I’m stuck between what I think I’m called to do—to be a peacemaker in a world where the violence of war harms so many in gruesome, indefensible ways—and what sometimes seems unavoidable—to accept that, while God will always be with us, this side of paradise, war will always be with us too.
Last year, the war against Ukraine clouded the merriness of Christmas. This year, two wars defy peace.
Jesus tells his disciples:
Watch out that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name, claiming, “I am the Messiah,” and will deceive many. You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come. Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be famines and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of birth pains (Matthew 24:4–8).
See to it that you are not alarmed? What an ask! How can we not be alarmed by tyrannical despot rulers? How can we not be alarmed when we see women and children beaten and raped to death? How can we not be alarmed by a privilege that comes with geographical and political distance: while we sleep in heavenly peace, others suffer brutality and death?
In my desire for peace, there are a number of “peace on earth” songs that move me to tears. Funny enough, the 1977 Bowie-Crosby duet is one of them.
(Hey, it’s stood the test of time. Even if its parody also has a long shelf life.)
The “Peace on Earth” lyrics are wistful and wishful.
Peace on Earth – can it be?
Years from now, perhaps we’ll see?
See the day of glory
See the day, when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again
Peace on Earth – can it be? . . .
I pray my wish will come true
For my child and your child too
He'll see the day of glory
See the day when men of good will
Live in peace, live in peace again
Peace on Earth – can it be?
Another song has a similar tone. But it isn’t a Christmas song. It’s folk music written by Ed McCurdy.
Again, we hear those wistful, wishful sentiments.
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
Filled with women and men
And the paper they were signing said
They’d never fight again
And when the papers all were signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed
And the people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground
Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
It’s a dream—a powerful dream, to be sure. But a dream, nonetheless.
Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not responsible to nurture an awareness of the people who are suffering from a lack of peace—both in myself and in others. God’s children are peacemakers. This is not about status. It’s the opposite. It’s about calling out from the margins.
Jesus was born in a marginal part of the Roman Empire and in a state of unrest. Powerful people kept conquered people quiet through oppression. But Jesus did not preach militant uprising like so many other people claiming to be Messiah did. Instead, his ministry was marked by grace and forgiveness. He was realistic, though. He claimed that
following him is not a path to easy reconciliation—the kind where we let sleeping dogs like. Earlier in Matthew’s gospel he tells his disciples,
Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace but a sword.
For I have come to set a man against his father,
and a daughter against her mother,
and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law,
and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.
Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it (Matthew 10:34–39).
And he’s right. In such a time as this, it seems futile to train ourselves in peace. These birth pains seem to be the most lengthy set of labor contractions ever experienced.
Yet Advent is a time of waiting. Waiting for peace. So, I end with Longfellow’s “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” penned 160 years ago come this Christmas Day. Wistful and wishful, perhaps. But Longfellow places his hope for peace in the right hands—not in the efforts of politicians or parents. Rather, he hopes in a God who has promised both to be patient and to transform violence into peace.
And in despair I bowed my head;
“There is no peace on earth,” I said;
“For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
