His Gospel is Peace
The Second Week of Advent
The Way of Peace
by Megan Armknecht
Fear not.
When I think of the Christmas story, that divine phrase stands out in my mind. I hear it in Linus’s voice as he tells Charlie Brown “what Christmas is all about,” and recalls the angelic visitation to the shepherds. I remember that phrase intoned by my grandfather as he read the Christmas story from the Bible, while his children and grandchildren acted out the scenes with bathrobes and headbands.
We have a grainy home video from the mid-1990s of one of these performances, where I make my debut as Mary (a highlight of my short-lived acting ambitions)—draped in a blue blanket, head slightly bowed—as one of my aunts, playing the role of Gabriel, mouthed out the words dictated by my grandpa:
“Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favor with God. And behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus” (Luke 1:30–31).
I like to imagine that my response to such a call would be like Mary’s: humble, faith-filled, grace-filled. Behold, the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word. It embodies the type of bravery to which I aspire.
But when I’m honest with myself, my response to an angelic visitation would align more closely to how Mary’s cousin-in-law, Zacharias, reacted to his angelic message.
Zacharias and Elisabeth only sometimes feature in Christmas pageants. In our family pageants, their story received just a passing mention in Gabriel’s message to Mary:
“And behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren.
“For with God, nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 2:36–37).
Elisabeth and Zacharias's story is meant as a witness to Mary: Look at this miraculous conception, look at what the Lord can do. The Lord will work a miracle in your life, too, no matter how incredible it seems.
Mary believed. She took heart from this story.
But for Zacharias, his fear initially impeded his ability to believe in the miracles and peace God wanted him to have.
When Gabriel appeared to Zacharias, Zacharias was participating in a significant priestly duty. As a priest at the temple in Jerusalem, he had been chosen (by lot, Luke tells us) to enter the Holy of Holies and offer incense to the Lord, pleading for the deliverance of Israel. I also imagine that within Zacharias’s heart, he kept an impossible prayer that somehow, someway, he and Elisabeth could have a child (and, if not, that somehow, someway, they could find peace without that desire of their hearts).
When Gabriel unexpectedly appeared to Zacharias, he was, understandably, astonished. More than that, he was afraid. His fear undoubtedly prompted Gabriel to preface his remarks with fear not.
“But the angel said unto him, Fear not, Zacharias: for thy prayer is heard; and thy wife Elisabeth shall bear thee a son, and thou shalt call his name John. And thou shalt have joy and gladness; and many shall rejoice at his birth” (Luke 1:13-14).
But when gifted this message of hope and peace—a message of deliverance, both figurative and literal—Zacharias shakes his head. “Whereby shall I know this?” he asks. “For I am an old man, and my wife well stricken in years” (Luke 1:18).
He can’t bring himself to believe. He has lived in grief-soaked fear for so long that he cannot fathom a miracle for himself, his family, or for his people. He knows the earthbound limitations—perhaps too well. And speaking out of fear, he does violence (even if unintentionally, reflexively) to the angel’s message, to himself, and to his wife.
I see that skepticism—perhaps even cynicism—in myself more often than I would like. It can make hearing (let alone believing) divine messages of peace difficult.
Is anything too hard for the Lord? Well, maybe not for him, but probably for me.
With God, nothing shall be impossible. Really? Can I really believe that?
Glory to God in the Highest! And on earth, peace, goodwill towards men. I know we all crave peace, but I don’t see how world peace works out given the current circumstances.
For me, looking askance at God’s messages of peace comes, in part, from fear. It comes from being disappointed, hurt, and wounded. The bright, shiny pin of reality has burst my expectations one-too-many times, causing me to forget that reality can exceed expectations too. I wonder if one reason Zacharias feared so greatly was because he couldn’t comprehend the reality of love given to him in this miraculous news. He had to learn how to receive that gift of peace and love—love from God, love from Elisabeth, and love for this unborn child promised them.
It is no small thing to believe in a God who comes to us, who calls us by name, who knows our hearts and our deepest fears. Being known on such a level—to feel that Christ knows our inner, hidden parts that we conceal even from ourselves—is scary. The things Christ asks us to do—to break out of complacency, to change our lives, to give our lives to Him—is overwhelming. To allow ourselves to be loved—to truly believe that Christ loves us despite everything we are or aren’t—can be frightening.
