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On the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving, when I was in seventh grade, it began to snow. It started slowly and undramatically -- much like any number of other snows I had experienced growing up in Detroit. The sky turned the shade of dirty wool and the flakes danced through the wind as in one of those glass balls that you invert. Little by little the sidewalks whitened, and soon the neighborhood was alive with the rasping sound of shovels. Before long the roads were filled and you could no longer see the curb. The few cars that managed to pass by, plowed through the drifts -- their spinning tires forming wings of snow.

By evening the storm had intensified. Ferns of frost sprouted at the corners of my bedroom window, and the bushes outside bowed and splayed like miniature bridesmaids overwhelmed by an armful of frozen flowers. Throughout the night it continued, as an army of plows negotiated the streets, scraping holes in my sleep. When I awoke the next morning, the city lay blanketed beneath nearly two feet of snow. In a town known as the Motor City, all traffic ceased. A litany of closings was recited on the television and the front page had a photograph of two people skiing down the middle of Woodward Avenue!

What I remember most was how silent the city had suddenly become. The only sounds were the caroling of bells from a nearby church, the shouts of children enjoying the unexpected extension of their Thanksgiving vacation, and the muffled conversations of neighbors who hadn't spoken all year. Other than that, everything simply stopped. For a few hours at least, it appeared as if the entire world was at peace.

I often think of that scene when I'm having a stressful day, or find myself becoming anxious and worried about something. Do you ever do that -- picture a tranquil place in your mind as a way of relaxing? No doubt, we all have our different images.

For some of you, it might be the serenity of a mountain cabin. It's after dinner. You've just watched the sunset and now it's beginning to get dark -- that kind of darkness you can only experience out in the woods, where God displays the stars like diamonds on a jeweler's felt. A soft net of moonlight filters down through the pine trees and unfurls across the lake. The atmosphere is so worshipful, it seems as if creation itself is observing vespers. Choirs of insects offer their chants and hymns, while fireflies swim in the foliage, like tiny votive candles on some unseen altar. You join their meditations, gently rocking on the front porch swing. That is peace.

Or maybe for you, it's strolling on the beach. It's early in the morning. Aside from an occasional jogger, you have the beach all to yourself. You walk at the water's edge as the ocean stitches a ribbon of shells into the sand. Further down the shore, a shower of gulls flirt with the surf, and up on the hillside, the tall grass flickers with butterflies. The sun begins its sturdy ascent, painting the dawn with streaks of orange and red, like celebratory streamers thrown from an arriving vessel. As you walk along, the water licks your ankles, and as quickly as you make footprints in the sand, the waves wash up and fill them again. That is peace.

Here's a good one. You wake up and the clock says it's already after eight. "Oh, my goodness," you think, "I'm going to be late for work." You dash to the bathroom, trying to brush your teeth, comb your hair, and get dressed all at the same time. Then suddenly you remember, "It's Saturday! I don't have to go to work today." You crawl back into bed. The sheets are still warm. And you drift blissfully off to sleep. Now I ask you, do I know what peace is or do I not?

I know this -- the scenes I've just described for you have nothing to do with the kind of peace referred to here in Philippians. Paul is not writing this letter from the seclusion of a mountain cabin; he's writing it from the solitude of a prison cell. We're not sure of his exact location -- some think Corinth or Ephesus, others suggest Caesarea. But wherever Paul was, he had evidently been there for a while. Luke indicates that his imprisonment dragged on for over two years (Acts 24:27).

And yet, remarkably, Paul speaks of joy and peace. "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice," he encourages the Philippians (v. 4). "Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus" (vv. 6-7). Some of you may be more familiar with the Revised Standard Version of this passage, which says that God's peace "will keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." However, in a striking paradox, Paul actually describes peace here with a military term. A more literal translation would be that the peace of God will "stand sentry watch" over your hearts and minds.

You see, in Paul's mind, peace does not mean a time when there is no hardship or hostility. After all, you don't post guards on the city walls just for decoration. A sentry in the watchtower is evidence that the danger of being attacked is very real. It's not the absence of struggle that defines peace for Paul; it's the presence of love. Put another way, it's not strolling on the beach at sunrise; it's being able to walk through a dark valley unafraid -- knowing that, with every step, the Almighty walks beside us and before us.

This is why we can truly rejoice, insists Paul, because God's peace is on patrol. Whatever conflicts arise, whatever challenges await, the One who neither slumbers nor sleeps is vigilantly standing guard. That's not to say that we won't ever encounter adversity. There is always the possibility of an unforeseen threat lurking out there in the shadows. Paul is not na•ve to such perils. Nor is he endorsing a policy of casual indifference. What he is suggesting is that we no longer have to tiptoe around, wringing our hands and nervously scanning the horizon. We should be alert, yes; but not anxious.

