Don't you dare talk to me about gaza without
dealing with the violence in the text. The prophets
didn't suggest judgment, they pronounced it.
And God cut down more nonsense than you've got
verses memorized. Welcome back here to the Semi
-Seminary, and I'm your old buddy, Pastor Jim.
This week's episode takes you right into the
heart of a world trying to hold itself together
with duct tape and good intentions. We start
where most of us live, juggling responsibilities,
managing tensions, doing our best to keep the
peace even when it feels like the room is shaking.
Then we'll walk straight into Isaiah's wild vision
of wolves and lambs sharing the same pasture.
Here, Jesus' whisper of peace the world can't
counterfeit. And let Paul teach us about dividing
walls that Jesus tears down. And somewhere between
the ancient prophecy and our own tired shoulders,
grace starts to rise like a green shoot. Up through
a stump. And friend, as you press play on this
episode, know this, you're not just tuning into
a podcast. No, you're slipping into our little
country church on a Sunday morning. Same creaky
pews, same paper bulletins, same burnt edge coffee
warming in the kitchen. Folks are now settling
in. Someone's whispering hello to one another.
The Advent wreath is lit with two candles now.
Hope and today, peace. You found your seat just
in time, and I'm glad you're here. I'll see you
on the other side. So Advent Week 2, we're talking
about peace. Today, our discussion is called,
Is Your Peace in Pieces? And I hope that, I really,
really hope that as you listen to these kind
of Christmas messages, maybe if you feel like,
man, I really feel like I know the story pretty
well, that you'll listen for maybe something
you didn't know. And if maybe I don't really
know this story that well, then I hope you listen
really closely so you'll know the story better.
So I'm really hoping that in these discussions
that there's going to be some things that if
you've been around the church for any period
of time that you might feel pretty comfortable
with. And then you might go, wait a minute, I
didn't know that. Before we rush into it, let's
just take a breath. And last week, we lit the
candle of hope. And if you recall, we said that
hope isn't something that we build. It's something
that breaks into the world. And this week, we
came to the second word on the Advent wreath,
peace. Now, again, Given the theme, you might
already know what I'm going to say. That the
world has its own version of peace. And that
version of peace is one that we are expected
to maintain, manage, control, perform. A peace
that we have to keep propped up like a porch
that's just two nails away from giving out. So,
right off the bat, let me ask you very gently,
think for a moment, friends. Have you ever been
told to keep the peace? When what that really
meant was don't make waves, don't ask questions,
don't bring up that thing that hurts. Don't disrupt
the fragile calm that we've managed to somehow
duct tape together. The world's peace is fragile.
And it depends on our ability to hold everything
still. Your ability to keep your family from
fighting. Your ability to keep your emotions
at bay. Your ability to keep your workplace from
collapsing. Your ability to keep smiling. When
you want to scream, this is the peace the world
expects from us. The peace that rests on our
shoulders. Peace that depends on our performance.
A peace that evaporates the second the room gets
honest. But hear me. Peace that can be lost by
telling the truth was never peace to begin with.
Jesus once said, My peace I give to you, not
as the world gives. And that tells us something
very important. The world's peace is counterfeit.
God's is a gift. The world's peace is the absence
of conflict. God's peace is the presence of Christ.
The world says make it peaceful. Advent says
receive the one who brings peace. Church, if
you've been carrying the burden of keeping everything
together, if you've been the glue, the fixer,
the mediator, the emotional shock absorber, this
Sunday, friend, is for you. Because peace of
God is not something you produce. It is something
that arrives. And it arrives in the strangest
way, as a tiny green shoot growing up out of
a dead stump. Let's get into it. Isaiah 11 opens
with an image that makes no sense until you maybe
live through a loss you didn't choose. A shoot
shall come out of the stump of Jesse and a branch
shall grow out of his roots. Now, let me slow
down. The Hebrew word for stump here is geza.
And geza only appears three times in the whole
of scripture. And it's not just a word for tree
remains. It's actually a word for something that
has been deliberately cut down. Something that
has been felled by an axe. The word Geza has
violence connected to it. Israel had been cut
down. The monarchy had failed. The nation was
fractured. The temple, at this point, was compromised.
