The Quiet Season: What We Do With Peace Determines Everything
There is a lesser-known king tucked into the pages of the Old Testament whose story carries a weight far beyond his historical moment. His name is Asa, and he ruled Judah for 41 years. He is grouped among the good kings, the ones Scripture says did what was right in the eyes of the Lord. He tore down idols. He removed corrupt influences from positions of power. He repaired the altar of the Lord. He was, by most measures, a man genuinely pursuing God.
And yet his story contains a warning so relevant to modern life that it is almost startling.
Asa's story is not primarily a story about a king. It is a story about what happens in the quiet seasons, the stretches of peace, and whether we use them well.
The Purpose Behind the Peace
In 2 Chronicles 15, after Asa responds to a prophetic word by removing idols and repairing the temple, something remarkable happens. Enemies begin crossing over. People who had been fighting against Judah look at Asa's kingdom and see something undeniable. They see that God is with him. And they leave everything to come and be part of it.
This is not a small detail. These were adversaries. People on the other side of the conflict. And what drew them was not a military victory, not political persuasion, not a compelling argument. It was the visible presence of God in the life of a people who were genuinely seeking him.
God gives Asa rest on all sides. The text in 2 Chronicles 15:15 describes it plainly, noting that the Lord gave them rest all around. But that rest was never meant to be an endpoint. It was an invitation. A season of peace given so that the people could deepen their relationship with God and become a signal to everyone around them that something different was happening here.
This raises an uncomfortable question for anyone living in a season of relative stability: what are we doing with the peace we have been given?
Love Is the Assignment
When Jesus was asked to summarize the entire weight of the Old Testament law, he pointed to two things. Love God with everything you have, and love your neighbor as yourself. He said, as referenced in Matthew 22:37-40, that all the law and the prophets hang on these two commands.
It sounds simple. It is not.
Loving people is one of the most demanding things a human being can attempt. It requires effort, consistency, and a willingness to show up even when it is inconvenient. It means sitting with people, eating with them, living alongside them long enough for them to see that something in you is genuinely different. The Apostle Paul, writing to the Corinthians, described his approach to them in exactly these terms. He resolved to know nothing among them except Christ and him crucified. He did not lead with arguments or credentials. He led with presence and love, because that is how God had first approached him.
Paul's own encounter with Jesus, described in Acts 9, was not gentle. He was blinded, knocked from his horse, left helpless on the ground. It did not feel like love in the moment. But it was. Sometimes love looks like disruption. Sometimes it looks like a hard conversation with a brother or sister who is drifting. Sometimes it looks like confrontation, which is not the same thing as conflict. Confrontation, done with genuine care, is one of the most loving acts one person can offer another.
The people who left their armies to serve Asa's God were not looking for a new set of rules. They were looking for a real relationship. They had seen enough of rules. What they had not seen was a God who was actually present, actually active, actually changing people from the inside out.
The Danger of Self-Reliance
Here is where Asa's story takes its turn.
After nearly 36 years of faithfully seeking God, a new threat emerges. Baasha, the king of Israel, begins building a fortified city to cut off traffic into Judah, essentially trying to stop people from coming into relationship with Asa's kingdom and Asa's God. It is a strategic, deliberate attempt to block what God had been building.
Asa's response is telling. Instead of turning to God, he reaches into the treasuries of the Lord's temple and sends silver and gold to the king of Syria, essentially bribing a foreign power to solve his problem for him.
It worked, in the short term. The threat was neutralized. But then the prophet Hanani arrives, and his words cut to the heart of the matter. He points Asa back to the God whose eyes, as described in 2 Chronicles 16:9, move throughout the entire earth to give strong support to those whose hearts are fully his. God had already proven himself. He had delivered far larger armies into Asa's hands. But Asa, in a moment of pressure, chose to trust his own resources rather than the God who had never failed him.
The consequence was not abandonment. God did not leave Asa. But there were wars ahead that did not have to happen. Actions carry weight. The peace we are given can be squandered by the decisions we make when the pressure arrives.
Common People, Uncommon Faithfulness
None of this requires a dramatic stage. The invitation is not to perform great feats of religious heroism. It is to do the quiet, consistent, sometimes awkward work of loving people well. Talking to the person at the grocery store. Not losing composure in traffic. Welcoming the stranger into community without requiring them to clean themselves up first. Letting the presence of God in your life be visible enough that someone on the outside looks in and says, something is different here. I want to know more.
The darkness is not pushed back by extraordinary people doing extraordinary things. It is pushed back by ordinary people who remain faithful in ordinary moments, who pursue relationship with God during the peaceful seasons so they are ready when the pressure comes, and who love their neighbors with a tenacity that does not make sense apart from God.
That is the legacy of a good king. That is the call on every ordinary life.
