This essay first appeared in Cross & Gavel, the Christian Legal Society’s publication, on April 20, 2026, and at the author’s Turris Fortis Substack. It is republished on Insights with the author’s permission as the first in his series on faith and the practice of law.
Prayer, peacemaking (not peacekeeping), and the Christian lawyer.
Every lawyer knows the feeling of stepping into someone else’s chaos.
A deal has fractured. A partnership is collapsing. A board is divided. A family business is bleeding mistrust. A contractor, owner, architect, regulator, lender, or public agency has reached the point where ordinary conversation has broken down and formal process has begun. By the time many matters arrive at a lawyer’s desk, chaos is already in the room. So is pride, fear, anger, anxiety, resentment. So is self-protection. Often, so is exhaustion.
Lawyers are hired to enter that space and do something useful with it.
That is why Joshua 5 may be one of the most important texts for Christian lawyers to consider. Joshua looks up and sees a man with a drawn sword and asks the natural question: “Are you for us, or for our adversaries?” It is, in many ways, the lawyer’s question. We want to know where God stands in relation to our client, our cause, our risk exposure, our desired outcome. “Yahweh, are You with us? Will You help us win? Will You vindicate our side?”
But the answer Joshua receives refuses that whole frame. The Lord does not come as a partisan. He does not present Himself as an ally for Joshua’s cause. He comes as Commander. And Joshua’s response is not calculated strategy but spontaneous worship: he falls on his face and removes his shoes, because the place where he is standing is holy ground.
That stark, seemingly brutal reality – “God may not be on my side” – should reorder the imagination of every Christian lawyer.
Because if this moment for Joshua teaches us anything, it is that the places of the most hostile battles can be holy ground. The mediation room can be holy ground. The conference room where accusations are exchanged can be holy ground. The jobsite trailer, emergency injunction hearing, deposition, board meeting, settlement call, late-night conversation with a frightened client: all of it can become holy ground. Not because conflict is good. Not because every claim is righteous. But because God is not absent from human brokenness and conflict. He is Lord there too.
That changes everything.
More Than a Broken System
It is common (and correct) to say that the legal system is broken.
When I first started the journey of discovering what it means to be a Christian lawyer, I believed that meaningful access to justice is often denied those who lack the financial means to procure it. And while in many ways that may be true, I have found that the problem runs deeper than just money. Meaningful access to legal process, at its very core, is often denied in practice, even when it exists on paper. Resources regularly matter more than right. Delay becomes leverage. Complexity becomes exclusion. Greed and pride deform judgment. A “win at all costs” mentality rewards scorched-earth tactics and teaches lawyers to confuse ferocity with faithfulness. Years ago, I tried to describe that brokenness in plain terms: the best representation is often reserved for those who can pay for it, while moral and legal right can be eclipsed by resources, stamina, and institutional advantage.
But the deeper problem is not only “out there” in a system that favors resources and process over true justice. It is also “in here” in us.
The profession catechizes us into habits of soul that reflect love of the world more than love of the Father. We begin by wanting to serve, and somewhere along the line we start to crave control, to fall for that old lie, “If you can’t beat them, join them.” We begin by wanting justice, and somewhere along the line we start wanting victory more than to see things put right again. We begin by wanting to produce peace, and somewhere along the line we settle (apathetically) for managed process. We begin by wanting to protect clients, and somewhere along the line we begin accepting – if not downright encouraging – every fear, grievance, and demand that comes through the door.
A lawyer can become very skilled at navigating and profiting from conflict while becoming spiritually deformed by it. We move from idealistic optimism to experienced pragmatism, to hopeless cynicism.
And in our present age, that danger is heightened by speed. We move faster than we can pray. We answer before we discern. We are tempted to optimize instead of abide. We delegate labor to systems and tools, and then slowly begin outsourcing judgment and authority as well. In that kind of world, prayer becomes less practical, patience becomes less plausible, and the slow work of wrestling for moral clarity begins to feel inefficient and wasteful. Yet Christian vocation has never been sustained by efficiency and maximization alone. It is sustained by presence, obedience, and truthful dependence before God.
So yes, the system is broken. But the Christian lawyer must also ask a harder question: what is this work doing to me?
Holy Ground in the Middle of Conflict
Joshua 5 answers that question by repositioning us before it instructs.
