Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today, in this sacred season of Lent, a time for profound reflection, repentance, and a turning of our hearts back to the Lord. We are called to look inward at our own souls, but we are also called, with even greater urgency, to look outward at the world our souls inhabit. For the cries of our suffering brothers and sisters echo in the very heart of God, and they must echo in ours.
Look with me, in spirit, to the lands made holy by the footsteps of our Savior. We hear the Psalmist’s ancient plea, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” Yet today, that peace is shattered by the roar of rockets and the dread of warnings. Families in southern Lebanon are told to leave everything behind, becoming pilgrims of fear, seeking shelter in tents and cars. This is not the pilgrimage of faith, but an exodus of despair. The Holy Land, a place meant to unite humanity in reverence, is once again a theatre of conflict where the innocent pay the price. We pray for peace, yes, but prayer without action is a hollow sound. We must be people who actively love Jerusalem, who love all its peoples, by demanding dialogue over destruction, and human dignity over retaliation.
This very conflict now ripples across the globe, touching the faith of believers far away. We recall how the Holy Family itself became refugees, as an angel warned Joseph, “Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt.” Today, our Christian pilgrims from Nigeria and elsewhere are prevented from walking in the footsteps of Jesus because the way is too dangerous. The journey of faith is halted by the spectre of violence. This is a profound sorrow: when the children of God cannot safely visit the places where God’s Son lived, died, and rose for us all. It is a stark symbol of how the world’s strife suffocates the spirit’s yearning.
And from where does this strife often spring? It springs from a fundamental failure to see the sacred. It begins when we forget the words spoken to Jeremiah, “Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee.” Every human life, from the very moment of conception, is known and loved by God, sanctified with a purpose. When a society loses sight of this truth, when the life of a newborn can be treated as disposable, as we have seen in a recent, heartbreaking case in South Korea, it is a sign of a deep spiritual sickness. If we do not reverence life at its most vulnerable beginning, how can we possibly reverence it in the stranger, the enemy, or the refugee? The culture of conflict and the culture of death are branches from the same root: a failure to recognize the divine image in every human person.
My brothers and sisters, I speak of these things not to lead you into despair, but to ignite in you a holy and urgent hope. Envision with me, through the eyes of faith, the world Christ desires. Envision a Holy Land where pilgrims from every nation—Israelis, Palestinians, Nigerians, Koreans—walk together in safety, praying at the Tomb of Christ not in fear, but in joyful unity. Envision a world where every child is welcomed as a prophet of a new and better future, where mothers and fathers are supported, and life is cherished from conception to natural death. This is not a naive dream. This is the Kingdom of God, and it is within our reach, not by our power alone, but through the grace of Jesus Christ working through the hands of good men and women. You are those hands. You are the instruments of this peace.
Yet, to be effective instruments, we must first be a healed and unified Body. Here, I must speak with pastoral love of a wound within our own Church: the scandal of division among the faithful. How often do we see parishes fractured by gossip, by clinging to personal preferences over communal prayer, by a cold indifference to those sitting beside us in the pew? How can we heal the divisions of the world if we cannot heal the divisions in our own parish families? This is our work. I call upon every one of you, from the cardinals to the children preparing for First Communion, to actively build unity. Reach out to someone you have neglected. Forgive an old grievance. Serve in a ministry that bores you, for the sake of community. Let our churches become such radiant models of reconciliation that the world looks upon us and says, “See how they love one another.”
For if we do not act—if we remain passive in the face of conflict, indifferent to the persecution of pilgrims, silent in the defense of life, and content with division amongst ourselves—then we choose a different vision. We choose a path that leads not to the New Jerusalem, but to a world of our own making, a world devoid of hope. It is a world where violence becomes the only language, where faith is locked away for its own safety, where the vulnerable are systematically erased, and where the Church becomes a relic, not a beacon. This is not a prophecy of a distant apocalypse; it is the clear and present consequence of our collective inaction. The darkness gathers when good people do nothing.
But you are not people who do nothing. You are the baptized. You are filled with the Holy Spirit. In this Lent, let your prayer, your fasting, and your almsgiving be directed with laser focus. Pray for peace in the Holy Land by name. Fast from indifference and give alms of your time to a pro-life charity or to welcoming a refugee family. Build unity in your home and your parish.
The saint we remember today, though not directly named in our readings, calls us to this Lenten work. He calls us to conversion, to turn from the ways of death and walk courageously toward the light. Let us answer that call. Let us be the generation that, with Jesus’s help, dared to solve these great problems. Let us build a world worthy of the children God has known and loved from before their birth.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of distant conflicts, like the violence displacing families in the Holy Land, our practical contribution begins with informed compassion. We can choose to be deliberate consumers of news, seeking out sources that highlight the human stories of all civilians affected, not just the political narratives. This guards against indifference and prejudice. We can then direct our financial support to reputable, neutral humanitarian agencies providing shelter, food, and medical care in conflict zones. Our own communities also hold power; we can advocate with our elected representatives for policies that prioritize humanitarian aid, dialogue, and the protection of non-combatants.
Regarding the safety of pilgrims and all travelers, our role is to foster a culture of proactive care. If you are part of a parish or community group, champion thorough safety planning for any organized travel. In daily life, this translates to being an advocate for the vulnerable in transit—whether offering a seat, giving clear directions, or simply being a calm, helpful presence in crowded airports or stations. We support those who make the difficult, prudent decision to postpone a spiritual journey by respecting their caution and holding them in our thoughts.
The profound issues surrounding the sanctity of life call us to build a society of practical support. We can actively combat the isolation and desperation that lead to tragic choices. This means volunteering at or donating to pregnancy resource centers that offer material aid and counseling. It means supporting social policies and community networks that provide for mothers and families after childbirth, such as affordable childcare, parental leave, and accessible healthcare. In our personal circles, it means offering non-judgmental friendship and tangible help to those facing difficult pregnancies or struggling with newborn care, ensuring no one feels alone.
Ultimately, our daily work is to widen the circle of our concern. It is to move from passive sadness at headlines to active, if small, participation. We mend the world by how we inform ourselves, where we direct our resources, how we treat the stranger next to us, and the depth of support we offer to our neighbors. Each conscious, compassionate act is a stone laid in the foundation of a better world.
Go in peace.
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