Advent: Peace

There's something deeply satisfying about building a fire. The crackling warmth, the dancing flames, the sense of accomplishment when it finally catches and roars to life. But what if you discovered that your beautiful fire was actually making everything around it work harder? That the very thing bringing you comfort was creating chaos elsewhere?

This is the uncomfortable truth about the peace we try to create on our own.

The Herod in All of Us

The Christmas story introduces us to a man obsessed with peace at any cost. King Herod, upon hearing that a new "King of the Jews" had been born, made a decision that reveals the darkest potential of human nature. Rather than lose control, rather than allow any threat to his manufactured tranquility, he ordered the execution of every baby boy two years old and younger in Bethlehem.

It's a horrifying response. One we'd like to distance ourselves from entirely.

But here's the uncomfortable reality: we all carry a bit of Herod within us.

Before you protest, consider this: How far would you go to maintain control? What relationships have you damaged in your quest for personal peace? What lines have you crossed when someone threatened your sense of security? Maybe you haven't ordered executions, but have you executed someone's character in your mind? Have you wished ill on those who've wronged you?

Romans 5 reminds us that while we were still God's enemies, Christ died for us. That language—"enemies of God"—isn't hyperbole. There's an innate desire in all of us bent toward destructive motives. Our default setting is self-preservation, control, and a "me first" mentality that creates hostility rather than harmony.

The Exhausting Work of Self-Made Peace

We work incredibly hard to manufacture peace in our lives. We tiptoe around difficult conversations at home, maintaining a fragile tranquility by avoiding anything that might ruffle feathers. We work longer hours, chase promotions, accumulate more money, thinking that just a little bit more will finally bring the contentment we're seeking.

But here's what happens: We finally get the promotion, and the increased responsibility leaves us more exhausted than before. We make more money, but somehow feel less secure. We create a peaceful atmosphere at home, but everyone's walking on eggshells, and the emotional labor leaves us drained.

It's like pedaling harder and harder on a bike, only to realize the faster you go, the more energy everything around you needs just to keep up. We throw more logs on the fire of our own peace, watching it burn bright for a moment, only to turn around and find Monday has arrived, the boss is still annoying, the marriage still needs work, and that warm feeling has evaporated.

The harder we work to control our circumstances, the more elusive peace becomes.

The King Who Changed Everything

Into this cycle of exhausting self-salvation came something completely unexpected: a baby.

When the Magi arrived looking for the newborn King, when Simeon held the infant Jesus in the temple, when Zechariah prophesied about the coming Messiah, they were encountering a radically different kind of king. This wasn't the military strategist they expected. This wasn't the gladiator who would overthrow Rome through strength and violence.

This was the paradox of peace.

In a world dictated by power and force, God sent vulnerability. In an empire built on military might, heaven's answer was a child lying in a feeding trough, surrounded by farm animals. Zechariah proclaimed that this child would "guide our feet into the path of peace." Simeon declared, "My eyes have seen your salvation... you may dismiss your servant in peace."

They recognized immediately that this was no ordinary human. This was the promised Messiah, the true Prince of Peace. But the method was all wrong according to human logic.

If you were planning to establish lasting peace on earth, would you send a refugee baby born to poor parents in an occupied territory? Would you choose weakness over strength, humility over power, vulnerability over control?

Yet this is exactly what God did. And in doing so, He revealed a fundamental truth: Peace through strength is the opposite of God's plan.

The Unquenchable Fire

Consider the story of Moses. Raised in Pharaoh's palace while his own people suffered as slaves, Moses tried to create peace through violence. He killed an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave. His attempt at justice through control drove him into the wilderness, alone and searching.

It was there, in his weakness and failure, that Moses encountered the burning bush—a fire that burned but was not consumed. An unquenchable fire.

We spend our lives feeding our own fires, trying to make them burn hotter, last longer. We throw on more logs—more money, more success, more control, more therapy sessions, more self-help strategies. And while these things may have their place, they're not the source of unquenchable peace.

John the Baptist spoke of One who would baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire—an unquenchable fire. While we exhaust ourselves maintaining our own flames, God offers a peace that doesn't depend on our constant effort.

Jesus said, "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Rest. Peace. Not through your striving, but through surrender.

The Price of True Peace

Simeon's prophecy to Mary wasn't all comfort. He warned that Jesus would cause the falling and rising of many, that He would be spoken against, and that a sword would pierce Mary's own soul. This doesn't sound particularly peaceful.

