The doors were locked. Because they were afraid. And let’s admit it. We know the feeling. When life so frightens us that we hide under the covers, or double bolt the door, or like a three year old close our eyes and make believe nobody is there any more.
But, you know, somehow the storms of life seep in nonetheless, under the covers, under the door even peeking through our clenched shut eyes, the harsh realities of life have a way of still seeping in. But so does the Christ. Even though the doors were locked for fear of the Jews, “Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, "Peace be with you.”
Everyone’s s afraid sometimes. Fear, the scientist would tell us, is a primitive physiological phenomenon involving the release of massive amounts of adrenaline, which hits the amygdala and overrides rational thoughts. Stephen King puts it a little more simply, calling it “the emotion that makes us blind.” He goes on:
How many things are we afraid of? We’re afraid to turn off the lights when our hands are wet. We’re afraid to stick a knife into the toaster to get the stuck English muffin without unplugging it first. We’re afraid of what the doctor may tell us when the physical exam is over; when the airplane suddenly takes a great unearthly lurch in midair. We’re afraid that the oil may run out, that the good air will run out, the good water, the good life. When the daughter promised to be in by eleven and it’s now quarter past twelve and sleet is spatting against the window like dry sand, we sit and pretend to watch the Tonite Show and look occasionally at the mute telephone and we feel the emotion that makes us blind, the emotion that makes a stealthy ruin of the thinking process. (Stephen King, Night Shift, 1978).
And, of course, he reminds us, we know how to save ourselves from fear:
At night, when I go to bed, I still am at pains to be sure that my legs are under the blankets after the lights go out. I'm not a child anymore but... I don't like to sleep with one leg sticking out. Because if a cool hand ever reached out from under the bed and grasped my ankle, I might scream. Yes, I might scream to wake the dead. That sort of thing doesn't happen, of course, and we all know that….The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle (Stephen King, Night Shift, 1978).
And if we’re not careful, fear can take over our lives. We can become just a bundle of nerves, desperate to escape everything that could go wrong.
That’s why the Lord’s Prayer we pray at Mass goes on longer than the one we pray at all times. Perhaps you’ve noticed it: how the last four words of the Our Father “deliver us from evil” are extended by the Priest in a prayer we call “the embolism.”
“Deliver us, Lord,” he begins, “from every evil.” And he continues: “graciously grant peace in our days” Grant peace. Deliver us from evil and give us peace. Deliver us from the threat of death which prowls the streets of Jerusalem following the crucifixion of Jesus. The evil from which the disciples sought to protect themselves from by locking the door to the upper room. Deliver us from evil. Grant us peace. But this peace is not just the absence of evil. For, the prayer goes on, we seek deliverance “from all distress.” Distress.
Distress is translated from the Latin word perturbatione, very close to the Spanish perturbación. But what kind of distress are we talking about here?
Maybe one of the best hints is found in the story of the Resurrection of Lazarus, which we read just a few weeks ago. Do you remember when Jesus goes to the grave of Lazarus and weeps? Well, just a verse before he weeps, Jesus is standing there gazing at the fresh grave of his friend and we are told he was “deeply moved: (Cf. John 11:33). The Latin word here is turbavit, and its the same root from which we get “turbine” or “perturbed.” It is that deeply rooted upset, that chaotic psychological state during which nothing is certain and everything is churning around in desperation.
It’s a species of fear, manifested as an uneasiness of the spirit: a free-floating and desperate anxiety. At its deepest, it is the fear of death, annihilation and utter destruction.
And that’s where the disciples are today in the upper room. Locked into their fears, convinced that the only thing between them and a miserable death is the lock on the door.
But then Jesus stands in front of them, risen and glorious. “Peace be with you,” he says. Not the temporary and stingy peace the world gives, but the peace which has conquered all darkness and sin and even death itself. Let not your hearts be troubled or afraid. For I am with you, now and every day for the rest of your lives.
Such peace, found only in an encounter with the Risen Lord, flows from the depths of the one through whom we were made, who out of love for us in our littleness was made man, and who opened his arms on the altar of the Cross.
For he, the Prince of Peace, (Cf. Isaiah 9:6) is our peace, (Cf. Ephesians 2:14ff) my peace, your peace. He is the peace which utterly changes those who dwell in the light of his face and makes of them a new creation.
So, there’s nothing to be afraid of any more. No fear of being alone, or failing, or even of death. For even in our most desperate hours he is right there beside us, whispering into out hearts “Peace be with you.”
