The Anxious Presence and the Gift of Peace and Being Called by Name

Over the past week, I was given the gift of retreat—time set apart with clergy who deeply value rest and renewal, learning in community, and shared fellowship. In that space, I was reminded of the simple and the profound: the gift of stillness, the presence of peace, and the sacredness of being called by name.

There is often an anxious presence in the rooms in which we find ourselves —unspoken, but palpable. It lingers in locked doors, hushed conversations, and in the spaces between our breaths. Anxiety lives in the future and is not bothered with the present moment – it narrows our vision, convincing us that what we most fear is all there is: uncertainty and a fragile hope.

The disciples knew this feeling well in the days following the crucifixion. Gathered behind closed doors, they were not simply grieving—they were living in the fear of the future and the unknown. Afraid of what had happened, afraid of what might come next, afraid that everything they had trusted had unraveled. And into that very room—thick with anxiety—appears Jesus Christ. And Jesus does not begin with correction or explanation – He begins with peace:
“Peace be with you.”

This is not a dismissal of the disciple’s fear, nor a command to calm down. It is a gift—a grounding presence that does not erase anxiety but meets it in the midst of it. The peace Jesus offers is not dependent on circumstances changing; it is rooted in his presence among them. The doors remain locked. The future is still uncertain. And yet, peace enters anyway.

This same pattern unfolds in the garden on the morning of the resurrection. Mary Magdalene stands weeping outside the tomb, her grief blinding her to what is right in front of her. She mistakes Jesus for the gardener. It is not until he speaks her name—“Mary”—that recognition breaks through and everything changes.

There is something profoundly intimate about being called by name. It cuts through confusion, grief, and the noise of our internal worlds. To be named is to be known, to be seen, to be reminded that we belong—not to our fear, but to something deeper.

In both encounters, we see a sacred rhythm: presence, peace, and personal calling. Jesus does not wait for anxiety to dissipate before showing up. Jesus enters into it, speaks peace into it, and then calls people by name—reminding them of who they are, even when they have forgotten (when we have forgotten).

Perhaps this is why the gift of retreat matters so deeply. To step away—even briefly—from the noise, expectations, and relentless pace of daily life is not an act of escape, but an act of return. Retreat creates space where anxious presence can be named rather than managed, where peace is not forced but received, and where community becomes a mirror for truth. In these sacred spaces, we are reminded that we are not alone. Others sit in the room too—holding their own questions and stories—and together, something holy unfolds.

We all carry anxious presence into rooms—into conversations, relationships, and even our own inner lives. And yet, the resurrection story reminds us: peace is not something we manufacture. It is something we receive – It is given.

In a world that reduces us to roles and expectations, this is the quiet miracle: that we are met in our anxious spaces and we called by name and reminded of a peace that exists well beyond our understanding. 

Peace be with you my Friends!