Peace from the Margins

A Sermon for Metropolitan Community Church North London

Sunday 25 January 2026

Image: Brother Klaus, the Swiss peace-making saint.

Matthew 4.12–23

Good evening, it’s wonderful to be with you again this evening,

            as we continue to follow the story of Jesus as told in Matthew’s Gospel.

Let’s begin by remembering where we are in the story.

Jesus has just been baptised.
            He has just heard a voice say, “You are my beloved.”
He has just faced temptation in the wilderness,
            where power was offered to him in exchange for obedience to empire.

And then, almost immediately, the story turns dark.

John the Baptist is arrested.

John, the truth-teller.
            John, the one who spoke plainly.
John, the one who named injustice and paid the price.

And Matthew tells us that when Jesus hears this news, he withdraws to Galilee.

That word, “withdraws”, can sound like retreat.
            It can sound like fear.
            It can sound like hiding.

But Matthew wants us to understand something much deeper.

This is not Jesus stepping back from danger.
            This is Jesus stepping directly into it.

Jesus goes to Galilee.
            Not to Jerusalem.
Not to the centre of religious power.
            Not to safety.

He goes to Galilee of the Gentiles.

Or, more accurately, Galilee under the Gentiles.
            Galilee under the Romans, to put it another way!

Occupied land.
            Watched land.
            Controlled land.

A place marked by military presence, political suspicion,
            economic exploitation, and cultural marginalisation.

This is where Jesus chooses to live.
This is where Jesus chooses to begin.

And Matthew reaches back into the book of Isaiah
            to help us see why this matters:

“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light,
            and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death,
            light has dawned.”

This is not poetic decoration.
            It is political theology.

Because in the Bible, darkness is not about ignorance or lack of faith.
            Darkness is about what happens to people
            when power is used against them.

Darkness is what happens
            when empires decide who belongs and who does not.
Darkness is what happens
            when bodies are controlled, voices silenced, lives made unsafe.

Galilee was dark not because its people were sinful,
            but because they were occupied.

And it is precisely there that the light appears.
            It is to the people who sit in darkness
            that the light of Christ appears

That matters deeply for a church like this one.

Many here today know what it means to live in occupied space.
            Not always with soldiers on the streets,
            but with systems watching, judging, excluding.

Some of you know what it is
            to live with the constant fear of detention or deportation.
Some of you know what it is
            to have your love, your gender, your body declared illegal or immoral.
Some of you know what it is
            to be told, by church or by state, that you are the problem.

And to you, Matthew’s gospel says something very clear:
            God does not wait for people to escape those places before showing up.

Jesus does not bring light after people are safe.
            Jesus brings light into the danger.

And what does Jesus say when he arrives?

Not “Submit.”
            Not “Keep your head down.”
            Not “Wait patiently for heaven.”

Rather, Jesus says,
            “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

This word “repent” has been used violently against LGBTQ people.
            It has been used to shame, threaten, and exclude.

But in the Bible, repentance does not mean hating yourself.
            It does not mean denying who you are.

It means changing direction.
            It means turning away from systems of death
            and turning towards life.

Jesus is not telling the oppressed to repent.
            Jesus is announcing that the world itself must change.

And he continues, telling them
            that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

That phrase doesn’t mean something spiritual, far away, or later.
            It means God’s way of being in the world is breaking into this one.

Jesus brings a different way of ordering power.
            A different way of relating to bodies.
            A different way of deciding who matters.

And notice this:
            Jesus announces the kingdom of heaven
            in a place controlled by the kingdom of Rome.

This is not neutral language.

Rome had its own gospel.
            Rome had its own good news.
            Rome claimed to bring its own particular kind of peace.

The famous Roman slogan was Pax Romana, the peace of Rome.

But Roman peace was built on violence.
            It was peace enforced by swords.
It was peace that required silence.
            Peace that depended on knowing your place.

And yet Jesus stands in Galilee under Roman control
            and says, in effect, this is not peace.

The peace of God
            is not the absence of conflict created by fear.
Rather the peace of God
            is the presence of justice that makes life possible.

This is why Jesus doesn’t begin by building an army.
            But instead begins by calling people,
            ordinary people, like you, and me…!

