Humble Peace

Photo by Nyusha Svoboda

What does the worm know of peace? Surely she only knows the moments through which she passes and which pass through her. Quiet in the eventuality of acid rain and unwatchful spades, she moves through life and life moves through her in moments. This moment. And this moment. What does the worm know of peace except every wise thing?

What does the decaying log know of peace? Surely he does not know that, in his release, he has become an ecosystem harboring, nurturing, and sustaining life beyond himself. The carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen that made his stature so tall and proud were only ever borrowed. He was gifted them, and can do no greater thing than to release them. What does the decaying log know of peace except every wise thing?

What does the tide know of peace? They, in their incoming and outgoing, cannot imagine the billions relying on their consistent cycling. They listen to the voice of the moon and follow. They listen and follow. Listen and follow, and the result is that life thrives on this tiny planet. What does the tide know of peace except every wise thing?

This is the wisdom of the world we inhabit. It isn’t the only wisdom; there are many ways of peace and many ways of tumult. During the second week of Advent, we are invited into peace, but it cannot be a tinsel peace. It must be an earth-moving, generous, consistent peace. It must be peace that is rooted hip-deep in humility. Not one of us is the whole of the community, nor could we be removed without loss. When we live committed to community, there is a deep need for the wisdom of the worm, the decaying log, and the tide. What is that wisdom? Being present to only what is, living generously, and being trustworthy. And all of that needs to be fairly awash with humility. We are all part of the other, and the other is part of us. My wellbeing isn’t just adjacent to those in my community; it is inextricably co-mingled with my community.

The worm teaches us to acknowledge that what we surround ourselves with permeates us. What voices do you listen to? What gets your attention? When was the last time you really encountered the moment?

The decaying log teaches us that what we think we build, we have borrowed. Who among you truly built yourself from scratch? Did you build your language and the grammar to make it cohere? Did you teach each person with whom you interface to understand you? Did you discover iron and fire and the art of the forge? Did you fashion the wheel without pattern? Even if you did, my ingenious friend, did you construct the trees and teach them to grow? Did you hide the iron in the bowels of the mountains? O dear one, we are all gifted so much in this life—let it flow through your fingers, and be at peace.

The tide teaches us that communities need steadfastness and the willingness to do what is ours to do… over and over and over. Humility is being willing to attend to your obligations rather than to demand your rights. The tide listens and follows the impulse of the moon. To live well in community is to listen deeply to the other and follow the whisper you have gotten quiet enough to hear. To set an alarm to ask a coworker about their results isn’t grand, but it is kind. To know better than to promise something you can’t deliver isn’t impressive, but it is honest. To know what help you need to ask for isn’t weak; it is wise.

This Advent, may you become present to this moment, live generously, listen deeply, and come to peace.