“Peace I leave with you,
my peace I give to you.
Not as the world gives
do I give it to you.
Do not let your hearts be troubled;
be not afraid.

~ John 14:27

What is peace? Jesus promises to leave us with it–not just any peace, but His peace. It’s something we all know we need. Something we crave. Something we spend money searching for and trying to grab hold of. Something we tout.

But do we really understand it? Like, really understand it?

What is peace? Is it the absence of strife? Of conflict? Of war? It is “the state of tranquility or quiet” like the dictionary says? Or “a state of security within a community”? Is it just “freedom from disquieting thoughts” or “harmony in personal relations”?

Maybe peace is, in a way, all of those things. But that is peace as the world knows it–as the world gives it.

The peace of Christ is something different. It’s something more…but also something more fundamental. Whole books can be and have been written on the subject, and it’s one I’ve really wanted to lean into from the biblical perspective. I’ve read about it. I’ve talked about it. I’ve studied it. Not enough, but enough to get started thinking it through in words here (no doubt I’ll have more on the subject later!).

A few weeks ago, my husband was speaking with a board of directors. He’d been nominated to be the new president of this board for a non-profit, and one of the others asked him, “Do you feel peace about this?”

Now, my husband is a man of deep and thoughtful faith, but he’s also a man who has taken great pains to separate his faith from mere feeling or emotion. So this phrase–do you feel peace–has long grated on him. He will say that never once in his life did he “feel peace” about a decision before it was made–though he frequently feels it after it is made. To some, this seems like a lack of faith.

But it isn’t. It is, in fact, a very true and primal kind of faith: the kind that says, “I will trust you, Lord. I will trust who you made me to be. I will trust that when I’m chasing after You, even if I make a mistake, you will redeem it. I trust that even if my fallibility, I can’t possibly undo your will…even if I’m not 100% sure what that is.”

Because how often are we really 100% sure? More, how often are we supposed to be? A couple years ago a friend sent me a book called Searching for and Maintaining Peace. She sent it “just because,” but it arrived while we were in the hospital with my son, when he was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. It took me a while to get around to reading it, but it became one of those books where I had to underline and highlight insights all over the place.

One of the things the author pointed out which really resonated with me was that true faith, true peace isn’t about always hearing God perfectly. It’s about knowing that, even when we don’t, He is still there at work. That part of this journey of faith is training ourselves in His ways enough that, even when He’s silent, we can still act. We can still choose good things. Just like as kids grow up they have to learn to make decisions without parental input, so do Christians have to learn to live, making day-to-day decisions whether they’re absolutely certain about the “rightness” or not. God is there, He’s watching, He’s comforting…but He’s also saying, “Go ahead, beloved. Step out. I’m right here if you falter.”

That is true peace. Not a lack of conflict. Not security from your community. Not harmony with others. True peace, the peace given by Christ, is trust. True peace, the kind our Lord and Savior gives us, is knowing that we cannot possibly outpace His love. We cannot fall so far that He isn’t there to catch us. We cannot undo His will. True peace is knowing that even when circumstances are terrible and our world is crumbling around us, nothing can take away the most precious thing in the world: our salvation. True peace is knowing that the only identity we really need is Child of God.

When we can really claim that, when our prayers and contemplation are not about what we need or want or hope to do, but in who we are in Christ, then we’ll also be able to claim exactly what Jesus instructs. Our hearts will not be troubled. We will not be afraid.

Are you troubled? Afraid? We’ve all been there, or are there right now, or will be in the future. But the more we focus on the truth that we’re not defined by our jobs or our place of residence, by our marriages or our children or our families, by what we’ve accomplished or where we’ve failed, the more we’ll find that fearless peace.

Because we are God’s. And He is our master. And Christ has left us with something the world does not give and the world cannot take away. He has given us a gift of peace that stills our hearts and girds our minds with courage.

Be not afraid. Be not troubled. You belong to the Lord.

I’ve always loved the story of Samuel. In fact, as a writer, I’ve claimed the verse about none of his words falling to the ground as what I should be striving to live up to. There are so many lessons we can glean from this wise prophet who heard directly from God.

