Across Peace Catalyst and in the world around us, we’ve seen many beautiful things happen in the past year. The Spirit is alive everywhere we look. But there’s also so much today—too much—that is leaving people afraid, enraged, and devastated. As peacebuilders—as people of peace, of justice, of reconciliation, of hope—what is required of us in this moment? Now is the time to hold fast to our hope in God’s promise to reconcile and make all things new, and our trust that God’s peace can and will emerge from the rubble of destruction. So how will we be doing this at Peace Catalyst in the coming year?

When reflecting on familiar biblical passages like Matthew 28:19 or Acts 14:21, I've long wrestled with subtle yet profound implications of translation choices. In particular, I've been considering the Greek verb often translated into English as "make disciples." Common English translations such as "make disciples of all nations" shift the focus onto measurable outcomes—how many disciples have been successfully "made." This interpretation, however, places the evaluation of faithfulness and obedience on the actions and decisions of others, which are ultimately beyond our control.

For the past 6 months living in The Netherlands, I have felt like I escaped the reality of the world. However, as soon as I landed in Bosnia and Herzegovina I landed into reality once again. Yet, what surprised me was the division within the city. I wondered why there were inverted Russian flags all over town. As soon as I opened my mouth to ask, my new colleague Mirela said, “Welcome to Republika Srpska” (predominantly Serbian Orthodox). I realized that all of my reading and understanding wasn’t enough to prepare me for this.

When I became a follower of Jesus, everything changed. My citizenship, my allegiance, my purpose. I no longer belonged to the kingdoms of this world. I was transferred from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of light. A kingdom that doesn’t operate by the rules of power or control or violence. A kingdom that looks like Jesus. But I’ll be honest. The more I advocate for Palestinians, the more I speak out against injustice, the easier it is for me to lose sight of Jesus. I get angry. I get bitter. I feel rage. And if I’m not careful, I stop reflecting the kingdom of Jesus and start reflecting the kingdoms of this world.

And that’s not the path I want to be on.

In a world where division and violence appear stronger than ever, how do we break the cycles of hate and work for healing for ourselves and our community? How might we embody both courage and love, taking action for change without recreating the harm we're resisting? Watch our conversation with Kazu Haga, a nonviolence and restorative justice practitioner and trainer, and author of the book Fierce Vulnerability, as we explore the ways in which our personal and collective healing are woven together. Through the intersections between Christian peace spirituality and Buddhist practice, lessons from the fields of nonviolent organizing and trauma healing, and a shared hope and longing for the Beloved Community, we hope that this conversation will encourage and inspire you as you seek to live out the divine peace wherever you are.

I’ve been thinking about the Western craving for what I sometimes call a Disneyland ending—a curated, comforting wrap-up to hard stories. I'm in one of these moments. Bear with me as I try to unpack what it feels like when people abandon the ones we care about—or the work we do to stand alongside them.

Today, on Earth Day, I think about how caring about social problems and caring about ecological impacts are intertwined. A consumerist mindset that prizes accumulation above all else results in the devastation of environments that nurture not only flora and fauna, but provide food and water to human creatures as well. And when humans are without food and water, they encroach on other environments, pushing out the plants and animals residing there. The pattern keeps repeating and expanding, resulting in things like fires and floods, climate migration, and species extinction.

“What will happen?” This question kept popping into my head as I sat in the van, winding through the rugged mountains of Kula, somewhere between Montenegro and Kosovo. Together with the artists from the acting troupe Magic Theatre (Magični Teatar), we were on our way to perform a play with women living in Kosovo. The project aimed to bring together women of Albanian and Serbian ethnicity, using theatre and artistic expression to empower those from areas affected by conflict. The twist? The actresses weren’t professionals—they were going to be local women who had never acted before but were willing to give it a shot.

On March 25, 2025, video footage went viral showing a Tufts University student, Rumeysa Ozturk, being arrested by ICE agents while walking to class. Her quiet, stunned compliance—the way she whispered "I'm a student at Tufts..." as agents pulled her away—echoed through social media like a lament. Though she was later released, the imagery haunts: an unarmed woman of color, quietly disappeared in broad daylight, on a college campus.

This is not an isolated moment. It’s part of a broader climate of fear and dehumanization toward immigrants in our country—especially those whose presence challenges dominant narratives of whiteness, power, or security. In the face of all this, a friend recently asked me, “What would Jesus do?” That question hits hard. And it’s worth flipping: What did Jesus do? Because we actually have a pretty solid record.