Pentecost: John 20:19-23, Deacon Terry

John 20:19-23

On the evening of the first day of the week, John tells us, the disciples were
gathered behind locked doors “for fear.”
The first word that sticks out to me in this passage is — fear.
It is the kind of fear that makes you lock the doors, clos the blinds, and
whisper instead of speak.
It is the fear that comes when everything you trusted has collapsed, when
the world has shifted under your feet, when the future is unclear and the
past feels like a threat.
The disciples had every reason to be afraid. Their teacher had been
executed. Their movement seemed crushed. Their hopes were scattered.
And they were left with the question many of us know too well: What now?
Fear is not foreign to us at St. David’s. We know the fear that comes with
illness, with aging, with financial uncertainty, with family conflict, with grief
that sits heavy on the chest.
We know the fear of change—change in the world, change in this church,
change in ourselves.
Fear is not a sign of faithlessness. It is a sign of being human.
The disciples were not cowards; they were overwhelmed. And into that
locked room—into that fear—Jesus comes.
Not when they are brave. Not when they are ready. Not when they have
figured out a plan.
He comes into their fear, through their locked doors, right where they
are.
 
The first words the risen Jesus speaks to his frightened disciples, not a
lecture, not a demand. They are simply: “Peace be with you.”
This is not a casual greeting. It is not “Hello.”
It is not “Don’t worry about it.
” It is a declaration. A blessing. A gift. A promise. It is the risen Christ
speaking directly into the fearful hearts of his friends.
Peace be with you—in your fear. Peace be with you—in your uncertainty.
Peace be with you—in your grief. Peace be with you—in your locked
rooms.
At St. David’s, we hear these words every Sunday.
They are not filler words in the liturgy. They are the heartbeat of the
Gospel.
When we pass the peace, we are not simply exchanging pleasantries; we
are participating in the risen Christ’s ministry, we are following the example
of Jesus.
Jesus does not wait for the disciples to calm down before offering peace.
Peace is what creates the possibility of courage. Peace is what opens the
door to mission. Peace is what allows the disciples to breathe again.
And notice this: Jesus shows them his wounds. The peace he gives is not
the peace of denial of what has occurred.
It is not the peace of pretending everything is fine.
It is peace that comes through suffering, peace that acknowledges pain,
peace that is honest about the cost of love.
The risen Christ still bears wounds. And he still speaks peace.
After speaking peace, Jesus does something pretty interesting.
He does not say, “Stay here until you feel better.” or, “stay behind these
locked doors until the danger passes.”
 
He says:
“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
Jesus seems to be sending them: from fear into mission.
Jesus was sent into the world not to escape its pain but to enter it. Not to
avoid suffering but to transform it. Not to condemn but to heal. Not to
dominate but to serve.
And now he says to his disciples—and to us, here today—“I send you in
the same way.”
This is not a small calling. It is not a hobby. It is not a side project.
It is not something that we participate in simply on Sunday mornings for an
hour.
It is the very identity of the church. The church does not exist to preserve
itself. The church exists because it is sent.
Here at St. David’s, we are not simply a group of people who gather on
Sunday. We are a community sent into the world—into our communities,
into our workplaces, into our families, into the places where fear still locks
doors.
Jesus sends us not because we are strong, but because he is has been
raised and we are his followers.
Not because we have all the answers, but because he has given us peace.
Not because we are perfect, but because the world needs the love we have
received.
We need to share that love.
Then comes the moment that changes everything. Jesus breathes on them
and says:
“Receive the Holy Spirit.”
Jesus is empowering everyone to do the work he has given us.
 
The breath of Jesus is the same breath of God in Genesis, when God
breathed life into the first human.
It’s the same breath of God in Ezekiel, when dry bones rose and lived.
It’s the same breath of God that hovered over the waters at creation.
The Holy Spirit is not an accessory to the Christian life.
The Spirit is the very life of God poured into us.
Without the Holy Spirit, the disciples would remain behind locked doors.
Without the Holy Spirit, the church would be a fearful club.
Without the Holy Spirit, mission would be impossible.
But with the Spirit— fear becomes courage, grief becomes hope, wounds
become our story, and locked doors become open pathways.
At St. David’s, we sometimes underestimate the Spirit. We think mission
depends on our energy, our programs, and our cleverness.
But Jesus does not say, “Try harder.” He says, “Receive.”
Mission begins not with our effort but with God’s breath.
The Holy Spirit is not a reward for those that are holy; it is a gift for the
fearful.
That would be us.
The Holy Spirit is not a medal for the strong; it is strength for the weak.
The Holy Spirit is not a prize for the successful; it is power for those who
accept it.
Jesus finishes up this encounter with a charge that is both profound and
unsettling:
Something that I quite honestly sometimes struggle with
 
He says:
“If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the
sins of any, they are retained.”
This is not about granting the church the right to judge.
It is about giving the church the responsibility to reconcile.
The mission of the church is not simply to proclaim peace but to live it—to
be agents of forgiveness in a world addicted to resentment and
divisiveness.
Forgiveness is not forgetting. It is not excusing.
It is not pretending nothing happened.
Forgiveness is the decision to let God’s future be larger than our wounds.
The disciples, who have just received peace, are now called to share it.
The disciples, who have just been forgiven for abandoning Jesus, are now
called to forgive others.
The disciples, who have just been breathed upon by the Holy Spirit, are
now called to breathe life into others.
At St. David’s, this means we are called to be a community where
reconciliation is practiced—not just preached.
A community where people can bring their wounds and not be shamed or
judged.
A community where conflict is met with grace.
A community where forgiveness is not rare but normal.
The world does not need more judgment. The world needs people who
carry peace into places of pain. The world needs disciples who breathe
forgiveness.
We are those people.
 
So what does all this mean for us today?
What is John telling us?
It means that fear is real, but it is not final.
It means that Christ comes into our locked rooms, not to scold us but to
speak peace.
It means that we are sent, not because we are ready, but because the
world needs the love we have received.
It means that the Holy Spirit is our breath, our courage, our strength, our
guide.
It means that forgiveness is our mission, our ministry, our witness.
Here at St. David’s, we stand in that same room with the disciples.
We know fear. We long for peace.
We hear the call to be sent. And we receive the Spirit who makes that call
possible.
The risen Christ still comes through locked doors. He still speaks peace.
He still sends disciples. He still breathes the Holy Spirit..
And he does it here, in this place, in this moment.
So let us open our hearts to his peace.
Let us open our lives to God’s Spirit. Let us open our doors to God’s
mission.
For Christ is risen. Christ is present. Christ is sending us.
Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you. Receive
the Holy Spirit.
Amen.