And there is something else we need to notice
            about the kind of peace Jesus is bringing.

Jesus doesn’t respond to John’s arrest by organising a protest,
            gathering weapons,
            or trying to overthrow Herod directly.
But neither does he accept the situation as unchangeable.

Instead, Jesus practises a dangerous peace.

A peace that refuses violence,
            but also refuses silence.
A peace that does not imitate the empire,
            but steadily undermines it.

This matters, because many people hear the word “peace”
            and think it means keeping your head down,
            not causing trouble, not drawing attention to yourself.

For people who are already vulnerable,
            that kind of peace can sound attractive.

If I am quiet enough,
            maybe I will not be noticed.
If I am careful enough,
            maybe I will be allowed to stay.

But that is not the peace Jesus proclaims.

The peace of Rome was built on fear.
            It depended on people knowing what would happen
                        if they stepped out of line.
            It rewarded obedience and punished difference.

But Jesus offers a peace that is built on truthful presence.

He goes where the harm is happening.
            He lives among those who are watched.
            He makes himself visible.

This is why Matthew is so careful
            to locate Jesus in Galilee under the Gentiles.

Jesus doesn’t float above politics.
            He doesn’t spiritualise suffering.

Rather he stands in occupied territory
            and says, “God’s reign is near.”

That is a deeply unsettling thing to say.

For those in power, it sounds like a threat.
            For those who are suffering, it sounds like hope.

But hope like this can be risky.

For many LGBTQ people,
            especially those who have fled their home countries,
            survival has often depended on hiding.
On not being seen.
            On not naming the truth too clearly.

So when we talk about peacemaking, we must be honest.
            Peacemaking is not always safe.

It asks: what would it mean to live
            as though God’s peace is already closer than fear?
What would it mean to trust that your life, your body, your love,
            are not mistakes to be concealed,
            but gifts to be honoured?

Jesus doesm’t force anyone to answer those questions.
            He simply says, “Follow me.”

And following him does not mean everyone does the same thing,
            at the same speed, or in the same way.

Some follow loudly.
            Some follow quietly.
            Some follow by staying alive another day.

But together, they form a community
            that begins to look like the kingdom of heaven.

A community where people are fed.
            Where bodies are healed.
Where no one is disposable.
            Where peace is not imposed from above, but built from below.

Matthew tells us that Jesus calls fishermen:

            Ordinary people.
            Working people.
            People without status.
            People whose lives were shaped by uncertainty.

And to these ordinary people, he simply says, “Follow me.”

And that is what these fishermen do, leaving their nets.

But those nets were not just tools.
            They were survival.
They were income.
            They were identity.

To ‘leave your nets’ is not a spiritual metaphor here.
            It is an economic risk.

Jesus is forming a community that will live differently in the middle of empire.

This is where peace becomes concrete.

Peace, in Matthew’s gospel, is not passive.
            It is not silence.
            It is not compliance.

Peace is the work of building alternative ways of living together.

But if peace is something we practise together in public,
            it is also something we need to be rooted in deeply within ourselves.

Because living in occupied places,
            whether political, social, or emotional,
            does something to the inside of a person.

Fear does not only come from outside.
            It settles in the body.
It shapes the breath.
            It tightens the chest.
It whispers, again and again, that danger is always near.

Many of you know this from lived experience.

The uncertainty of asylum processes.
            The long waiting.
The interviews.
            The paperwork.
The feeling that your life is always being assessed.

Even when nothing is happening, the body remembers.

This is why Jesus’ work is never only about changing structures,
            important though that is.
It is also about restoring the inner life.

Matthew tells us that Jesus goes through Galilee
            teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Healing here is not only physical.
            It is the healing of wounded spirits.
The easing of fear.
            The restoring of trust.

This is where prayer matters.

Prayer is not an escape from the world.
            Prayer is where we learn to breathe again
            in a world that takes our breath away.

When we pray, we place ourselves in the presence of Jesus.

Not the distant Jesus of rules and judgement,
            but the Jesus who chose to live in Galilee under the Gentiles.
The Jesus who knows what it is to live under threat.
            The Jesus who knows what it is to be watched.