But the last time I was reading through I Samuel, I found myself dwelling not on who he turned out to be, but rather on where he began. More specifically, on where his relationship with the Lord began.

We’ve all read the story countless times, right. Samuel is sleeping in the sanctuary and he hears someone calling his name. He thinks it’s Eli, so he runs to the priest to ask what he needs. This repeats several times before finally Eli realizes it’s God calling the boy and instructs him in how to respond.

Familiar, yes. So familiar. So familiar, yet I’d never looked at it in quite the way I found myself looking this last time through.

Samuel was a child. We don’t know how old he was at this point, but certainly young enough that the word used is “lad” rather than “man” or even “young man.” He was a child who had grown up serving the Lord in a very physical sense, but the Word of the Lord “was rare in those days.” He wasn’t raised to expect to hear from Him. He hadn’t been trained in how to listen. He was just doing the normal, expected thing, keeping the altar fires burning.

But God spoke. God called.

And Samuel didn’t know His voice. How could he have? He’d never heard the Lord before. But he had heard Eli, many times every day. Shouldn’t he have known that it wasn’t Eli’s voice? Maybe the Lord sounded similar in his ears.

Maybe it was the only reasonable explanation.

Or maybe he recognized authority in the voice that called to him. Maybe he knew that whoever was calling “Samuel!” was expecting to be answered.

Samuel didn’t hesitate or complain, he simply rushed to his master, Eli the priest, and asked what he needed. He went back to his place, no doubt confused and wondering if he’d been dreaming when Eli said, “No, I didn’t call you.” But then it happened again. And again.

Samuel didn’t know how to listen. But God still called. Over and again, God called.

Would He have repeated this process another time? Five times? Ten? How long would God have called this boy?

The answer, I have to think, is until he learned how to answer.

Because God knew the heart of this child was one ready to be molded to His will. He knew that this boy, unlike all the priests and other Levites in the sanctuary, would do His work. He would obey His voice. He would listen to His instruction and to His heart, and he would act in His will. Live in it. Carry it before him like a torch.

But first, Samuel had to learn. He had to learn how to answer. He had to learn whose voice he was hearing. He had to be told, “God is calling you.”

God is calling you. He’s calling your name, and He’s not just asking you to deliver a message of doom to your teacher, He’s inviting you to walk with Him. He’s inviting you into His sanctuary. He’s asking you to do His work. To obey His voice. To listen to His instruction and to His heart. He’s asking you to act in His will. To live in it. To carry it before you like a torch.

Feel like you don’t know how to answer? You aren’t sure what’s God and what’s your own imagination, or the people closest to you? You’re in good company! We all have to learn.

But that’s okay. Because God is the most patient teacher. He knows your potential, so He will call to you, and call again, and call again until you realize you’ve been answering the wrong person and finally say, “Speak, Lord! Your servant is listening!”

Are you ready to truly listen, and to carry out His will?

I don’t know about you, but I love it when I see people in Scripture behaving like…well, like people. Like I would do. I love seeing how they were humans just like me. They mess up, they say the wrong thing–sometimes the stupid thing–and sometimes…sometimes they even just revert to default behavior when they don’t know what else to do. We can see a great example of this with Peter and the others after Christ’s resurrection, before His ascension:

¹ Some time later, Jesus once again revealed himself to his disciples at the Sea of Tiberias, in the following manner. ² Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael from Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two other disciples were gathered together. ³ Simon Peter said to them, “I am going out to fish.” The others replied, “We will go with you.” They set off and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing.

⁴ Shortly after daybreak, Jesus was standing on the shore, but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus. ⁵ Jesus called out, “Children, have you caught anything?” When they answered, “No,” ⁶ he said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat and you will find something.” They did so, and they were unable to haul the net on board because of the great number of fish.

~ John 21:1-6

Let’s imagine for a minute that we’re there with the disciples. They’d gone through Holy Week with Christ. They’d seen him crucified. They’d gone to the empty tomb. Christ Himself had appeared to them in a locked room, not once but twice. And John tells us that Jesus performed other signs for the disciples that weren’t recorded. In short:

They knew. They knew their Lord had defeated death. They knew He’d been raised to life again. They knew it.

