WHAT WE HAVE BEEN GIVEN
“I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you” (2 Timothy 1:6)
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” (Matthew 5:9)
Beloved in Christ,
Over the past several weeks, it has felt increasingly difficult to avoid the headlines. Reports of missile strikes, political threats, military movements, nations posturing, old conflicts resurfacing, new ones emerging. … The names and places change, but the rhythm feels familiar: people standing at the edge of fear, uncertainty, and violence, trying to convince themselves that power will somehow bring peace. I have found myself reading these stories with scripture in one hand and our Brethren story in the other, and I find myself wondering what, exactly, we have been given for moments like this. When the world grows louder with the language of fear, retaliation, and certainty, what does it mean to be a people whose story has always pointed in another direction?
In his second letter to Timothy, Paul writes, “I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you” (2 Timothy 1:6). The word rekindle has been lingering with me. One does not rekindle something entirely new. One rekindles something already present, something perhaps neglected, something that may have quieted beneath the weight of ordinary responsibilities, difficult seasons, unanswered questions, or the slow accumulation of life itself. And so, I find myself asking: What gifts have been sitting quietly in our hands all along, waiting to be remembered?
I have been thinking, too, about inheritance and about what was placed into our hands long before any of us ever stood behind a pulpit, served on a ministry team, chaired a committee, attended district conference, or found ourselves navigating difficult conversations in our congregations. Long before any of that, we inherited a witness.
In 1708, in Schwarzenau, our spiritual forebears gathered in a world that was hardly peaceful. They knew political instability and religious coercion. They understood the pressures of empire, the dangers of division, and the temptation to secure peace through power. Yet into that world, they chose a different way. They chose baptism as an act of conscious discipleship. They chose simplicity when excess offered status. They chose community when individualism offered autonomy. They chose service when ambition offered recognition. They chose peace when violence offered certainty.
Perhaps most strikingly, when they disagreed—and surely they did—they chose to remain in relationship long enough to listen for the Spirit. I find myself wondering what our forebears would recognize in us if they sat quietly in one of our board meetings, worship services, kitchen table conversations, or online exchanges. Would they recognize the same patience? The same humility? The same willingness to stay with one another when clarity does not come quickly?
That question lingers with me, because for us, consensus has never simply been a method of conducting church business, nor merely a slower way of making decisions. Consensus, for us, is theological. It is rooted in the belief that truth is not something we conquer, defend, or possess, but something we discern together through humility, patience, prayer, scripture, and community. Discernment takes time. It takes the willingness to listen deeply. It takes the courage to admit that even our strongest convictions may still have something to learn. It takes the grace to remain at the table, especially when walking away might feel easier.
I wonder if that witness matters now more than ever, because the violence we encounter in the headlines rarely stays on the news. It has a way of finding its way into our conversations, our assumptions, our politics, our social media feeds, our congregational meetings, and our homes. If we are not careful, it can also find its way into our spirits. Long before violence ever becomes physical, it often begins in smaller ways: in our impatience, in our defensiveness, in our unwillingness to listen, in our need to be right, in our quiet dismissal of those whose experiences, perspectives, or convictions differ from our own. And if that is true, then where does peacemaking actually begin?
Jesus, of course, never promised that peacemaking would be easy. He simply called it blessed. “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9). I have been sitting with the word peacemakers, because Jesus does not seem to be describing those who appreciate peace when circumstances allow for it, or who speak about peace so long as it costs them very little. He seems to be describing something far more active, and perhaps far more costly: people willing to step into tension without becoming consumed by it, people willing to ask one more question when assumptions would come more easily, people willing to listen long enough for understanding to begin taking root, and people willing to remain in relationship even when resolution does not come quickly. I suspect our Brethren forebears understood something of that, and I find myself wondering if the Spirit may be inviting us not simply to admire that witness, but to practice it.
Perhaps rekindling does not always look like discovering something new. Perhaps, more often than not, rekindling looks like remembering what has been in our hands all along.
(2026 logo designed by Madalyn Metzger)
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