It is difficult to survey the modern horizon without feeling a sense of disorientation. We find ourselves in an era defined not just by geopolitical skirmishes, but by a deeper, more intimate fragmentation. We are at war abroad, but more poignantly, we seem to be at war with our neighbors. The public square, once a place for the difficult work of discourse, has become a battlefield. Protest, an essential heartbeat of democracy, frequently sheds its mantle of peace for the heat of aggression, and the institutions of governance often seem to have lost their North Star, appearing more interested in the preservation of power than the protection of the vulnerable.
However, we must also weigh the lens through which we view this world. We live in an age of the “algorithmic outrage,” where conflict is monetized and peace is rarely deemed “newsworthy.” While the headlines scream of division, there are millions who live in quiet, functional communities—neighbors who still borrow sugar, town councils that still fix roads, and strangers who still hold doors open. Perhaps the greatest tragedy is not just the conflict itself, but that we have allowed the noise of the few to drown out the inherent decency of the many.
This sense of “living in the end times” is not a modern invention. Two thousand years ago, the world was similarly engulfed in shadow. Under the weight of Roman occupation, the air in Judea was thick with the scent of insurrection and the desperation of the downtrodden. The people of that era were not praying for a philosopher or a poet; they were praying for a superhero. They yearned for a “Zealot Messiah”—a warrior-king who would break the Roman eagle, restore the borders, and meet violence with violence.
They wanted a Caesar of their own.
Yet, history records a divine subversion of those expectations. Into a world demanding a sword, God sent a man who spoke of “turning the other cheek.” To a people demanding the destruction of their enemies, He commanded that they love them. This was not a passive or weak message; it was a radical, domestic insurgency. It suggested that the only way to truly defeat an enemy was to move the battlefield from the soil to the soul.
As we navigate the complexities of our current political and social climate, we are forced to confront a recurring question: What do we truly want in our leaders?
The world often tempts us to choose a Pilate or a Caesar. We find ourselves drawn to leaders who promise to “crush” the opposition, who refuse to compromise, and who view empathy as a tactical error. We mistake rigidity for strength and bellicosity for bravery. We see this reflected in a leadership class that treats the “other side” not as fellow citizens with different ideas, but as existential threats.
But if we look deeper into our own restlessness, do we not yearn for something else?
To choose a leader of peace is not to choose a leader who is soft or indecisive. True peacemaking is an active, grueling work. It requires the courage to sit at a table with an adversary, the intellectual honesty to admit when the other side is right, and the moral stamina to protect the rights of those we dislike.
Perhaps the “peaceful communities” we suspect still exist are waiting for leaders who reflect their own quiet virtues. As we contemplate the difficulties of our times, we might realize that we do not need another Caesar to conquer our enemies. We need the wisdom to recognize that the path of the superhero usually leads to further ruin, while the path of the Peacemaker—though steep and narrow—is the only one that leads home.
The question remains: are we brave enough to follow a Man of Peace, or are we still waiting for a warrior to save us from ourselves?
Terrific! xoxo
Thank you so much!