August 7, 2005

On Peace Sunday
Commemorating the 60th anniversary of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Isaiah 2:2-4, Matthew 5:43-45, Romans 12:14-21

In praying and preparing to offer a message this Peace Sunday, I found myself surrounded by ghosts. The haunting began with the thousands who died at the hands of my own nation at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August, 1945. They were quickly joined by the “hibakusha” or “explosion-affected persons,” the men, women and children who survived the initial days and weeks but faced lifelong radiation sickness, burns, and cancers. On this solemn anniversary, these irradiated spirits haunted my thoughts.

But they were not the only ghosts. Close behind came the ghosts of Pearl Harbor, Iwo Jima, Bataan, equally demanding justice and recognition. Some of those soldier and sailor ghosts are familiar to me—the faces of my grandfathers, whose military careers took them into Germany and Guadalcanal, Okinawa and the occupying armies. Then came more spirits from that same era: Jews of the Holocaust, the fire-bombed people of Dresden, Tokyo and London, massacred Russians and Chinese and Koreans. The ghosts were everywhere. I sat with them and wondered: what do I say to you? How do I honor your pain? How do I hold all the complexity of guilt and responsibility in this many-sided war?

Before I could hear an answer, more ghosts overtook me. Newly-dead Londoners, victims of terrorism. 29 dead U.S. military personnel in Iraq this week. Hundreds of Iraqi men, women and children. They did not speak, but with their eyes, each soul begged to be seen, heard, known, remembered.

Behind them came still more: the casualties of September 11th and the bombed-out civilians of Afghanistan; the “disappeared” of Latin America; men, women and children from Israel and Palestine; Darfur, Sarajevo, Vietnam, Cambodia, hundreds then millions of eyes. I could feel them watching, waiting. They haunted me.

I yearned to cover my eyes, shut my ears. Their pain and fear, the guilt and complexity of right and wrong—how could I ever do justice to their spirits? How could we, this Peace Sunday, sort it all out, with truth and with honesty, and honor them all, victims of war?

This is too much, I said to myself, trying to chase them away. There are too many ghosts. I felt overwhelmed. I cannot navigate the complex of regret and responsibility for so much death.

But the ghosts refused to go away. They refused to sort themselves out into the guilty and the innocent, the soldier and the civilian, the perpetrator and the victim. And they refused to leave me alone.

I decided to read the gospel—to myself, to them—the gospel texts of peace I had chosen for today. “Love your enemies,” I read. “Pray for those who persecute you. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.”

I read it to the ghosts and to myself, hoping for an answer. What do they want from me? I asked. What can I say? For hours I sat, surrounded by ghosts, the gospel words of peace hanging in the air. I gave up in frustration.

Just then I received an e-mail. Its writer spoke of more recent ghosts—a wife, a father, a friend who’ve died recent deaths. Not necessarily from war, but lost to us nonetheless. Then he spoke of Peace Sunday, and the tangle of these intimate ghosts with the dead of war. “It is hard to hear of the death of American soldiers, Iraqis and British every day,” he said. “But in life and in death, we still believe in resurrection by love.”

I stopped reading and thought of the ghosts. Do I? Do we? Do we believe in resurrection by love?

I remembered something that theologian Walter Wink said in his book on violence and peace: “Our society is so inured to violence that it finds it hard to believe in anything else. And that phrase ‘believe in’ provides the clue. People trust violence. Violence ‘saves.’ And we will not relinquish our fears until we are able to imagine a better alternative.”¹

The question in the eyes of the ghosts now seemed clear to me. “Will you put your faith in the violence of war, the violence that killed us all, or will you believe in peace? Do you believe what you read? Does love have the power to overcome evil, peace to overcome war, life to overcome death?”

It was as if the ghosts were desperate for my belief, my assurance, confidently, passionately, that yes, I believed in peace. But skepticism, cynicism kept me silent. There are so many forces of violence in the world. How can peace ever triumph? Do we believe in resurrection by love?

I thought of the gospel again. “Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.” I thought of Jesus, on the cross, praying for his tormentors. Jesus, whom we call Son of God, dying at the hands of violence. It troubled me.

Yet somehow the cross was different, in a way I couldn’t quite explain. Not because Christ’s suffering was more intense, or more important, or somehow sacrificial and redeeming. I don’t believe it was. To even suggest it seemed to dishonor the suffering of these many ghosts. But somehow the cross was different.

Then it dawned on me. In the cross of the Son of God, in the cosmic battle between good and evil, the God of heaven and earth takes sides. Not the side we might want or think, not the side of any nation or race or correct ideology or even correct religion. But in the cross, we see revealed once and for all that God forgoes violence, God forgoes vengeance, and God takes the side of love. Love for enemies. Love for persecutors. Not grudging acceptance, not pity, not accommodation, not understanding or even empathy. Just love, unconditional. And violence and hatred are revealed for what they are—an ultimate and colossal failure in the face of love.

From the foot of the cross, where all hope should have died and hell taken over, springs forth the power of peace, of forgiveness, of justice and of love. By that love, there is a resurrection.

All my concerns about guilt and responsibility, blaming others, blaming myself—all melted in the face of such powerful love. In God’s love, poured out on all of us, regardless of righteousness, we are forgiven and freed from judgments on ourselves and one another.

From somewhere inside me came the words of the Civil Rights anthem: “Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome someday.” By the way of the cross, I do believe that peace will overcome war, love will overcome hate, life will overcome death.

I believe because, in the wake of the cross, we must abandon our faith in wars and violence, in winning and in righteousness. I believe because I want to put my faith where God has put God’s own faith: on the side of love, of peace, of hope. I believe because of what I see when I look around this congregation today—people of many faiths and nations and races, artists, musicians, advocates, diplomats, activists and preachers—all coming together to pray for peace. I believe in peace for the sake of the dead ghosts of wars past, but most importantly, I will put my faith in peace for the spirits of our children and grandchildren, for the future of humanity. In this nuclear age, we must trust in peace, for the future of the planet.

We must believe in peace, practice peace, proclaim peace, pray for peace. Not with some vague hope or misty vision—but with the confidence of the peace already won in the cross, certain in resurrection by love. May it be so, and let there be peace. Amen.

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1. Walter Wink, The Powers That Be: Theology for a New Millenium (New York: Galilee, 1998), 145. Beyond this quotation, many of the ideas in this sermon have been shaped and drawn from this book.