That's advice worth heeding at any time, of course; but it strikes me as particularly relevant today. For many of us, the tragedy of September 11 continues to be a source of grave concern. And sadly, the likelihood is that there will be more acts of terrorism in the future. Even as I write this, violence is either breaking out or smoldering just under the surface between the United States and Iraq, China and Taiwan, India and Pakistan, and especially between Jews and Arabs in the Middle East. As Christians, we keep praying and working for peace. But one wonders if we'll ever actually see much of it.

Obviously, we will still sing "Joy to the World" this Christmas, and listen attentively as the angels proclaim, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors" (Luke 2:14). However, given the current state of world affairs, there's no denying how remote and unrealistic those words now sound. It's almost as if they have become things we wish for, but don't honestly believe we'll witness. And therein lies the difficulty. To paraphrase the psalmist, "How can we continue to sing the Lord's song of peace in a land where that concept seems so foreign?" (Psalm 137:4).

I think this passage may provide a clue. Somehow the Apostle Paul found a way to be at peace, even in a situation that was fraught with uncertainty. He had no idea what he would be facing in the days ahead, but he knew he wouldn't face them alone. Regardless of how bleak his outlook may have appeared, Paul remained confident that God was looking out for him. "For I have learned the secret," he later confides to the Philippians, "of being content in any and all circumstances. I know what it is to have a little, and I know what it is to have a lot. I have sat at the banquet table and enjoyed my fill, and I have languished here in a prison cell, subsisting on only meager resources. And it has taught me that I can do all things through him who strengthens me" (Philippians 4:12-13).

In other words, what Paul discovered is that peace is not determined by our external conditions. Just as you can be lonely in a crowd of people, you can feel anxious and afraid, even in the most tranquil of places. And likewise, you can have a sense of calm, no matter how fierce the storms or frightening the situation. It's not our surroundings that make us secure. It's the sure and certain knowledge that whatever may come, God will never let us go. That is the peace which surpasses all understanding -- and I might add, all misunderstandings as well.

Several years ago, I flew to Chicago to attend a conference on preaching. We had all been assigned a book to read in preparation for the event, and my plan was to try to finish it on the flight. Unfortunately, what I failed to anticipate was that I would end up sitting beside someone who wanted to talk. Now, usually, I don't mind conversing with a complete stranger. In fact, I've met some interesting people by doing so. But in this case, I needed to work. So, after we exchanged introductions, I immediately buried my nose in the book, as a way of subtly suggesting that I preferred not to be disturbed.

Apparently, he didn't catch the signal. "What are you reading?" he asked.

"It's a book on preaching," I said.

"Are you a preacher?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to keep my answers as short as possible.

"Where at?"

I told him the name of the church, but secretly hoped that it wouldn't spark any further discussion.

"I had an uncle whose next-door neighbor was a preacher," he volunteered.

"Is that so?" I said, lifting the book a little closer to my face.

"No, I take that back," he quickly added. "That's not right. It wasn't his next-door neighbor. It was the fellow who lived across the street."

I honestly didn't know how to respond at that point, so I just politely nodded.

"Is that book any good?" he inquired.

I was tempted to tell him that this one paragraph (which I had now read for the third time) wasn't bad. But better judgment prevailed and I held my tongue.

"You seem kind of fidgety," he observed. "If you ask me, life is too short to be so stressed out. You need to learn how to be more at peace."

Considering that we had just met, I thought it was a rather impertinent comment. However, before I could reply, a flight attendant came down the aisle offering headphones and I leaped at the opportunity.

About a month later, I received a package in the mail with a return address that I didn't recognize. To my surprise, it contained a set of "worry beads" -- the ones that you gently twirl in your fingers to relieve the pressures of the day. There was a tiny card, which read "From Dennis." The only problem was that I didn't know anybody by that name. And it wasn't until I turned the card over that the mystery was resolved, because on the back it said, "To someone who needs to be more at peace." It was then that it suddenly hit me: This is from that guy who sat next to me on the flight.

I was grateful for the gift, of course. But I couldn't help thinking, "What am I supposed to do now? Should I send him a thank you note and leave it at that? Or do I need to get him something in return? And if so, what on earth would it be?" After all, we barely knew each other. We had a passing conversation on an airplane. And suddenly, it's as if he wants a relationship with me.

I eventually wrote him back and we started a correspondence. But as I reflected on the incident, it occurred to me that something like that happened at Christmas. You see, from the very beginning, God kept trying to strike up a conversation with us. Only most of the time, we weren't much interested in talking. We were too wrapped up in our own activities. So one night, God sent us this wondrous gift, as a way of saying, "I don't want you to worry about life anymore, because I'm here to share it with you. I'd like for us to have a relationship."

And if we are willing to accept that gift, and enter into such a relationship, then it won't matter what takes place all around us. Even in the most anxious of times -- perhaps especially in those times -- God will be right here, standing guard and watching over us. That is peace.