But…then what?

Haven’t we all been there? We had that shock, that jolt, that lightning bolt epiphany. It’s real! He’s alive! He really is Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God! We are filled with joy unspeakable. Amazement unfathomable. Peace unknowable.

And then…what? Life is going on, ticking by, but what are we supposed to do? Jesus didn’t give us instructions, most likely. He hadn’t given them any at this point. We know that for at least a week, quite likely more, they were just hiding out in that upper room where He’d appeared to them twice. They must have been getting antsy. They must have begun to ask, “Now what? What are we supposed to do? Do we go out…? But we might get arrested, then what good would we be? Do we just sit here? Wait for Christ to visit us again, and press Him for some instructions this time? WHAT DO WE DO?”

I can just imagine Peter–bold, daring Peter–slapping his hands to his legs and standing up. He’d had enough of sitting around, and if he didn’t know what to do…well then, he’d just do what he’d always done. “I’m going fishing.”

Fishing. A normal, everyday activity. More, the one he’d been raised for, trained in, the thing he’d made a living at all his life, until three years ago. Fishing. The thing he knew best. But not only that. Fishing–the thing he’d been doing when Jesus first called him.

I don’t think that had ever struck me before. In a way, Peter is just returning to his default setting, right? Going back to the thing he knows best. Reverting to old behavior. He’s pressing the reset button, unplugging the machine, returning to factory settings.

But it’s not only that. He’s also returning to the place, to the activity, where Jesus had met him before. He’s doing the thing that had first made him aware of Jesus’ holiness, to where Jesus had said, “From now on, you’ll be a fisher of men.”

Sometimes we just need that reminder. We need to go back to where it all started and remember. We need the comfort of those old nets in our hands, our boat under our feet. We need fresh air and water lapping the hull and our best friends, our brothers beside us. Sometimes, we just need to go back to the place where our faith began.

Why? Well, we see that in this story too. Because Jesus meets Peter there again–in fact, we see a replay of their first meeting. The lack of a catch, the instructions to cast again on the other side, the net-testing haul.

But this time, they didn’t have to ask who this Man was. They knew. I imagine Peter squinting toward the shore, but unable to see the figure he’d heard so clearly. I imagine John–the youngest–elbowing him in the side, his own eyesight just fine. “It’s the Lord!” he proclaims. And that’s all Peter needs. He takes his cloak, jumps in the water, and swims to shore. There’s no stopping him, no waiting for that heavy-laden boat to be rowed back. He knows his Savior is there, right there, and nothing will keep him away.

I hope that’s how we all are when we revert to the comfort of our default position. I hope we see it, not as something just to fill our time or give us something to do or make us some money. I hope we see the comfort of the familiar as the gateway to the Divine. That we see it as putting ourselves in the place where we met Jesus, so we can encounter Him again.

And I pray that when we hear His voice, we listen, just like Peter did. I pray that the moment someone says, “It’s the Lord!” our hearts quicken within us, and we JUMP. Jump for the fastest way to meet Him wherever He is.

I pray that our default position becomes “meet the Lord.” Whatever that might look like for you.

Many signs and wonders were done among the people by the hands of the apostles. They all used to assemble in Solomon’s Portico. ¹³ No one else dared to join them, but the people esteemed them highly. ¹⁴ More believers, men and women, were constantly being added to their ranks. ¹⁵ People brought those who were sick into the streets and placed them on cots and mats so that when Peter passed by, his shadow might fall on some of them. ¹⁶ A large number of people also came from the neighboring towns around Jerusalem, bringing with them the sick and those tormented by unclean spirits, and all of them were cured. (Acts 5:12-16)

We’ve all read those chapters in Acts. We all know how vibrant the early church was, how amazing, how miraculous. Recapturing the Church of Acts has been the explicitly stated goal of many a start-up congregation over the centuries. And the why is easy to see.

They were performing miracles. They were healing the sick. Casting out demons. They gathered, and people flocked to them. Believers were being added constantly to their ranks.

I’ve read this chapter countless times, marveled each and every time over Peter’s very shadow being part of healing. This time, I just want to dwell with that thought for a minute, and I hope you’ll dwell with me.

