Lark and I lived in the small town of Concord, Massachusetts when I did my internship in Boston. We rented a little Cape Cod cottage surrounded by tall trees, just one block off the town center.

When I was a little boy, the huge oak at the bottom of our yard was a fascination as well as mystery. It held a place of significance. Something happened there one summer day that I have never forgotten.

For depth psychologist Carl Jung, the tree was a powerful image of the Self and of the soul’s long journey toward wholeness. He noticed that people often included trees in their mandalas and in other spontaneous images they created. To him, this suggested something important: the psyche was trying to gather its many scattered parts into one living whole.

In recent years, scientists and naturalists have begun looking more deeply into the lives of trees. How they grow, communicate, support one another, bear fruit, host countless forms of life, and eventually die. Why this growing fascination with trees?

We love having dinner by candlelight, and I love it when Lark burns scented candles around the house. In church, I love the candles burning brightly upon the altar. As a boy, I was an acolyte in our church and in every procession, carried the brass candlelighter that carried the flame. We transferred the flame to the large brass candlesticks on the altar. The flame was passed from one place to another, yet nothing was lost.

As a child, I was fascinated when my father lit a fire in the barbecue pit in our backyard. My parents used it for cooking out and for burning unwanted boxes, leaves, and rubbish. When my dad burned things, I would sit in amazement watching cardboard boxes and other unwanted materials collapse into ashes within minutes.

"Come, Holy Spirit, and kindle in us the fire of your love. Send forth your Spirit, and we shall be created, and you shall renew the face of the earth."

I was a fledgling lifeguard at the Roswell Family YMCA in Atlanta, Georgia, working my way through graduate school. I was a student—a nobody, really. I had my friends from college and the love of my family, but at twenty-one, I was on my own in a new life— it was time to find myself and stand on my own two feet.

The embers of a fire glow steadily, warming and radiating long after the flames have settled. Fire can burst forth like fireworks, dance in flickering light, or glow quietly beneath the surface. Yet fire is not only something we encounter in the physical world, but it also burns within us.

A few weeks ago, I visited a dear friend in the hospital, who was very ill and undergoing a battery of tests. Looking at me with tired, sorrowful eyes, he said, “I just don't feel fully alive anymore. I wonder if I am going to die.”

The following event really happened to me in 1955. People wearing masks grabbed me, took off my clothes, and dressed me in strange garments. They strapped me down to a rolling bed and wheeled me into a room where blinding lights shone directly into my eyes. Terrified, I screamed and fought to free myself, but I was helpless. I kicked, twisted, and struggled with all my might, yet there was no escape.

How do you pass the peace? And how is peace passed to you?

What constitutes peacefulness for you?

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” — Philippians 4:7

Years ago, while crossing the Atlantic with dear friends, I experienced one of the most peaceful moments of my life. We had come through a difficult season, and now we were finally on our long-awaited trip of a lifetime aboard the Queen Mary 2.

There are societies and groups in our world that have become known for living in peace. The Semai people of Malaysia are considered one of the most peaceful societies ever studied. Violence is extraordinarily rare, and conflict is resolved through calm discussion rather than aggression. Neighboring indigenous groups such as the Batek and Chewong share similar values, rejecting coercion, domination, and physical force.

The passing of the peace is the only moment in liturgy when we physically turn toward one another and directly acknowledge our neighbor. That gesture alone affirms something essential: we are not meant to journey the spiritual life alone. But when we offer Christ’s peace to one another, the moment rises to an even deeper level—an aspiration to live in and wish for a type of peace that is “not of this world.” In the worship service, we have for a split second, the opportunity, the space, the appointed moment blessed by God, to see into the soul of our neighbor. And for them to see into ours. Passing the peace from one soul to another is profoundly sacred. It is not of this world.

For me, the passing of the peace in church has always been both wondrous and, at times, awkward. To shake another person’s hand and say, “The peace of the Lord be with you.” is a beautiful gift. Yet I often wonder: to what extent do I truly offer Christ’s peace to my neighbor? Is this just a perfunctory liturgical exercise, an in-church social interaction, or a soul-to-soul encounter?