What is peace, really?  For a long time, I thought I had the answer. I used to think peace was just quiet—a lack of trouble. If things were calm, if no one was fighting or bothering me, that had to be peace, right? Growing up in the United States in the 1970s, it was easy to believe that. The draft was over. The great wars that had scarred the previous decades seemed like old news. We convinced ourselves we’d entered a new era, where the biggest arguments came from TV commercials about whether something “tastes great” or is “less filling.”

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for SIXTH SUNDAY OF EASTER (May 25, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

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Even in church, peace felt simple and sweet. I remember how our voices would swell—yes, even among Catholics who aren’t exactly famous for singing—as we belted out: “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me… Let there be peace on earth, the peace that was meant to be…”

But somewhere along the way, life happened, as it always does. I started to wonder if peace might be a lot deeper—and a lot more complicated—than I once thought. When countries talk about wanting peace, sometimes they just mean an end to fighting. Other times, “peace” is about getting your own way, or hammering out a tense agreement that stops the violence for now. If you look closer to home, you see the same thing: families “agree to disagree” just to keep things civil, or at least to keep the peace for the sake of a holiday meal.

None of these things are bad. In fact, they matter. They can be important first steps. But if we stop there—if we never go deeper—what we have isn’t real peace. It’s something fragile, like everyone is just walking on eggshells, hoping nothing sets things off again. It’s the kind of peace that can shatter with a single angry word or a change in circumstance.

All of this came to mind as I prayed with today’s Scripture readings. It’s tempting to hear this beautiful Gospel passage and want to stay with those easy, surface-level ideas of peace—the kind that avoids trouble or just papers over the cracks. We hear Jesus say, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid,” and it makes sense that we cling to those words, especially when life gets hard or uncertain.

But what kind of peace is Jesus really offering? He isn’t talking about a fragile truce or simply the absence of trouble. He’s pointing to something much more solid—something that can’t be shaken by the world’s chaos or our own fears.

Let’s remember the context for Jesus’ words. He’s not sitting in a quiet garden or a peaceful retreat. He’s at the Last Supper, just hours away from being arrested, dragged through a sham trial, and enduring a brutal death on the Cross. He’s gathered with his closest friends, and one of them—Judas Iscariot—has already slipped out into the night to betray him, setting this whole storm into motion.

Jesus knows exactly what’s coming. The path ahead for Him, and for those at the table, will be anything but peaceful in the way we usually think of it. So when He says, “Peace I leave with you,” it almost sounds out of place. Why talk about peace now, when everything is about to fall apart?

It’s because Jesus is stepping right into the heart of the ultimate battle—the struggle between Good and Evil, Heaven and Hell, God and the devil and all his evil forces that opposes Him. He’s not just wishing for peace; He’s about to win it for us at the deepest level. He’s preparing to face the agony of Calvary, to pour Himself out completely, and to let love have the final word, even when it costs Him everything.

And it’s precisely there, in the middle of suffering and chaos, that His peace is born. Not from avoiding conflict or shutting His eyes to pain, but by stepping forward with a love that doesn’t flinch and a trust in the Father that never lets go. The peace Jesus offers isn’t fragile. It doesn’t depend on circumstances or everyone getting along. It endures, even in the darkest moments. It’s a peace that the world can’t give—and can’t take away.

We see this peace already at work in the early Church. The first reading from the Acts of the Apostles shows us real tension and disagreement among the first Christians. There are arguments, confusion, people from different cultures struggling to understand each other. But instead of splintering or ignoring the problem, they come together, guided by the Holy Spirit, to seek truth and keep the community whole. They don’t settle for a surface truce or a polite silence; they work for a peace that’s rooted in Christ, a peace that can hold together even when things get messy.

Then we hear John’s vision in Revelation: the Holy City, shining with God’s glory, where there’s no need for sun or lamp because the Lamb Himself is its light. That’s the fullness of peace—God’s presence so complete, so overwhelming, that every shadow is gone.

So what does this mean for us, here and now? Jesus doesn’t just hand us peace like a gift to unwrap and then sit back to enjoy. He calls us to the hard work that real peace requires. Peace, the kind He gives, isn’t about everyone getting their own way, or keeping a fragile calm by ignoring the hard stuff.

He calls us to humility—to put aside our own preferences and desires, not because they don’t matter, but because the goal is something higher. The goal is to be in right relationship with Him first and foremost. That means letting go of the need to win every argument, or to have things go my way, and instead asking, “How can I draw closer to Christ in this moment? How can I act so that He is seen more clearly, even if it costs me my pride?”

He calls us to forgiveness—not just seven times, but seventy times seven. In other words, a lifetime of forgiving. That doesn’t mean we ignore wrong behavior or pretend that evil isn’t real. It doesn’t mean we enable injustice. But it does mean refusing to let anger and resentment take root in our hearts. It means not letting anything—no matter how painful—become bigger in our minds than Jesus Himself.

He calls us to reconciliation, to the hard and sometimes messy work of finding ways to come together. True peace means advocating for justice, even when it challenges my own comfort or preferences. It means being willing to listen, to seek understanding, and to work for healing, even when the world says it’s easier to walk away.

And here’s the hope: we don’t do any of this on our own. We do it by the power of the Holy Spirit, living and working in us and through us. The Spirit gives us the courage to be humble, the strength to forgive, and the wisdom to seek real reconciliation. The Spirit reminds us that peace isn’t just something we achieve—it’s a gift we receive, and a calling we live out, one day at a time.

So today, as we hear those words—“Peace I leave with you”—let’s not settle for less. Let’s dare to ask Christ for His peace, the kind that endures when everything else is shaking, the kind that transforms us and makes us free. And let’s commit ourselves to the hard, holy work of humility, forgiveness, and reconciliation—trusting that the Spirit is with us every step of the way.

Lord Jesus, give us your peace—deep, lasting, and true. Let it begin in our hearts, and overflow into our families, our church, and our world. Amen.