There are, as usual, several parts to these miracles. First, people have to believe enough, have faith enough to come. In this case, I have to think that often it was not only the sick person with faith, but the friends and family members. They believed so much in the apostles’ ability to continue the healing work of Christ, that they brought their loved ones to them. Not enough room at the Portico? That wasn’t going to stop them–they’d line the streets. Crowds too big to actually get Peter’s attention? His shadow would suffice.

His shadow. Think about that.

Generally when we think of shadows and darkness and the blocking of light, we think of evil. Something, after all, in the way of the light. But this is a unique kind of shadow. This is a literal blocking of sunlight, sure. Peter, standing between the sick person and the sun.

Peter, standing between the sick person and the Son. But standing there, not as a block or a filter, but as a mirror. Reflecting that Light even as he blocked the sunlight. Walking in that authority. Sharing it with all who dared to believe.

Do we dare? Do we dare to believe enough to seek the shadows of the faithful, knowing that their mere presence can impart His blessing upon us? Do we dare to believe anyone can really act that much in Christ’s stead? Do we believe we can be so full of Christ that His will shine that brightly through us? Do our shadows, when coupled with the faith of our fellow believers, result in healing?

The Church of Acts didn’t vanish, my friends. It’s still alive and vibrant. It’s still here, we are still its members. And do you know how to tell if you or anyone else still has that kind of authority? You show up. You do the work. You do it every day. You walk like Peter walked, like Paul walked, like Jesus himself walked. You look for the people who need His touch.

You shine the light. You cast the shadow. You put yourself there, an intercessor between God and whoever needs His touch. You do it always, every day.

And then you watch the people keep coming. Because if we’re truly walking in His light, people will come. They’ll be drawn to it. If they aren’t…then maybe we’re living in shadows instead of casting them.

Today is Holy Thursday, Maundy Thursday. The day when Christ celebrated the Passover with His disciples–the Last Supper. Tonight He instituted what may be the most sacred of the sacraments–Holy Communion, the Eucharist. He took bread, took wine, and declared them His body and blood, the things by which we are saved.

This year I read an absolutely amazing book about the Last Supper and how it didn’t really end until Christ died on the cross, called The Fourth Cup by Scott Hahn. I highly recommend it for anyone interested in that Passover meal and the new covenant and communion. But it began by touching on something we all have to know and remember that comes to us from the days of Moses.

The Passover was not “remembered” every year. It was REpresented. It was lived anew. The words said, the rituals, the tradition was not just meant to teach or instruct, it was telling each person at each meal, “You were there too. We were all there. This is what God did for YOU and for ME and for US as a people.” You can see that in the words of Moses himself, not only when he first hands down the law, but when he is giving it again to the people about to enter the promised land.

Those people were not the same people who had left Egypt–that’s very clear. Every single member over twenty years old of that original generation had to die in the next forty years, so a fresh people, a people who had not doubted, had not worshipped the golden calf, could be the ones to take the land. But when Moses is giving his final address, he wording is so very pointed. When you were there, he says time and again. When God did this for you. You saw the plagues.

They didn’t–not literally. But as he speaks those words, he’s teaching them that our God is not bound by time. That our God is king of all creation, all ages. Our Lord did His work for them just as surely as for their parents and grandparents. It needs to be more than a memory–it needs to be the reality, ever present in their hearts and minds. They need to be there. They need to know it’s more than words, that by taking part in that ceremony, they are in fact living it with their ancestors. It isn’t just a representation, it’s a RE-presentation. It’s happening again for them…or rather, it’s drawing them back to that original happening. The event isn’t repeating, the participants are instead defying space and time and partaking of the original. This is the odd reality that Moses speaks to the new generation, and it was the understanding carried forth from that day all the way to the day of Jesus and beyond.

This is the same lesson we need to learn when it comes to Christ’s Passover. When we eat the bread and drink the cup of the new covenant, we aren’t just doing it in memory–we’re doing it knowing that the same truth that saved the people alive in His day, watching Him on the cross, saves us too. Because His work is not bound by time or space, and each occasion of the Eucharist is, like the Passover was for the Jews, a REpresenting. It isn’t happening again, but it is pulling us back into that first time it happened. We are partaking of the original, the one and only, the complete and perfect sacrifice.

