Prince of Peace

They called them retreats.

We couldn’t have told you what the word meant. Not when used in that context.

Usually, a group of teenagers was loaded into cars to ride to unfamiliar surroundings, mostly campgrounds in the middle of nowhere.

For two or three days, we engaged in ambitious activities—games, hikes, group discussions, and the like. Since we were usually thrown in with other teenagers we didn’t know, the stress level was high as we vied for the pretty girls’ attention and did our best to mark our territory and establish superiority over the other boys.

It wasn’t a relaxing time.

I am older now. Much older. The need to impress pretty females has faded into a dim memory (except for one particular Lovely Lady). Mostly, I leave the butting heads process to younger men anxious to leave their marks on their corner of the world.

I have a much better comprehension of how to retreat now. In a world filled with the imagery of battles and strife, the time to turn away from the fray and find a place in which to tend to wounds and basic emotional and spiritual needs is well within my power of discernment.

Quite obviously, the term is of military origin, although not necessarily in the sense in which we normally view it.

Somehow, we have been taught to believe retreat is the same as a rout, a defeat in battle. Although that might sometimes be the case, on many occasions a retreat is called simply to give the combatants a chance to rest and get ready to re-engage.

The wise leader always knew when his command was at the breaking point, the place where casualties would begin to mount catastrophically. Sounding the retreat was a way of living to fight another day—on full stomachs and well rested.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat.

Retreat is rightfully a tool of battle, not an admission of defeat. Share on X

The warrior king who wrote many of the Psalms understood the value of the retreat. In the worst time imaginable, a time when he was fighting battles with his own son, he writes of sleeping soundly and once again arising to courage and faith. (Psalm 3:5,6)

In the most popular of all his writings, he speaks of lying down in green fields and of being led by still waters to be restored in soul and spirit. (Psalm 23:2,3)

David writes of the soul of the warrior at rest in the Prince of Peace.

The soul of the warrior is at rest in the Prince of Peace. Share on X

I need that. Exactly that.

Perhaps, I’m not the only one.

Our lives, to the uninvolved bystander, are completely unlike the one this man-after-God’s-own-heart saw unfold before him thousands of years ago. And yet, for all that, our battles aren’t any less hard-fought, nor any less important.

My battles don’t look anything like those of folks around me, either. Still, battles they are, with casualties to be counted and wounds to be dressed.

Retreat must come. It must.

And Jesus told His followers it was time for them to retreat. (Mark 6:31) Well no, not in so many words. But, the meaning was exactly that. They had so much more ahead of them, and they needed to be rested and healed.

Come aside. Rest. Recover.

Prepare.

Wait! What?

If our retreat is not preparation to re-enter the field of the battle, it is nothing more than admission of defeat. Complete and utter. Defeat.

Yes, it’s time—perhaps, past time—for a retreat, a time of healing. But, if that time isn’t used wisely, in preparation for what is yet to come, we could just as well have stayed out there swinging in exhaustion without stopping.

The man on the sidelines who is never coming back into the game is no longer a competitor.

If we’re called aside, it’s only for a short season.

A soldier fights. A servant serves. A teacher teaches.

Out there is where we fulfill our purpose. If the trumpet has sounded retreat, it is to get us ready to go back out there.

Armor on.

It’s time to stand.

Again.

They don’t know that
I go running home when I fall down
They don’t know Who picks me
Up when no one is around
I drop my sword and cry for just a while
‘Cause deep inside this armor
The warrior is a child.
(The Warrior is a Child ~ Twila Paris ~ © Universal Music Publishing Group ~ All rights reserved)

Sunday night late—the stoop seems as good a place as any to ponder.
Big things, I always choose. Tonight, all I see is the moon, and it is big enough.
Full, bright, and orange it was when earlier I stood with my love, taken with wonder.
Now murky and circled with clouds, it only warns of rain to come in the soon dawning day. Monday with rain.

How does the joy and wonder turn so suddenly to foreboding?
Where does the elation go when I am overcome with dread?
It is not only the moon and not only the night that bring the sudden turnaround.
Still. The questions remain.
How so suddenly changed?
Where can I go to retrieve the joy?
Where is the queue to reclaim peace for my soul?

I wrote the words a year ago. They were never meant to share. Not with anyone.

Two nights ago, he called me—the man who is the rock. No, really. The Rock of Gibraltar. Or, so I have believed.

His close friends, two of them, have died in the last week. Another, even closer to him, is in the terrifying uncertainty of awaiting the doctor’s report.

He is shaken. Shaken.

We talked for some time and agreed on this certainty at the end of the conversation: We know the Peace-giver. In our prayers and gratitude, He gives His peace that we cannot understand.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself.

The Prince of Peace gives Himself. Share on X

His words, fear not, are not meant as a command to be followed religiously, in fear of offense. They are the assurance of a loving parent—a promise of safety, of wholeness, of perfect rest.

They are words to comfort and not to condemn.

And, as children are wont to do, we forget. We do.

And, like a Father, He reminds again. And again.

His words are fresh every time. His arms of protection cover—every time.

Peace. I am leaving it with you. Not the kind of peace the world offers, brokered by the powerful and ensured by weapons and threats. No, my peace is a gift to hold in your heart, where no man and no circumstance can plunder it. (John 14:27)

Where anger rules, peace dissolves. Where terror dwells, peace cannot live. Where worry spreads, peace is no more.

Does it mean our hearts will never be touched by these things? By no means.

Fear may pass through, anger may swell up, anxiety may worm its way in.

But His peace reigns. Just as Peter, when we begin to sink beneath the waves, we remember who rules those waves.

As we walk through the valley of the shadow, we recall who waits for us over there.

You know—over there. Where our home—our real home—is being made ready for us.

Here is the queue to reclaim peace—in exactly the same place it was the last time.

We’re next in line. Every time.

Peace.

Shalom.

God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
(C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)

And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.
(Philippians 4:7 ~ KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Retreat Sounds

Where is the Queue?