By Katharine E. Harmon, October 2, 2025
I’ve grown throughout my years as a “liturgist.” Once a fearsome, judgmental creature, I have mellowed significantly in my responses to liturgical snafus. If the music is decently paced and well-intended, fine. I’ll deal with the electric piano. The homily didn’t include a reference to The Gospel according to Peanuts (no offense, Snoopy). It’ll be okay.
I have bigger fish to fry—two of them, in fact, that come in sizes small and medium, who enjoy bringing a stuffed cat and stuffed colossal squid (yes, they really exist) to Mass.
In my magnanimous wisdom, however, I am experiencing a new—and somewhat major—lacuna: I simply cannot stand the sign of peace.
The sign of peace. What’s a sign? A handshake? A hug? A wave? A peace sign? A nod? Worse still, to whom do I give said “sign”? The entire congregation? Very rarely. The people around me? Maybe. My family? Probably, unless the colossal squid is too distracting. To no one? A definite possibility.
Why am I so upset about the sign of peace? Let me count the ways.
I understand the historical and theological-ritual significance of a sign of peace. The kiss of peace. The profound community of the early Christians. The Church restored this sign of peace as an expression of unity among the gathered assembly around the Lord’s table, following numerous restorations of ritual gestures, words, and acclamations which invite the participation of the lay faithful. I’m all for active participation in the source and summit of the Christian life.
But the sign of peace…is hardly, if ever, an actual expression of Christian unity, in my experience.
Is it because I have come from a cultural context where we are conditioned to not touch anyone? And certainly not strangers? Touch is a violation of space, it’s invasive, and can be riddled with wrong intentions or perceptions.
Is it because I’m a born-again germaphobe? I have personally struggled with physical aspects of the Mass since Covid. I used to balk when I witnessed people feverishly hand-sanitizing after the sign of peace. Now I wouldn’t be without my squid—I mean squirt—of hand sanitizer for myself and my family. And it’s not just Covid—it’s any cold, norovirus, flu, or infestation. I don’t trust the poor, foible-filled humans about me to not transmit their germs.
But perhaps the deepest problem I have with the sign of peace—is that it rarely functions as a sign of peace. I have perpetually witnessed it as a sign of exclusion. Of who doesn’t belong. Of who doesn’t belong to me. This is particularly painful when one attends liturgy alone—and everyone around you turns to someone else instead. It is also painful when people purposely choose not to give a sign of peace—to another who is somehow different from or estranged from ourselves. Maybe I have done the same.
I certainly do see cheery families and friends exchanging hugs and pats and waves when I go to a parish Mass. And maybe they do really feel united with those gathered there. But I fail to see how greeting one’s family does anything radically Christian.
Peace belongs to the stranger—the migrant—the worried—the lonely—the outsider—the broken. Peace belongs inside our walls and far beyond.
If symbols should speak, this one needs some new vocabulary. Or maybe we should go without it altogether: the sign of “peace” may best be expressed by silence, by singing, or words recited together. Maybe we should pray for peace in our world instead, as Pope Leo XIV has asked, instead of performing “peace” with the three or four people we assumedly love already.
“Peace, peace,” they say, but there is no peace (Jeremiah 6:14).
What do you say? Do you say “peace”? Or would you rather learn more about the relationship of the the colossal squid and the cat?
Now that’s a sign of a peaceable kingdom.
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