Blessings of peace, and the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, to all of you, my brothers and sisters.
We gather today, mindful of the journey we have begun, a journey marked by ashes, a reminder of our mortality and our profound need for repentance and grace. The world outside these walls, the world we are called to serve, is a world crying out. It is a world where the dust of conflict settles not on the earth alone, but upon the human soul, where the fragility of life is not merely a spiritual truth but a daily, brutal reality. Today, we must have the courage to look upon three wounds that disfigure our global family, and to hear, in the cries of the suffering, the very voice of Christ.
First, we hear the cry of the persecuted, of religious minorities who live in fear. We hear harrowing accounts of women, of families, targeted for their faith, subjected to kidnap and assault, their bodies and spirits used as battlegrounds in conflicts they did not choose. To hear these stories is to hear an echo of Calvary. It is to understand the chilling truth of the Gospel: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.” When we turn a blind eye to this targeted suffering, when our diplomacy grows silent or our compassion grows cold, we turn our backs on Christ Himself. He is present in the Alawite woman, in the Yazidi child, in the Christian driven from his ancestral home. To ignore their plea is to abandon our Lord at the foot of the cross.
Second, we confront a darkness that strikes at the very heart of innocence: the abuse and exploitation of children and the vulnerable. The news tells us of investigations into the trafficking of objects that grotesquely parody childhood, reducing the sacred dignity of the young to a commodity. This is but one symptom of a sickness that has, tragically, also festered within the very walls of our own Church. We have seen the devastating consequences when shepherds betray their flock, when trust is shattered, and the little ones are led into sin. The words of Christ ring with a terrible, prophetic clarity: for those who would harm a child, “it would be better… to have a great millstone fastened around his neck.” This is a judgment not only on individuals, but on any system, any silence, any culture that allows such poison to spread. The wound within our own house is a deep and shameful scandal, a failure that demands not just our prayers, but our relentless action, our transparency, and our unwavering commitment to be a place of absolute safety and healing.
Third, we witness a pervasive neglect of human life and dignity, a chilling indifference that has become commonplace. We hear of a climber on a mountain, who, in the pursuit of a personal summit, left his companion—exhausted, unprotected—to perish in the blizzard. This is a parable for our age. How often do we, in our pursuit of success, of comfort, of our own goals, pass by our brother or sister who has fallen by the wayside? The world is full of modern-day Samaritans, but also full of those who, like the priest and the Levite, cross to the other side. The true neighbor is the one who stops, who has compassion, who binds wounds at personal cost. Our global society is littered with the wounded: the migrant cast adrift, the elderly abandoned in loneliness, the poor deemed invisible. To neglect them is to deny the fundamental truth that every life, from conception to natural death, is a masterpiece of God’s creation, worthy of reverence and sacrifice.
Brothers and sisters, I stand before you to issue both a warning and a call to hope. The warning is apocalyptic in its clarity. If we continue on this path—if we tolerate the persecution of the few, if we remain complacent in the face of abuse, if we cultivate a culture of indifference—we are building a world not of God, but of man’s deepest failings. We are constructing a tower of Babel on a foundation of sand, a civilization that will collapse under the weight of its own injustice, its own coldness. The blizzard on that Austrian mountain is a symbol of the spiritual winter that will envelop us all if we do not actively choose to generate the warmth of charity.
But I also stand before you to proclaim our Christian hope! We are not prophets of doom, but witnesses to the Resurrection. Envision with me, through the eyes of faith, the world that is possible. Envision a world where, with Jesus’s help and through the courageous workings of good men and women, these wounds are healed. See a world where nations protect the religious minority not as a political calculation, but as a sacred duty, where the stranger is welcomed. See a Church, our Mother Church, purified and humbled, where every diocese, every parish, every heart is a fortress for the vulnerable, a place where the words “never again” are etched in stone and in spirit. See a global society that has rediscovered the art of neighborliness, where no one is left to die on the mountain of neglect, where we carry each other’s burdens.
This vision will not materialize by wishful thinking. It demands your hands, your voice, your resources. Therefore, I call on all the faithful, here and across the globe, to aid in solving a great problem within our own family: the crisis of trust stemming from the abuse of the vulnerable. Let this Lent be a time of concrete action. Demand and support absolute accountability from your shepherds. Volunteer to safeguard the children in your parish. Become a relentless advocate for the marginalized. Let your charity be active, your prayer be fervent, and your voice be unyielding for justice.
The ashes on our foreheads are a sign of repentance, but also of hope. From dust we came, and to dust we shall return, but in between, by the grace of God, we are called to build a kingdom of love. Let us leave this place not marked only by ash, but ignited by a holy fire—a fire to comfort Christ in the persecuted, to defend Christ in the child, and to recognize Christ in every neglected neighbor we are given. The choice is before us: to build a civilization of love, or to accept the descent into a winter of our own making. Choose love. Build the kingdom. Do not be afraid.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of such profound challenges, the call to action can feel overwhelming. Yet, the path forward is built not by distant institutions alone, but by the countless small, deliberate choices of individuals. Our faith must be made practical, our compassion made active. Here is how we can begin, today.
Regarding the violence and suffering inflicted upon religious minorities and the vulnerable, our first duty is to see them. In a digital age, we can choose to look. Make a conscious effort to follow reputable news sources that report on persecuted communities. When you read a story like that of the Alawite women, do not turn away. Let it inform your understanding. Then, translate that awareness into support. Research and donate to international charities with proven, on-the-ground networks that provide direct aid, legal advocacy, and trauma counseling. Use your voice in your own community to correct misconceptions about these groups when you hear them, fostering a culture of respect that rejects sectarian hatred.
Confronting the abuse of children and vulnerable persons requires vigilant stewardship of our own consumption and a fierce protection of innocence. Scrutinize the companies you support. Before you purchase, ask if their supply chains and their digital marketplaces are ethically managed. Support legislation and business practices that prioritize human dignity over profit. In your daily life, be the trusted adult. Volunteer with organizations that mentor youth, support foster families, or run safe havens. Create environments—in your home, parish, and social circles—where children are heard, believed, and protected. Report suspicions, always. Our communities must be sanctuaries where exploitation finds no quarter.
The neglect of human life and dignity often happens in the small, everyday failures of compassion. Commit to being a neighbor, not a passerby. This means checking on the elderly person living alone. It means offering kindness to someone who is struggling, without judgment. It means intervening, safely, if you witness harassment. Cultivate a habit of seeing the inherent worth in every person you encounter—the cashier, the stranger on the bus, the colleague having a difficult day. In your professional life, advocate for policies that uphold dignity: fair wages, safe working conditions, and support for mental health. Choose to be the one who stops, who binds up wounds through simple acts of solidarity, ensuring no one is left exposed on the mountain.
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do not underestimate the holy currency of your attention, your time, your spending power, and your vote. Each conscious, compassionate act is a stone laid on the path to a kinder world. We build the kingdom through our daily labor of love.
Go in peace.
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