By Heidi F. Mabatid, M. D.
There is a quiet power in watching others choose peace with their feet. A group of Buddhist monks has undertaken such a witness by walking from Fort Worth, Texas, to Washington, D.C., calling their journey the Walk for Peace. In an age defined by speed, spectacle, and noise, their slow and deliberate movement feels almost subversive. I have followed their progress online, and though my encounter with them is only virtual, it has nonetheless stirred something deep within me. Their measured steps seem to invite stillness, and in that stillness arise questions that are both unsettling and necessary: Do I, in my tiny corner of the world, contribute to its peace? How do I do so? What is peace truly rooted in, and how does it spread?
These questions do not lend themselves to easy answers. Peace is a word used often and understood poorly. It is invoked in political speeches, printed on protest signs, and spoken in prayers, yet the world remains restless, fractured, and belligerent. We often imagine peace as the absence of conflict—no war, no argument, no disturbance. But this definition is fragile. The absence of visible conflict does not guarantee harmony, just as silence does not necessarily mean understanding. True peace must be something deeper, something more enduring than the temporary quiet that follows exhaustion or fear.
Within the Christian tradition, peace is not first a condition of the world but a condition of the soul. Jesus’ words, “Peace I leave you, my peace I give you,” make a striking distinction. This is not peace as the world gives—conditional, negotiated, and easily broken—but a peace that originates elsewhere. My peace, Jesus says. It is an inner calm grounded not in favorable circumstances but in trust: trust in God, trust in meaning beyond chaos, trust that love ultimately has the final word. This peace does not deny suffering or turmoil; rather, it exists alongside them, refusing to be extinguished by them.
Yet this kind of peace can feel elusive. In daily life, peacefulness is often swamped by responsibilities, disappointments, anxieties, and the relentless pressure to react—to news headlines, to social conflict, to personal struggles. On a global scale, the constant drumbeat of hostility and division seeps into the spirit. Even those who long for peace may find themselves inwardly agitated, impatient, or fearful. The question then becomes not whether peace is desirable, but whether it is attainable in a world that seems determined to disrupt it.
The answer, paradoxically, lies not in escaping the world but in engaging it differently. Peace is a universal aspiration, but it begins in each individual heart. It is cultivated through intentional practices: silence in a culture of noise, listening in a culture of shouting, compassion in a culture of blame. Peace grows when we resist the impulse to dehumanize those who differ from us, when we choose restraint over retaliation, and when we root our identity not in being right or dominant, but in being faithful and loving.
This interior peace is not passive. It does not excuse injustice or apathy. On the contrary, it strengthens moral courage. A peaceful heart is better equipped to confront violence without becoming violent, to speak truth without hatred, and to work for justice without surrendering to despair. History repeatedly shows that the most transformative movements for peace—whether religious, social, or political—have been led by individuals who were deeply anchored inwardly. Their calm was not indifference, but clarity.
The monks walking toward Washington embody this truth in a visible way. Each step is both a personal discipline and a public witness. Their journey suggests that peace is not merely something we demand from institutions or governments; it is something we practice with our bodies, our words, and our daily choices. One does not need to walk hundreds of miles to participate in this calling. Peace is practiced in how we speak to family members, how we respond to strangers, how we handle frustration, and how we pray.
To ask whether we contribute to peace is already to take a step toward it. The invitation before us is to make peace less of an abstract ideal and more of a lived reality—patiently, imperfectly, but deliberately. If peace truly begins in the heart, then every heart transformed becomes a small but vital source of light in a troubled world. And perhaps, taken together, these small lights form a path—quiet, steady, and hopeful—leading us all a little closer to home.