Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters, gathered here and joined with us in spirit across the world.
We gather in this season of Advent, a time of watchful waiting, of hopeful anticipation for the coming of the Light into our darkness. Yet, as we look upon our modern world, we see shadows lengthening, shadows cast by the very evils our Lord came to dispel. We are called not to look away from this darkness, but to recognize it, to name it, and with the grace of Christ, to become agents of its transformation.
Look with me upon the scourge of violence against religious communities. In sacred spaces of prayer, in streets of fellowship, the children of Abraham—Jews, Muslims, Christians, and others—are struck down. We have wept for a ten-year-old girl, for rabbis, for a survivor of history’s great darkness, slain in a place of peace. This is not merely crime; it is a profound desecration, a violent denial of the image of God in our neighbor. Our Lord proclaimed, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” To be a child of God in this hour is not a passive inheritance. It is a vocation to active peacemaking. It is to build bridges where others build walls, to defend the right to worship where others seek to desecrate, to see in every person, of every faith, a brother or sister worthy of dignity and life.
And see the persecution of the innocent, those who, for righteousness’ sake, stand for truth and human dignity against the crushing weight of power. We think of courageous souls in distant lands, like the Iranian laureate beaten for her witness, who embody the Lord’s beatitude: “Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Their kingdom is not of this world’s making, but it judges our world. Their suffering is a silent, thunderous accusation against our complacency. When we remain silent in the face of such persecution, when we choose comfortable ignorance over uncomfortable truth, we become bystanders to injustice. The kingdom of heaven belongs to the persecuted, but it is built by those who dare to stand in solidarity with them, to amplify their silenced voices, and to work for a world where conscience is not a crime.
We witness, too, a deeper sickness, a moral decay that festers in the heart of societies we call advanced. It is a decay that reduces the sacred mystery of human life to a disposable object, where the foundational commandment, “You shall not murder,” is shattered not only in war zones but in the very homes that should be sanctuaries. When a son is accused of such an unspeakable act against the parents who gave him life, we see a parable of our broken world: the fracture of the most fundamental bonds of love and gratitude. This decay whispers that nothing is sacred, that desire is king, and that the other is an obstacle to be removed. It is the fruit of a culture that has exiled God from the public square and, in doing so, has lost the very compass for human dignity.
Yet, my brothers and sisters, Advent tells us this is not the final word. We are not people of despair, but people of divine hope. Envision with me, not a fantasy, but the world as Christ intends it to be, built through the workings of good men and women filled with His Spirit. Envision a world where peacemakers are so numerous that violence against the faithful becomes an unthinkable relic. See a world where the persecuted are protected by a global family of faith that leaves no one behind. Imagine a society where the moral order is restored on the foundation of love, where life is revered from conception to natural death, and families are schools of mercy and fortitude. This is the world we are called to build, brick by brick, act by act, with Jesus as our cornerstone.
To build this world, however, we must first heal our own house. One of the great wounds within the Church in modern times is the crisis of credibility born of our own failures—the failure to always be the radiant model of Christ’s love, the failure in safeguarding the vulnerable, the failure to live with transparent humility. This wound hinders our voice and weakens our witness. I call upon every one of the faithful, clergy and laity alike, to aid in solving it. Aid it through relentless prayer for purification. Aid it through demanding and modeling absolute integrity, accountability, and compassion in every parish, every diocese, every heart. Aid it by being a Church that is truly a field hospital, where we first bind our own wounds so we can credibly tend to the wounds of the world.
For if we do not contribute to this better world—if we choose comfort over courage, silence over prophecy, and self-interest over sacrificial love—then we choose a path toward a human-made apocalypse. It will not be fire from heaven, but the cold, slow death of the human spirit. It is a world where violence becomes the common language, where the innocent are forever crushed under the boot of tyranny, where moral decay dissolves the bonds of society into a chaos of competing desires. It is a world without hope, because it is a world where we chose to extinguish the lamps of faith, justice, and love that we were entrusted to keep burning.
But this is not our destiny! We are children of the Light. In this Advent, let us awake from our slumber. Let the tragedies we witness not paralyze us with grief, but galvanize us with purpose. Let us be the peacemakers who confront hatred with love. Let us be the defenders who stand with the persecuted. Let us be the healers who restore moral order by living the Gospel with radical fidelity. Let us purify our Church so it may be a true beacon for all.
The Lord is coming. He comes to find us at work in His vineyard, building His kingdom of justice, peace, and love. Let Him not find us idle. Let Him find us, His faithful people, laboring with all our strength, so that when He appears, the shadows will flee, and we will rejoice in the everlasting dawn of His Kingdom.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of violence against religious communities, our practical response is to become a bridge. Seek out a neighbor, colleague, or community member of a different faith. Introduce yourself. Attend an interfaith prayer service or community meal not as a representative, but as a learner and a guest. The simple, courageous act of building a personal connection dismantles the anonymity that hatred requires. In your own parish or community, advocate for and participate in programs that educate about different religious traditions, fostering respect from the ground up.
When we witness the persecution of the innocent, especially those who speak for justice, we must use our voices within our own spheres of influence. Write a respectful letter to your elected representative expressing concern for human rights defenders. Support, through donations or awareness, reputable international organizations that provide legal aid and advocacy for prisoners of conscience. Most fundamentally, refuse to participate in or tolerate gossip, slander, or the casual destruction of another’s reputation in your daily life. Defend the dignity of the person in front of you.
Confronting a sense of moral decay begins in the heart of the home. Prioritize presence. Create technology-free spaces and times for genuine conversation with family and friends. Listen actively, without immediate judgment or the need to fix. Support local organizations that mentor youth, provide family counseling, or offer positive community activities. In your own choices, consciously model integrity—be the person who returns the excess change, who speaks well of others, who fulfills promises quietly and reliably. This daily fidelity builds a counter-culture of trust.
These are not grand gestures, but the steady, practical work of building a world worthy of its people. It is the work of planting seeds of peace, justice, and integrity in the soil of our ordinary lives.
Go in peace.
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