The War We Bring to Peace
Let's face it: when conflict erupts, none of us rush to point the finger at ourselves. We're convinced we're the voice of reason. The clear-headed one. The long-suffering peacekeeper just trying to hold things together while everyone else loses their minds.
I know this because I do it too.
According to The Anatomy of Peace by The Arbinger Institute, this well-intentioned "peacekeeping" often becomes the very roadblock to genuine peace. True peace isn't achieved by tiptoeing around tension or smoothing ruffled feathers with platitudes. It requires wading into the messy middle with a transformed heart, not just cleverer conflict resolution techniques.
Our church—like yours, I imagine—has its share of tensions. Some bubble beneath the surface like a pot about to boil over. Others explode in heated exchanges laced with political undertones, entrenched opinions, and the lingering ache of old wounds. The cultural current pulls us toward tribalism: choose your camp, plant your flag, vanquish your enemies. But the radical message of Christ flips this script entirely. In God's family, there are no opposing armies—only estranged siblings finding their way back to each other. When we forget this truth, our sanctuary becomes just another battlefield.
The Anatomy of Peace describes a subtle poison that infects our thinking: we begin seeing people as objects rather than souls. They become obstacles blocking our path, irrelevant background noise, or threats that must be neutralized. Once this dehumanization takes root, we're free to dismiss, attack, or avoid them—all with a clear conscience because we've crafted an internal narrative casting ourselves as either the tragic victim or the righteous hero. Does that sting a little? It should.
Stanley Hauerwas, in the book The Peaceable Kingdom, reminds us that the church wasn't established to mirror society's tribal divisions. We exist as living proof that peace is possible—not a flimsy peace that glosses over injustice with a spiritual veneer, but a tough, resilient peace hammered out on the anvil of honest conversation, mutual confession, genuine forgiveness, and the unbreakable bonds of our shared identity in Christ. If we can't embody this within our walls, what right do we have to preach it beyond them?
John Wesley understood that holiness never happens in isolation. You simply cannot grow in grace while avoiding difficult people, and you cannot love your neighbor as an abstract concept. The spiritual practices we cherish—breaking bread together, praying with and for each other, wrestling with scripture in community—aren't merely for personal spiritual enhancement. They're boot camp for loving people we'd naturally avoid. They're how we learn to engage enemies without becoming what we despise.
So here's where the rubber meets the road:
Who in this congregation have you quietly reduced to a problem rather than a person?
Where have you crafted a villain story about someone's motives without walking a mile in their shoes?
What uncomfortable conversation are you dodging that might actually be God's invitation to growth?
I'm not throwing these questions at you from some moral high ground. Trust me—I'm stumbling through this terrain alongside you. I'm asking because I yearn for us to become a congregation where it's safe to be gloriously, humanly imperfect. To admit when we're wrong. To stumble, fall, and help each other back up. To disagree passionately without fracturing relationships. To speak truth without weaponizing it. To hold the mirror up to each other without shattering it in rage.
Conflict itself isn't evidence that we're failing. It's evidence that we care enough to risk collision. What defines us is what happens after the crash.
This week, I'm not just suggesting—I'm challenging you (and myself) to reach out to someone who makes your jaw clench. Not to convert them to your viewpoint. Not to score points. But to take the first tentative step toward genuine peace.
That, beloved, is sacred work. And it's how the church becomes what it was always meant to be—a glimpse of heaven in a fractured world.
Grace and Peace,
Dr. Kaury Edwards