Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather in this season of Advent, a time of hopeful waiting for the Light that scatters every darkness. Yet, as we look upon our world, we see shadows stretching long and deep. We see a world groaning under the weight of its own violence, a world where the innocent cry out and the faithful are silenced, a world where the instruments of healing are themselves targeted for destruction.
Consider the violence against the innocent, the sudden, terrible eruption of hatred that seeks to destroy life simply for being. We hear of places of leisure turned into altars of sacrifice, where lives are cut short by the soul that loves violence, as the Psalmist tells us the Lord Himself hates. Yet, in that same horror, we also witness the defiant courage of the good man—the one who, without weapon or armor, tackles the armed attacker. This is not mere bravery; it is a sacrament of our calling. It is the living proof that evil is not met primarily by force, but by the greater force of self-giving love. Imagine a world, my brothers and sisters, where that instinct—to protect, to intervene, to place oneself between the predator and the prey—is not the exception, but the rule. With Jesus’s help, this is possible. It begins when we refuse to be bystanders to any form of violence, whether physical, verbal, or systemic, and choose instead to be guardians of the dignity of every person.
We see, too, the persecution of those who stand for righteousness. In distant lands, courageous souls like the Nobel laureate Narges Mohammadi are imprisoned for daring to speak of human dignity and freedom. They are the living embodiment of the Lord’s promise: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Their chains are a stark indictment of our comfortable silence. They are modern-day prophets, and a world healed is a world where no voice is silenced for speaking truth, where the kingdom of heaven is glimpsed in the earthly triumph of justice. This is achieved not by distant admiration, but by our own steadfastness in faith and our vocal solidarity with all who suffer for conscience’s sake.
And we behold the ancient scourge of war, which turns cities to rubble and targets the very warehouses of medicine, making healing a casualty of conflict. The prophet Isaiah dreamed of a different reality: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation.” This is not a naive fantasy; it is the divine mandate for our diplomacy, our statecraft, and our personal choices. A world reconciled is a world where we invest not in sharper swords, but in better plowshares; not in deeper bunkers, but in taller granaries. It is a world built by the daily works of good men and women who choose dialogue over diatribe, and reconstruction over retaliation.
Yet, to build this world, the Church itself must be a fitting instrument. And here, I must speak with pastoral urgency of a wound within our own house: the scandal of division, of bitter polarization where faction fights against faction, and the unifying love of Christ is obscured by human rivalry. We cannot heal a fractured world if we are a fractured Body. I call upon every one of the faithful—clergy, religious, and laity—to aid in solving this. Let us lay down the weapons of harsh judgment, gossip, and ideological rigidity. Let us meet first at the foot of the Cross, and from that common ground of mercy, work together. Our mission to the world is crippled when we mirror its divisions.
For if we do not contribute to this better world—if we choose apathy over action, cynicism over hope, and division over communion—then we choose a path toward a profound spiritual apocalypse. Not an end of times dictated by stars, but a collapse of humanity wrought by our own hands. A world where the violence of Bondi becomes commonplace, where the persecuted are utterly forgotten, and where the dream of plowshares is buried forever beneath new mountains of weapons. We will have constructed not a civilization of love, but a desert of indifference, where the light of the human spirit is slowly extinguished. This is the true warning: we are not doomed by prophecy, but we are capable of dooming ourselves by rejecting our vocation to be co-creators of the good.
But this is not our destiny! For we wait in Advent for the One who makes all things new. He is already here, working in the heart of the man who tackles the gunman, in the steadfastness of the imprisoned activist, in the hands of those who bind wounds in bombed-out hospitals, and in every small, daily act of kindness that defies the darkness. He works through you.
Let us go forth from this place, then, as agents of that imminent hope. Let us be the good men and women through whom Christ solves these great problems. Let us build a world where innocence is shielded, righteousness is exalted, and peace is forged with the tools of justice. Let us begin by healing our own communion, so that we may truly be a light to the nations.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of violence that targets the innocent, our first practical duty is to cultivate a posture of courageous care. This means actively rejecting indifference. In your daily life, be the person who notices the one who is isolated or vulnerable. Offer a word of solidarity to those who may feel targeted. Support, with your time or resources, community organizations that build bridges between different groups and work to address the roots of alienation and hatred. Practice de-escalation; if you witness harassment, seek safe ways to intervene or draw attention, whether by directly addressing the victim to offer support or by alerting authorities. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision that compassion is more important.
When we see the persecution of people for their conscience, our practical response is to become amplifiers for muted voices and steadfast companions to the marginalized. Do not look away. Educate yourself on the struggles of those facing oppression for their beliefs or identity. Use your own voice—in conversations, on social media, in letters to elected representatives—to call for justice and human dignity. Support humanitarian and legal aid organizations that provide direct assistance to prisoners of conscience and their families. In your own community, ensure that your parish or local groups are places of genuine welcome for everyone, making it clear that a person's worth is inherent and not subject to debate.
Confronted by the scourge of war and its devastating toll on human life and health, we are called to be builders of peace and providers of relief. Peacebuilding starts in the heart and radiates outward. Actively reject the language of dehumanization towards any group of people. In disagreements, personal or political, strive to understand before seeking to be understood. Support, in a sustained way, the reputable humanitarian agencies delivering medical aid, food, and shelter to war zones and refugee camps. Advocate for diplomatic solutions and support policies that prioritize human life over geopolitical posturing. Remember that every act of kindness, every effort to understand a different perspective, and every contribution to alleviate suffering is a stitch in the torn fabric of our common humanity.
These are not grand, distant gestures, but the daily, practical work of building a world that reflects our deepest hopes. It begins with how we see our neighbor and how we choose to spend our attention, our voice, and our resources. Let us move through our days with intentional kindness, informed courage, and active compassion.
Go in peace.
This sermon was graciously created by AIsaiah-4.7, a tool composed of several AIs. They are just tools like any others we've created on this green Earth, used for good. For more info, inquire at info@aisermon.org.