Peace from a Stump

     Last week we observed the first week of Advent and sat with Isaiah's promise that light would shine on those walking in deep darkness. This week we enter into the second week of Advent and turn to another prophecy from Isaiah. The theme is peace. But Isaiah's vision of peace is stranger and more comprehensive than we might expect.
     The passage begins with what looks like death. A stump. Not a flourishing tree, not even a struggling sapling, but the remnant left after an axe has done its work. Isaiah says this stump belongs to Jesse. That name matters. Jesse was David's father, a shepherd from Bethlehem, nobody significant until his youngest son was anointed king. By referring to Jesse rather than David, Isaiah signals that the great dynasty has been reduced to its origins. The royal tree has been cut down.
     But stumps are not always dead. Sometimes they send up shoots.
     Isaiah announces that from this apparently finished dynasty, new life will emerge. A branch will grow from Jesse's roots and bear fruit. The Hebrew words here emphasize smallness. This is not a mighty oak appearing overnight. It is a tender green shoot on dead wood, easy to overlook, easy to dismiss. Yet this small beginning carries an enormous endowment. The Spirit of the Lord will rest on this coming king in fullness: wisdom and understanding, counsel and might, knowledge and the fear of the Lord. Seven aspects of the Spirit (counting "the Spirit of the Lord" as the foundation) suggesting completeness. This king will lack nothing necessary for his reign.
     The contrast with Israel's failed kings could not be sharper. They lacked wisdom, making short-sighted political calculations. They lacked might, depending on foreign power. They lacked the fear of the Lord, trusting empires instead of God. The coming king will be everything they were not.
     Then Isaiah describes how this Spirit-filled king will rule. His delight will be in the fear of the Lord, not grudging obedience but genuine pleasure in alignment with God's will. He will not judge by appearances or be swayed by persuasive rhetoric. Human judges see surfaces. We hear only what people choose to tell us. We can be fooled. Not this king. He sees through to the truth.
     And his justice will favor those who usually lose. He will judge the poor with righteousness and decide with equity for the meek of the earth. In the ancient world, justice typically favored those with resources. The wealthy could afford advocates. The connected had influence. The poor had neither. Under this king's reign, they will finally receive what every human being deserves: fair treatment.
     This king will also "strike the earth with the rod of his mouth" and "kill the wicked with the breath of his lips." Peace, it turns out, is not achieved by tolerating evil. The king defeats it. His weapon is not a sword but his word. He speaks, and wickedness falls.
     We sometimes imagine peace as the absence of conflict, the state we reach when everyone agrees to get along. But that is not Isaiah's vision. True peace requires that what opposes peace be overcome. The same Messiah who blesses peacemakers also brings a sword against everything that destroys shalom. There is no contradiction. You cannot have the peaceable kingdom while predators still roam free.
     Which brings us to the most famous part of this passage: the vision of the wolf dwelling with the lamb, the leopard lying down with the young goat, the calf and the lion together, led by a little child. Cows and bears grazing side by side. Lions eating straw like oxen. Toddlers playing safely at the cobra's den.
     This imagery is not sentimental. It is the reversal of Genesis 3. When Adam and Eve sinned, creation itself fractured. The ground was cursed. Enmity entered the world. What Isaiah sees is that fracture healed. Predation ceases. Fear dissolves. The created order returns to its intended harmony.
     Notice that verse eight specifically pictures children playing near venomous snakes without danger. This directly reverses the curse of Genesis 3:15, where God declared enmity between the serpent and the woman's offspring. The threat that has shadowed humanity from the beginning is neutralized. The ancient enemy is defanged.
     And then Isaiah tells us why all of this becomes possible: "for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea."
     Peace is not primarily a program. It is not a policy achievement or a diplomatic breakthrough. Peace flows from knowing God. When the Lord is truly known, when his character and purposes fill human consciousness as completely as water fills the ocean, then peace naturally follows. This is why our best efforts at peace always fall short. We can manage conflict. We can negotiate settlements. We can enforce boundaries. But we cannot produce shalom. Only the spreading knowledge of God can do that.
     The passage concludes by expanding the scope further. The root of Jesse will stand as a signal for the peoples. The nations will inquire of him. His resting place will be glorious. This is not merely Israel's king restoring Israel's peace. This is the world's king drawing all peoples to himself. Paul quotes this verse in Romans 15 as scriptural warrant for Gentile inclusion in Christ's kingdom. What Isaiah glimpsed from afar, the apostles proclaimed as reality.
     We know who this king is. Matthew tells us that Jesus grew up in Nazareth (likely connected to the Hebrew word for "branch") and that the Spirit descended on him at his baptism and remained. He embodied wisdom and understanding. He defended the poor and rebuked the powerful. He spoke with authority that demons obeyed. And through his death and resurrection, he defeated the ultimate enemy. The shoot has sprouted. The king has come.
     And yet we still wait. Wolves still devour lambs. Children are not safe near serpents, or near many other dangers. Creation still groans. We feel the brokenness in ways large and small. We see it every time we read the news. We carry it in our own anxieties about what comes next.
     This is the tension of Advent. We celebrate what has come while longing for what will come. We have peace with God through Christ; Paul says so explicitly in Romans 5. But we await the peace of all things. We know the Prince of Peace personally, and yet we still pray "thy kingdom come." The church exists in this in-between space as a kind of preview. We cannot force the peaceable kingdom into existence through our own efforts. But we can refuse to be predators ourselves. We can extend protection to the vulnerable. We can pursue justice for those who have no advocate. We can demonstrate in our common life what the coming kingdom will look like, former enemies reconciled at one table, the powerful defending rather than exploiting the weak.
     Advent peace is not denial of present brokenness. We do not pretend the world is fine. We name what is fractured. But we name it as people who know the trajectory. The king has come. He will come again. His resting place will be glorious. The knowledge of the Lord will cover the earth.
     We have peace not because darkness has disappeared but because we know who wins. The stump has sprouted. The king reigns. And his peace, the peace that rewrites creation itself, is as certain as the promises of God.