Seeds of Peace - ADVENT TWO

If we were to believe the President’s social media feed... this has been a BIG week for world peace.

First, on Wednesday, the Department of State announced that the US Institute of Peace would now be called “the Donald J. Trump Institute of Peace." 

Founded as an independent, non-profit think tank funded by Congress, the institute's mission is to research and teach the promotion of international peace and conflict resolution. 

But, since his second term began, Trump has moved aggressively to exert executive control over the institution. He fired the board outright. Then, DOGE agents—assisted by the federalized DC police—raided the USIP building, dismissed its staff, and seized the property. Former staffers sued, winning an initial ruling that was later lifted in the federal appeals court.

And now, the institute bears the name of our so-called “President of Peace.” In a social media post announcing the rebrand, the Department of State declared it was done "to reflect the greatest dealmaker in our nation's history."

The name change was, in many ways, a publicity stunt to draw attention to the signing of a peace deal between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda on Thursday in the still-occupied Institute for Peace Building. 

As Christians, we should welcome every step toward peace, but I, and many other religious and moral leaders, remain concerned that the claims from the President and his supporters about the administration's “peace record” are disturbingly distorted.

Not only do experts question the durability of this latest agreement and others, and the exaggerations about Trump's role in several flouted peace agreements, but also because so often these deals seem fueled by pride, profit, and polling rather than a sincere interest in peace.  

At the signing ceremony, Trump boasted that this deal would attract major investment from US companies. 

"And we're going to take out the rare earth, take out some of the assets, and pay," he said. "Everybody's going to make a lot of money."

And while economic investment in poor regions can stabilize community life, this message does not sound like a plan for community uplift, but the extraction of a community's resources by Western powers. Similar concerns have been raised about Trump’s ongoing influence in Russia’s war on Ukraine and his peace plan for Gaza. 

Then after the peace deal signing… on Friday… I told you it was a big week for peace… FIFA, the soccer organization behind the World Cup, awarded its first-ever Peace Prize to our President.  

There are many reasons why all of this is ridiculous and appalling. Including the fact that while all this took place, the administration was engaged in a bombing campaign in the Caribbean that human rights organizations and legal experts agree constitutes war crimes.

This is not just the controversial double-tap strike; this is about the fact that, despite not producing any evidence that these actions are warranted, nor seeking Congressional approval, our President and Secretary of Defense are acting as if we are at war. 

And now, 80 unnamed people are dead because of it. 

And not only is the President escalating war with Venezuela, but he is protecting Israel’s continued attacks on Palestine and he is terrorizing communities here with the National Guard and ICE.

The events of the past week took on new significance for me as I read Kelley Nikondeha’s words. 

“The ache of injustice and suffering preceded the first advent. So did world peace.” She is referring to the period after a decisive Roman victory in Egypt ended decades of war in the Mediterranean, uniting West Asia, North Africa, and South and Central Europe under Rome. It was the Pax Romana. A time of world peace. Many declared Caesar the savior of the world, the one who ended the cycle of endless war.

Before reading this book, I had not thought much about Jesus being born into a world of relative peace. It makes you think, what does it mean that the Prince of Peace was born at this time?

In her book, The First Advent in Palestine, Nikonheda asks the question this way, “Was Advent a divine redundancy?” 

Sitting with this question, the scriptures, and the Holy Spirit, she reaches a possible answer. What if, instead of the first advent as redundant, we might think of “it as God’s critique of what the world called peace.” 

This past week, this follow-up question has stuck with me: What does God think of what the world calls peace today?

As Nikonheda writes, “What made some see Caesar as a savior was a kind of peace that benefitted the few while exploiting the many; one that stole land and harvest from the poor.” 

Under such exploitative conditions, messianic hopes ran high in many Jewish communities, especially in Galilee—the home of Mary and Joseph—ruled by Rome’s proxy king, Herod. Periodically,  people claiming to be the messiah would appear, stirring the aspirations of disenfranchised people longing for liberation.

But, as Nikonheda observes, “The advent of the Messiah would not look like what any good Jewish man—or woman—expected.” God’s unfolding revelation managed to surprise everyone.

“This coming peace would not begin on a battlefield, but on a birthing stool.”

Whereas Luke opens with a wide-angle view of Caesar and the vast Roman Empire—including the census—Matthew zooms in on Herod, the immediate imperial foil to the coming Messiah. 

Herod could have been a leader for his people—raised Jewish, married to a Maccabean princess, even rebuilding parts of the temple—but his actions revealed a deeper allegiance to the empire that sustained his power.

Appointed “King of the Jews” by the Roman Senate, he set about consolidating his rule, eliminating the remaining Maccabean line and securing a brutal 37-year reign.

Heavy taxation was central to Rome’s tribute system, and Luke offers a glimpse into this imperial economy. Just before Mary gives birth, Caesar orders a census, forcing her and Joseph to travel from Nazareth to Bethlehem, Joseph’s ancestral town. 

This census was not about demographics but about counting livestock, crops, and people who could be taxed. It was always bad news for the poor. 

The taxes Herod collected not only funded Rome’s tribute but also his own lavish building projects. He built ballrooms.... Oh, wait, that was someone else... He built palaces for himself and his family, stadiums, theaters, and entire cities dedicated to Caesar!

Herod's massive fortress-palace overlooking Bethlehem offered him a panoramic view of Roman Palestine. Under this surveillance, the shepherds in the fields lived and worked in a constant state of unease.