Before I am counselor, advocate, negotiator, or litigator, I am a mortal before the living God. Before I ask God to bless my strategy, I must ask whether I have mistaken my strategy for God’s plans and purposes. Before I seek divine help in defeating an adversary, I must remember that I too am under authority. Before I speak for a client, I must learn again how to listen in reverence, wait in quiet patience, and live only by every word that proceeds from God’s mouth. Like Joshua, lawyers are warriors, prepared for battle and capable of extreme violence. As Christian lawyers, we must be submitted to the authority and instruction of the Master—true examples of meekness, not weakness.
That is what it means to take off our shoes and fall to our knees in humble adoration and without guile.
For Christian lawyers, the first task in conflict is not triumph but consecration. Not, “How quickly can I gain leverage?” but, “Abba, what do You want to accomplish? Search my heart and see if there be any wickedness in me.” Not, “How do I secure the ruling?” but, “Father, what in me must be removed before I enter this room in Your name? Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, in this moment as it is in heaven.” Certainty, self-satisfaction, and what seems right in our own eyes must fall away. Our God is holy. He is love, yes, but He is also a consuming fire. Ego must come off. Contempt must come off. Vanity must come off. Fear must come off. The hunger to be impressive must come off. The desire to weaponize truth rather than serve it must all come off.
This is where the old biblical command becomes newly concrete: do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.
Justice without humility becomes severity. Mercy without truth becomes sentimentality. Humility without courage becomes passivity. But when all three are held together in meekness under the lordship of Christ, a different kind of legal presence becomes possible—clear-eyed, restrained, brave, honest, and useful in the Master’s hands.
A Christian lawyer is not called to be passive. But neither is he called to be spiritually casual. He is called to enter conflict reverently, because he stands where lives, relationships, reputations, institutions, and futures will be deeply affected. And he enters conscious of God’s presence and God’s ultimate authority.
That is holy ground.
Peacemaking, Not Peacekeeping
This is where an important distinction becomes necessary.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus blesses peacemakers, not peacekeepers.
Peacekeeping is often about preserving manageability and status quo. Keep things from getting louder. Keep the temperature down. Keep the parties functional, at least on the surface. Keep the institution from embarrassment. Keep the file moving. Keep the damage contained.
Sometimes that is prudent. Often, however, it is not peace but the furthest thing from it.
Biblical peace—shalom (nothing missing, nothing broken)—is not mere calm. It is right order under God. It is truth brought into the light. It is justice rightly rendered. It is mercy rightly extended. Reconciliation where it is possible; honest judgment where it is not. It is not a ceasefire at any cost. It is not superficial closure. And it is certainly not the false “peace, peace” of refusing to name what is actually wrong.
That makes peacemaking, often, much more costly than peacekeeping.
Sometimes peacemaking looks like early settlement. Sometimes it looks like vigilant confrontation. Sometimes it looks like litigation pursued cleanly and without hatred, but with dogged determination. Sometimes it looks like saying “no” to a client who wants vengeance cloaked as principle. Sometimes it looks like telling the truth no one in the room wants to hear. Sometimes it looks like slowing everyone down long enough to let reason and opportunity cost re-enter the conversation.
A Christian lawyer should want peace, but not the kind of peace that leaves lies intact, injustice unaddressed, victims unprotected, or hearts unexamined.
That is why the ministry of reconciliation in 2 Corinthians 5 cannot be reduced to niceness. Reconciliation is not the denial of wrong. It is not the refusal of judgment. It is not a sentimental wish that everyone leave feeling affirmed. Reconciliation is a distinctly Christian word because it presumes alienation, truth, repentance, grace, and the possibility of forgiveness and real restoration. It has moral content. It has theological depth. And it always costs someone something.
So the Christian lawyer’s calling is not to make conflict disappear, but to submit it—so far as he is able—to truth, justice, mercy, and the possibility of rightly ordered shalom.
Against Darkness, Not Flesh & Blood
At this point, some Christian lawyers become uneasy, because the language starts to sound too spiritual for the practical world of pleadings, contracts, injunctions, and negotiation strategy.
But Ephesians 6 is practical precisely because it is spiritual.
We must never forget: our struggle is not against flesh and blood.
That does not mean people are innocent. It does not mean institutions are neutral. It does not mean there is no such thing as fraud, abuse, predation, cowardice, or corruption. It does mean that the Christian lawyer must never collapse the problem into “those people over there.” The deeper enemies are vain imaginations, agreements with lies, deception, accusation, domination, fear, pride, bitterness, confusion, and the disordered loves that take root in individuals and systems alike. The deeper enemies are the love of this world, our own flesh, and the Enemy of our souls.
