When Peace Became a Conversation: A Journey Through Sacred Ground
An Interfaith Dialogue on the Roots of Peace in the Abrahamic Religions
October 5, 2025
Prologue: Gathering at the Threshold
On a crisp autumn day in 2025, something extraordinary happened in the digital ether. Across continents and time zones—from morning coffee in New England to evening prayers in Qom—scholars and seekers assembled in virtual space for what would become more than just another webinar. This was the tenth in a series that had quietly been building bridges between East and West, between seminary and sanctuary, between those who dare to believe that peace is not merely the absence of war, but the presence of something far more beautiful.
Doug Hostetter’s voice carried the weight of two decades of friendship across seemingly impossible divides. As Secretary of Luke 10 and a Mennonite minister on the United Nations Advocacy Team of Pax Christi International, he opened with the kind of welcome that sets the tone for everything that follows. Luke 10, he explained, was born in crisis—established in 2020 by 18 religious leaders from the United States, Canada, and Great Britain responding to Iranian colleagues’ request for interfaith dialogue and humanitarian aid during COVID. But what began as emergency response had deepened into something more lasting: “In recent years, Luke 10 has focused on interfaith dialogue and building understanding and friendship between our peoples and our countries.”
The name itself carried meaning, drawn from the tenth chapter of Luke’s Gospel and its call to love God and neighbor. “We are committed to following the teachings of Jesus to engage in acts of kindness and friendships to our neighbors, whomever they may be, wherever they may live.”
Opening Movement: The Institutions Speak
Dr. Heidi Hetzel, Hartford Seminary’s former president and now a Luke 10 board member, took the moderator’s role with the gravitas of someone who had spent four years directing the Ecumenical Institute of the World Council of Churches. She promised “90 minutes of compelling and engaging reflection” and introduced the format that would shape their journey together.
Then came the institutional voices—and here the true scope of this collaboration became clear.
Hartford International University’s Vision
The Reverend Dr. David D. Grafton spoke about Hartford International University for Religion and Peace—a pioneering inter-religious international university originally founded as Hartford Theological Seminary in 1834. The university offers Master’s programs in Interreligious Studies, International Peacebuilding, and Chaplaincy, alongside PhD and Doctor of Ministry degrees.
But it was the McDonald Center for the Study of Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations that anchored this conversation. Named after Duncan Black McDonald, who taught Hebrew, Arabic and Islamic studies at Hartford Seminary from 1892 to 1923, the Center holds a unique distinction: it is “the U.S.’s oldest study center for such a perspective on Islam,” opened in 1973.
What makes the McDonald Center distinctive is its approach—”the study of Islam as a religion rather than through the traditional university foci of historical or area studies.” Its mission: to help “scholars, students, the media and the general public develop an accurate awareness and appreciation of Islam, Muslim communities and their historic relationships with Jews and Christians,” committed to the premise that “through intensive study and academically guided dialogue, mutual respect and cooperation between Muslims, Jews and Christians can and must develop positively.” The Center even promotes intra-Muslim dialogue between Sunnis and Shia.
The Center’s reach extends globally through its scholarly journal The Muslim World, founded in 1911 and reaching 65 countries, and it hosts the first chair of Shii Studies in the United States.
Tolou International Institute: Bridging Worlds
Dr. Gholamreza Sedaghati then introduced Tolou International Institute, warmly acknowledging Hartford and Luke 10 as partners “in a conversation dedicated to peace, understanding and shared spiritual values among the Abrahamic traditions.”
Tolou is a non-profit academic initiative devoted to fostering communication and collaboration in Islamic studies. Its founding insight is simple but profound: “Across the Islamic world, especially in Qom, Najaf and Mashhad, there exist hundreds and thousands of valuable books, lectures, courses and research projects that many university professors and students around the globe simply never hear about. Often these treasures are not public, not translated or not easily accessible.”
Tolou’s mission: “to act as an intermediary—to transfer this knowledge, to introduce it, and to facilitate access for scholars and students everywhere. In short, we help make the hidden world of Islamic scholarship visible.”