Matthew sets up the contrast between Herod, the empire’s appointed “King of the Jews” who carries none of Israel’s hopes, and the true Messiah, from the very start of his Gospel, through a carefully crafted genealogy.

Judy read the passage beautifully this morning. So while genealogies can sometimes feel tedious, I wanted us to hear it in full because the details are precisely what make this one so significant.

With ancestral connections to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, as well as Jesse and his son Davis, Jesus’ lineage clearly aligned with Jewish hopes, even as the circumstances of his birth and the content of his ministry would continually defy expectations. 

In contrast, Herod’s own family line was rumored to have come through Babylon. In a culture that kept meticulous genealogical records, Herod’s undocumented lineage would always cast doubt on his Jewishness.

Matthew’s genealogy also offers an elegant summary of Israel’s history. There are fourteen generations from Abraham to King David; another fourteen from David to the Babylonian exile; and fourteen more from the exile to the Messiah. Six sets of seven in total. 

In Hebraic literature, the number seven signifies completion. So when Matthew places Jesus at the head of the seventh set, he signals Jesus’ ultimate significance—the culmination of Israel’s story and the focus of the genealogy itself. 

And as the first name of the final group of seven, Jesus ushers in the beginning of a new human era. A new experience of peace, a kind of kingdom that is here, and is still to come. 

Another striking detail is Matthew’s choice to include the names of 5 women. Biblical genealogies rarely included women—and certainly not women from the margins, foreign women, or women who had inspired scandal. Yet Matthew lifts Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary as catalysts who propelled the lineage forward. 

This week, I went looking for an artistic depiction of this genealogy. I found many very detailed charts and family trees, but this piece by Lauren Wright Pittman stood out. Instead of capturing Jesus’ entire genealogy, she focuses on these generations of women.  

In the center, she depicts Christ as a rose, each woman representing a foundational leaf within his lineage. 

In the bottom left, Tamar holds her father-in-law’s insignia, claiming his role leading the tribe of Judah. 

Moving counterclockwise, Rahab grasps the red cord that saved her family and aided Israel’s deliverance at Jericho. 

Ruth holds the wheat gleaned from the field; her boldness enabled her family's safety and a new future with Boaz. 

And Bathsheba—identified only as “the wife of Uriah”—survived David’s abuse to ensure Solomon’s rise, becoming, as Dr. Wil Gafney writes, “the queen mother of the united monarchy.” 

Finally, Mary of Nazareth holds both her child and the accumulated hope of generations within her loving gaze.

Reflecting on her inspiration, Pittman wrote that, “These women only wanted to ensure safety for themselves and for their children; in the process, they ensured the continuation of the lineage of Christ. Without their brilliance, resourcefulness, and sacrifice, the lineage would have ended.” 

These generations of women were part of ushering in God’s own peace initiative, an initiative which is our own inheritance today. 

As Ursula K. Franklin, a Quaker peace and social justice activist, once stated,  “Peace means not only absence of war but also the presence of justice and the absence of fear.”  

Right now, injustice is everywhere we look, and fear is palpable in our communities. 

We’re seeing this up close, as ICE’s activity continues to terrorize immigrant families right here in Cheyenne—including the very families we are gathering donations for this week.

Just a few days ago, I learned of the detainment of a man named Carlos.  Carlos immigrated to the United States from Nicaragua and worked as a barber at Drew’s Barbershop here in town. He leaves behind a very pregnant wife and a five-year-old son—both heartbroken, frightened, and unsure of what comes next. 

This is a developing situation, and there will be ways that we will be called on to respond, but for now, I simply ask that you hold Carlos and his family in your prayers.

Carlos’ story reminds me of Joseph, whose silent strength played an important supporting role in the story of Mary’s pregnancy and Jesus' birth. Imagine if Joseph were absent from the nativity scene, as Carlos will be absent from his own family this Christmas. 

Trump’s version of “peace through strength” foreign policy relies on fear and fails to enact justice; therefore, it cannot produce peace at all. 

But God’s peace calls us to more. 

God’s peace is born not by might, but by kenosis—the self-emptying way of Christ. Jesus comes to us as a baby: small, vulnerable, a target of the powers and principalities of his day—so very human.

And through his life, teachings, and ministry, Jesus embodied that same kenosis—laying down ego, pride, and power in order to reveal God’s way of peace.

As Nikondeha writes, “Like God’s peace, Advent’s peace was both now and not yet. Advent is not immediate. It’s a slow peace.” We long for peace to arrive swiftly and decisively, but God’s peace works differently.

God’s peace is less like a press release and more like making bread. The yeast develops slowly, interacting with its surroundings, permeating the dough until the whole thing rises. Sometimes it takes more than one rise for the bread to be ready. Peace is like that—slow, patient, persistent.

Sustaining peace is like honing a perfect recipe: something that develops across generations, shaped by our participation and by the fingerprints of those who came before us.

As Nikondeha reminds us, “The first advent ushered in something profoundly good—a good we still labor to realize today under different regimes and in different contexts.”

And so we remember: God’s peace is not the way of the sword or the drone strike, but the way of nonviolence.

It is not the way of occupation or profitability, but the way of justice and equality.

This is why Jesus—and Jesus only—is truly our Prince of Peace: the One who did not overthrow empires by force, but who revealed a deeper, truer peace that the world cannot give and cannot take away.

May we walk in that peace. May we become that peace. And may that peace rise among us, slowly and surely, until all creation is made whole. 

Sermon preached by Rev. Delaney Piper on 12/7/25.