September 11th happened on a Tuesday. I was in a new congregation, working with Mary Ann Lewis, when planes became a new delivery system for death. We opened the church that day for people to stop in and pray. In that moment of helplessness, it literally felt like the least we could do.

But we knew immediately that the following Sunday's worship was going to be significant. Mary Ann and I put our heads together and decided to institute a new practice within the worship service to help us come to terms as a community with the tragedy of violence that had taken us all by surprise. We thought that in the middle of the communion service (the traditional placement for this liturgical act), we could “pass the peace.” It struck us as a fitting response to violence in a fearful world—to pause as we approached the table to extend the peace of Christ to one another.

So, on that Sunday, we explained the change in the service and what we thought it meant to bless one another with peace in the midst of such an uncertain time. And then, in the middle of communion, we passed the peace of Christ.

Interestingly, as people were milling around giving each other signs of peace, I noticed an older woman leave the sanctuary. It struck me as odd timing in the moment, but I soon forgot about it … until the next morning, when I received a call from that woman.

She wanted to register her disapproval of what she thought was an inappropriate liturgical practice during the Lord's Supper. I wondered aloud why she thought exchanging Christ's peace on the way to the table was inappropriate.

She said that the whole thing caused too much commotion, that communion was her time to be alone with God. I suggested to her that while communion contains an element of our personal communing with God, the thrust of communion has never been about private devotion. It's about the community communing

together with God and one another.

Thinking the conversation concluded (a more or less respectful exchange of ideas), I told her I appreciated her view and that she'd had the integrity to call me directly to talk about it. So, I was surprised when she said, "So, you'll stop doing that passing of the peace thing during communion." It wasn’t phrased as a request. Heck, it wasn't even phrased as a question.

Not sure how we'd arrived at this conversational impasse, I said, "Well, no. We're going to do it again next Sunday."

“What? After everything I just told you about how much it means to me not to be interrupted during communion? You’re still going to do it? How long do you plan on continuing?" she wondered, incredulous.

"Well, I guess until this situation gets resolved."

"But that could take years."

I said, "Yeah, I guess it could,” with a bit more sarcasm than was helpful. “What a tragedy that we might be forced to offer signs of peace to one another in the midst of violence … during communion. But this is a public act that proclaims we’re not satisfied with the fear and brutality. It isn't huge, but it's a start."

"So, you plan to just keep doing this, even after I told you how much I don't like this." Again, not really so much a question as an accusation.

Not entirely sure why this wasn't already clear, I said, "Yes. We're going to keep doing it."

She said, "Then you'll understand why I get up and walk out of church again on Sunday."

I said, "I guess I will."

I learned early on that passing the peace in worship is a political act. It's easy to get inoculated against the radical nature of this simple act in worship. It's just "Passing the Peace," right? How can saying "Peace be with you" be considered a revolutionary act?

To understand this, we need to travel back a couple thousand years to a world dominated by Rome. The Roman Empire prided itself on what it called the "Pax Romana”—the Roman Peace. This was a peace established through conquest, maintained through military might, preserved through the brutal punishment of anyone with the temerity to challenge Roman authority. The cross itself was Rome's instrument of terror—a public spectacle of slow, agonizing death meant to quell rebellion and reinforce Roman dominance.

This was the peace that crucified Jesus.