There is a lesser-known king tucked into the pages of the Old Testament whose story carries a weight far beyond his historical moment. His name is Asa, and he ruled Judah for 41 years. He is grouped among the good kings, the ones Scripture says did what was right in the eyes of the Lord. He tore down idols. He removed corrupt influences from positions of power. He repaired the altar of the Lord. He was, by most measures, a man genuinely pursuing God.
And yet his story contains a warning so relevant to modern life that it is almost startling.
Asa's story is not primarily a story about a king. It is a story about what happens in the quiet seasons, the stretches of peace, and whether we use them well.
The Purpose Behind the Peace
In 2 Chronicles 15, after Asa responds to a prophetic word by removing idols and repairing the temple, something remarkable happens. Enemies begin crossing over. People who had been fighting against Judah look at Asa's kingdom and see something undeniable. They see that God is with him. And they leave everything to come and be part of it.
This is not a small detail. These were adversaries. People on the other side of the conflict. And what drew them was not a military victory, not political persuasion, not a compelling argument. It was the visible presence of God in the life of a people who were genuinely seeking him.
God gives Asa rest on all sides. The text in 2 Chronicles 15:15 describes it plainly, noting that the Lord gave them rest all around. But that rest was never meant to be an endpoint. It was an invitation. A season of peace given so that the people could deepen their relationship with God and become a signal to everyone around them that something different was happening here.
This raises an uncomfortable question for anyone living in a season of relative stability: what are we doing with the peace we have been given?
Love Is the Assignment
When Jesus was asked to summarize the entire weight of the Old Testament law, he pointed to two things. Love God with everything you have, and love your neighbor as yourself. He said, as referenced in Matthew 22:37-40, that all the law and the prophets hang on these two commands.
It sounds simple. It is not.
Loving people is one of the most demanding things a human being can attempt. It requires effort, consistency, and a willingness to show up even when it is inconvenient. It means sitting with people, eating with them, living alongside them long enough for them to see that something in you is genuinely different. The Apostle Paul, writing to the Corinthians, described his approach to them in exactly these terms. He resolved to know nothing among them except Christ and him crucified. He did not lead with arguments or credentials. He led with presence and love, because that is how God had first approached him.
Paul's own encounter with Jesus, described in Acts 9, was not gentle. He was blinded, knocked from his horse, left helpless on the ground. It did not feel like love in the moment. But it was. Sometimes love looks like disruption. Sometimes it looks like a hard conversation with a brother or sister who is drifting. Sometimes it looks like confrontation, which is not the same thing as conflict. Confrontation, done with genuine care, is one of the most loving acts one person can offer another.
The people who left their armies to serve Asa's God were not looking for a new set of rules. They were looking for a real relationship. They had seen enough of rules. What they had not seen was a God who was actually present, actually active, actually changing people from the inside out.
The Danger of Self-Reliance
Here is where Asa's story takes its turn.
After nearly 36 years of faithfully seeking God, a new threat emerges. Baasha, the king of Israel, begins building a fortified city to cut off traffic into Judah, essentially trying to stop people from coming into relationship with Asa's kingdom and Asa's God. It is a strategic, deliberate attempt to block what God had been building.
Asa's response is telling. Instead of turning to God, he reaches into the treasuries of the Lord's temple and sends silver and gold to the king of Syria, essentially bribing a foreign power to solve his problem for him.
It worked, in the short term. The threat was neutralized. But then the prophet Hanani arrives, and his words cut to the heart of the matter. He points Asa back to the God whose eyes, as described in 2 Chronicles 16:9, move throughout the entire earth to give strong support to those whose hearts are fully his. God had already proven himself. He had delivered far larger armies into Asa's hands. But Asa, in a moment of pressure, chose to trust his own resources rather than the God who had never failed him.
The consequence was not abandonment. God did not leave Asa. But there were wars ahead that did not have to happen. Actions carry weight. The peace we are given can be squandered by the decisions we make when the pressure arrives.
Common People, Uncommon Faithfulness
None of this requires a dramatic stage. The invitation is not to perform great feats of religious heroism. It is to do the quiet, consistent, sometimes awkward work of loving people well. Talking to the person at the grocery store. Not losing composure in traffic. Welcoming the stranger into community without requiring them to clean themselves up first. Letting the presence of God in your life be visible enough that someone on the outside looks in and says, something is different here. I want to know more.
The darkness is not pushed back by extraordinary people doing extraordinary things. It is pushed back by ordinary people who remain faithful in ordinary moments, who pursue relationship with God during the peaceful seasons so they are ready when the pressure comes, and who love their neighbors with a tenacity that does not make sense apart from God.
That is the legacy of a good king. That is the call on every ordinary life.
pastor Chris Michael
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