But here's the truth: God isn't interested in being one of many kings in your life. He's asking for full dependence. If you want the peace that surpasses understanding, you must be willing to stop turning to everything else and put your full attention and devotion on Him.

Maybe you don't have peace because you have too many kings.

The path to peace requires admitting your flaws. It means recognizing where you're trying to control too much, where you're destroying not only your own life but the lives of those around you. It means repenting of the Herod within—that part of you that would rather kill the thing than submit to it.

The Invitation

The beauty of the gospel is that God created the path to peace while we were still His enemies. He's not standing back waiting for you to figure it out. Scripture describes a God who is actively chasing after you, who understands that peace is hard to come by, and who desperately wants you to grab onto the peace only He can give.

If you think God is angry with you, you're wrong. If you think He wants to spite you, you're wrong. If you think He's anything other than close to you in your pain and weakness, you're far from the truth.

God is here. He is close. And He wants to be your friend and your King.

The question is: Are you tired of pedaling through life alone? Are you exhausted from trying to make your own way? Are you ready to stop building fires that leave you cold?

The Prince of Peace came not through strength, but through weakness. Not through control, but through surrender. And He offers you the same path—an unquenchable fire, a peace that surpasses understanding, a rest for your weary soul.

All you have to do is admit you need it, and invite Him in.

Advent: Hope

The Roman Empire stood at its peak of power, built on conquest and maintained through heavy taxation. Caesar Augustus was hailed as the divine savior who brought peace to the world. Yet beneath this veneer of prosperity, life for most people was marked by oppression, poverty, and uncertainty. For women, foreigners, and the poor, each day brought its own struggles for survival.

Into this world, a child would be born who would also be called the Prince of Peace—a direct challenge to Caesar's claim. But before we get to the manger, before we sing about silent nights and calm brightness, we need to understand that the Christmas story unfolds in a context of political upheaval and desperate longing.

For over 700 years, the Jewish people had been waiting for a promised Messiah. Hundreds of prophecies spoke of his coming. Generation after generation heard about this deliverer who would overthrow oppression and establish God's kingdom on earth.

Think about that timeframe. Seven hundred years. If someone made you a promise in kindergarten and you were still waiting in fourth grade, you'd probably give up hope. But this was centuries of waiting, hoping, believing that somehow, someday, the Messiah would come.

The Woman Who Never Stopped Waiting

In Luke chapter 2, we meet a woman named Anna. She appears for just a few verses, yet her story carries profound weight. Anna was a prophet, the daughter of Penuel from the tribe of Asher. She had been married for seven years before becoming a widow, and by the time we encounter her, she's 84 years old.

In that culture, widows lost everything. They had no social standing, no financial security, no voice. Yet Anna didn't disappear into obscurity. Instead, she made the temple her home, worshiping night and day, fasting and praying.

At 84, she could have retired from spiritual vigilance. No one would have blamed her for taking a break. But something kept drawing her back—an anticipatory hope that refused to die.

What Draws You Back?

Hope isn't just wishful thinking about Amazon packages arriving on time. True hope is the anticipated outcome of what we're waiting for. It's what keeps us returning to the source of our expectation.

For Anna, hope in the coming Messiah kept drawing her back to worship, fasting, and prayer. These weren't empty religious rituals; they were lifelines connecting her to the promise she believed in.

This raises an important question for all of us: What do we turn to when life becomes stressful? When circumstances don't add up, when disappointments pile up, when fear creeps in—where do we go?

Some of us turn to work, believing that if we can just maintain our income and position, we'll have control. Others seek solace in relationships, anchoring their identity to another person. Still others numb themselves with substances or distractions, anything to create a temporary sense of peace.

But Anna shows us a different way. When life was hard—and life was undoubtedly hard for an elderly widow in first-century Jerusalem—she turned toward God, not away from him.

The Danger of Drifting

An anchor serves one simple but crucial purpose: it keeps you in place. Without an anchor, a boat drifts wherever the current takes it.

The same is true for our souls. Without something solid to hold onto, we drift. A disappointing comment, an unexpected setback, a question we can't answer—these things can cause us to untie our anchor and float away.

This is especially common in spiritual life. Someone experiences disappointment in church. They encounter difficult questions in college. They face suffering that doesn't fit their theology. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, they begin to drift.