The kings that kept coming one after another
were disappointing at best and destructive at
worst. And the family tree, that line of David,
had been reduced to a geza, a stump. And can
you hear the ache in that metaphor? A stump,
it's what's left when someone has come through
with an ax. A stump, it's what remains after
a fall you couldn't stop. A stump is a memory
of height and strength and shade. to a reminder
of what it is not anymore. And some of us are
living with stumps in our lives right now. A
relationship that didn't survive the winter.
Dream that never quite sprouted. Faith that used
to feel like a towering oak. But now, somehow,
feels cut to the ground. Future you planned that
got bulldozed by one single phone call. Marriage
used to provide shade and shelter. Now nothing
but rings in the wood and a memory of what once
was. And Isaiah doesn't say God magically restores
the tree. He says something stranger, something
quieter, something almost invisible. A shoot
shall come out of that stump. Now, continuing
with our Hebrew word lesson for today, the word
for shoot is koder. A tender twig. Something
so small that you'd miss if you weren't paying
attention. Something a landscaper might trim
away without thinking twice. Not a full -grown
cedar. Not a mighty oak. Not a sudden return
to what once was a shoot. A single green sprout.
Has no business being there. This is the way
God brings peace. Not by rewinding the story,
but by planting new beginnings and fallen places.
And the ancients would have understood that symbol
immediately. Jesse was David's father. And from
his line, Jesse, would come a future king. But
by Isaiah's day, that royal line looked dead.
The last decent king now was a far distant memory.
The current occupants of the throne were either
weak or wicked or both. Notice, Isaiah doesn't
say from the stump of David. He reaches further
back to Jesse, to the father before the king,
to the root before the glory. It's as if God
is saying, listen. I'm not starting from where
the crown failed. I'm starting from before the
crown existed. I'm going back to the beginning
and doing something new. Why is this important
to us? Because this, friends, is how grace works.
It doesn't try to just fix your worst chapter
of your life. It reaches back before the failure
and plants something that failure can't touch.
Isaiah is not describing a thriving kingdom.
He is describing a kingdom that has been cut
down. And yet, in the middle of devastation,
God says, watch the stump. Because there, in
the place where everything looks finished, peace
begins to grow. And not just inner peace, not
spa day peace, not don't rock the boat peace.
Isaiah's peace is a cosmic reordering. Wolves
lying down with lambs. Leopards lounging beside
goats. Children safe beside vipers. The whole
of creation unlearning its violence. Peace is
not about the absence of trouble. Peace is creation
remade from the roots. And that root is Jesus.
Not the Jesus that we decorate in velvet in December,
but the Messiah who grows out of the dead places,
walks into the world's violence, and makes peace,
not by avoidance, but by incarnation. Now with
that in mind, let's hear the text. A tune. Your
ears, friends, to the reading of God's word.
Prophecy, the poet Isaiah Ben Amoz. Chapter 11
of his prophecy, beginning verse 1. Shoot shall
come out of the stump of Jesse. Branch shall
grow out of his roots. Spirit of the Lord shall
rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding.
Spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge
and the fear of the Lord. His delight shall be
the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what
his eyes see or decide by what his ears hear,
but with righteousness he shall judge for the
poor and decide with equity for the meat of the
earth. He shall strike the earth with the rod
of his mouth, and the breath of his lips he shall
kill the wicked. Righteousness shall be the belt
around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around
his loins. The wolf shall lie down with the lamb.
The leopard shall lie down with the kid. The
calf and the lion will feed together. And a little
child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall
graze. Their young shall lie down together. And
the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing
child shall play over the hole of the asp. And
the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's
den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my
holy mountain for the earth. will be full of
knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the
sea. Friends, thus ends the reading of God's
word. Now, did you notice what Isaiah never tells
us to do? He never says, now go try harder to
make peace with this. Because peace is not humanly
possible. You can't make wolves lie down with
lambs. You can barely make brothers and sisters
do it. Isaiah is describing a world only God
can create. Which brings us to Jesus' words centuries
later. My peace I give to you. I do not give
as the world gives. World's peace is managed.
God's peace is bestowed. World's peace is fragile.
God's is resilient. World's peace relies on us.
God's peace sits with the spirit. And Paul says
it even more bluntly. He himself is our peace.
Not he brings us peace. Not Jesus teaches us
peace. Not he inspires peace in all of us. He
is peace. Peace is a person. And when that person
arrives, things that shouldn't coexist start
sharing the same pastures. Hostilities starts
losing its grip. Walls begin coming down. Dividing
lines somehow get erased. Weapons become forgotten.
