Navigating Conflict Through the Lens of Jesus

I like to pace, so I’m going to move around a little bit today. Thank you for having me here.

I want to start by acknowledging that it’s been a rough couple of weeks. I don’t know about you, but it has felt like a fire hydrant has opened up—conflict, grief, fear, sadness—just pouring nonstop.

There have been times I’ve felt overwhelmed, and frankly a little inadequate, trying to respond to what has been hundreds—sometimes close to thousands—of messages asking, What do we do? How do we do this? What’s next?

So I’m grateful to be here with you today at BYU.

The events of the last couple of weeks have changed my remarks pretty significantly. Yesterday, I spent the day with the congregation of Kol Ami—the largest Jewish synagogue here in Utah—for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

Rabbi Spector asked me to come and offer some remarks about atonement in the context of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. What could go wrong?

A Mormon showing up in a synagogue on the holiest day of the year to talk about the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.

But I fasted with them. I participated in the rituals and teachings of Yom Kippur all day, and it was spiritually uplifting. It also got me thinking again about how hard this work is.

Yom Kippur is the day of forgiveness. And the question Rabbi Spector kept asking—again and again—was: Whom do you need to forgive?

If you’ve ever been in a thorny conflict, you know how hard that question is.

That question has been on my mind, especially because over the last year I’ve been traveling and speaking about my book, 70 Times 7. It’s been received well in many places—but also, at times, very… fiery.

So I’m going to preempt the Q&A today, because the number one question I get over and over again has been especially heavy on my mind these last couple of weeks. I’m not sure if it’s been 490 times, but it’s getting close. Someone will probably ask it at the end anyway.

So I want to begin in the Gospel of John.

This is John 6. The apostles have just witnessed Jesus multiply bread and walk on water. His popularity is growing. And as they’re in Capernaum speaking with Him, they ask, “What must we do to perform the works of God?”

Jesus gives what has to be one of the most unconventional answers in scripture. He talks about eating His flesh and drinking His blood. I imagine the apostles are completely freaked out. This sounds like cannibalism, and there are serious issues of ritual purity—you cannot drink blood. So what is going on?

Then the disciples respond this way:

“This teaching is hard. Who can accept it?”

That line captures the number one question I get as I speak about Jesus, peacemaking, and reconciliation. It’s what people are saying—sometimes explicitly, sometimes implicitly: This teaching is hard. Who can accept it?

Given the violence, the polarization, the acrimony, the fear—loving our neighbor, turning the other cheek, reconciliation—this teaching is hard.

And the assumption underneath it is often this: Maybe I can accept it, but nobody else will.

“As Israelis, we can accept it, but Palestinians never will.”
“As Palestinians, we can accept it, but Israelis never will.”

It’s hard.

I love Jesus’s response. He asks, “Does this offend you?” And then He says:

“It is the Spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.”

And then:

“But among you there are some who do not believe.”

One of the hardest questions I had to ask myself—over and over, especially as a mediator and while working on this book—was: Do I believe Jesus? Do I trust Him here?

Given the horrible things I’ve seen around the world… given where things seem to be heading… is what Jesus is saying actually true?

Does it offend me—at least sometimes—to think about loving my enemy? Does it offend me to think about turning the other cheek?

And this wasn’t the only time the disciples encountered hard teachings. Let’s do a quick highlight reel of other things Jesus asks—things that surely made them think, This is hard. Who can do this?

“Fear not.”
(Jesus says this 27 times in the New Testament—just Jesus, not counting everything else.)

“Love your enemies.”
Love the Romans? The people oppressing us?

Don’t be angry with each other.

Turn the other cheek. Isn’t that weak? Won’t they just hit me again?

Stop casting stones. But that’s the law, right?

Don’t judge. Forgive.

Prioritize reconciliation.

Love unconditionally—without fear.

These are hard teachings. And in conflict, fear, or danger, none of this feels easy.

Jesus reminds us it’s easy to love our friends. It’s easy to love people who agree with us—who send birthday wishes and bring us cookies. But Jesus is calling us to something harder.

And honestly, hard things are hard for all of us.

There’s a lot of writing right now about a modern “safety culture.” Jonathan Haidt writes about this. There’s also a powerful book called The Palliative Society that describes how we increasingly try to avoid pain and fear—how many people are becoming less able to handle conflict, friction, or discomfort.

But friction is part of how the world works. Friction creates fire. In many ways, friction creates life.

And yet, we don’t usually want it.

