Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters, gathered here and joined in spirit across the world.
We gather in a world that echoes with ancient cries. The weeping of Rachel for her children, a lamentation from the time of Christ’s own infancy, is not a silent relic of scripture. It is a present, piercing sound. It rises from the streets where the innocent are cut down for daring to seek dignity, from the cold cells where the young await unjust death, and from the shattered cities where families huddle in darkness and cold. The slaughter of the Holy Innocents by Herod was an act of tyrannical fear, a brutal attempt to extinguish a light. Today, in so many places, that same spirit of fear seeks to extinguish the light of conscience, of protest, of life itself. We see it in the faces of the young, their lives stolen; we hear it in the vows of vengeance for those condemned. This is the raw wound of our world: the persecution and suffering of the innocent.
But into this wound, we must pour the balm of a fundamental truth, proclaimed at the very dawn of creation: that every person, every single one, is made in the image and likeness of God. “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man.” This is not a call for cyclical violence, but the foundation of an unshakeable principle. It declares the infinite, sacred worth of every human life. To defend a life, to protest an execution, to demand justice for the oppressed, is to defend the very image of the Divine among us. It is to stand against the Herods of every age who see not children of God, but threats to their power. Our faith compels us to be those defenders, to be the “man” through whom the sanctity of life is upheld.
How then do we uphold it? We turn to the living criterion of our eternal destiny, given to us by Christ Himself. “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink... I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.” Christ identifies utterly with the vulnerable. He is the protester, cold and afraid. He is the prisoner, awaiting a unjust sentence. He is the family in Kyiv, hungry, thirsty, and shivering in the merciless winter, their suffering compounded by the cruelty of war. When we see these, we see the face of our Lord. To care for them is not mere charity; it is an encounter with the living God. It is the practical, tangible defense of human dignity.
I envision a world, my brothers and sisters, where these cries have been answered. I see a world where, through the tireless workings of good men and women inspired by the Gospel, the weeping of Rachel is finally comforted. I see a world where the image of God in every person is so revered that persecution finds no foothold, where justice systems protect life rather than threaten it, and where no neighbor, in any nation, must face hunger, cold, or terror alone. This is not a naive dream. This is the Kingdom of God, yearning to break through our history. It will be built by hands that feed the hungry, by voices that speak for the voiceless, by nations that choose solidarity over aggression, and by the relentless, prayerful courage of ordinary people who refuse to accept the world’s cruelty as its final word.
Yet, to build this world, we must first look within our own spiritual home. One of the great trials of the Church in our time remains the scandal of division, the fragmentation of the Body of Christ into camps of ideology and preference. We quarrel over inward-facing matters while the world outside bleeds and freezes. This internal discord weakens our witness, muffles our prophetic voice, and drains our energy for the monumental tasks of mercy and justice that await us. I call on all the faithful, from the cardinals to the catechumens: let us lay down the weapons of words. Let us unite, not in bland agreement, but in shared mission—the mission defined by Christ Himself: to visit, to clothe, to feed, to liberate, to defend life. Let our unity be forged in the soup kitchen, in the letter-writing campaign for prisoners of conscience, in the shipments of generators to frozen cities. There, we will find our brotherhood anew.
For if we do not—if we remain passive, indifferent, or consumed by internal strife—we must heed a dire warning. A world that persistently chooses the way of Herod over the way of Christ is writing its own epitaph. It is not God who sends apocalyptic destruction; it is humanity, by severing itself from love, justice, and truth. The darkness we fear is not a punishment from above, but the accumulated shadow of our own failures. It is the cold that comes when we refuse to share our warmth. It is the silence that falls when we refuse to speak. It is the death that spreads when we refuse to protect life. We will create a world where the lamentation in Rama is the universal song, a world devoid of hope, where the image of God in humanity is finally and utterly desecrated by our own hands.
But this is not our destiny! We are people of the Resurrection. We are people who have seen the Light shine in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. That Light is Christ. He is with the innocent in their suffering. He is the dignity in every life. He is the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger. And He is here, with us, now, giving us the strength to act.
Go forth, then. Be not afraid. Comfort Rachel’s children. Defend the divine image in every person you meet. See and serve Christ in all who suffer. Heal the divisions among us by joining together in this holy work. For in serving them, we serve Him. In building a world of justice and mercy, we build His Kingdom. And in doing so, we will not only save our world from the darkness it courts, but we will finally hear, echoing across a renewed earth, the words we long for: “Come, you who are blessed by my Father.”
Amen.
What can we do?
When we see the suffering of the innocent, as in the brutal crackdowns on young protesters, our first practical step is to refuse the comfort of ignorance. Make a conscious choice to be informed by credible, international news sources. This awareness is not for the sake of despair, but for the sake of focused action. You can then channel that awareness into supporting human rights organizations through donations or by amplifying their verified reports on social media. Write to your elected representatives, urging them to use diplomatic and economic tools to apply pressure and defend human dignity. Your voice, added to others, forms a chorus that cannot be ignored.
In defending human dignity and life, especially when facing the threat of execution, our daily practice must be one of relentless advocacy. This means moving beyond private prayer to public witness. Support legal aid groups that work internationally to defend prisoners of conscience. Educate your own community about these injustices, breaking down the abstraction of a distant headline into the real story of a person, like a 26-year-old facing death. In your own sphere, fiercely protect the dignity of every person you encounter—refuse to engage in dehumanizing rhetoric, challenge prejudice, and treat each individual as possessing inherent and unassailable worth.
Our call to care for the vulnerable is answered in tangible, immediate ways. For those suffering under bombardment and cold, like the people of Kyiv, direct aid is crucial. Research and donate to reputable humanitarian agencies providing generators, blankets, medical supplies, and shelter. Consider supporting local efforts in your own community that welcome refugees, offering them not just shelter but a sense of belonging. In your daily life, practice this care intimately: check on an elderly neighbor during a cold snap, donate warm clothing to a shelter, or simply offer a moment of genuine kindness to someone who is struggling. This turns compassion from a feeling into a force.
These acts—informed advocacy, steadfast defense of dignity, and practical care—are how faith is made real in the world. It starts not with a grand plan, but with the decision, today, to see, to speak, and to serve.
Go in peace.
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