A Four-Word Sermon on the Deep Peace of Advent
Shalom • Raphah • Eirēnē • Katapausis
INTRODUCTION — The Kind of Peace We Actually Need
I don’t know about you, but this time of year never really feels peaceful. We want it to. We try to make it feel that way. We picture quiet evenings, soft lights, cocoa on the stove, kids behaving just long enough for one family picture. But December has a way of speeding up just when our souls need to slow down. We’re juggling schedules, shopping lists, to-do lists, cooking, events, school concerts, family tension, grief that gets louder in the holidays… and all of it leaves us wanting peace but struggling to find it.
And it’s ironic, isn’t it? Advent is supposed to be the season of hope, peace, joy, and love, yet we often arrive at Christmas Eve more tired than transformed.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe Advent isn’t about pretending everything is peaceful.
Maybe it’s about recognizing how deeply we need the One who is Peace.
This morning I want to show you how Advent peace is so much more than the quiet moments we try to squeeze into December. It’s the peace God brings, not the peace we manufacture.
It refuses to offer shallow comfort or sentimental calm.
It doesn’t ask us to pretend everything is fine or that our hearts don’t ache.
Instead, Advent speaks a deeper peace — a peace God Himself defines, initiates, and sustains.
Scripture actually gives us not one word for peace, but many — each one highlighting a different facet of God’s heart, a different gift God wants to grow within us. Together, they paint a complete picture of the peace Jesus came to bring — not the thin peace the world promises, but a peace that can enter real lives, real pain, real busyness, real families, and real hearts.
Today we’ll look at four of those words — four doors into one gift — and let them show us the kind of peace our souls are aching for.
PART 1 — SHALOM (שָׁלוֹם) — shah-LOME
PEACE THAT MAKES US WHOLE
(Isaiah 9:1–7)
When the prophets used the word shalom, they weren’t describing a mood or a moment. They were describing the world as God intended it to be—a life where what’s broken is repaired, what’s fractured is healed, and God’s people live under His blessing, in His presence, held together by His hand.
Isaiah says, “You will keep in perfect peace (shalom shalom) those whose minds are steadfast” (Isaiah 26:3). The Hebrew literally means shalom multiplied—peace doubled, peace overflowing. And that’s important, because shalom is not a feeling you work your way into. It’s a reality God creates. It’s something done to you and for you.
Old Testament scholar Cornelius Plantinga describes it this way:
“Shalom is the way things ought to be.”
(Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be, Eerdmans)
Biblical peace is wholeness—spiritual, emotional, relational, even societal. It’s life stitched back together by a God who refuses to let brokenness have the final word.
And this is why shalom is such an important Advent word. Advent tells the truth about the world: it isn’t whole. Our families aren’t whole. Our hearts aren’t whole. Our world is certainly not whole. But Advent doesn’t tell us to try harder or pretend everything’s fine. Advent tells us someone is coming. Someone who restores what was lost. Someone whose very title is “Prince of Peace”—Sar Shalom (Isaiah 9:6).
When Isaiah called Jesus the Prince of Peace, he wasn’t describing a calm personality—he was announcing that the Messiah would bring the wholeness only God can give.
And here’s the good news for your life today:
Shalom doesn’t ask if your life is calm.
Shalom asks if your life is covered.
Because when Jesus enters the story, He doesn’t ignore the chaos—He overcomes it. He repairs what was shattered. He restores what was stolen. He makes you whole again. And if your December feels anything but peaceful, that doesn’t mean you’re far from shalom. It may simply mean you’re in the perfect place for the Prince of Peace to meet you.
And there’s one more thing about shalom that I love. We think of it as this deep theological concept—wholeness, completeness, flourishing. But if you’ve ever been around Jewish friends, you know they also use shalom as a simple greeting, like “hello” or “goodbye.” That always used to puzzle me. Why take a big, beautiful word like that and use it for small talk?
But in Hebrew culture, shalom was never just a word—it was a blessing. Speaking shalom over someone wasn’t the ancient version of “hi.” It was saying, “I want your life to be whole. I want God’s peace to rest on you. I want everything broken to be made right.” It was a prayer spoken into the everyday moments of life.
And that fits so well with who God’s people were called to be. They weren’t meant just to experience shalom—they were meant to carry it. So every greeting became a small act of ministry: “Shalom when you arrive. Shalom when you go. Shalom on everything in between.”
And church, that’s Advent for us. In a season that rarely feels peaceful, the world doesn’t need more calm circumstances—it needs people who carry the peace of God within them. People who speak peace. People who bless peace. People who bring a little bit of God’s wholeness into the room just by showing up.