Fear gets in the way of building on and believing in the promises of peace, which is why, I think, the angel Gabriel prefaced his angelic messages to Zacharias, Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds with fear not. These angelic messengers not only invited their listeners to transcend their terrestrial circumstances. They also asked them to receive the message of God’s immanence—of the material, holy reality of God with us (Matthew 1:23). When the angels sang of “peace on earth, goodwill to men,” they sang not only of the future, but of the now. Peace was lying in a manger, in the very human, everyday form of a baby. The “condescension of God,” the miracle of God’s peace coming to us, is the Christ Child resting in Mary’s arms, bringing light to the world on that night and healing to the world in the days to come (1 Nephi 11:16–20).
Defining peace is easier said than done. But here is my attempt. Peace is a refusal of violence—to the world, to our communities, to our families, and to ourselves. Peace brings a certain kind of clarity—of recognizing the power of God and the power within ourselves—to take necessary actions to change our point of view and take steps to build peace. Furthermore, peace is born where Christ’s transcendence and immanence meet. The promise and promises of Christ are transcendent, lifting us out of ourselves and breaking the paralysis of fear. But Christ’s promises are also immanent—reaching into us, witnessing the pain and heartaches of our lives. The Christmas story, and, specifically, the newborn Christ Child, holds the potential and kinetic power of peace.
We live under clouds of fear. Daily life’s grind and grime wear out our bodies and souls. Wars rage on; the world changes faster and more maddeningly than we ever could have anticipated; natural disasters spread destruction; family challenges burden our hearts; loved ones grow sick; we experience gutting loss.
And yet, the light of Christ’s peace still breaks through. Because Christ loves us, because he knows fear and overcame fear, He can help us to fear not. Christ lifts us out of despair, ennui, and fear, but also meets us in our heartache, allowing us to step out of our gloom and look forward with trust in His promises. “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).
Zacharias did, eventually, accept the peace the angel promised. This peace was hard-earned, after nine months of divinely-imposed silence. He had had nine months to contemplate the angel’s message, witness Elisabeth’s changing body, to perhaps feel the child move within Elisabeth, to hear Elisabeth recount her own visit with Mary and her own miraculous conception, and, finally, wonderfully, to hold his newborn baby in his arms. This meditation allowed him to “ponder [these things] in his heart,” and thus have a change of heart (Luke 2:19).
He witnessed his acceptance of the Lord’s message by supporting Elisabeth. When friends came by, rejoicing in this “mercy” given to these new parents, they called the baby Zacharias, according to custom.
“Not so,” said Elisabeth. “He shall be called John.” When their friends gently pressed both Elisabeth and Zacharias to call the baby after himself, Zacharias refused. Even though these friends were well-meaning, Zacharias knew that this child was a grace from God, and that his name was divinely chosen. He had doubted the angel once, he did not mean to doubt again by ignoring Gabriel’s counsel.
“His name is John,” he wrote to the surprise of cousins and neighbors, and “immediately” he could speak again (Luke 1:59–64). He broke into praise, prophesying of the role his son would play in preparing the world for the Messiah:
And thou, child, shalt be called the prophet of the Highest: for thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways;
To give knowledge of salvation unto his people by the remission of their sins,
Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us,
To give light to them that sit in darkness, and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace (Luke 1:76–79).
The story of Zacharias, Elisabeth, and baby John is intimately connected to the larger Christmas story. The baby that entered Zacharias and Elisabeth’s life would prepare the way for the work of another baby still in utero at the time of Zacharias’s song of praise. John would prepare the way for Jesus and His message, offering lessons on how followers of Christ—regardless of place or time—can “guide” others into the “way of peace.”
Christ’s peace still transcends place and time. And still, it comes in unexpected ways. But in the gentle, wonderful, piercing gaze of His love, Christ invites us to fear not. “Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine” (Isaiah 43:1). His love dispels fear, prompting us to build peace in our own communities, in our world, in our families, and in our hearts.
In our wildernesses, in our fields, in our daily commutes, at our workplaces, in our sacred spaces, in our dreams—Christ comes to us. He shakes us out of the well-worn grooves of our lives, shows us the offerings of peace in His hands, and invites us to follow Him in building peace. It is no small thing to believe that Christ descended below all things, that He walked with men and women on dusty roads in Galilee, that He allowed Himself to be mocked, tortured, crucified, killed, and that He transcended above death, pain, and sin by taking those griefs upon Himself. It is no small thing to allow His love to fill our hearts with peace and courage to take up His invitation to follow Him.
Receiving that love is the beginning of peace.
Megan Armknecht is an Associate Editor for Wayfare. She currently lives in Bangkok, Thailand, where she has switched her favorite seasonal hot cocoa for iced hot chocolate this Christmas.