We might call it "figuring out our own way" or "deconstructing our faith." But often, we've simply lost our anchor. And when life's next storm hits—a bad medical report, a lost job, a broken relationship—we find ourselves completely adrift, searching desperately for anything to hold onto.

The problem is that we'll anchor ourselves to something. Our souls crave stability. So we grab onto whatever seems solid in the moment—a career, a romance, physical fitness, intellectual achievement. These things aren't bad, but they make terrible anchors. They simply cannot hold the weight of a human soul.

The Only Anchor That Holds

Anna understood something profound: the coming Messiah would be hope embodied. He would be near to the brokenhearted, the mender of broken lives, the Prince of Peace who brings everlasting life.

When Jesus finally arrived at the temple as an infant, Anna was there. After decades of waiting, worshiping, fasting, and praying, she came face to face with the fulfillment of her hope.

Consider the significance of her name. Anna means "grace." Her father's name, Penuel, means "the face of God." Grace, the daughter of the face of God, was meeting the physical embodiment of grace—the one who perfectly revealed the face of God to humanity.

The text tells us she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to everyone who was looking forward to the redemption of Jerusalem. We don't know exactly what she said, but imagine the joy, the vindication, the overwhelming sense of "it was all worth it."

Hope for Today

We live in our own uncertain times. We wait for healing, for clarity, for peace in our homes and hearts. We carry burdens that feel too heavy, face questions without easy answers, and wonder if things will ever be okay.

The message of Advent—the season of waiting and anticipation—is that what we're waiting for has already come. Hope has a name and a face: Jesus.

His first sermon included an invitation that still stands: "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Not more burden. Not more striving. Rest.

This Christmas season doesn't have to be another race from one gathering to the next. It can be an opportunity to pause and recalibrate. To ask ourselves: What am I really hoping in? What is my soul anchored to?

Like Anna, we can choose to turn our faces back toward God, to worship, to pray, to draw ourselves closer to the only anchor that truly holds. Because when everything else fails, when the fog rolls in and we can't see which way is up, we can trust that Emmanuel—God with us—will give us rest.

Hope has come. His name is Jesus. And he's more than enough.

In Every Way: Mirrors

We live in a world obsessed with mirrors. We check our appearance constantly—before dates, before meetings, even while driving down the highway at 45 miles per hour. We strategically place full-length mirrors to see the complete picture. We clean them when they're dirty. We create makeshift mirrors when we need them because mirrors give us something essential: a reflection of reality.

But what if I told you there's another mirror you probably haven't considered? One that reflects something far deeper than your physical appearance?

Your bank account is a mirror of your worship.

The Uncomfortable Truth We Avoid

Most of us have mastered the art of avoiding this particular mirror. We'll scroll through our bank statements, see mysterious charges we can't quite identify, and convince ourselves that companies must be stealing from us. The reality? Our spending habits are simply a reflection of our lives and priorities.

In our subscription-saturated culture, what used to cost $30 for cable now runs us $475 across multiple streaming services. We've created a monster, and our transaction history tells the story. Every swipe, every purchase, every automatic withdrawal—they're all pointing toward something we value, something we're willing to sacrifice for.

The question isn't whether we're worshiping something with our money. The question is: what are we worshiping?

A Scene at the Temple

In Mark 12, we encounter a fascinating moment. Picture the scene: the temple treasury area, bustling with activity. There were thirteen offering receptacles shaped like horns, and as people dropped their coins in, you could hear the metallic clinking echoing through the space.

This wasn't a quiet, reverent moment. It was a show.

Wealthy donors would approach with bags of coins, and a priest would often announce the amounts being given. The sound of heavy coins cascading into the horn-shaped receptacles created a spectacle. It was almost like an auction, with numbers being called out and the crowd responding with admiration.

Before this scene unfolds, Jesus issues a warning about the religious elite—the scribes who walked around in flowing robes, demanded respect in marketplaces, and occupied the best seats at every gathering. These were the influencers of their day, the people everyone wanted to be. But Jesus saw through the facade.

"Watch out," he said. "These people devour widows' houses."

He was likely referring to a scandal where religious leaders had manipulated a wealthy widow into donating large sums to the temple, only to pocket the money for themselves. The fraud was eventually discovered, leading to severe consequences for the Jewish community in Rome.

