I’ve come to think that the implements for peace are in the granaries, not the armories. Maybe we need to look in garden sheds, not gun safes, when attempting to address our hostile urges.
I survey the tool shed and find shovels to turn the soil of our too often thin, dry hearts. I see the spades, still caked with mud. Those spades could help us reach the deeper, darker soil ready for some good seed. People hemmed into fearfully small spaces could be accessed with a tiny spade, angled just so. The pile of pruners in the corner can be used early on in the peace-planting process to break open roots of good saplings facilitating quick growth in fresh soil. (Maybe transplanting can teach us something helpful about transformation – it’s worth exploring the possibility.)
We could grab the rakes and clear the distractions, scattered like loose leaves across the lawn, then turn our attention to the necessary discussions about reconciliation and restitution. We will, no doubt, need to use the clawed digging fork to turn unbroken soil. Some places, some of us, are simply hardened by years of hatred. Maybe we don’t know any better – our twisted eschatologies, poorly translated texts and atrophied theologies obstructing our way forward like an overgrown, intertwined thicket.