The Gift of Peace We Cannot Create

There's something deeply ironic about the pursuit of peace. The harder we chase it, the more elusive it becomes. We fight for it, work for it, strategize for it—and yet find ourselves more exhausted, more anxious, more distant from the very thing we desperately seek.
Perhaps you know this feeling. You've tried to create peace in your relationships, your finances, your health, your family dynamics. You've wielded whatever tools you had—willpower, achievement, control, maybe even avoidance—thinking that if you could just arrange the pieces correctly, peace would finally arrive.

But what if the entire premise is wrong? What if peace isn't something we create at all, but something we receive?

The Desolation of Self-Made Peace
History offers us a cautionary tale. Ancient Rome promised "Pax Romana"—Roman peace—to the world. Their method? Conquest, control, and colonization. They believed they were bringing order and civilization to the chaos of the world.

But a Scottish leader named Calgacus saw through the facade. As Rome prepared to invade his homeland, he rallied his people with these words: "The Romans make a desolation and call it peace."

The image is haunting. What looked like peace from Rome's perspective was actually oppression, death, and the destruction of freedom for everyone else. They created a desert and called it peace.

How often do we do the same in our own lives? We fight our battles, conquer our territories, arrange our circumstances—and in the process, create a spiritual desolation. We may achieve external order, but internally we're exhausted, disconnected, and farther from true peace than when we started.

The tools we use to make peace—whether a metaphorical sword of willpower, a checkbook, a bottle, or even religious performance—ultimately fail us. Because peace that depends on our effort will always be as fragile as our ability to maintain it.

Peace in the Midst of Failure
John 16 gives us a radically different picture. Jesus is speaking to his disciples in his final hours before crucifixion. He's been preparing them, teaching them, showing them who he is. And they finally seem to get it: "Now you are speaking plainly," they tell him. "Now we believe you came from God."

Jesus' response is pointed: "Do you now believe?"
He knows what's coming. He tells them plainly: "The hour is coming, indeed it has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own house, and will leave me alone."

This is Jesus predicting their failure. Peter will deny him three times. The others will hide in fear. Everything they thought they understood will seem to crumble when they watch their Messiah die on a cross.

And yet, knowing all of this—knowing they will fail, scatter, and misunderstand—Jesus says: "I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace."

Let that sink in. Jesus offers them peace before they betray him. He extends wholeness to them in their frailty. He gives them what they need, knowing they won't respond perfectly.
This is the scandalous grace of the gospel. The peace of Christ isn't earned through perfect understanding or flawless obedience. It's given to us in the very midst of our inability to achieve it ourselves.

Breathing Spiritual Oxygen
Imagine trying to fight without breathing. Your body simply can't function without oxygen, no matter how strong or skilled you are. You'll collapse before you accomplish anything.
Many of us are doing the spiritual equivalent. We're fighting for peace while holding our breath—trying to move through life without the oxygen our souls need. We're creating peace in our careers, our families, our social circles, our political tribes, our Christmas celebrations, even our Atlanta commutes. We're exhausted because we've forgotten to breathe.

The air of our souls is the grace, peace, and mercy of Jesus Christ. We cannot survive spiritually without it, yet we keep trying to perform, achieve, and conquer our way to wholeness.

The invitation of Advent is to stop. To lay down. To breathe.

Experiencing the Presence
The disciples didn't truly understand until they experienced the resurrected presence of Jesus Christ. Up to that point, the "Son of God" concept was abstract theology. What transformed them was encountering the living Lord.

The same is true for us. If the peace of Jesus remains an abstract idea—something we know about rather than experience—we'll keep running, keep fighting, keep holding our breath.

Receiving peace from Jesus means being transformed by experiencing his presence. This happens through intentional practices that put us in a posture to receive:

Extended time in Scripture—not just to accumulate knowledge, but to encounter the living God whose Spirit transforms us as we engage his Word.

Consistent prayer—setting aside time to sit, listen, and ask to experience his presence, trusting that God will give us what we need.

Slowing down enough to actually receive what's being offered rather than rushing to the next task, the next achievement, the next battle.

Peace That Sustains, Not Fixes
Here's the hard truth: "In the world you will have tribulation."
Jesus doesn't promise to eliminate our problems. The disciples he spoke to faced persecution, imprisonment, torture, and martyrdom. They experienced plenty of tribulation.
But he also says: "Take heart; I have overcome the world."

The peace of Jesus isn't the absence of tribulation—it's the sustaining force within our suffering. Just as oxygen animates our bodies, the peace of Christ animates our souls in the midst of inevitable hardship.

This is a paradigm shift. We naturally think peace means fixing our external circumstances. But the peace Jesus offers is internal—an anchor that holds us steady when the storms rage, a wholeness that persists even when life is broken.

We don't have the capacity to control the economy, our children's choices, our health, or really almost anything. The freedom of being in Christ's presence is releasing ourselves from the need to find salvation through our own efforts.

The Invitation
As we move through Advent, we're invited to stop trying to make peace and make space instead for our souls to breathe the oxygen of Christ's presence.

Where do you need to put down your tools of self-made peace? Where do you need to stop fighting and start receiving? Where do you need to be reminded that you are beloved and whole, not because you've performed well enough, but because you've been given grace?

The peace of Jesus doesn't eliminate what hurts us. It allows us to remember who we are and endure it without losing sight of the joy we've been given. It transforms us from the inside out, anchoring us in truth while the brokenness of the world swirls around us.
This Advent, may we receive the gift we cannot create: peace with God, peace within ourselves, and the sustaining presence of Christ in every tribulation we face.