And Paul knew what he was talking about. In that
same Ephesian chapter, he's writing to a church
that is torn between Jewish and Gentile, non
-Jewish, Christian believers. And these two groups,
they had every reason to stay suspicious of each
other. Centuries of resentment towards one another.
Religious superiority on one side, cultural exclusion
on the other. And Paul says that Christ has broken
down the dividing wall of hostility. And we think,
what a great metaphor. but I wonder if you know
what he's actually referencing. In Herod's temple,
there was a literal wall, a barrier that separated
the court of the Gentiles from the inner courts
of the Jewish people. Gentiles could come close
to God's presence, but not. Signs on the wall
warned that any non -Jew who crossed it would
be executed. And archaeologists have actually
found these signs. That is the wall Paul is saying
is being torn down. with a wrecking ball, not
with political revolution, but by absorbing the
hostility of his own body on the cross. By becoming
the place where enemies meet and find themselves
somehow siblings. That's the mystery of the cross.
It doesn't just forgive individual sins. It unmasks
the structures of hostility. It doesn't just
reconcile you to God vertically. It reconciles
you to your neighbors horizontally as well. Peace
with God creates peace with others. And if that
sounds a little too abstract, fair. Think about
it this way. There are people in your life you
would never naturally sit beside. Political opposites,
old wounds, family fractures. But the table of
Christ is bigger than your guest list. And when
peace arrives, Real peace, shoot from the stump
peace, it has a way of seeding common enemies
in the same pew. That is what Advent points us
toward. A peace we cannot achieve. Going in a
place we never expected. From a root we thought
was dead. So let me ask you. When you hear the
word peace, what do you feel? Do you feel relief?
Or do you feel responsibility? Because for most
of us, peace has just become another burden.
Don't upset anyone. Don't say the wrong thing.
Don't disappoint the family. Don't stir up conflict.
Don't be the reason someone else gets angry.
Have you ever been the one holding the fragile
peace in your family? The one who smooths everything
over? The one who absorbs the tension? The one
who mediates every conflict, translates every
misunderstanding, and swallows your own feelings
just to keep everybody comfortable. Anyone? That's
not peace. That is emotional hostage -taking.
Or maybe for you, peace has become a state that
you have to enforce. Be calm. Don't worry. Don't
panic. Don't feel this. You've been trying to
duct tape your inner world into stillness. And
that's not peace. That's suppression. Or maybe,
and this one is a little harder to admit, you
have been holding on to a grudge because letting
it go somehow feels like losing. Like the person
you hurt wins somehow if you release them. Like
peace somehow means injustice never happened.
That's not peace either. That's exhaustion dressed
up as principles. Or maybe... And dude, I see
this one at the food pantry all the time. You've
been waiting for circumstances to change because
then you can feel peace. Once I get a job, once
that diagnosis comes back, once the kids are
settled, once the bills are caught up, you've
made peace conditional on something outside of
your control. And that's not peace. That's hostage
negotiation with the universe. Real peace does
not come from your effort. Real peace comes from
God's arrival. And arrival means you're not the
source. Friend, you're the recipient. Now, here's
what counterfeit looks like. Counterfeit peace
is the absence of conflict. Real peace, presence
of Christ. Counterfeit peace demands silence.
Real peace brings healing. Counterfeit peace
says don't disturb the calm. Real peace says
I will sit with you through the storm. And the
world hands you its counterfeit peace, and it's
wrapped in phrases like, just let it go, keep
the peace, stop overreacting, just breathe, calm
down. The world's peace is shallow enough to
break under the weight of your real story. Christ's
peace, O church. Christ's peace has roots deep
enough to grow out of dead places. Roots strong
enough to push up through the stump. Roots old
enough to hold creation together. Roots tender
enough to wrap themselves around your sorrow.