PART 2 — RAPHAH (רָפָה) — rah-FAH
PEACE THAT HELPS US LET GO
(Psalm 46)
When the psalmist uses the word raphah in Psalm 46, he is not inviting us into a moment of quiet or asking us to sit still for a while. He is inviting us into a posture of trust. The word we translate as be still is far stronger and far more vulnerable. Raphah means to loosen, to let the hands drop, to stop clinging, to release the illusion that you are the one holding the world together.
Psalm 46:10 says,
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
But the Hebrew paints a fuller picture:
“Raphah — loosen your grip; let go — and know that I am God.”
And that is crucial, because raphah is not a feeling you talk yourself into.
It is a surrender God invites you into.
It is not your effort.
It is your release.
Biblical peace is not only about wholeness; it is about trust.
It is recognizing that even in the chaos—especially in the chaos—God is God and we are not. Raphah teaches us that peace isn’t found by tightening our hold on life, but by loosening it.
Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann notes that Psalm 46 is written to a people surrounded by threat—nations raging, mountains shaking, waters roaring. And right there, in the middle of the noise, God says the most counterintuitive thing imaginable:
“Stop striving.
Stop gripping.
Stop acting as if everything depends on you.
Raphah — release your fear, because I am here.”
And this is why raphah is an Advent word. Advent doesn’t pretend the world is orderly. Advent names the storms, acknowledges the weight, and then gently reminds us that the God who holds the universe is the same God who holds us. Advent is God whispering:
“You do not have to carry what I have already taken into My hands.”
When God says raphah, He is not dismissing your struggle; He is freeing you from the lie that you must solve it alone. The invitation of Advent is not to become better at managing your stress—but to trust more deeply the One who reigns above it.
And here is the good news today:
Raphah doesn’t ask if your life is under control.
Raphah asks whose hands your life is in.
Because when Jesus enters the story, He doesn’t hand you more things to juggle.
He invites you to lay them down.
He doesn’t look at the white-knuckled places of your life with disappointment; He looks at them with compassion. He says, “Loosen your grip. Let go. I am God—and you are held.”
And there is one more thing about raphah that I love. We tend to think of letting go as a weakness, as though surrender means failure. But in Scripture, raphah is not weakness—it is worship. It is the moment your hands stop clenching long enough for God to place His peace within them.
This is the heart of Advent.
In a season when everything around us demands more from us—more effort, more plans, more perfection—God invites us into something radically different:
“Raphah.
Let go.
Rest your weight on Me.”
And church, that’s what the world needs from us. Not people who can carry everything flawlessly, but people whose peace comes from knowing they don’t have to. People who trust God enough to stop striving. People who embody a calm that doesn’t come from circumstances but from surrender. People who live with open hands because they believe the One who fills them is faithful.
PART 3 — EIRĒNĒ (εἰρήνη) — ay-RAY-nay
PEACE THAT MOVES INTO OUR RELATIONSHIPS
(Romans 12:9–21)
When the New Testament writers use the word eirēnē, they are not describing a quiet personality or a conflict-free environment. They are describing something active, relational, and courageous. Eirēnē is the peace that reaches outward. It is the peace that reconciles, restores, and repairs the spaces between us. It is the peace of Christ moving from the inside out — from heart to habit, from belief to behavior.
And it’s important to note something about eirēnē in the Advent story.
When Gabriel appears to Mary, he does not use the word eirēnē. His greeting is, “Rejoice, favored one… do not be afraid.” Fear is lifted, courage is given — but peace is not yet announced.
It isn’t until Jesus is born that heaven finally speaks eirēnē:
“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace (eirēnē) among those whom He favors” (Luke 2:14).
Do you see the order?
Fear lifted for Mary.
Peace announced for the world.
That’s the pattern of the gospel:
God removes fear so He can plant peace.
Jesus uses this same word when He tells His disciples,
“My peace (eirēnē) I give to you… not as the world gives” (John 14:27).
The world gives peace through avoidance — by backing away from hard people, hard conversations, and hard situations.
But eirēnē gives peace through presence — by entering broken places with grace, humility, and mercy. This is the peace that refuses to hide. It is the peace that walks toward people rather than away from them.
In Romans 12, Paul paints the most detailed picture of eirēnē we have in Scripture. He invites believers to live in a way that interrupts the cycle of anger, retaliation, and self-protection:
- “Let love be genuine.”
• “Bless those who persecute you.”