We want the Messiah to do it all for us. We want Jesus to deliver us from the Romans—solve the problem, remove the enemy, fix it.

But Jesus invites His disciples to step into something hard.

That brings us to the line that became the impetus for my book.

Peter asks, “How many times, Lord?”

When I work with clients in conflict mediation, we’ll often identify a pathway forward—and it’s very common for someone to respond, “I already tried that. It didn’t work.”

You can almost hear Peter thinking the same thing: I already tried. It didn’t work.

So Peter suggests, “Seven times?”

And part of the cleverness of Peter’s suggestion is this: Do you think he’s been offended by the Romans more than seven times? By the Samaritans more than seven times?

He can hit seven and then say, “Okay, I’m done. I fulfilled the requirement.”

But Jesus responds, “Seventy times seven.”

Peter, you don’t understand. You’re going to do this until it’s done.

The gospel is the gospel of reconciliation. It is hard. It is painful. There will be tears. You will be afraid. There will be times when it feels like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel.

But you don’t understand—we are going to do it until it is done.

And frankly, that’s a scary teaching, because now I don’t know where the end is.

Now think about Jesus on the verge of Gethsemane. Enemies are closing in. He knows what’s coming—the arrest, the suffering, the cross.

What does He tell His apostles?

“A new commandment I give unto you: that ye love one another; as I have loved you… By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”

I believe Jesus is preparing them for what is about to become the most terrifying week of their lives.

He knows what’s coming. It’s clear they don’t.

Many still hope Jesus is a military Messiah—a revolutionary leader. There’s even an argument that Judas’s betrayal was an attempt to force that revolution to begin—until Judas realizes Jesus will be condemned to death, gives the money back, and takes his own life.

But Jesus knows: You are about to walk through terror.

He says:

“Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching… Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.”

That matters in context. The peace the apostles wanted was Jesus with a sword—wiping out enemies and ushering in the kingdom.

Jesus is about to give them something very different.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid.”

Then the arrest happens. Peter pulls out a sword and cuts off a soldier’s ear. Jesus stops him, heals the soldier, and says:

“Those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”

The apostles watch their Messiah condemned, scourged, carrying His cross, murdered—while Romans gamble beneath Him.

Judas is gone. Jesus is gone. And if it can happen to Him, it can happen to us.

So the apostles do the most human thing imaginable: they find a room and lock themselves in.

But Jesus isn’t done with them.

He appears to them in the locked room as the resurrected Lord and says:

“Shalom. Peace be with you.”

Are you kidding me, Jesus? We’re locked in a room. They murdered you. We don’t know what’s coming next—and your first words are peace be with you?

They are overjoyed when they see Him. And then He says something even more terrifying:

“Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.”

Wait—as He sent you? To Jerusalem? To suffering? To crucifixion?

We would rather stay in the locked room.

Then He breathes on them and says:

“Receive the Holy Spirit.”

But the next thing we learn is that Peter and the apostles leave—and go back to fishing in Galilee. Back to the old life. Back to the familiar.

I want to sit with the locked door as a metaphor for a moment.

When fear hits, one natural human response is to lock yourself in a room—to stay safe, withdraw.

When Charlie Kirk was assassinated recently, I was on a campus like yours. Students wanted to do something very normal: stay inside, skip class, avoid gathering. Fear makes us want locked doors.

When Turning Point USA came to Utah State, we had a bomb scare at Old Main. The building was evacuated. Police later detonated a suspicious package that turned out not to be a bomb—but students heard an explosion. Panic broke out. Screaming. Running. Fear.

Then came the messages: I can’t come to class. I don’t feel safe. I want to stay in a locked room.

I have deep compassion for that.

But Jesus says, Peace.

And then: As the Father has sent me, so I send you. Not to the locked room—but out into the world.

Jesus follows them to Galilee. On the shore, He calls them again—this time in a brilliant way.

“Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

And the “these” are the fish—the nets—the old life.

“Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”
“Feed my lambs.”

Again:
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Take care of my sheep.”

A third time. Peter is frustrated, but Jesus presses the point.

Notice what Jesus does not say.

He doesn’t say, Kill my lambs.
He doesn’t say, Avenge my death.
He doesn’t say, Arm my sheep and start the counterattack.

He says: Feed. Care for. Nurture. Lift.

Fill them with the Spirit the same way I breathed the Spirit on you.

In conflict, revenge feels natural. Humiliating the enemy feels natural. Defeating them feels natural.

But that is not what Jesus calls them to.

