Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today in a world that cries out. It is a cry that rises from the streets of Tehran, where the bodies of the innocent lie, where the wounded whisper in fear, “Do not take us to a hospital,” seeking sanctuary in shadows from those who should protect them. It is a cry that echoes in a Minneapolis neighborhood, where a life dedicated to healing, the life of a nurse named Alex Pretti, was extinguished by violence. It is the universal cry of the brokenhearted, a sound so immense it seems to shake the very foundations of our common home.
The Lord, we are promised, is close to the brokenhearted. He hears this cry. But He hears it through our ears. He feels this suffering through our hearts. He moves to save those crushed in spirit through our hands. We are, each of us, the instruments of His proximity. When we see the piled bodies, the victims of oppression, the sacred life cut short by the command, “You shall not murder,” defied—we are not merely observing news. We are being shown the raw material of our Christian duty.
We are called to be a people who do more than mourn the darkness. We are called to be the light that dispels it. This is not a passive hope. It is an active, demanding, and glorious vocation. Envision, with the eyes of faith, the world Christ desires through us. See a world where the sanctity of every life, from conception to natural death, is so revered that violence becomes unthinkable. See a world where those who stand for righteousness are not persecuted but celebrated, where the kingdom of heaven’s justice begins to take root in the soil of our societies. See a world where the brokenhearted are not only comforted but empowered, where systems of oppression give way to structures of solidarity.
This is not a utopian dream. It is the promised fruit of taking the Gospel seriously. It is the world that blossoms when good men and women, animated by the Spirit of Jesus, refuse to be bystanders to history. It is built by nurses who heal, by ordinary citizens who shelter the persecuted, by voices that speak for the voiceless, by families that raise children in love, and by communities that bind up wounds rather than inflict them.
Yet, within our own spiritual family, the Church, we face a profound challenge that weakens our witness and dims our light. It is the challenge of indifference—the comfortable, quiet temptation to keep our faith a private devotion, neatly separated from the chaos of the world. It is the assumption that these global sorrows are too complex, too political, or too distant for our concern. This indifference is a paralysis of love. It hears the cry of the world and responds with a sigh, but not with action. It acknowledges the commandment, “You shall not murder,” but does not vigorously defend life in all its stages and circumstances. It pays lip service to the blessedness of the persecuted, but fears the cost of standing in solidarity.
I call on every baptized believer here and across the globe to renounce this indifference. Let your faith be public, let your charity be courageous, let your hope be audacious. Aid your Church in this vital mission: to be a unified body that moves from the pews into the streets of human suffering, that translates prayer into policy, contemplation into concrete aid. Support those Catholic organizations that provide medical care to the persecuted. Advocate for laws and leaders who protect human dignity. Forgive, and seek forgiveness, within your own communities, so that we may present to the world a house united in love, not divided by quarrel.
For if we do not—if we choose the comfort of silence over the risk of prophecy, if we hide our lamp under a basket of apathy—then we must heed a dire warning. A world without active, sacrificing Christian love is a world abandoning itself to its own worst instincts. It is a world where the piles of bodies grow higher, where the secret rooms of the wounded multiply, where the murder of the innocent becomes commonplace, and where the persecution of the good meets no defense. It is a world building its own apocalypse—not one sent by God, but one crafted by human hands hardened against grace. We will have chosen the desert of despair over the promised land of peace.
But this is not our destiny. We are people of the Resurrection. The same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead is given to us, to heal, to unite, and to save. Let us go forth from this place, then, not as a mournful procession, but as a joyful army of peacemakers. Let us be the ones who draw close to the brokenhearted, who defend life relentlessly, who stand with the persecuted. Let us build, with Jesus’s help and through the workings of good men and women, that world of justice, mercy, and peace for which every human heart, whether it knows it or not, desperately longs.
Amen.
What can we do?
When we see the violence and suffering of innocents, as in the images of hospitals overwhelmed by tragedy, our first practical step is to refuse the paralysis of horror. We can channel that pain into active compassion. This means becoming a person who notices and acknowledges the grief of others. In your daily life, this translates to checking in on a neighbor who is struggling, offering a listening ear without judgment to a colleague, or simply practicing greater patience with strangers. It means supporting, through donations if possible, the humanitarian and medical organizations that operate in these crisis zones, providing the direct aid we cannot personally deliver. By actively tending to the brokenhearted in our own circles, we strengthen the fabric of human solidarity that opposes crushing despair.
Confronted with the violation of the sanctity of life, where individuals are unjustly killed, we must commit to being builders of a culture that respects the inherent dignity of every person. This begins with our words and attitudes. We can consciously reject the language of dehumanization in our conversations, whether in person or online. We can advocate for and support community-based violence intervention programs and mental health resources that address the roots of conflict. In our own conduct, we can choose to see the irreplaceable value in every person we meet—the cashier, the driver who cuts us off, the person with opposing views. By honoring the life of one, we honor the principle that protects all.
In the face of persecution and oppression, where people must hide to find care, our role is to become protectors and advocates. Practically, this means educating ourselves on these issues from credible sources and speaking about them calmly and clearly within our families and communities. It means using our consumer power to support ethical businesses and avoid those that empower oppressive regimes. We can write to our political representatives, urging them to prioritize human rights in foreign policy and to create compassionate pathways for refugees. Most directly, we can support the brave individuals—the medics, journalists, and volunteers—who risk their own safety to serve the persecuted, by amplifying their work and contributing to the legal and humanitarian funds that sustain them.
Our faith is made real through hands and hearts turned toward our brothers and sisters. Start precisely where you are. Let your daily life be your workshop for peace.
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.