Blessed are we who light the candle of peace,
though the world is restless.
Blessed are we who choose song over silence,
courage over comfort.
For Christ, our peace,
is coming again into this weary world.

~ A blessing from Kate Bowler's devotional

Standing in the Doorway

This past Sunday, our Advent wreath invited us to light the second candle, the Candle of Peace. I’m not sure about you but, when I hear the word peace, I often picture something calm and quiet: soft light, gentle music, a moment where everything finally settles.

But Isaiah’s vision of peace in 11:1-10 is anything but passive. It’s not a Hallmark stillness. It’s wild and surprising; wolves and lambs resting side by side, predators and prey transformed into companions, a world reordered not by force but by God’s hope for creation. It’s a vision in which the impossible becomes possible. That kind of peace requires courage.

I found myself reflecting on this as I read Kate Bowler’s Advent devotional on Sunday, where she remembers St. Ambrose, an early Christian bishop who believed peace wasn’t something we waited for quietly, but something we lived boldly. He once confronted an emperor whose actions had caused terrible harm. Ambrose literally stood in the doorway of the church and told the most powerful person in the land: Peace will not be bullied or bought. Not here.

I can’t stop thinking about that image: a person of faith placing themselves at the threshold, refusing to let violence or fear go unchallenged.

I wonder where we are being asked to stand in the doorway this Advent?

I wonder because our world is restless. Conflicts rage. Families gather around tables already bracing for disagreements. News is heavy. Grief sits close. And yet Advent asks us not to turn away but to light a candle and say out loud: Christ’s peace is coming into this weary world, even here, even now.

Maybe courage, for us, looks smaller than Ambrose’s act. Maybe it looks like reaching out to someone we’ve been hesitant to call. Maybe it looks like choosing kindness in a tense moment. Maybe it looks like listening more deeply, or refusing to let cynicism have the last word. Maybe it looks like baking something sweet for a neighbor, a small reminder that peace is meant to be shared.

But always, it looks like hope that refuses to give up.

Isaiah’s dream of peace is not a fantasy. It is a promise that God is reshaping the world toward wholeness, compassion, and justice. And it is a promise we proclaim each time we light another candle and dare to believe that the darkness will not overcome the light.