Their work takes four concrete forms: First, they introduce advanced seminary courses in Qom, Najaf, and Mashhad—they curate and present leading courses in jurisprudence, theology, ethics, and emerging fields like the jurisprudence of artificial intelligence. Second, they run the Islamic Studies Digest, highlighting recent publications in Quranic exegesis, hadith, philosophy, and Islamic economics. Third, they connect scholars and institutions through webinars, conferences, and workshops, building bridges between seminaries and universities worldwide. Finally, they assist researchers in accessing conferences, libraries, and universities in these centers of Islamic learning.
Sedaghati closed with hope: “May this gathering be a step toward deeper understanding, mutual respect, and the peace that all sacred texts call us to pursue.”
The stage was set. Two institutions—one American, one Iranian; one rooted in 19th-century Protestant seminary tradition, one bridging contemporary Islamic scholarship with global academia—had joined with Luke 10’s grassroots interfaith commitment to create a space where genuine dialogue could happen.
What followed would prove they were right to believe in the possibility.
Act I: Beyond Tolerance—The Islamic Vision of Organic Harmony
Dr. Mohamed Hossain Mozaffari began where most peace discussions end: with an accusation. Since the Enlightenment, he noted, philosophers have embedded in Western thought “the notion that religion inherently causes conflict.” The very framework we use to discuss peace—the religious versus the secular—was designed to marginalize faith from public life.
But what if, he suggested, we’ve been asking the wrong questions all along?
His voice carried a quiet urgency as he challenged even well-meaning formulations. “Hans Küng’s principle—’there will be no peace among nations without peace among religions’—implicitly acknowledges that religions are sources of conflict.” The room seemed to lean forward, sensing they were about to be led somewhere unexpected.
Mozaffari’s destination was not tolerance but something he called “organic harmony”—a vision drawn from the Qur’an itself. Where traditional Islamic jurists had constructed a binary world of Dār al-Islām and Dār al-Ḥarb (the abode of Islam and the abode of war), the Qur’an actually “considers understanding and interaction among human societies as essential to human flourishing.”
The difference matters more than it might first appear. Tolerance, he explained with the precision of both lawyer and theologian, etymologically means “enduring something unpleasant—a deliberate choice to refrain from using force while potentially seeking to change others’ mindsets.” It emerges from antagonism, from strategic recalibration of control. It is, at best, the powerful choosing not to crush the weak.
Harmony is something else entirely.
“I borrow the concept of harmony from music,” Mozaffari said, his metaphor suddenly making the abstract concrete, “compatibility among diverse components.” He quoted Sūrat al-Ḥujurāt: diversity exists that people “may know one another.” Like instruments in an orchestra, each voice distinct yet essential, difference enables recognition of one’s role “within the symphony of human unity.”
Then came the moment that would echo through the entire conversation. Mozaffari recalled Pope Francis’s visit to Iraq and Grand Ayatollah Sistani’s greeting: “You are part of us, and we are part of you.” Six words that collapse the distance between self and other, that transform the stranger into family.
“The presence and distinct identity of the ‘other’ complete the collective ‘us,'” Mozaffari declared. Not despite our differences, but through them, we become whole.
Act II: Peace as Gift and Task—The Christian Journey
Dr. Lucinda Mosher took the podium like someone about to share a secret that’s been hiding in plain sight. Peace, she revealed, appears “hundreds of times in English translations of Christianity’s scripture”—translating the Hebrew shalomand Greek eirene. But these words mean something richer than the English can capture.
“Shalom connotes well-being or unity,” she explained. “Eirene means harmony among people, the normal situation in God’s presence.” Peace is not the absence of disorder—it is the presence of divine order, “an essential good,” as Gregory of Nyssa called it, “a phenomenon flowing naturally into every other good.”
Her presentation became a journey through Christian history, tracing how followers of Jesus have understood his enigmatic gift: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.” But this gift came with a puzzle. The same Jesus who said “Blessed are the peacemakers” also declared, “I come not to bring peace, but a sword.”
How do you hold both truths at once?
The answer, Mosher suggested, lies in understanding that peace must be both sought and pursued—found and waged. “Seeking involves tapping into hope, curiosity, mindfulness; pursuit is more active, more intentional, more deliberate, more persistent, more arduous.”