Encountering Jesus in prayer is not about having the right words.
            Especially for those whose English is limited,
            this is important to say clearly.

Prayer does not depend on perfect language.
            It doesn’t depend on speaking the language of power fluently.
It doesn’t depend on having your theology sorted.
            It doesn’t depend on having enough confidence.

Sometimes prayer is simply sitting quietly
            and saying, “I am here.”
Sometimes it is holding fear before God
            without trying to explain it.
Sometimes it is allowing yourself, for a moment,
            to be seen without judgement.

This kind of prayer creates inner peace
            not by denying reality,
            but by grounding us more deeply in it.

Jesus does not promise that fear will disappear.
            But he offers presence within fear.

And inner peace matters because peacemaking is costly.

If we are always giving, always resisting, always caring,
            without returning to the source of life, we burn out.
We become exhausted.
            We become numb.
We lose hope.

Prayer is how peacemakers stay human.

It is how we remember
            that our worth does not depend on outcomes.
It is how we remember that our lives are held
            by love deeper than any system of power.

For LGBTQ people who have been told that God is against them,
            prayer can be painful.
It can reopen wounds.

So it is important to say this clearly.

The Jesus you meet in prayer is not checking whether you are acceptable.
            Jesus is not measuring your faith.
            Jesus is not waiting for you to change.

Jesus meets you as you are.
            Jesus loves you, as you are.

Inner peace, in the Christian tradition,
            is not self-control or emotional suppression.
It is the quiet assurance that you are not alone,
            that you are deeply, completely, loved and accepted.

And from that place, slowly, gently, peace-making becomes possible.

Not as heroism.
Not as pressure.
But as a life rooted in love.

Later in this gospel, Jesus will say, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Not peace-lovers.
            Not peace-wishers.

But peace-makers:
            The people who actively create conditions where life can flourish.

For a community like MCC, this is not abstract theology.

Peace-making looks like creating sanctuary
                        when the state creates fear.
            It looks like believing people’s stories
                        when systems demand proof.
            It looks like bodies being honoured
                        rather than controlled.
            It looks like worship that heals
                        rather than harms.

Jesus’ ministry begins, Matthew tells us,
            with teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Teaching:
            telling the truth about God and the world.
Proclaiming:
            naming good news where others only see threat.
Healing:
            restoring bodies and lives damaged by power.

That is what peace looks like in practice.

Not the peace of quiet compliance,
            but the peace of restored dignity.

The light that dawns in Galilee is not a spotlight from above.
            It is a lamp lit among people who have learned to live in shadow.

And here is the good news.

Jesus does not call perfect people to do this work.
            He calls people already shaped by marginal life.

The fishermen know what it is to live with uncertainty.
            They know what it is to work under taxation and control.
            They know what it is to survive.

Jesus does not ask them to become respectable first.
            He asks them to follow.

For those of you who carry fear in your bodies,
            for those of you whose English may be hesitant
                        but whose courage is deep,
            for those of you who have been told
                        that peace will come only if you change,

Matthew offers another vision.

Peace begins when light is named in dark places.
            Peace begins when people refuse the lies of empire.
Peace begins when communities choose solidarity over safety.

And in a world gone mad, we need this kind of peace,
            this kind of peace-making, as much as ever.

It is to a world like ours, indeed it is to our world,
            that Jesus proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

The Kingdom is not far away.
            It’s not later.
            It’s not only for some, who meet certain criteria.

Unlike Rome’s kingdom, the Kingdom of Jesus is here.
            It is now.
And it is found among those the world has pushed aside.

In Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan,
            in Minneapolis, and in London,
indeed wherever power seeks dominance
            and violence is threatened or enacted,
the Kingdom of Christ stands as a peaceful alternative
            to the kingdoms of domination.

But hear this: the peace of Christ is not an easy peace.
            It will cost Jesus his life.

But it is a real peace.
            A peace that cannot be deported.
            A peace that cannot be erased.

A peace that began in Galilee under the Gentiles,
            and continues wherever people dare to live
            as though God’s justice, mercy, and love
            are already breaking into the world.

Amen.