So let's talk about the peace that arrives as
a shoot from a stump. God could have brought
peace as an army. He brought it as a sprout,
a child, a presence easily overlooked. Think
about it. When the Prince of Peace finally arrived,
he didn't come with a press release. No fanfare,
no palace announcement, just a teenage mother,
a confused carpenter, and a feeding trough in
a town so small that it barely made it onto the
maps. Peace begins in places too small for the
world to notice. If you are awaiting peace with
fireworks and resolution messages, you might
just miss it. Peace often looks like a quiet
moment in an otherwise chaotic week. A word that
lands softer than you expected. Stillness you
did not manufacture. The stump. is the most honest
part of Isaiah's entire image. Not a forest,
not a flourishing branch, a stump. Peace finds
its footing in your grief, your endings, your
exhausted places. Peace grows in what feels like
failure. And this is the scandal of grace, my
dear friends. Grace does not wait for you to
get your act together before he plants something
new. The stump does not have to prove it deserves
another chance. The shoot just appears. Unbidden,
unearned, and unstoppable. I think about those
folks that come through the pantry line. People
have been cut down by layoffs, medical bills,
divorces they didn't want. And they apologize
for needing help. They say things like, I never
thought I'd be here. And I want to say, this
is exactly the place where new things begin.
Not in the palace. In the place where the tree
fell. And Israel didn't pray for a sprout. Mary
didn't ask to carry the Prince of Peace. Paul
did not request the Spirit to tear down dividing
walls. Peace is a surprise. Mercy that interrupts.
You don't have to know the right words. You don't
have to reach a certain threshold of spiritual
maturity. Peace doesn't arrive because you finally
prayed hard enough or believed deep enough. Peace
arrives because God is in the business of showing
up when nobody expected him to. Jesus doesn't
hand us peace and walk away. He is peace. He
stays, he remains, and he abides. No wonder.
He says, do not let your hearts be troubled.
Not because trouble is gone, but because he's
present. Peace isn't a transaction. It's a relationship.
You can't hold peace in your hand because peace
holds you. You can't lose peace to a bad day
because peace isn't a mood. It's a person. And
that person isn't going anywhere. So here's the
invitation this morning. Stop trying to hold
peace together and let it hold you. Stop trying
to be the one that keeps everybody else stable.
Stop trying to regulate every emotion in the
room. Stop trying to manufacture calm. Peace
is not a skill. It is not your job. And it is
not your achievement. Peace is a person. Peace
is presence. Peace is a shoot that grows out
of stumps. And if you want to receive peace,
you don't have to climb towards it. You simply
have to stop pretending you are the source. And
maybe this morning, for someone here, maybe that
means confession, admitting you've been trying
to be everybody else's savior, acknowledging
that you've been holding your own self responsible
for the outcomes only God could produce. Maybe
today, for others, it means release, letting
go of a grudge you've been clutching like a security
blanket, opening your hands and trusting that
justice belongs, Someone stronger than your anger.
Maybe today it simply means rest. Putting down
the burden of being the family's emotional thermostat.
Stepping back from the exhausting work of manufacturing
calm in a world that refuses to stay calm. Picture
it with me. Stump, cut down, silent. Dead looking.
Then, almost invisible, a green shoot pushing
through the dust, defying the evidence, carrying
the future inside itself. This is what God does
in you. This is what God does in his church.
This is what God does in the world. Peace arrives,
peace descends, peace grows, and peace finds
you. So let it. May the peace you cannot manufacture
find you this week. May the shoot from the stump
grow in places you thought were finished. May
the presence of Christ, your peace, your root,
your rest, steady your steps. Quiet your spirits
as you go. Amen? Amen. Peace is a hard word,
isn't it? We want it, we chase it, we try to
stitch it together with our own tired hands.
And if today's message pressed on a tender place,
if it exposed the weight you've been carrying
or the silence you've been keeping, hear me gently.
You were never meant to manufacture the very
thing God promised to give you. Peace doesn't
come because you finally got the room quiet or
your head steady. Peace comes because Christ
stepped into the wreckage and refused to leave.
And if that truth unsettled you a little, or
if it breathed something soft into you, that's
the Spirit doing, the Spirit does. turning our
stumps into soil for new beginnings. So let that
peace find you this week. Let it arrive where
you stopped expecting anything to grow. And friend,
thank you for joining us here in our little church.
Thank you for sitting with us. I mean, real folks,
real pews, real coffee. If you found grace in
what you heard, if you felt the nudge of hope
or glimmer of peace, Feel free to throw that
like in the offering plate, not as a donation,
but as a witness you're still tuned in. And if
you'd like to walk with us through the rest of
this Advent journey, go on, tithe your subscribe.
It lets us know you want to keep meeting here,
candle by candle, story by story. And until then,
friend, be blessed.