She quoted Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, where Christians are told to put on “the gospel of peace” as shoes—armor for walking, not fighting. The image is startling: peace as something requiring preparation, proper equipment, fortitude. Peace as a path you must be ready to tread, even when the way is hard.
The early Christians understood this paradox. Athenagoras insisted that using a sword was “incompatible with being Christian.” Yet Clement of Alexandria imagined Christ “gathering the bloodless host of peace” as a general organizes soldiers. The metaphors clash deliberately—peace requires the discipline of war, the commitment of soldiers, but without the weapons.
“We are called by our faith traditions to emulate the qualities of the Divine,” Mosher said, her words connecting back to Mozaffari’s vision. And then she offered something practical, something embodied: the ritual exchange of peace in Christian worship. “The peace of the Lord be always with you,” the celebrant declares. “And also with you,” the people reply, then turn to each other: “The peace of the Lord.”
“This seems perfunctory,” Mosher acknowledged. But consider: “Because peace can mitigate fear, it is a gift of much value, but that value can be accessed only by reciprocal giving.” Peace multiplies in the sharing. It is not depleted by distribution but amplified.
Act III: Making Enemies into Friends—Jewish Wisdom for Warriors
When Dr. Yehezkel Landau began speaking, his greeting carried the full weight of his tradition: “Assalamu aleikum, shalom aleikhem”—peace in Arabic, peace in Hebrew. After nearly fifty years of interfaith bridge-building, he understood that peace begins with speaking the other’s language.
His presentation would challenge every easy assumption about religion and violence, starting with the most sacred coordinates of Jewish faith. The first act of holiness in the Hebrew Bible, he noted, consecrates not a place but a time—the Sabbath. “God’s act of cosmic consecration is a pre-emptive inoculation against the human tendency toward what I call ‘territoriolatry.'”
The word hung in the air: territoriolatry. The worship of land, of sacred sites, the idolatry that turns geography into theology and transforms holy ground into killing fields.
“Since all human beings bear the Divine image and likeness,” Landau continued, his voice carrying the authority of rabbinic tradition, “human life is the supreme value within Creation.” A single human life is holier than the stones of the Ka’abah, he said—a truth his Muslim colleagues had taught him. “Destroying one innocent human life is tantamount to annihilating an entire world, while saving one human life is like saving a whole world from destruction.”
But Landau’s most radical teaching came from the Talmud, from an ancient dispute between the rabbinic schools of Hillel and Shammai. As the argument intensified, “a voice from Heaven intervened and decreed: ‘Gam eilu v’eilu divrei Elohim chayyim—both sides are speaking words of the living God.'”
The implications are staggering. “Divine Truth is dialectical, not dogmatic; both/and, not either/or, transcending the human tendency to create false binaries and dichotomies.” And then Landau went further: “This understanding of truth as multi-dimensional applies not only to disputes between Jews… but also to competing truth claims among religions.”
There it was—the theological ground on which genuine dialogue could stand. Not relativism (all truths are equal), but a recognition that truth is larger than any single perspective can contain.
Landau’s voice grew more urgent as he turned to justice. The prophet Zechariah commanded: “truth and justice-peace you shall administer in your gates.” Read in reverse, Landau suggested, “we suffer war because there is no justice; and there is no inclusive justice because competing truth claims, self-referencing and self-serving, are being advanced by the opposing sides.”
We need healing truths—truths that confess our own sins, not just catalogue the other’s failures.
Then came the teaching that would set the stage for the conversation to follow: “Who is mighty, or heroic?” asks the rabbinic text Avot de Rabbi Natan. “One who transforms his enemy into a friend.” The answer redefines strength itself. “Waging peace, reconciling with an adversary, often requires more strength and courage than waging war.”
Landau concluded with words from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks that seemed written for this very moment: “Forgiveness is the counternarrative of hope. It is not a moral luxury, an option for saints. At times it is the only path through the thickets of hate to the open spaces of coexistence.”
Act IV: The Symphony Reaches Its Crescendo—Truth, Justice, and Dignity
Dr. Muhammad Ali Shomali began where the others had been circling: at the heart of the mystery. “Peace is one of the names of God,” he said simply. “Al-Salām—God is described as the Source of Peace.”