Art by Rose Datoc Dall, a Filipina-American artist known for her bold, contemporary figurative paintings. A BFA graduate from Virginia Commonwealth University, her award-winning works are featured in major collections like the Museum of Church History and Art. Rose now lives in Woodland Hills, Utah, where she teaches and stays connected with her art community.
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Music
Es ist ein Ros entsprungen (YouTube video)
The Ancient Ancestral Tradition of Sharing Opłatek
by Mary-Margaret Hale
The Christmas Eves of my early childhood—spent in the home of my Polish grandparents—were magical. Grandma spent many days preparing for Wigilia (Christmas Eve Vigil). Adorned with the special-occasion china atop a damask tablecloth, the dining room table overflowed with enough traditional Polish fare for a small army. In matching red velvet dresses, lace-trimmed socks and patent-leather Mary Janes, my sister and I danced on our stage—the marble entryway in front of the step-down living room—to Christmas carols lulling from Grandpa’s Hi-Fi. In a corner near the white-flocked, red-satin ball covered Christmas tree sat a treasured nativity set that we weren’t supposed to touch.
To begin Wigilia (meaning to wait), Grandpa gathered the family around the table and commenced the most precious tradition of my childhood—breaking the opłatek (ah-pwah-tek), the Christmas wafer.
Following a brief speech, Grandpa offered Grandma a piece of wafer while declaring his undying love and appreciation, and concluded with his hopes and dreams for her in the upcoming year. Breaking off a piece of the tasteless wafer, Grandma then shared her love and good wishes with Grandpa. Following the examples of our diarchy, each family member broke wafer and expressed love and good wishes with everyone present—along with sharing an abundance of hugs and kisses. I don’t remember the words spoken, but the knowledge that I was loved is deeply embedded in my soul.
These magical holidays came to an end after my parents divorced.
Many years passed without the opłatek ritual as part of my Christmas Eve—partly because of a difficult relationship with my father, and partly due to the fact that I had no idea where to find wafer—but recently, I experienced a buried longing to weave Polish holiday traditions into our family celebrations.
Opłatek is taken from the Latin word oblate, meaning sacred bread, and the ritual began in Early Christian times. The Polish cultural and spiritual tradition of breaking and sharing the wafer affirms the importance of family, unconditional love, connection, unity, and forgiveness. Symbolically, we break wafer/bread together to remember we are one in Christ, who was born in Bethlehem (House of Bread), and that He is The Bread of Life.
Wigilia festivities traditionally await the arrival of the first evening star—homage to the Star of Bethlehem—and a candle lit in the center of the table reminds us that Christ is the Light of the World. Some families begin with a reading of the Savior’s birth, followed by a prayer, before sharing the opłatek.
Two years ago, I found and ordered one-hundred pieces of opłatek—beautifully embossed with different nativity scenes and made at a convent in Poland—to share with family and close friends.
Marking the end of Advent and the imminent arrival of Christ Child, Wigilia’s sharing of opłatek is a tender, emotional experience that awakens memories of ancestors, love felt as a child, and our posterity as we continue this beloved and ancient tradition.
Mary-Margaret Hale is a wife, mother, favorite sister and auntie, awesome dancer, excellent driver, beach lover, and professional volunteer.
Advent in Action
Ideas from contributors including Brigham Wilson, Cece Proffit, and others
Draw a picture or make a collage of what peace looks and feels like for you.
Write a letter to someone you think is a peacemaker and thank them for their work.
Tell the story of a peacemaker you admire from your family, church, or community history.
Brainstorm together some ideas for building peace and write them on paper ornaments; when you do one or notice someone else doing one, tape it to a paper tree (this also works well for joy and love.)
Find peace in quiet evenings working on Christmas puzzles, watching classic movies, or simply enjoying the warm glow of your Christmas tree.
Christmas Salad
Curated by Sam Petersen
Building Peace
Celebrate Advent with Constant Wonder
Wayfare invites you to join Constant Wonder for their annual audio advent calendar, with a short episode every day from December 1 through Christmas. Each episode invites thoughtful reflection on the season, inspired by nature’s miraculous phenomena (from a turtle hibernating through the cold of winter to an ermine that teaches a writer forgiveness) as well as music and art traditionally connected with the biblical story of the Nativity.
Now Accepting Advent Submissions for 2025
We invite you to submit writing, poetry, and artwork on your experiences with peace, peacemaking, and preparing the way of the Lord here, to be considered for publication during Advent 2025.