This matters because once opposing counsel, the judge, the regulator, the witness, or even the client becomes the true enemy in my imagination, I am fighting flesh and blood and have already lost the battle. I start speaking in ways I can justify but Christ would not approve. I begin to confuse harshness with strength. I begin to serve the machinery of conflict even while talking about justice. I may still win motions and close files, make money and earn a great name, but I will have become less free, less truthful, and less fit for true peace.
The Christian lawyer must therefore learn to fight vigorously without hate.
That is not weakness. It is warfare of a deeper kind.
Truth must be spoken. Lies must be exposed. Injustice must be resisted. The vulnerable must be protected. But all of this must be done without surrendering to the very forces that deform the profession from within. The lawyer who can stand firm without becoming consumed by contempt is already doing something rare.
A Different Way to Pray
All of this comes to a head in prayer.
Because prayer reveals what we really believe our work is for.
Listen to the prayers lawyers often pray:
Lord, help me win.
Lord, help me do well.
Lord, help the judge see it my way.
Lord, let the deal close.
Lord, protect my client.
Lord, don’t let me look foolish.
Lord, keep this from blowing up.
None of those prayers is automatically wrong. But they can still come from wrong motives. They can still assume that God’s highest purpose in the matter is to secure my preferred outcome.
Joshua 5 invites a better question: not “Are You on my side?” but “How do I stand rightly before You here? How do I participate in what You want to accomplish in this holy moment—to bring beauty from ashes, joy in place of mourning, gratitude and praise instead of heaviness and despair.”
That leads to better prayers.
Lord, use me as a catalyst to let truth be seen.
Lord, purify my own motives in this moment.
Lord, keep me from producing fear, anxiety, self-righteousness, and pride.
Lord, do not let egos or idols—including my own—get in the way of what is best for these parties.
Lord, help me do justice without contempt and love mercy without cowardice or appeasement. Father, where reconciliation is possible, open that door. Where judgment is necessary, keep me humble, restrained, and clean-handed.
Abba, teach me how to stand in your presence on holy ground throughout this controversy.
That is the beginning of a Christian lawyer’s prayer life.
Not prayer as superstition. Not prayer as leverage.
Not prayer as a religious coating over ambition.
Prayer as surrender. Prayer as clarification.
Prayer as resistance. Prayer as a refusal to let the adversarial system dictate the final shape of the soul.
In my own reflections over the years, the recurring call has been simple: seek Abba’s face, wait for Him, walk in “The Way,” stand firm, speak truth, and trust God as my strong tower. (Turris fortis mihi Deus) That is not a retreat from legal work. It is the only way to remain human and redeemed in it.
The Christian lawyer is not called to float above conflict, nor to sanctify every adversarial instinct as zeal. He is called to enter the middle of human chaos and remember that he is standing on holy ground.
And perhaps that is where renewal begins: not first in a better tactic, though tactics matter; not first in a better argument, though arguments matter; but in a recovered posture before God.
Take off your shoes.
Get on your knees—invite God into the battle.
Seek His face—wait on Him.
Listen for His voice.Take a step in faith—speak holy truth to chaos.
Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly and in the restrained strength of meekness.
This is what it means to be a Christian lawyer.This is what it means to be Peacemaker.
Listen to the conversation
This essay is the subject of the first episode of The Unsettled Question, the Legal Ministry Network podcast hosted by Anton Sorkin — a long-form conversation with Michael on serving faithfully in the practice of law, the chaos that must give way to holy ground, and the lessons of Joshua 5.
This is the first essay in a continuing series. The second, The Weapons of Peace, is also published on Insights; the full series map is at Turris Fortis.
About Michael C. Kelley
Michael C. Kelley is a shareholder of Lawson Huck Gonzalez and leads the firm’s Orlando office. He anchors the firm’s construction litigation practice and represents clients in complex commercial, class action, and real estate disputes, drawing on decades of hands-on experience building and financing projects before he practiced law. He writes at Turris Fortis on faith, justice, and the practice of law.
Insights posts reflect the views of the individual author, not necessarily those of the firm or its clients, and are offered for general information. They are not legal advice and are not a substitute for counsel on a specific matter.
