Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today in the quiet rhythm of Ordinary Time, a season that calls us to live our faith in the ordinary moments of our lives. Yet, we look upon a world that is anything but ordinary. It is a world crying out, a world wounded by the very failures of humanity that Christ came to heal. We see this cry echoed in the headlines of our day, and we must have the courage to listen, for within these cries, we hear the voice of the Lord asking us, “What have you done for your brother? What have you done for your sister?”
We hear the cry of those who stand for justice, only to be met with violence. The sacred right to speak, to plead for human dignity, is a flame that must never be extinguished by the winds of fear or retaliation. The Book of Proverbs instructs us with divine clarity: “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” To see this call ignored, to see protests met not with dialogue but with threats of greater violence, is to witness a failure of our shared humanity. When we choose the drumbeat of war over the difficult pursuit of peace, when we silence the voice of the marginalized, we build not a society but a powder keg. We must be the ones who speak, who judge fairly, who defend—not with weapons, but with unwavering commitment to justice and dialogue.
We hear the cry of the migrant, the foreigner, the family fleeing in search of peace and bread. They arrive at our borders and in our cities, and too often they find not a welcome, but suspicion; not compassion, but cages. The law of God given to Moses leaves no room for ambiguity: “When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” To march against our fellow human beings, to see them as invaders rather than as brothers and sisters in Christ, is to betray our own history and our faith. We were all spiritual foreigners, lost, until God in His mercy brought us home. Our treatment of the migrant is the measure of our memory of that grace.
We hear the most piercing cry of all—the cry of the innocent lost through negligence, the cry of a mother grieving a child. When systems meant to heal and protect instead fail through indifference or incompetence, it is a profound scandal. The Psalmist cries out to us across the centuries: “Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” The “wicked” here is not always a person of malice; often, it is the faceless wickedness of a system that no longer sees the individual, the personal tragedy, the sacredness of a single life. Every life lost to neglect is an indictment against our claim to be a civilized society.
My dear brothers and sisters, these are not merely political issues. They are spiritual crises. They are symptoms of a world suffering from a terrible famine—not of bread, but of fraternity. They are the labor pains of a world struggling to be reborn. And we are called to be the midwives of that new creation.
Envision with me, through the eyes of faith, the world Christ desires. See a world where the protester’s voice is heard in halls of power, and the ruler’s response is measured justice, not violent force. See a world where borders are crossed with documents of welcome, and the stranger is greeted with a meal and a blessing. See a world where every hospital room is a sanctuary of competent care, where no parent must plead in vain for their child’s life. This is not a naive dream. This is the Kingdom of God, and it is built by the hands of good men and women, animated by the Spirit of Jesus, one act of courage, one gesture of welcome, one demand for accountability at a time.
Yet, to build this world, we must first look within our own spiritual home. One of the great wounds the Church carries in modern times is the wound of credibility—a credibility damaged by scandal, by hypocrisy, by a perceived preoccupation with internal affairs over the burning needs of the world. We, the faithful, are called to heal this wound. Not through words, but through a faith so radiantly lived in service to the poor, the migrant, and the voiceless, that the world cannot help but see Christ through us. We must be a Church that is unmistakably a field hospital, its doors thrown wide open, its every member a compassionate caregiver.
I issue to you a call to action, a summons to sainthood in your ordinary time. Speak where there is silence. Welcome where there is rejection. Hold accountable those systems that fail the least among us. Do this in your families, in your workplaces, in your voting booths, in your quiet prayers and in your public witness.
For if we do not, the apocalypse we fear will not come from a divine hand, but from our own human failures. It is a vision not of fire from heaven, but of a world slowly freezing over from the inside—a world where the silence of the good allows injustice to become law, where fear of the other builds walls so high we no longer see the sun, where negligence becomes so commonplace that life itself is cheapened. We will inhabit a spiritual wasteland, a world that has chosen, step by step, to crucify hope. This is the true warning: that hell is not merely a place hereafter, but a reality we can create here, through our indifference.
Do not let this be our legacy. Let us instead be the generation that chose fraternity over fear, that saw the face of Christ in every cry for help. Let us build, with Jesus’s help and through the workings of good men and women, a world worthy of the children God intended us to be.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of violence against those who seek justice, our first practical duty is to become informed witnesses. Seek out news from a variety of credible sources, especially those that amplify the voices from within affected communities. Do not let distance or complexity allow these stories to fade into background noise. Use your voice where it matters: contact your elected representatives to demand they prioritize human rights and diplomatic solutions in foreign policy. Support, through donations or volunteer time, the legitimate humanitarian and legal aid organizations that document abuses and assist victims. In your own circles, speak clearly against the dehumanization of any group, remembering that defending the right to peaceful protest is a cornerstone of a just society.
When we see the plight of migrants and refugees, our response must be one of active hospitality. This begins with examining our own attitudes, challenging stereotypes, and learning the complex reasons people are forced to leave their homes. Look locally: where are the new immigrant families in your neighborhood, your child’s school, or your parish? Simple acts of welcome—a greeting, an offer of assistance with navigating local services, inviting them for a meal—can rebuild a sense of dignity and belonging. Support local organizations that provide legal aid, language classes, and essential supplies to newcomers. Advocate for immigration policies that respect the inherent dignity of every person and keep families together, making your stance known through civic engagement.
Confronting negligence and the loss of innocent life calls for a commitment to accountability and compassionate care in our own spheres. In your workplace, especially in any field touching human services, healthcare, or education, be the person who insists on thoroughness, transparency, and the highest ethical standards. Support systems that fail the vulnerable often do so because good people stay silent. In your community, be an advocate for those who struggle to be heard—whether in healthcare settings, with landlords, or in legal matters. Support hospitals, clinics, and advocacy groups that work to make quality care and justice accessible to all, regardless of wealth or status. Cherish and protect the vulnerable in your own life, recognizing that a society is judged by how it treats its most fragile members.
These are not grand, distant gestures, but the daily work of building a better world through conscious attention, deliberate kindness, and courageous citizenship. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do not underestimate the power of a single just action to create a ripple of change.
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.