The Quiet Tensions Along the Walk for Peace
For weeks, the Buddhist monks walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. have moved through the South like a soft wind — steady, humble, and unthreatening. Their message is simple: peace begins within. Their method is ancient: walk, breathe, bless, repeat. And their presence has drawn thousands into moments of unexpected unity.
But as their visibility grows, so does something else:
The quiet resistance that always rises when peace enters a space where fear has been living comfortably.
Most of the country sees the crowds, the thousands who gather in cold weather, the families who bring food, the churches that open their doors. But on the edges of this movement, minor confrontations are beginning to surface, not in the mainstream press but in the digital spaces where many Americans now live their public lives.
These moments are not the story of the walk. But they are part of the story of America.
In Monroe, Georgia, a small group appeared with picket signs, not many, but enough to signal discomfort. On social media, a lone protester confronted the monks directly, warning them that they were “walking to hell” and “taking their supporters with them.” And in another Georgia town, a church called the police simply because the monks were walking past their property.
None of these incidents escalated. None became violent. None drew the attention of major news outlets.
But they reveal something important: peace does not move through a society without stirring the fears that lie beneath its surface.
These reactions are not about the monks.
They are about the people who feel threatened by what the monks represent.
What has struck me most is not the resistance itself, but the monks’ response to it.
When confronted with condemnation, they said: “Let them say what they want to say.”
When crowds grew tense, they reminded everyone: “Everyone has the right to express themselves. Focus on the peace within you.”
Encouraging their followers to respect everyone’s right to express their views is not passivity. Supporting freedom of expression is a discipline — the same discipline that has sustained spiritual movements for centuries.
It echoes the teachings of Jesus on the hillside: Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the merciful. Blessed are the peacemakers.
It echoes the posture of Dr. King in Birmingham and Selma: We will meet your physical force with soul force.
It echoes Gandhi’s wisdom on the long road to the sea: In the end, the truth will stand alone.
The monks are not reacting to fear. They are absorbing it, transforming it, and walking on.
These minor flare-ups, a sign here, a harsh word there, a police call rooted in misunderstanding, are not evidence of widespread hostility. They are evidence of something more subtle and more revealing:
- Some Americans are unsettled by unfamiliar expressions of faith.
- Some feel threatened when peace comes from outside their tradition.
- Some mistake difference for danger.
- Some fear what they cannot categorize.
And yet, these reactions also reveal something hopeful: the overwhelming majority of people respond to peace with openness, curiosity, and gratitude.
For every protester, thousands are standing in silence, waiting for the monks to arrive. For every harsh word, there are countless gestures of kindness. For every fearful reaction, there is a community ready to embrace the moment.
The tension is real, but so is the hope.
When I stood among more than 5,000 people in Fayetteville, Georgia, waiting in the cold for the monks to arrive, I saw the best of what we can be. The sky was gray, the wind sharp, the morning heavy. But when the monks appeared, the clouds broke, and the sun poured through as if the day itself had been waiting for them.
That moment felt like a blessing.
But I also know that not everyone sees what I saw. Some see danger where there is none. Some see a threat where there is only humility. Some see spiritual competition where there is only compassion.
And that, too, is part of the American story.
For all the warmth that has greeted the monks across Georgia, their walk has also stirred a quieter, more complicated response. The kind that rarely makes the evening news but spreads quickly through the digital spaces where many Americans now form their understanding of the world.
In Monroe, a small group appeared with picket signs. On social media, a lone voice confronted the monks directly, warning them that they were “walking to hell” and “taking their supporters with them.” In another Georgia town, a church called the police simply because the monks walked past their property. These incidents were isolated but revealing. They showed that even a message as gentle as peace can unsettle those who fear what they cannot categorize.
What struck me most was not the resistance itself, but the monks’ response to it. “Let them say what they want to say,” they told their followers. “Everyone has the right to express themselves. Focus on the peace within you.”
The monk’s posit was not resignation. It was discipline, the same spiritual clarity that has sustained peacemakers across centuries. Their posture echoed the teachings of Jesus on the hillside, the resolve of Dr. King in Birmingham, the quiet courage of Gandhi on the long road to the sea. Peace, when practiced sincerely, does not flinch at fear. It absorbs it, transforms it, and keeps walking.
When the protestor in Monroe, Georgia, proclaimed that the monks were “walking to Hell,” the Venerable monk replied, “It’s okay, then let me go.” The monk added, “Are you at peace?” The protestor feigned that he was, then, as when Jesus was run out of the Synagogue and driven to the edge of the cliff before parting the crowd and walking past his persecutors, the protestor, blocking the monks’ movement, moved as the monks marched through his line of resistance.
These minor flare-ups do not define the walk. But they do reveal something about the American moment: that we are a nation still deciding whether we recognize peace when it approaches us, or whether we recoil from it out of habit, suspicion, or inherited fear. The monks are not here to convert anyone or challenge anyone’s faith. They are here to hold up a mirror. And in that mirror, we see both our generosity and our anxieties, our openness and our reflexive defensiveness.
When the Monks reached Decatur, Georgia, they were met not with resistance but with the warmth of brotherly love in the person of Will Butler, Georgia Executive Director for Frontline Response International. Butler runs a shelter for the unhoused in Decatur. He was tasked with feeding the monks and housing them overnight at the Tobie Grant Recreation Center in DeKalb County, Georgia.
Bulter, whose mother is an ordained minister of the gospel, said, “It was truly an honor and pleasure for the Frontline Response team to provide overnight hospitality services to the Venerable Buddhist Monks. Witnessing all walks of faith and even non-believers coming together peacefully and respectfully in one place was awe-inspiring, and this moment in history will forever be remembered and forged into our hearts.”
Leaving DeKalb County, Georgia, their journey continues. The question remains.
The monks are not here to convert anyone. They are not here to challenge Christianity or any other faith. They are not here to win a debate.
They are here to ask a question, not with words, but with their walk:
Can America recognize peace when it sees it?
It is a question that reveals more about us than about them.
And as they continue toward Washington, step by step, blessing by blessing, mile by mile, they invite us to choose, not between religions, not between ideologies, but between fear and compassion.
The monks have already chosen their path. The question now is whether we will choose ours. After all, whose side is God on?