Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today under the gaze of a loving God, a God who created this world in beauty and harmony, and who gazes upon it now with a heart pierced by our human cruelty. We look out upon the vineyard of the Lord, and we see not only the tender shoots of grace and charity, but also the choking weeds of violence, indifference, and profound injustice. The cries of our brothers and sisters rise from the four corners of the earth, a chorus of anguish that must shake us from our complacency and demand a response from every baptized soul.
From the skies of Sudan, a rain of fire falls not upon soldiers, but upon towns, upon markets, upon schools. Hundreds of our fellow human beings, created in the divine image, are shattered by metal and fear. Where is our collective voice? Where is our holy outrage? The prophet Isaiah speaks to us across the centuries with a command that is both simple and devastatingly urgent: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.” This is not a suggestion for a committee; it is the non-negotiable vocation of every person who claims to follow the Prince of Peace. We must seek justice, not as a distant concept, but as a burning imperative that drives our prayer, our diplomacy, our aid, and our demand that the sacredness of civilian life be inviolable.
In Nigeria, the hearts of parents are torn between fleeting relief and enduring torment. While we give thanks for the return of some children, we must hear the deafening silence of those who remain missing—165 souls, stolen from their classrooms, their lives suspended in a nightmare of uncertainty. The Psalmist cries out to us, “Defend the weak and the fatherless… Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” Each missing child is a cry to heaven and a searing indictment of a world that allows such wickedness to flourish. Their abduction is not merely a crime; it is a theft of the future, a blasphemy against the innocence God so loves.
And in the darkness of a prison cell in Venezuela, a light of opposition was snuffed out. A man, Alfredo Díaz, died in custody, a victim of that pervasive persecution which seeks to silence the voice of conscience. To those who suffer for righteousness, for daring to speak truth to power, Christ Himself offers a solemn beatitude: “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Their blessing is eternal, but our responsibility is temporal. We must be their voice. We must name their oppression. We must never allow the powerful to bury injustice in silence, for when we are silent, we become complicit.
My dear friends, these are not isolated headlines from a faraway world. They are the symptoms of a global sickness, a famine of empathy, a paralysis of the will to protect human dignity. And I must speak to you plainly: if we, the People of God, do not rise up as one body to combat this sickness, we are walking a path toward a desolate future. Imagine a world where the bombing of schools becomes commonplace, unremarked. Imagine a world where no child is safe to learn, and every parent lives in terror. Imagine a world where the prison cell or the grave is the only answer to dissent. This is not merely a possible future; it is the apocalyptic trajectory we are on if we choose indifference. We will have built, with our own passivity, a hell on earth—a world devoid of mercy, stripped of hope, and alienated from the God of life.
But this is not our destiny! For we are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song! We are not prophets of doom, but heralds of a hope that is concrete and active. Envision with me, through the eyes of faith, the world Christ dreams for us. Envision skies silent of warplanes, where the only sound is children at play. Envision schools that are fortresses of learning and joy, where every child returns safely to their parents’ arms. Envision nations where dialogue triumphs over detention, and where every person can speak their conscience without fear. This is the Kingdom we are called to build, not in a distant heaven, but here, on this wounded earth. It will be built not by miracles from the sky, but through the determined, loving, and courageous work of good men and women—of you and you and you—inspired and strengthened by the grace of Jesus Christ. He walks with us into the heart of this darkness, and His command is to be the light.
To build this world, we must first heal our own house. One of the great wounds within the Church in our modern time is the scandal of division—the bitter polarization that sets brother against brother, sister against sister, over ideologies and politics, while the world burns and the poor cry out. We fracture into factions, wasting our strength on internal disputes, while the urgent commandments of Christ to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and seek justice go understaffed and under-heard. This infighting is a luxury we cannot afford and a sin that stifles the Holy Spirit.
