Pentecost 4C Sermon: Even Among Wolves

During the last years of apartheid, when violence between political factions often erupted into chaos, there was one night on the news, footage from the township of Soweto. That day, a mob had caught someone they believed to be a traitor. They were preparing to execute him by “necklacing” — a horrific practice where a tyre soaked in petrol was forced over someone’s shoulders and set alight.

And then, from the edge of the crowd, came a small, lone figure dressed in purple. It was Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Without waiting for backup Tutu pushed his way into the centre of that furious, volatile crowd. And there he stood — with the man who was about to die. He stood with him and stayed. And somehow, something shifted. The crowd’s mood changed. And finally, they dispersed.

I wonder how scared he felt — or if he was scared enough. There was no guarantee the scene would end peacefully. Tutu could easily have become a second victim. But what he showed the world in that moment was the power of presence. The power of standing in solidarity. The power of peace. Of refusing to be shaped by the rage around you.

How daunting to be a disciple of Christ’s peace in that moment. But if we’re honest, it’s always been a daunting call.

Today we hear about the seventy-two, sent out by Jesus into unfamiliar towns, into strangers’ homes, with nothing but a blessing on their lips and peace in their hearts.

“Go,” Jesus says, “but remember — I’m sending you out like lambs among wolves.”

Let’s consider that for a moment. What kind of shepherd sends lambs to live among wolves? But Jesus does send them — as lambs — small, gentle, soft. No claws. No teeth. They are utterly defenceless in potentially hostile territory. Rather than a call to take up the sword, he says: “Take peace.”

No bags. No sandals. No spare cloak. No backup plan. Rather than fortify themselves with resources, he says: “Trust in the kindness of strangers.”

But Jesus is also realistic. He doesn’t pretend the world will welcome them with open arms. He warns that not everyone will want — or be able — to accept peace. People can be harsh, defensive, even cruel.

And in response? They are not to argue or fight or try to prove anyone wrong. He says, “Shake the dust from your feet and keep walking.” In other words — don’t let their rejection change you. Don’t become hard because others are hard. Don’t let their lack of love extinguish yours.

Judgment isn’t ours to deliver. It belongs to God. We are not called to be right — we are called to be faithful.

As disciples, we are called to be peacemakers, understanding that the peace of Christ is not naive or passive. It’s not a peace that avoids conflict or pretends everything is fine. It is, however, a peace that enters the zone of conflict differently. A peace that confronts injustice without becoming unjust. A peace that refuses to let the violence of the world set the tone for our response.

Theologically, this is the heart of Christ-shaped discipleship: refusing to meet evil with evil, but instead choosing the foolishness of the Cross — the vulnerability of love — as our response to a broken world. It is the countercultural wisdom Paul speaks of in 1 Corinthians, where God’s weakness is stronger than human strength, and God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom.

It’s a hard sell in today’s world. Because what we see around us — in politics, in international conflict, in our online spaces — is the rising belief that the only way to survive or matter is to dominate the room: to shout louder, strike harder, win at all costs. It’s a world where power means silencing others, and disagreement earns punishment.

In this hostile space the Christ issues a different invitation - don’t seek to control others but to let go of the things that would control us: the need to prove ourselves, to exert ourselves, to protect our image, to be right.

And that surrender — that letting go — is not weakness. It’s trust. It’s the kind of courage that doesn’t need to win to prove its worth. That’s what Jesus sends his followers out with. Not weapons or arguments, but a message and a presence. And somehow, that is enough.

When the seventy return, they are overjoyed. They brag: “Even the demons obeyed us!”

But Jesus gently reorients them: “Don’t rejoice in that. Rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” The real miracle isn’t what they did — it’s who they are. They stepped into the vulnerability of the Gospel. They let go of control. They discovered the power of peace. And through that peace, healing flowed.

It’s easy to underestimate what peace can do. But Desmond Tutu showed us. The seventy showed us. Jesus shows us.

When someone wounds us, it’s tempting to strike back. When we are dismissed, or insulted, or rejected — we want to get even. And that is the moment the lamb is in real danger — not of being devoured, but of becoming a wolf itself.

The hardest thing Jesus asks of us is not just to love our neighbour, but to keep loving when love is not returned. When people disappoint us. When community fails. When cruelty cuts deep.

And still — he says — be the lamb. Let the peace of Christ shape you, not the pain in us or the violence around us.

It’s a proposal that leaves us with no guarantees. But it also tells us we don’t need more money, more influence, or more security to live a faithful life.

All we need is what we already have: the peace of Christ, the love of God, the image of God in our neighbour, and the Kingdom of God drawing near.

In this vulnerability is a strength the powers of the world cannot overturn.

So may we go out carrying nothing but love, and clinging to nothing but God. Because even in a world of wolves, the peace of Christ still makes a way.

Amen.

*With thanks to the inspiring Tiffany Sparks!