Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today, a people united in faith, yet we cannot ignore the cries of a fractured world that pierce the silence of our prayer. We hear the weeping of Rachel in our own time, a lamentation echoing from the coasts of Bethlehem to the streets of Suriname, where the innocent—the little ones, the defenseless—are cut down by the sword of human violence. This is not a distant biblical horror; it is a contemporary reality. The loss of innocent life, the brutal extinguishing of five young souls, is a wound in the Body of Christ Himself. It is the sin of Herod, repeated in a thousand forms, in a thousand places, where human dignity is discarded and life is treated as disposable.
And from this violence grows the shadow of persecution and injustice. Our Lord proclaimed, “Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,” yet this beatitude is a comfort for the persecuted, not an excuse for the persecutor. To hear reports of executions multiplied, of lives ended by the state not for justice, but for the consolidation of power and the silencing of conscience, is to witness a direct assault on the sacredness of the human person, created in the image and likeness of God. These are not statistics; they are our brothers and sisters, children of the same Heavenly Father, denied the most fundamental right to life and due process.
Furthermore, we see the sinister machinery that fuels such cycles of violence: the support for terrorism. When evil is not merely done, but systematically funded and celebrated, when millions are raised to arm hatred and target the civilian, we face a profound spiritual sickness. It is the belief that evil can be a tool, that some darkness can justify a greater darkness. But the Apostle Paul gives us the only Christian answer: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” We cannot fund the monster and then lament its ravages. We cannot sow the wind and pretend shock at the whirlwind.
Yet, my dear brothers and sisters, we are not a people of despair. We are an Easter people, and “Alleluia” is our song! I ask you to envision, with the eyes of faith, a world transformed by the grace of Christ working through the hands of good men and women. Imagine a world where the protection of the innocent is the highest law of every land. See a world where justice is tempered with mercy, where the death penalty gives way to restoration, and prisons become places of genuine rehabilitation. Picture a world where the vast resources now poured into hatred are redirected to building schools, healing the sick, and feeding the hungry—where good, creatively and courageously applied, truly drowns out evil. This is not a naive dream. This is the Kingdom of God, for which we are commanded to work and pray. It begins in the human heart, converted from violence to peace, from indifference to active love.
To build this world, the Church itself must be a beacon of clarity and compassion. Yet, we face our own trials. In this modern age, one of our great challenges is a creeping spiritual apathy, a comfortable faith that remains within the walls of our churches but does not animate our public witness or our private sacrifices. We risk becoming hearers of the Word, and not doers. We risk allowing the noise of the world to drown out the call to holiness and mission. I call upon every one of the faithful, from the cardinals to the children preparing for First Communion: reignite the fire of your baptismal calling! Do not let your faith be passive. Engage in the works of mercy. Advocate for the unborn and the persecuted. Support those who work for peace. Be a force for reconciliation in your families and communities. The Church needs your zeal, your voice, and your hands to be truly the salt of the earth and the light of the world.
For if we do not contribute to this better world—if we choose comfort over courage, silence over prophecy, and indifference over love—then we must heed a dire warning. A world that continually chooses the way of Herod, of unchecked power, of funded hatred, and of persecuted innocence, is a world writing its own epitaph. It is a world building its own apocalypse—not one sent by God, but one crafted by human sin. We will see not the end of days, but the end of our own humanity. The weeping of Rachel will become the permanent soundtrack of our history, and the darkness we refused to fight will become the only light we know. The choice is stark: build the civilization of love, or inherit the wasteland of our own failures.
Today, we remember Saint Thomas Becket, a bishop who understood the cost of confronting the power of the state when it trampled upon the rights of the Church and the innocent. He stood for a higher justice, and his martyrdom stands as a perpetual witness that fidelity to God’s law may demand everything of us. May his courage inspire us to a fidelity that is active, brave, and relentless in the pursuit of good.
Therefore, go forth from this place not in fear, but in the formidable hope of the Resurrection. Be agents of that hope. Overcome evil with good. Dry the tears of Rachel. Build the Kingdom. The world is waiting for the light that dwells within you. Do not hide it.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of such profound suffering—the loss of innocent life, the machinery of persecution, and the networks that fuel violence—it is easy to feel that our individual actions are insignificant. Yet, it is precisely in our daily, practical choices that the foundation for a more just and peaceful world is laid. Our faith calls us not to despair, but to concrete, world-changing love. Here is how we can begin, right where we are.
First, become a conscious consumer of information. The stories of violence and injustice that reach us are often filtered through algorithms designed to provoke outrage or numbness. Make a deliberate choice to seek out reputable, in-depth journalism from sources that explain context and highlight the humanity of all involved. Share these thoughtful accounts, not just the headlines. By refusing to let others define the narrative with simplicity, we combat the dehumanization that fuels conflict.
Second, support the builders and the healers. For every act of terror or persecution, there are organizations—both secular and faith-based—working on the ground to bind wounds, document truths, advocate for prisoners, and support victims' families. Research these groups. Contribute financially if you can, even a small, regular amount. Their work is the direct, practical "overcoming of evil with good." Your support amplifies their voice and their reach.
Third, cultivate peace in your own community. Injustice grows in the soil of "us versus them." Actively counter this. Make a point of knowing your neighbors, especially those from different backgrounds or beliefs. Support local businesses run by immigrants or minorities. If you hear someone being maligned or stereotyped, have the courage to gently offer a more charitable perspective. A community that is interconnected is more resilient and less susceptible to the rhetoric of hatred.
Fourth, engage your democratic voice, however it is expressed. Write to your elected representatives about foreign policies that prioritize human rights and humanitarian aid. Ask them to support sanctions against regimes that persecute their people and to provide robust asylum for those fleeing violence. Vote with these issues in mind. Public pressure is a tangible force that can shift priorities and save lives.
Finally, and most fundamentally, live a life that declares the inherent dignity of every person. This is a daily practice. It means treating everyone you meet—the cashier, the colleague, the stranger online—with a patience and respect that acknowledges their worth. It means refusing jokes that mock the suffering of others. It means listening more than you speak, especially to those who have experienced loss or oppression. This personal integrity is a quiet, powerful rebellion against a world that often treats people as disposable.
We cannot single-handedly stop every act of violence or tear down every prison. But we can choose, every day, to not be complicit in the culture that allows them to flourish. We can choose to inform ourselves, to support healing, to build bridges, to advocate for justice, and to honor the sacred dignity in every human being we encounter. This is how light is spread, not in a blinding flash, but in a multitude of steadfast, practical flames.
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.