Instead: Feed my sheep.

And the fish can represent anything. For me, they symbolize whatever pulls us away from the path of Jesus—fear, comfort, identity, politics, safety, vengeance—anything we clutch so tightly that it becomes more central than Him.

Jesus asks: Do you love that more than you love me?

Then He sends them out again.

Now we come to Acts.

The apostles are still in Galilee—still hesitant. And an angel has to show up. One of my favorite lines in scripture is:

“Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the sky?”

We don’t get a recorded response, but here’s my guess: Jesus talked about a Second Coming. Maybe they’re thinking, This is hard. Who can do it?

We know one person who can—the resurrected Lord.

So maybe they’re thinking: Let’s just wait. Pray. Look to the sky. Jesus will come back down and fix it.

A few years ago at BYU–Hawaii, I helped survey thousands of Latter-day Saints about eschatology—beliefs about the end times.

Broadly, Christianity divides between pre-millennialism and post-millennialism.

Pre-millennialism says the world gets worse and worse, there’s little we can do, and Jesus returns to usher in peace.

Post-millennialism says we build the conditions of peace on the ground, and Christ returns afterward.

In LDS theology, this can get muddled. “Building Zion” sounds post-millennial. A lot of Second Coming talk sounds pre-millennial.

But here’s what we found.

Those who leaned heavily pre-millennial tended toward what I call “locked-room peace.” Peace is internal—through the Spirit—while the world falls apart. Social peace isn’t really our responsibility.

Those who leaned post-millennial felt an affirmative duty—what my Jewish friends call tikkun olam, repairing the world. Peacemaking was part of discipleship.

The apostles are looking up to the sky. But the story doesn’t end there.

In the very next verse, they’re in Jerusalem—replacing Judas and preparing to change the world.

These fishermen-turned-disciples step into fear. They leave the locked rooms. They leave the fish behind. They stop looking to the sky.

And they dramatically alter history.

I’ve been wrestling with this lately—my own instinct to lock myself in a room when I feel overwhelmed or unsafe.

I’ve also wrestled with the temptation to do something else professionally. As Morgan mentioned, I used to write for ESPN and cover the NBA draft. A few weeks ago, ESPN called and asked if I’d be interested in coming back.

The temptation was high. There’s conflict writing about draft prospects—but not like what’s happening in the world.

There have been many days I’ve felt inadequate. I’ve found myself looking to the sky, asking Jesus, Can you just do this for us? Can you just fix this world? Because I don’t know how.

It’s a hard thing you’re asking. Who can do it?

Later, Paul gives us an answer. Writing to early Christians—followers of “the Way”—he distills Jesus’s teachings in Romans into a clear path forward. The way out of the locked room. The way away from the fish. The way away from looking to the sky.

I’m interested in a few short paragraphs that tell us, “What is the way?” The way out of the locked room? The way away from the fish? The way away from looking up to the sky?

• Be devoted to one another in love.
  
• Honor one another above yourselves.
• Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor serving the Lord.
• Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.
• Share with the Lord's people who are in need. Practice hospitality.
• Bless those who persecute you.
• Bless and do not curse.
• Rejoice with those who rejoice.
• Mourn with those who mourn.
• Live in harmony with one another.
• Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position.
• Do not be conceited.
• Do not repay anyone evil for evil.
• Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.
• If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.

Do not take revenge, my dear friends. On the contrary, if your enemy is hungry, feed him. If he is thirsty, give him something to drink. Doing this, ye will heap burning coals on his head.

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

We are in desperate need right now of disciples of Jesus who will not be overcome by evil, but will overcome evil with good, not with hatred, not with revenge, not with hard words, not in any way seeing our enemies as enemies, but seeing people as brothers and sisters in Christ. We are in trouble.

Our country's in trouble. Our world is in trouble right now as the acrimony and the sense of vengeance and pain and hurt continue to grow.

The world needs more people like those early apostles who are willing to say this is a hard thing.

Who can do it? I can.

And I tell you—you can. Peace is possible.

Our prophet, Russell Nelson, has repeated this three different times. Really four if you go back to 2002 when he gave his first speech about “blessed are the peacemakers” where he said literally, “peace is possible.”

But it will not come from locking ourselves in a room. It will not come from going fishing and just hoping things go away. It will not come from looking up at the sky.

It will come from going forth and doing as Jesus did and loving our enemies, turning the other cheek and showing that by this shall everyone know that we are his disciples because of how well we love one another.

I say that in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.