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.