That is the miracle of our God. The miracle we rely on when we place our faith in a Man who lived two thousand years ago but somehow saved us. The miracle we embrace when we said He did the work of salvation “once and for all”–that doesn’t mean one finite action that began and ended, like our idiom might indicate. It means once, forever, for all of us. It means it’s continually working, because we are continually partaking, because it’s an action outside of the confines of time.

This is the cup of Christ. The work of the cross. The cup of salvation poured out as His blood. The cup we are invited to drink from, not so that we remember but so that we become part of it. We become the people escaping Egypt; we become the people entering the Promised Land; we become the disciples watching from beneath the cross; we become the women at the empty tomb.

We become His.

“Hosanna!”

It’s an interjection that we shout as praise in the Christian church. “Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to the son of David! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

Hosanna.

I’ve sung songs with that proclamation since I was a child (I still remember thinking, at the ripe age of 6, that they were singing “Roseanna,” and being very flattered and confused, LOL.) And like so many things that I’ve done since I was a child, I had only vague ideas of what it meant. Something about Christ as my Savior … right? That He was sent by God.

True. But not complete.

The word Hosanna has been preserved in Greek, Latin, and brought directly into English without much change. There was no attempt to directly translate it. Because the word stands on its own as a shout. “Hosanna!” We speak it as a praise, yes. But it’s not only a praise. It’s a soul-deep cry, from the hearts that most need Him.

It will be no surprise to learn that hosanna is taken from Hebrew originally, and it’s a shortening of hoshi’ah-nna, which means “Save, we pray!”

This weekend we’ll remember when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey–a humble mount instead of the gallant steed of a king. The day when the crowds whipped off their outer garments and put them in the road for him to ride over. The day they cut palm branches and waved them before him. This image, to modern society, may scream “Groupies!” in a way, right? We picture crazed fans ripping off their clothes and waving things in the air.

But when we cry out “Hosanna!” we’re not calling His name, per se. We’re not asking Him to entertain us. We’re not acknowledging Him as an earthly king.

When we cry out “Hosanna!” we’re acknowledging, rather, our own desperation. We’re calling to Him because He has the power to change it. We’re calling Him Savior … but not like a paramedic with a crash cart or a Coast Guardsman with a life vest. It’s much deeper than that. He can save our bodies, yes. But more.

He saves our souls. He saves us on levels we don’t even know to hope for.

Two thousand years ago, when those crowds called out “Save us!” they were crying it like their ancestors had. They were asking for a very physical, temporal redemption.

But Jesus didn’t give them what they asked for–He gave them what they needed.

When you cry out, “Hosanna!” this weekend, what will it mean to you? In your heart? Is it just a pretty sounding word? Is it a praise? That may be what we mean when we sing it.

But Jesus knows more than what our words say–He knows what we need. He knows that, even if we’re focused on our physical needs, it’s our spiritual ones that most need addressed. He knows that, though we think we need a good leader in the world, it’s good leaders in the Church that are most important.

He knows that, though we may cry out our praises in the pews, that doesn’t stop us from turning around and nailing Him to the cross with our sins a few days later.

But He’s forgiven that too. Because just like we don’t know what to ask for, we also don’t know how we hurt Him every time we choose ourselves above Him, every time we choose the easy way instead of the good way, every time we focus on earthly comforts instead of heavenly security. He knows us in our fleshly frailties. He knows us because He walked in our skin. He felt the pangs of hunger. He had to sort out what to wear, and to whom he could entrust the care of his precious mother when He knew He wasn’t long for this world.

He knows, friends. He knows us in our every weakness. He knows us in our strength. He knows us in our purity and in our sin. He knows us, and He loves us, and He answered, “Yes. Here I am. I heard you. I will save you.”

Maybe sometimes, when we’re really in the thick of a storm, it feels like we’re just crying in the dark. But we’re not.

We’re calling out to the Light of the world. And He has already answered that cry.