The Second Sunday of Advent: a little child holds sway

Deep within the still center of my being may I find peace.
Silently within the quiet of the Grove may I share peace.
Gently within the greater circle of humankind may I radiate peace.

— Druid’s Peace Prayer

Druids are peacemakers.

This isn’t true only of Neo-Druidry—or we have reason to believe it’s not. Historical sources regarding ancient Druids are frustratingly sparse, and they themselves left no written records at all, at least none that have ever been found. But in the sources we do have—mostly from Greek and Roman writers, especially Julius Caesar—there are accounts of Druids being at such a particular social station that they could literally get between two armies on the verge of battle and demand that the warlords sit down and hash things out at the negotiating table. 

Modern Druids have made that a central part of our identity. In many respects we’re sort of the Quakers of Paganism; many of us are pacifists and conscientious objectors. When opening a Sacred Grove, we sheathe a sword/athame and proclaim peace to the four cardinal directions. We pray the prayer quoted above. 

The core of peace is harmony; without harmony, peace can’t exist. In Druid mythology, the three Rowan staves that represent all wisdom are Gwron (knowledge), Plennydd (power), and Alawn (balance/harmony). That last is the central stave, the heart of wisdom; it’s the peace that comes when we exist in harmony with all things and with Awen—the force of divine creation. 

Many Druids believe that while chaos and conflict are as natural a part of the universe as anything else, the heart of that universe and our place within it is ultimately about peace. We believe that, despite evidence to the contrary, there is a deeper harmony at the core of everything, and that harmony should guide how we live.

Jesus Christ is identified in Christianity as a peacemaker—although paradoxically in the Gospels he also says he came to bring conflict (that paradox is a wonderful riddle well worth its own essay). Christians believe that the coming of Christ is foretold in the book of Isaiah, and the passage from Isaiah that I read this Advent Sunday describes the peaceful kingdom of God in extremely Druidy terms. It focuses first and foremost on nature, and specifically on a harmonious nature devoid of violence and danger where even small children are safe. 

The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.
The cow will feed with the bear,
their young will lie down together,
and the lion will eat straw like the ox.
The infant will play near the cobra’s den,
and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.
They will neither harm nor destroy
on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.

(Isaiah 11: 6-9)

Among other things, Advent is about contrasts—about the contrast between the world as it is and the world as we want it to be. Violent vs. peaceful, hateful vs. loving, despairing vs. hopeful, dead vs. living. A meditation on those contrasts also marks the time of waiting before the Solstice, the cold darkness in which we walk before the light is born again. The promise of this time of waiting is that another world is possible, that it isn’t only a foolish dream. That if we wait and are faithful to that dream, if we work for it, we can eventually reach it. 

At the very least, it’s worth trying for. 

Laboring God,
with axe and winnowing fork
you clear a holy space
where hurt and destruction have no place,
and a little child holds sway.
Clear our lives of hatred and despair,
sow seeds of joy and peace,
that shoots of hope may spring forth
and we may live in harmony
with one another. 

(source)