What follows is not merely doctrine but a cosmic vision. Heaven itself is Dār al-Salām, the abode of peace. And among all nights of the year, the most sacred—Laylat al-Qadr, the Night of Power—is described in the Qur’an as “peaceful until the rising of the dawn.”
But Shomali’s most arresting claim was yet to come. The Qur’an declares that those who follow it are guided “to the ways of peace”—subul al-salām. “This verse,” he said, his voice carrying both wonder and conviction, “conveys that the very essence of following the Qur’an is to be guided toward the ways of peace.”
He paused, letting the implications settle. “The Qur’an teaches us how to cultivate peace within ourselves, within our families, our neighborhoods, our communities, and ultimately within the broader society. Therefore, any interpretation of the Qur’an that fails to place peace at its very core does not do justice to its message.”
Then came the challenge: “More troubling still are interpretations—whether by Muslims or non-Muslims—that misrepresent the Qur’an as a book of war; such a misunderstanding is indeed a grave error. The Qur’an is, in truth, a book of peace.”
Shomali built his argument like an architect constructing a cathedral. The three pillars of peace, he explained, are truth, justice, and dignity. “Each of these principles is so rich and profound that they merit dedicated exploration across multiple sessions.” But he offered the essential framework: “We cannot genuinely commit ourselves to the truth while simultaneously disregarding the rights of others… Peace grounded in justice is enduring… Inner tranquility and societal peace are both deeply linked to honor and dignity.”
But pillars alone don’t make a building stand. What holds them together? Shomali identified three spiritual supports: sincerity (acting for God’s sake, not ego), humility (avoiding the desire to dominate), and contentment (appreciating what we have rather than constantly grasping for more).
“Many may claim a desire to uphold truth, justice, and dignity,” he warned, “but without a spiritual and ethical foundation, such commitments are unlikely to endure.”
And then—crucially—Shomali insisted that even peace is not enough. “Islam teaches that establishing peace, while essential, is not enough. We are called to aim higher—to go beyond justice and actively cultivate love and kindness.”
He quoted the Qur’an: “Indeed Allah enjoins justice and kindness.” Justice is the foundation, yes, “but our aspirations must extend beyond this baseline toward kindness and love.” Even toward those who disagree with us, even those who mock our faith—”as long as they do not commit aggression”—we are called to birr, to active kindness.
“Kindness and love elevate human relationships beyond the baseline of justice,” Shomali concluded, “transforming coexistence into communion.”
Act V: When the Conversation Catches Fire
The presentations had built something in the room—a sense that old barriers were dissolving, that new possibilities were emerging. When the Q&A began, the questions came not as challenges but as invitations to go deeper.
The first question cut to history’s wound: Haven’t minorities always preached peace simply to protect themselves from majority violence? Why haven’t governments implemented these teachings?
Mozaffari responded with unflinching honesty about history’s brutality—the exile and execution of religious minorities, confirmed “in several verses of the Holy Quran.” But he insisted that tolerance, properly understood as appreciation of diversity, points toward a future where “we accept them, we appreciate the other as they are… And the peace will be based on this respecting the right of the others.”
Shomali challenged the premise itself. “I don’t think it’s always the case that minorities have been deprived of their rights or peace. In fact, there are many examples where minorities have lived peacefully.” He pointed to Iran, where “for more than thousand years, we have peaceful life with our Christian brothers and sisters and Jewish brothers and sisters and Zoroastrians.”
But his deeper point went to power itself: “Power is something that can lead very easily to blindness with respect to the rights of minorities… unless we work really on our spirituality.” And then came the conviction that animated his entire presentation: “We need to introduce spirituality to politics. We need to benefit from religious spirituality in politics.”
The idea seemed almost revolutionary in its simplicity—that politics divorced from God-consciousness, sincerity, humility, and contentment “can become very dangerous.”
When asked about the contested nature of truth itself—how can we build peace when we can’t agree on what’s good?—Lucinda Mosher invoked Rowan Williams’s wisdom about “improving the quality of our disagreements.” The goal is not consensus but learning “to compare appropriately,” creating “virtuous circles rather than vicious circles.”