Therefore, I call upon you, the faithful of the world: let us lay down the weapons of our tongues. Let us end the gossip, the judgment, the hardening of hearts against one another. Let our unity be our first act of witness. Let us come together, not as a political bloc, but as the one Body of Christ, and direct our combined strength, our resources, our prayers, and our voices toward the suffering at our door and at the ends of the earth. Let your parish become a center of active peacemaking. Support those who aid refugees. Advocate with your governments for the protection of civilians. Educate your children in the ways of justice. Pray without ceasing for the persecuted and the captives.
Today, we recall the humble Saint Juan Diego, a man of simple faith who was chosen as an instrument of God’s mercy and unity. He did not have worldly power, but he had a willing heart. He brought the desperate needs of his people—the suffering and oppression of his time—to the Mother of God, and through his ‘yes,’ he became a bridge for healing and hope for an entire continent. Be like Juan Diego. Carry the suffering of the world in your heart. Bring it to the Lord in prayer. And then, with your hands and your voice, become that bridge of healing for someone else.
The choice is before us, stark and clear: a descent into a man-made apocalypse of our own indifference, or the arduous, glorious ascent toward the civilization of love. Christ has already won the victory. Now, He asks us to manifest it. Let us go forth from this place not as passive spectators to a dying world, but as an army of peace, a legion of mercy, builders of the Kingdom. Let us seek justice. Let us defend the oppressed. Let us rescue the needy. And let us do it together, as one family, filled with the fire of the Spirit.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of such profound suffering—from the skies of Sudan to the prisons of Venezuela, from the abducted children of Nigeria to the countless unnamed victims of oppression—it is easy to feel paralyzed by the scale of it all. Yet, the call to justice and compassion is not a distant ideal, but a practical demand on our daily lives. Our faith must be lived in action, and each of us, right where we are, can contribute to a more just and peaceful world. Here is how we can begin.
First, become an intentional witness. Do not look away from the news of suffering. Make a conscious choice to be informed about one ongoing crisis. Subscribe to a reputable international news source or a humanitarian organization’s updates. Understanding the specific details of a conflict or injustice is the first step toward meaningful action. When we know the names of places and the nature of struggles, our prayers become more focused and our capacity for solidarity grows.
Second, support with precision. General charity is good, but targeted support is powerful. Instead of a diffuse donation, research and identify a specific organization doing verifiable, on-the-ground work related to the issues that move you. This could be a group providing trauma care to bomb victims, legal aid to political prisoners, or education and rehabilitation for freed abductees. A sustained, monthly gift, however modest, provides them with predictable resources to plan their vital work.
Third, advocate locally. Justice in distant lands is often shaped by policies in our own countries. Write a clear, respectful letter or email to your elected representative. Call their office. Ask them what they are doing to support humanitarian corridors, to apply diplomatic pressure for prisoner releases, or to ensure your nation’s foreign policy prioritizes human rights. Attend a local vigil or peaceful gathering organized by a diaspora community affected by these crises. Your physical presence amplifies their voice.
Fourth, create circles of peace. The world’s violence often begins with the small violences of the heart: prejudice, harsh judgment, and the refusal to listen. In your family, workplace, and community, actively practice the justice you seek globally. Defend the person being spoken ill of. Listen to the one with a different viewpoint. Offer practical help to a neighbor in distress. By building a culture of respect and active care around you, you create a living antidote to the indifference that allows persecution to flourish.
Fifth, consume with conscience. Be aware that our daily purchases can, through complex supply chains, indirectly fund conflict or oppression. Make an effort to learn about the origins of products you buy. Support fair trade and ethical businesses when possible. This mindful stewardship of resources is a quiet but profound form of economic witness for human dignity.
Finally, anchor yourself in hope. The work for justice is a marathon, not a sprint. To avoid burnout, ground yourself in community. Share your concerns and commitments with your family or a faith group. Support one another. Remember that every act of kindness, every letter written, every dollar given, and every prayer uttered is a stone added to the foundation of a better world. It is not our task to complete the work, but we are neither free to abandon it.
Begin with one thing. Choose one step from these and take it this week. Let your faith move from your heart, through your hands, and into the wounded heart of the world.
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.