It’s been another busy day. This morning we held a Chrism Mass – a service where the oils used for anointing are blessed, and clergy and lay people have the opportunity to renew their vows of commitment to God. There were hundreds of people on site; the car park was full, the congregation sang with gusto, and the whole place was buzzing with (good) chaos.
So when I stepped out of my office that afternoon into the sun, I paused. The crowds had gone, the site was quiet, and there was a calm stillness in the air. I just stood for a moment, letting the sun warm my face, and noticed a genuine sense of peace. A peace that settles in when the storm has passed, if only for a moment.
After work, I went to a simple said evening service. As we sat quietly in the chapel, we could hear the wind outside and the bustle of preparations in the main part of the Cathedral – the organ and choir rehearsing for the later liturgy. And yet, in that chapel, in the presence of God, there was peace. Not silence, but stillness. Not the absence of sound, but the presence of calm.
It reminded me of a story I once heard: a king holds a competition, asking artists to paint a picture of peace. Many submit idyllic scenes – sunsets, still lakes, green fields. But the winning entry is different. It shows a stormy sky, crashing waterfall, and wild waves. And there, tucked beneath a rocky cliff, is a small bird in her nest, calm and secure. That painting won because it captured true peace; not the absence of trouble, but peace in the midst of it.
That idea resonates with me. The “calm lake” moments in life are rare and fleeting. More often, I’m surrounded by noise, deadlines, activity, and distraction. So remembering that peace can still be found in the middle of it all feels like a lifeline.
Tonight, on Maundy Thursday, I’m struck by the contrast between two responses to Jesus in the hours before his death.
There’s the woman who anoints him. She breaks open an expensive jar of perfume, pours it on him, and wipes his feet with her hair. It’s a moment of pure, extravagant devotion. The disciples are shocked at the waste, but Jesus defends her. “She has done a beautiful thing,” he says. “She has prepared me for burial.” In the growing storm, she brings honour, tenderness, peace.
And then there are the disciples. They fall asleep in the garden when Jesus asks them to stay awake and pray. When the guards come, they run. And Peter – bold, beloved Peter – denies even knowing him. In the thick of fear and confusion, they abandon him.
One brings presence. The others scatter.
One acts in love. The others act in fear.
I don’t judge them. If I’m honest, I see myself in both responses.
Some days, I pour out what I have, kneeling at the feet of Jesus with peace in my heart.
Other days, I fall asleep. I disappear. I deny.
And yet, even in those moments, Jesus still moves toward the cross in love. For the woman, for the disciples, for me.
Because the peace he offers isn’t dependent on my performance.
It’s found in his presence.
It’s the peace of a bird in a nest, while the storm rages on.
It’s a peace that holds.
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