“Peace on earth, and goodwill toward men,” the angel said when Jesus was born. Peace on earth is something you hear around this time of year. It’s a well-wish, like Merry Christmas, and so we strip the phrase of its power—not maliciously, but we do well when we remember the scandal of the phrase. Peace on earth wasn’t a well-wish when the angel said it; it was a declaration in power of the victory of the kingdom of God breaking through. Peace on earth is unbelievable. Peace on earth is miraculous.

The great irony of the angel’s proclamation is that peace had already been declared on earth. Christ was born into a time known since the first century as the pax Romana, the peace of Rome. The Romans had already declared peace by their own power, yet the angel declares peace as though it were something new, something not-yet. This irony should be instructive for us: there are two kinds of peace in the world, the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ. We see in the gospel accounts both kinds of peace displayed:

The peace of Rome looks like a king slaughtering hundreds of children to retain his throne; a young family fleeing their own country as refugees to escape violence; a young woman being sent from her family to live with her cousin, slandered, and refused hospitality, told to give birth with the (other) animals. The peace of Rome looks like comfort for some and oppression for others; extreme wealth disparity; the arrest and crucifixion of political dissidents; immediate and violent reaction to even the rumor of rebellion. This is the peace of Rome.

The peace of Christ is beautifully, bafflingly the reverse. The peace of Christ looks like a king emptying himself to be born as a child, suffering the quiet indignities and vulnerabilities of infancy, of humanity; dying to welcome people from every nation into his kingdom and even his family; a young woman being called blessed forever, gladly welcomed into her father’s house and giving birth as creation rejoices. The peace of Christ looks like love for all, a royal inheritance given out to the kingdom, love of enemy, and healing from rebellion. This is the peace of Christ.

In America today we have an abundance of the peace of Rome, and because we are too easily pleased, we too often settle for that kind of peace. We don’t often seek to declare the peace of Christ as though it is new, as though it is here, as though it is not-yet. But we desperately need the peace of Christ today.

The peace of Christ is the end of the pains of childbirth with first touch, skin to skin. The peace of Christ is a child, adopted after long years, waiting at the window, watching her new father arrive. It is a bride getting dressed for her wedding. It is an inmate receiving news of pardon. It is a debtor forgiven. It is an unjust ruling overturned by a higher court. It is lying down to die knowing that you will see your family again. It is sight to the blind, good news to the poor, strength for the broken, a brother called up from death, and a daughter told to wake up—a new day has begun.

This Christmas, as you pass peace to one another, remember: peace is a scandal. We’ve been under foreign rule and news has reached us that the rightful king has broken through, destroyed every stronghold, and is coming for us. Stay strong, keep faith; it is only a little while before we see him coming on the horizon.

So you see why we, as Christians, spend so much time celebrating during the coldest, darkest days of the year. Because, maybe all we can see during this time of year is the darkness of the world, all we can feel is the absence of heat and light. But because Jesus was born, those things no longer have any hold over us. The darkness has ceased to be our defining reality. Our shame is joy, injustice is passing away, and death is defeated. When you walk out the door, it will still be winter, and the sun will still set, but when it does, and the world around us goes dark, remember a star has risen over Bethlehem bright enough to lighten the world.