Why do the nations conspire
and the peoples plot in vain?
The kings of the earth rise up
and the rulers band together
against the Lord and against his anointed.” (Psalm 2:1–2)

“Let there be peace on earth,
and let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on earth,
the peace that was meant to be.
With God as our Father,
brothers all are we.
Let me walk with my brother
in perfect harmony.
Let peace begin with me,
let this be the moment now.
With ev’ry step I take,
let this be my solemn vow:
to take each moment and live
each moment in peace eternally.
Let there be peace on earth,
and let it begin with me.”
(Harlene Wood/Sy Miller)

It was, sadly, no surprise to me that the fragile ceasefire between Palestine and Israel fractured within the first twenty‑four hours of being signed. I am deeply disappointed—heartsick, really—but not surprised. The “negotiation” felt less like peacemaking and more like a transaction, nudged and pressured along by the leader of our neighbours to the south. It had the cadence of a deal, not the heartbeat of reconciliation. I’m not sure anyone but Donald Trump could have forced ink onto paper in this moment—he has carefully positioned himself as the strongest person in the room. But I do not for a moment believe this was driven by altruism.

Donald Trump has always been about money and power. He told us as much years ago on “The Apprentice,” and he has been consistent ever since: in that worldview, wealth is the engine of control; accumulation is the pathway to authority. These talks did not bear the marks of compassion for the wounded or mercy for the grieving. They bore the fingerprints of resource acquisition and real estate: mineral rights, offshore reserves, and development plans—dreams not of healing cities of sorrow but of projects and profits. We even heard the bravado about erecting a statue in Gaza when the building begins.

And our sacred stories tell us, with piercing clarity, what happens when we bow to false idols—when we exchange the living God for the glitter of gold and the seduction of power. The end of that road is always the same: a hardening of hearts, a shrinking of imagination, and the sacrifice of the vulnerable on the altars of expediency.

All week I’ve felt the ache of our world’s slide into violence. At “Chat and Chew” (best place for confessions!), I admitted that I had to step back from social media for a bit. My spirit couldn’t absorb one more image of devastation. It’s a hard balance, isn’t it? We want to be informed and responsible; we also need to guard the tender shoots of hope within us. My confession opened the door for others to say, “me too,” and our conversation became a kind of gentle triage for weary souls. How do we stay hopeful, faithful people in the face of such relentless anguish?

After a lot of prayer, a lot of reading, and a little quiet, here’s where I’ve landed:

We must be hopeful, because hope is not a feeling we wait for—it is a calling we answer.
We are an Easter people who whisper “Sunday is coming” even on the bleakness of Good Friday.
We believe in Resurrection after Crucifixion, in life irrepressibly pushing through the tomb’s sealed stone.
But we also testify that God’s Peace is not the world’s peace. God’s Peace is not a contract with conditions, not a ledger of concessions, not an arm‑twisted signature. God’s Peace does not pretend that there is justice in war or that “friendly fire” is anything but tragedy. God’s Peace repudiates killing for money, for status, for territory—because, well, because…

“God so loves the world…” (John 3:16a)

We are a people who know the steep cost of idolatry. We are a people trained by the Magi to “go home another way” (Matthew 2:12)—to refuse the murderous road of Herod, to choose the narrow path of mercy when the wide road of might looks so efficient. Another way is not the easy way; it is the faithful one. It looks like refusing to dehumanize even those with whom we deeply disagree. It looks like telling the truth without surrendering to despair. It looks like practicing small, stubborn acts of peace in our homes, our feeds, our neighbourhoods—acts that seem foolish until you remember seed and leaven and mustard trees.

So today, dear friends, stand with me. I need you—because my hope wobbles sometimes, too. Stand beside me as we remind the world (and ourselves) that peace begins with us, that peace is our vocation, not our hobby, and that God is still calling us to go home by another way. Let’s be the people who bless first, who listen long, who refuse to hate, who pray for enemies and advocate for the wounded—on every side. Let’s be the ones who keep saying, with our lips and our lives, that every person is treasured, that every child is worth protecting, that love is stronger than death.

Blessings today, my friends. You are loved—really, truly loved.

And may “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:7)

~ Rev. Lynne