Landau reinforced this with a practice so simple it seems almost trivial: “Instead of saying ‘yes, but’… simply say ‘yes, and.'” The shift in language creates a shift in posture, an openness rather than defensiveness. “If you think that your point of view has a monopoly on the truth, then you got to work on your ego. That’s epistemological arrogance, which we cannot afford.”
But the most challenging question was yet to come: What if someone holds beliefs so dangerous they could destroy humanity? Should we engage in dialogue even then, or are there limits to openness?
The question seemed designed to test whether these scholars would retreat to safe abstractions when faced with genuine danger. Shomali’s answer was stunning in its directness.
“Of course, there can be exceptions, but the general principle should be that we welcome meaningful dialogue with everyone.” And then he told the story of Moses and Pharaoh—God commanding his prophet to go speak with the tyrant who claimed to be divine, who had a “criminal record” of oppression.
“God knew that Pharaoh was unlikely to change—He has perfect knowledge of the past and the future. Yet He still instructed Moses, and through him teaches all of us, never to dismiss the opportunity to engage.” The instruction was to use “soft words”—qawlan layyinan—even when speaking to one who claimed divinity.
“So the general principle is that we should be willing to engage in even very difficult conversations, including with people who have a criminal record like Pharaoh, or those who claim divine authority.” The lesson was clear: “This idea that ‘I only talk to those I agree with, and I avoid those I disagree with’ is, in my view, unwise.”
Mosher connected this to the Islamic concept of ihsan—doing the beautiful—and its Christian parallel, to kalon. “We hope to have those that we care about dwell among the people who do the beautiful. But that’s not going to happen if we don’t help to create that environment ourselves.”
When Landau was asked about forgiveness and loving enemies—concepts often seen as distinctly Christian—he reclaimed them for Judaism. “I consider Jesus of Nazareth as one of my rabbinic teachers. So when he taught the love of enemies, I’ll say he was speaking out of rabbinic wisdom.”
But he acknowledged the tension: normative Judaism has “emphasized justice over forgiveness.” Yet “justice is absolutely necessary, absolutely necessary… But it is not sufficient.” To move from hudna (cessation of fighting) to musalaha (true reconciliation), you need rahmah—mercy, compassion. “We have to work on ourselves. World peace begins with each and every one of us.”
Epilogue: The Symphony Continues
As the conversation wound toward its close, Doug Hostetter’s voice carried both satisfaction and wonder. “This has been an amazing conversation. It is an example of what we hope this world will be. And to think that we are able to do this at this time and this moment in history is truly amazing.”
The scholars had accomplished something rare: they had demonstrated peace, not merely discussed it. They had shown that deep theological convictions need not lead to discord, that truth claims need not clash, that the specific and the universal can embrace.
Mozaffari had warned them about one final limit to dialogue: “intolerant ideologies, like colonial ideologies, like fascism, like Nazism… cannot be tolerated.” Even peace has boundaries—it must refuse what refuses peace itself.
But for beliefs that are “tolerant toward others,” he insisted, “the differences should be appreciated.”
Appreciated—not merely tolerated. Mozaffari’s word choice brought the conversation full circle, back to his opening vision of organic harmony. The symphony doesn’t work if all the instruments play the same note. Difference is not the problem; difference is the possibility.
As the webinar ended, one could almost hear Ayatollah Sistani’s words to Pope Francis echoing through the digital space: “You are part of us, and we are part of you.”
Six words that, if truly heard, might change everything.
Postscript
What made this conversation work was not that the participants agreed on everything—they didn’t. It was that they had cultivated what Shomali called the three spiritual supports of peace: sincerity, humility, and contentment. They were not performing for an audience but genuinely seeking together.
They demonstrated Mosher’s “reciprocal giving” of peace, Landau’s transformation of potential adversaries into friends, Mozaffari’s organic harmony, and Shomali’s movement from justice to kindness to love.
Most remarkably, they showed that the Abrahamic faiths—so often portrayed as inherently conflictual—actually share a vision of peace more radical than anything the secular world has imagined. Not tolerance as grudging endurance of difference, but harmony as the celebration of it. Not the absence of war, but the presence of justice, truth, dignity, mercy, and love.
The conversation is far from over. It has only just begun.
May you go in peace.
