jesus didn't merely comfort his frightened disciples with peace — he immediately gave them purpose and a commission. They are "to go and tell the people about this new life." They are to proclaim the peace that only a risen Lord can give, and they are not to go alone.
Before his crucifixion, Jesus promised his disciples, "I will not leave you as orphans" and spoke of sending the Comforter. This giving of the Holy Spirit fulfils that promise — Jesus didn't just commission them to go and then leave them to do it all by themselves but instead he equipped them with his very presence.
When we became part of Christ's church, we have inherited both that same mission and that same promise. The words Jesus spoke that evening are for us: "As the Father has sent me, I am sending you."
Think about this: the same authority that sent the Son into the world now sends us. The same purpose that guided Jesus — to seek and save the lost, to proclaim good news to the poor, to set the captives free — now guides us.
The same Father who sent his Son now sends us through the Son.
But how can ordinary people like us fulfil such an extraordinary calling? The same way those first disciples did — not through our strength or wisdom, but through the gift that Jesus gave immediately after commissioning them, His holy Spirit.
Have you experienced the presence of God's Holy Spirit in your own life? The Holy Spirit comes as a gift in the purest sense — not as a reward for courage or faithfulness (which had faltered) but as freely given grace. Jesus doesn't list prerequisites or demand qualifications. He simply breathes on them and says, "Receive." This gift requires no conditions, just the willingness to accept it.
In that moment, Jesus reverses the disciples' spiritual poverty. They have nothing to offer except their need, precisely where his gift meets them. The Spirit comes not because they are worthy, but because Jesus is generous.
The disciples were fearful; the Holy Spirit made them courageous. They lacked understanding; the Spirit enlightened them. This pattern continues with us today — the Spirit completes us precisely where we fall short. As Paul discovered, God's power is "made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9).
Our inadequacies become the very spaces where God's Spirit works most visibly.
As many of you know, I'm looking for a new job. I hate this process. I opened LinkedIn and saw that some companies boast of hiring only "the top 1% of engineers" or "the best of the best."
This got me thinking about our human tendency to measure worth by ability. Society tells us that everyone must be "good at something," which simply isn't true. Some people struggle with nearly everything they attempt. Others may excel in areas the world values, but these supposed talents are merely temporary conditions, not intrinsic qualities.
The truth is, none of us created whatever abilities we might temporarily possess. Any skill we have today could be gone tomorrow through injury, illness, or simply the passage of time. As the apostle Paul reminds us: "What do you have that you did not receive?" (1 Corinthians 4:7)
If you've seen my car, you understand that I'm not the best driver, yet I'm the right person to drive my son to school. I require the Holy Spirit even when dealing with a knife at home — I lack precision with my hands.
My prayers are quite primitive. I need the Holy Spirit when cutting vegetables, driving my son, and working with a computer. I must admit I need the Holy Spirit every moment of my life.
I don't trust myself in anything, but I trust the Lord and His promise.
This is the beautiful paradox of Christian life: we're most useful to God when we recognise our complete uselessness apart from Him. Our culture's obsession with excellence and achievement directly contradicts the economy of God's kingdom. The world says, "Discover your talent and leverage it." God says, "Recognise your emptiness and let me fill it."
Our omnipotent God could accomplish anything without us — He spoke the universe into existence without assistance. Yet He chooses to work through our inadequacies and limitations, making us co-workers in His kingdom precisely when we acknowledge that we bring nothing of our own to the table.
This brings us to perhaps Jesus's most astonishing gift in that upper room — the authority to forgive sins.
"If you forgive anyone's sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven."
At first glance, this seems impossible. Who are we to forgive sins? Only God can do that. Yet Jesus entrusts this proclamation to imperfect messengers like us.
The key is recognizing that we don't generate forgiveness; we announce it. The forgiveness itself was accomplished at the cross when Jesus said, "It is finished." What we carry is the responsibility to proclaim this truth that has already been won.
Through the Holy Spirit, we become living temples where God's wisdom about both forgiveness and judgment can be expressed. This is both a profound gift and a sobering responsibility.
For each of us, there will be moments when the Holy Spirit will ask us to speak difficult truths — sometimes to those we love, sometimes to those in positions of power. The hardest application comes when we look in the mirror. Sometimes we must learn to forgive ourselves when shame binds us to failures Christ has already covered. Other times, we must withhold easy self-forgiveness when genuine repentance hasn't taken root. Both require discernment that only the Spirit can provide.
What qualifies us for this ministry? Nothing except that Christ has called us and breathed His Spirit upon us. Our inadequacies don't disqualify us — they create the spaces where His power is perfected.
So today, as we carry Christ's forgiveness into a world desperate for reconciliation, remember that we go with His peace. Not a shallow tranquillity dependent on circumstances, but the deep שלום of knowing that death itself has been defeated. In our weakness, His power. In our inadequacy, His sufficiency. In our fear, His peace.
Peace be with you. !עליכם שלום
Amen.
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