The Woman With Two Pennies

Then, in the midst of all this noise and spectacle, something remarkable happens.

A poor widow approaches. After all the wealthy donors with their impressive contributions, after all the announcements and applause, this woman comes forward with two lepta—the smallest, least valuable coins in circulation. Essentially, pennies. The kind we don't even make anymore because they're considered worthless.

The contrast is stark. You can almost feel the awkwardness as she approaches. The priest announcing donations probably doesn't even acknowledge her. He might have looked away, busied himself with paperwork, anything to avoid the uncomfortable moment of announcing such an insignificant amount.

But Jesus notices.

He calls his disciples over and says something that should revolutionize how we think about generosity: "This poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They gave out of their wealth, but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on."

The Revolutionary Principle

Here's where it gets uncomfortable for those of us living in Western culture.

If this widow were your friend today, and she told you she was about to give away her last dollars while struggling to put food on the table, you'd probably stop her. You'd say, "The church will be fine. God doesn't want you to give compulsively. Keep that money. Buy yourself some groceries."

And honestly? That would seem like the compassionate, reasonable response.

But Jesus doesn't stop her. He doesn't run up and pull coins back out of the treasury. He doesn't condemn the system for taking a poor woman's money. Instead, he commends her worship.

Why? Because she understood something that all the wealthy donors missed: generosity isn't tied to current financial realities. It's tied to worship.

The wealthy gave out of what they could afford—amounts that looked impressive but didn't require sacrifice. This woman gave out of everything she had. One group gave to be seen. One woman gave to worship.

The Idol We Don't Want to Name

Our souls are wired to worship something. It's not a question of if we'll worship, but what we'll worship.

In Western culture, the two greatest issues we face can be boiled down to money and sex. Why? Because our souls crave God, and it's devastatingly easy to substitute material security for divine provision.

We tell ourselves we're not materialistic. We're just being responsible. We're just planning for the future. We're just trying to achieve financial security. And there's wisdom in stewardship, of course.

But when was the last time you examined whether you're hoarding or worshiping?

Consider this: Are you less anxious about money now than you were ten years ago? If you've achieved financial goals you set for yourself back then, has it brought the peace you expected? Most people discover that hitting their savings target or getting that promotion doesn't eliminate financial stress—it just shifts it.

Because the issue was never actually about having enough. It was about what we're worshiping.

The Treasure Question

Jesus talked about money constantly, and for good reason. He knew something profound: where our treasure is, our hearts will be also.

He said, "Don't store up treasures on earth, where moths and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven."

To a rich young ruler who had followed all the rules, Jesus said, "You lack one thing. Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me."

He told his disciples, "Sell your possessions and give to the needy."

And perhaps most challenging of all: "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God."

Does God hate wealthy people? No. But he opposes lives that are attached to wealth, because the grip of materialism will destroy your soul while promising to save it.

The Invitation to Freedom

Here's the beautiful truth hidden in this challenging message: where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

Real freedom isn't found in finally having enough in your savings account. It isn't found in the promotion or the portfolio that's performing well. Those things can disappear in an economic downturn, a health crisis, or any number of circumstances beyond your control.

Real freedom is found in a soul that says, "You can have everything from me. I just want You."

The woman with two pennies understood this. In the midst of a broken religious system, she could have stayed home. She could have protected her meager resources. She could have justified keeping every cent for survival.

But she showed up. And she gave everything.

Not because the system deserved it. Not because it made financial sense. But because she understood that her God would provide for her in every way, and her worship wasn't dependent on her circumstances.

Your Mirror Is Waiting

So here's the question that matters: What does your bank account reveal about your worship?

Look at your transaction history from the past month. What story does it tell? Where is your treasure? What are you sacrificing for?

This isn't about guilt or shame. It's about honest reflection. It's about recognizing that every financial decision is a spiritual decision, whether we acknowledge it or not.

The invitation isn't to poverty for poverty's sake. It's to freedom. It's to a life where God is truly Lord, not just another line item competing for resources alongside streaming services and coffee subscriptions.

It's to a life that looks at the promise—"My God will supply every need"—and actually believes it enough to live differently.

The woman with two pennies challenges us to ask: Am I willing to give out of everything, or only out of what's comfortable? Am I willing to sacrifice, or only to contribute what won't be missed?

Your bank account is a mirror. What does it reflect about your worship?