Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today in the light of Christ, a light that reveals both the profound beauty of God’s creation and the deep shadows our human family has cast upon it. We look upon our world, this garden entrusted to our care, and we see it scarred by three great wounds. These are not distant abstractions, but the lived agony of our brothers and sisters, cries that rise to heaven and that must pierce our own hearts.
The first wound is the violence that targets the very image of God in the human person, simply for how that person worships. We hear of our fellow children of Abraham, dozens of Muslims in Nigeria, slaughtered for their faith. This is not a conflict of ideologies alone; it is a desecration of the sanctuary of human life. It mocks the divine command written on every heart. To be a child of God, as the Scripture reminds us, is to be a peacemaker. A peacemaker does not stand idly by. A peacemaker actively builds, with courage and love, a world where difference is not a death sentence, where the other is not a threat but a neighbor. We are called to be those builders, to raise our voices against hatred, to protect the vulnerable, and to insist, in our communities and to our leaders, that the right to worship in peace is non-negotiable.
The second wound strikes at the intimate core of the person: the violation of human dignity and privacy. We hear the chilling account of a couple whose most private moment was stolen and broadcast. This is more than a crime; it is a profound sacrilege. For do we not know that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit? We were bought at a price, redeemed by love incarnate. To reduce a person to a spectacle, to data to be mined, to an object for consumption, is to deny this sacred truth. Our modern world, with its wondrous tools, too often uses them to dismantle the sanctuary of the person. We must be the guardians of this dignity. We must demand technologies that serve the human person, not enslave them. We must cultivate a culture that reverences the mystery of the other, that sees the body not as a commodity but as a temple where God Himself desires to dwell.
The third wound is the ancient scourge of war, which today falls with particular cruelty upon the most innocent. We see the hospitals of Gaza, where doctors struggle to save newborn babies amidst the rubble of conflict. The cry of the prophet Isaiah echoes through the ages and into those neonatal wards: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.” When the child suffers, when the parent is powerless, when the healer lacks the means to heal, justice has fled. We are called to take up their cause. To seek justice is to work tirelessly for peace. It is to see in every starving child, in every terrified mother, in every exhausted doctor, the face of Christ Himself, who said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”
These wounds are interconnected. They stem from a common failure: the failure to recognize Christ in one another. And this failure finds an echo, a painful reflection, within the very walls of our Church. One of our own great trials in this modern time is the scandal of division—among ourselves, between clergy and laity, across cultures and continents. We fracture into factions, we cling to pride, we withhold the mercy we have so freely received. This internal wound weakens our witness. How can we heal a fractured world if we are fractured ourselves? I call upon every one of the faithful, from the cardinals to the children preparing for First Communion: aid in solving this. Be agents of communion. Listen more than you speak. Seek understanding before you demand to be understood. Forgive as you wish to be forgiven. Let the Church be, before all else, a living sacrament of unity for a shattered world.
Yet, my brothers and sisters, we do not gaze upon these wounds without hope. For we are an Easter people. We envision a world, not a utopia of our own making, but a world redeemed by the Blood of the Lamb and built by the hands of good men and women cooperating with grace. Imagine it: a world where the peacemaker is the greatest hero, where every temple of the Holy Spirit is revered, where justice flows like a river for the orphan and the widow. This is not a fantasy. This is our mission. This is the Kingdom of God, breaking through, in every act of kindness, in every stand for justice, in every prayer for an enemy.
But the path to that dawn forks before us. If we choose indifference—if we hear of massacres and change the channel, if we sacrifice privacy for convenience and call it progress, if we see images of war and feel only numbness, if we nourish division within our own hearts—then we choose a different future. We choose a spiritual apocalypse. A world where the image of God is finally erased from our sight, where we see only objects to use or threats to eliminate. It is a world of cold isolation, of perpetual fear, of love grown silent and extinct. This is the warning: without our active, loving contribution, the darkness is not merely an absence of light; it is a positive force of de-creation. We will not be overcome by cataclysmic fire from heaven, but by the slow, chilling frost of our own neglected duty.
Therefore, let us act. Let the memory of the martyrs, like Saints Paul Miki and his companions who witnessed to truth even unto death, ignite in us a courage for the daily witness of love. Let us be peacemakers in our families. Let us defend dignity in our workplaces. Let us seek justice in our public squares. Let us build unity in our parishes. Do not say, “I am only one.” You are a temple of God. You are a child of the Father. You are an instrument of peace.
The Lord does not ask us to succeed by the world’s measure. He asks us to be faithful. He asks us to plant the seeds of the Kingdom in the hard, wounded soil of this age, trusting that with His help, they will grow. Let us go forth from this place not as an audience that has heard a sermon, but as an army of hope, armed only with faith, fueled by charity, ready to rebuild our world, one act of courageous love at a time.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of these profound challenges, our faith calls us not to despair, but to a practical, active love. Our contribution is not measured in grand gestures alone, but in the consistent, daily choices that build a culture of respect, safety, and peace. Here is how we can begin.
Regarding violence against religious minorities, start locally. Your community is your first mission. Make a conscious effort to learn about a faith tradition different from your own, not through headlines, but through personal connection. Visit a local mosque, synagogue, or temple during an open house. Introduce yourself to neighbors of other faiths. In conversation, listen more than you speak. When you hear prejudiced remarks, challenge them calmly and clearly. Support, with your time or donations, organizations in your own city that assist refugees and immigrants, many of whom are fleeing such violence. By building genuine friendships across religious lines, you create a living bulwark against the hatred that fuels persecution.
To uphold human dignity and privacy, become a guardian of respect in your digital and physical spheres. In your daily life, practice radical consent—always ask permission before taking or sharing photos of others. Scrutinize the technology you bring into your home; research the privacy policies of the devices and apps you use. Support companies and legislation that prioritize data protection. More fundamentally, refuse to engage with or share content that exploits or humiliates others. In your speech, honor the inherent dignity of every person by refusing gossip, crude jokes, or language that reduces people to objects. Treat every individual you meet as a sanctuary worthy of reverence.
Confronting the suffering of war and conflict demands we become advocates and providers. First, educate yourself on one ongoing conflict from reliable, in-depth sources, moving beyond soundbites to understand its historical roots and human cost. Then, channel that knowledge into action. Find a reputable humanitarian organization providing aid in that region—whether for food, medical care, or shelter—and set up a modest, regular donation. Consistency is more powerful than a single gift. Use your voice: write respectful, informed letters to your political representatives urging diplomatic solutions and increased humanitarian support. In your own community, support programs that welcome and integrate those who have fled conflict, helping them find not just safety, but a new home.
This work is not for a distant future; it is for today. It is in the conversation you choose to have, the donation you automate, the dignity you afford a stranger, and the prejudice you quietly disarm. We build the peace we seek not all at once, but brick by brick, choice by choice. Let your daily life be your most powerful sermon.
Go in peace.
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