• “Rejoice with those who rejoice.”
• “Weep with those who weep.”
• “Live in harmony with one another.”
• “Do not repay anyone evil for evil.”
• “Do all that you can to live in peace (eirēnē) with everyone.”
This is not a peace that sits quietly.
This is peace that acts.
Peace that heals.
Peace that moves into the spaces where relationships are strained or hurting.
And this is why eirēnē is an Advent word. Advent tells the story of a God who moves toward us — even when we were far from Him, even when reconciliation seemed impossible. Christ did not wait for humanity to improve before He came. He came into our hostility to create peace between God and humanity (Ephesians 2:14).
Eirēnē asks us honest questions:
Where do I need to forgive?
Where do I need to soften?
Where do I need to take the first step toward reconciliation?
Where is Christ inviting me to turn peace into action?
And here’s the good news:
Eirēnē does not demand perfection.
It simply invites us to be vessels of Christ’s peace wherever we go.
Eirēnē doesn’t ask if your relationships are easy.
Eirēnē asks if Christ is shaping how you show up in them.
When God’s people live in eirēnē, the world gets a glimpse of Jesus —
not only in what we believe,
but in how we love.
PART 4 — KATAPAUSIS (κατάπαυσις) — kah-tah-POW-sis
PEACE THAT SUSTAINS US THROUGH EVERYTHING
(Hebrews 4:1–11 — NRSVRE)
When the writer of Hebrews uses the word katapausis, he is speaking of the deepest, most enduring form of peace in all of Scripture — the kind of peace that doesn’t fade with circumstances, seasons, or emotions. Katapausis is God’s rest: a rest that anchors the soul, steadies the heart, and holds the believer secure even when life is still unfinished.
Hebrews says,
“There remains a sabbath rest for the people of God” (Hebrews 4:9).
This is not a day off.
This is not a break from work.
This is not simply taking a breath before diving back into the chaos.
Katapausis means living inside the finished work of Christ — trusting not only what He has done for our salvation, but what He is doing in every moment of our lives.
And there’s something beautiful tucked into this word katapausis that we often miss. In Genesis, when God finished creation, the Hebrew says He shabat—He ceased, He rested, He took His hands off the work because it was complete. But when the Hebrew Scriptures were translated into Greek, the translators used the verb katapauō, the very root behind the word katapausis in Hebrews 4. In other words, the rest God entered into at the dawn of creation is the same rest He now invites His people to share. The peace of Genesis is the promise of Hebrews. The rest God enjoyed is the rest Christ has opened to us. Katapausis isn’t just a moment of relief—it’s stepping into the finished work of God Himself.
The people receiving the book of Hebrews were tired — spiritually, emotionally, physically exhausted. They were discouraged, uncertain, and tempted to give up. And into that weary community, God speaks a promise of rest. Not rest as escape — but rest as assurance.
Rest that says:
“What God has begun in you, God will not abandon.”
“What lies ahead is not unknown to God.”
“What burdens you today is not carried alone.”
“What you do not understand is still held in His wisdom.”
This is why katapausis is an Advent word. Advent reminds us that Christ came once to redeem us, and He will come again to restore all things. We live between those two comings — in what Christians call the “already and not yet.” Life in the middle can be exhausting. But katapausis tells us:
You are not alone in the middle.
You are not the one holding your story together.
Your rest is not in your effort but in His promise.
And here’s the good news for your heart today:
Katapausis doesn’t ask if your life is easy.
Katapausis asks if your soul is anchored.
Because the peace Christ gives is not fragile.
It is not seasonal.
It is not tied to the condition of your calendar or the behavior of the people around you.
The peace Christ gives is rooted in His unchanging character — the same yesterday, today, and forever.
Katapausis is the peace that remains when the world shakes,
the peace that stays when emotions fluctuate,
the peace that whispers,
“Rest, child — the God who began this work in you will finish it.”
This is the peace Jesus promised when He said,
“My peace I give to you… not as the world gives.”
The world gives peace that flickers.
Jesus gives peace that endures.
CONCLUSION — One Peace, Four Doors
These four words form one beautiful, Spirit-led journey:
- Shalom — God makes us whole.
- Raphah — God teaches us to let go.
- Eirēnē — God helps us live in peace with one another.
- Katapausis — God invites us into His eternal rest.
This is not peace we manufacture, force, or pretend.
It is peace God speaks — a peace that comes to us, fills us, transforms us, and sustains us.
It is the peace that arrives in a manger, walks beside us through the hills and valleys of life, and holds us securely for eternity.
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