Blessings of peace, and the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today, a people united in faith yet living in a world fractured by discord. The cry of the earth and the cry of the poor have become a single, anguished plea that reaches the very throne of God. We look upon our modern world and see a landscape marked by three profound wounds, each a denial of our shared dignity as children of the one Father.
The first is the wound of war. From the plains of Ukraine to the ancient lands of the Holy Land, the machinery of conflict grinds on, consuming the young, displacing the innocent, and sowing hatred where fraternity should bloom. We hear the lament of mothers and the silence of empty chairs at family tables. In his first Christmas address, my predecessor, with a heart heavy with paternal sorrow, pleaded for the "courage" to end war and lamented the suffering of Palestinians. Why courage? Because peacemaking is not passive. It is the most active, daring, and creative work of the human spirit. It requires the courage to lay down arms, the courage to forgive, the courage to see in the enemy a brother or sister. "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." To be a child of God is to inherit His creative love, and to use that inheritance to build bridges where others build walls. Imagine, dear faithful, a world where this beatitude is our blueprint. A world where diplomats are heroes of dialogue, where soldiers become gardeners of reconciliation, and where borders are not barriers but seams that bind the human family together. This is not a naive dream; it is the Kingdom of God, and it is built by the courageous hands of peacemakers.
The second wound is the violent persecution of those at prayer. Just days ago, in a mosque in Maiduguri, Nigeria, the faithful were gathered in the vulnerability of evening prayer when hatred erupted in violence. This is an attack not on a building, not on a faction, but on the very soul of humanity’s turning toward the Divine. When a person is brokenhearted in prayer, crushed in spirit while seeking their Creator, the Lord is closest to them. This violence is a demonic scream against hope itself. Yet, we must ask: do we merely mourn from afar, or do we allow this shared brokenness to unite us? The martyrdom of our brother Saint Stephen, the first to witness to Christ with his very life, teaches us that the world’s hatred is often the perverse tribute it pays to a love it cannot comprehend. Our response to such hatred cannot be more hatred, but an even more radiant and insistent love—a love that defends the right of every human being, of every tradition, to seek God in peace and safety.
The third wound is the growing tension between the call of the Gospel and the policies of nations, particularly on the sacred duty to welcome the stranger. We see this in the painful divisions over immigration. The Church does not propose technical solutions for border security, but she must, with the clarity of a mother, proclaim an unassailable principle: "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in." When we look upon the migrant, the refugee, the displaced family, we are not looking at a problem. We are looking at Christ, hungry, thirsty, and a stranger. To build walls of indifference is to build them against our Lord. The tension arises when the law of a state and the law of love, written on the human heart, appear to diverge. Here, the Church’s mission is to be a conscience, a gentle but persistent voice reminding every power structure of its fundamental duty to protect human life and dignity from conception to natural death, and at every border crossing in between.
Yet, within our own household of faith, we face a grave challenge that weakens our voice in addressing these global wounds. It is the scandal of division among ourselves. The polarization that afflicts the world has crept into our parishes, our families, and our hearts. We fracture into camps—traditional and progressive, rigid and lax—forgetting that we are first and foremost the Body of Christ. We spend our energy in internal disputes while the world burns, while the hungry wait, while the stranger remains outside. This disunity is a cancer. It paralyzes our mission and makes our proclamation of God’s love sound like a hollow gong. I call on every one of you, the faithful, to be artisans of unity within our Church. Seek first what unites us: our Baptism, our Eucharist, our love for Christ and His Mother. Engage in dialogue with charity. Listen to understand, not to rebut. Let our parishes be schools of communion, so that from our unity the world may believe.
Now, I must speak with the gravity that this moment demands. The path we are on, as a human family, leads not to a pinnacle, but to a precipice. If we do not awaken—if we choose complacency over courage, indifference over welcome, and division over communion—we will reap a whirlwind of our own making. We will see a world where conflict is normalized, where the vulnerable are permanently excluded, and where the human person is reduced to a commodity or a problem to be managed. This is not merely a geopolitical forecast; it is a spiritual reality. A world that consistently chooses against life, against peace, against love, is a world building its own tomb. It is a world closing its doors to grace, and the darkness that will follow will be profound.
But this is not our destiny! We are an Easter people, and “Alleluia” is our song! Envision with me, through the eyes of faith, the world that is possible. See a world where the courage of peacemakers has silenced the guns, and former enemies share bread. See a world where churches, mosques, and synagogues stand unmolested, beacons of hope in every community. See a world where borders are crossed not in fear under cover of night, but in dignity, with the promise of a shared future. This is the world Christ died for. This is the world the Holy Spirit yearns to bring forth. But the Spirit works through human hands—through your hands.
Therefore, my brothers and sisters, do not be afraid. Be peacemakers in your families and workplaces. Be defenders of the persecuted through your prayers and advocacy. Be welcomers, in concrete ways, to those who are new and afraid. And above all, be healers of the divisions within our Church. Start today. Let your life be a sermon of hope. The Lord does not ask us for success, only for faithfulness. He will provide the growth. With Jesus’s help, through the workings of good men and women who dare to believe in love, the desert will bloom.
Go forth, and build the civilization of love.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of global conflict, like the war in Ukraine and the suffering in Gaza, our contribution begins with informed compassion. We can consciously seek out news from reputable sources that explain the human reality behind the headlines, not just the political maneuvers. This knowledge allows us to support credible humanitarian organizations with our donations, and to advocate through letters or petitions to our elected officials, urging them to prioritize diplomacy and humanitarian aid. In our own communities, we can extend a genuine welcome to refugees and immigrants, helping them find housing, learn the language, or simply offering friendship. Peace is built person by person.
When we hear of violence against people at prayer, as in Nigeria, or of persecution anywhere, we counter it first by defending the dignity of every person we meet. We reject gossip, prejudice, and harsh judgments in our daily speech. We can make a point to learn about a faith tradition different from our own to foster understanding. Practically, we can support interfaith initiatives in our own towns and donate to international groups that document religious persecution and aid its victims. Protecting the right to worship in safety for everyone makes all communities safer.
Regarding deep societal tensions on issues like immigration, we are called to move beyond the heated debate to direct action. We can volunteer at or donate to local food pantries, homeless shelters, and legal aid clinics that serve the vulnerable, regardless of their origin or status. We can mentor a newcomer, tutor a child learning the language, or employ someone giving them a fresh start. We must also engage in respectful, principled dialogue with those who hold different political views, focusing on our shared concern for human dignity rather than on winning an argument. True change often starts at the kitchen table and in the neighborhood.
Our daily work, no matter how ordinary, is a field for this service. We make the world better by doing our jobs with integrity, treating colleagues and customers with respect, and refusing to cut corners that harm others. We care for our common home by reducing waste, conserving energy, and making sustainable choices. We strengthen our local community by supporting local businesses, checking on an elderly neighbor, or coaching a youth team.
The path is practical, persistent, and personal. It is lived in the conscious choice to see a brother or sister in every stranger, to respond to hatred with a firm commitment to justice, and to meet despair with actionable hope. Start where you are, use what you have, and do what you can.
Go in peace.
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