Tearing Down to Build Up

Any time you draw a line to separate yourself from someone else, Christ is on the other side of that line.

I first heard that provocative statement from a seminary professor, although I don’t think it originated with him. At first, it sounds like a caution: be careful of the barriers you erect to insulate yourself; you may cut yourself off from Christ himself. That is, if Jesus comes to you as a stranger– especially a stranger who is hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, or in prison[1]– then you reject Jesus when you wall yourself off from others. Encounters with the living Christ, in other words, take place across difference. So, any time you draw a line to separate yourself from someone else, Christ is on the other side of that line.

But, can that be both law and gospel, both caution and consolation? What hope is there in the conviction that we can’t barricade ourselves in with Christ? “He is our peace,” writes the author of our second reading from Ephesians today;

in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us…. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are… members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone.

The original context of this passage in Ephesians is the division between Jewish and Gentile members of the early church. But since holy scripture is living and active,[2] the same promise may apply to any rift in human community: Christ is already the locus of God’s reconciling activity in the world; the sacred work of peace is already underway.

But how? In a world raging with hostilities, what does it mean to look to Christ to make peace in a meaningful way? “Piecemeal peace [is] about the best it seems we humans can do,” writes Janet Schlichting. “So often we use the word ‘peace’ to mean lack of visible conflict, where hatred or mistrust simmers beneath the surface.”[3] In other words, it’s not enough to break down a dividing wall if the hostility remains.[4]

But the peacemaking work of Christ is both tearing down and building up; “Jesus knocks down walls,” yes, and “he takes the stones and builds a house in which everyone can live safely,”[5] to paraphrase the letter to the Ephesians.

I once heard the story of a company of American soldiers traversing the French countryside during World War I. One of them was badly wounded, so the going was slow. And before they could reach medical help, he died. As the company approached a village that evening, carrying the soldier’s body, they spotted a little church on the outskirts. One of the soldiers knocked on the parsonage door, and in broken French asked the priest if they could lay their comrade to rest in the church graveyard.

“Was he Catholic?” the priest asked. The soldier did not want to lie.

“No, Father,” he said.

“I’m truly sorry,” the priest replied, “but he cannot be buried in the graveyard unless he was Catholic.”

Dejected, the company was at a loss for what to do.

“I suppose,” the priest continued, “you could bury him just outside the fence. The field beyond the graveyard lies fallow, and his grave would not be disturbed.” The soldiers had no other choice, so they set about digging the grave. And as the night fell, they covered their friend’s body with earth, marked the grave with a stone, and retreated to their camp where they collapsed, exhausted.

The next morning after breakfast, the soldiers decided to return to the grave to pay their respects once more before they moved on. But when they arrived, the stone that marked the grave was gone. They looked up and down the fence line, but the burial place was nowhere to be found. Their bewilderment quickly turned to anger. Crowding the entrance to the parsonage, they banged on the door until the priest opened it. “What have you done to our friend’s grave?” one of them shouted.

“Sirs, please,” the priest replied in English, “I couldn’t sleep last night knowing that your friend was buried on the other side of the fence.”

“So what did you do?” they demanded to know.

The priest sighed and said, “I moved the fence.”[6]

Notice that the clergyman’s work involved tearing down in order to build up. He had to break down and rebuild the fence, of course, but he also had to break the rules that called for a barrier in the first place in order to build trust with the foreigners who had approached him in a time of need. Since Christ is our peace– our source of compassion and courage in the face of difference– wherever Christ is at work to make peace, enemies become neighbors; wherever Christ is at work to make peace, strangers become companions on life’s journey.

Any time you draw a line to separate yourself from someone else, Christ is on the other side of that line.

Friends, that is good news. In the end, our barriers don’t secure us. But instead, the living Christ razes our walls in order to raise up a holy household, the community of all God’s beloved. And it’s our privilege to be part of that project to tear down and build up. Given all the hostility we see in the world, the peace of Christ may seem too good to be true; nevertheless, by his lead we pursue peace with audacity, even foolishness, even where it may appear to be impossible.[7]

[1] Matthew 25:35-40.

[2] Hebrews 4:12.

[3] Sundays and Seasons Day Resources for July 21^st, 2024, members.sundaysandseasons.com/Home/TextsAndResources#resources.

[4] See Karen Chakoian, in Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3, 258.

[5] Sundays and Seasons Day Resources.

[6] This story is legend, but see Joseph Clark, “U.S. WWI Soldier Laid to Rest in France,”

www.defense.gov/News/News-Stories/Article/Article/3420671/us-wwi-soldier-laid-to-rest-in-france/.

[7] See George W. Stroup, in Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 3, 258.