Blessings of peace to all of you, my brothers and sisters, on this day of preparation, this Saturday, as we await the light of the Resurrection.
We gather in a world that groans under the weight of its own cruelty. We are called to listen to this groan, not with despair, but with the piercing clarity of faith, for it is into precisely this wounded world that Christ entered, and for which He gave His life. Today, we contemplate three profound wounds that scar the face of humanity: the violence against the innocent, the scourge of war, and the moral decay that cheapens the sacred gift of life.
First, we see the blood of the innocent crying out from the ground. In distant lands and in our own communities, the vulnerable—the poor, the marginalized, the defenseless—are sacrificed on the altars of superstition, prejudice, and fear. The Book of Proverbs speaks with divine clarity, listing among the things the Lord detests, “hands that shed innocent blood.” To burn a mother and her child over a rumor is not merely a crime; it is a blasphemy against the Creator who formed that life in His image. It is a failure to see the divine spark in the face of our neighbor. This is not a distant problem; it is the fruit of a global indifference that allows hatred to fester wherever human dignity is forgotten.
Second, we witness the ancient curse of war, which in our age possesses tools of destruction beyond the nightmares of past generations. From the plains of the Bekaa Valley to the cities of Ukraine, from the forgotten conflicts of Africa to the tensions that simmer across the world, the peacemakers are few, and the voices of escalation are loud. We recall the beatitude: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” Yet, how often do we bless the makers of weapons more than the makers of peace? How often do we fuel division with our words before we seek reconciliation with our hearts? Each life lost—be it a soldier, an official, or a child caught in the crossfire—is a universe extinguished, a future denied, a tear in the fabric of God’s family.
Third, and perhaps most insidiously, we confront a moral decay that seeps into the very institutions meant to protect and elevate us. When the guardians of order treat the sacred command, “You shall not murder,” as the basis for a deadly game, we see a terrifying hollowing out of the soul. It is a symptom of a culture that has grown numb, that sees life not as a sacred trust but as a disposable commodity, where entertainment can border on brutality and human dignity is sacrificed for a moment of thrill. This decay does not begin on the battlefield or in the barracks; it begins in the quiet compromises of our own hearts, when we choose callousness over compassion, and self-interest over sacrifice.
My brothers and sisters, do we think these are separate storms? They are but different facets of the same tempest: a world adrift from its anchor in God, the source of all life, all peace, all justice. If we continue on this path, the apocalypse we fear is not a divine punishment from the clouds, but one we will construct with our own hands. It is the world of the permanent war, where no border is safe. It is the civilization of the permanent suspicion, where no neighbor is trusted. It is the culture of the permanent degradation, where no life is cherished. We will build our own hell of isolation, fear, and endless conflict, and we will have chosen it.
But this is not our destiny! For we are an Easter people, and ‘Alleluia’ is our song! I call you to envision, with the eyes of faith, the world Christ desires and empowers us to build. Envision a world where, through the tireless work of good men and women inspired by the Gospel, communities protect their most vulnerable, where education and compassion drive out the darkness of superstition and hate. Envision a world where peacemakers are our greatest heroes, where nations beat their swords into plowshares not because they are weak, but because they are finally wise and strong in the ways of the Lord. Envision a world where the dignity of every person, from conception to natural death, is the unshakable foundation of our laws, our economies, and our daily interactions. This is not a naive dream. It is the Kingdom of God, and it is built by our hands, here and now, when those hands are joined in prayer and extended in service.
To build this, the Church itself must be a flawless instrument, a field hospital with clean hands. We cannot ignore the shadow that has fallen upon our own house through the scandal of abuse—the ultimate betrayal of the innocent and a devastating wound to the Body of Christ. This is a crisis of credibility that silences our moral voice. I call upon every one of the faithful—clergy, religious, and laity—to aid in solving it. Aid through fervent prayer for healing and purification. Aid through vigilant protection of the young and vulnerable in every parish, school, and ministry. Aid through demanding and supporting transparency, accountability, and justice, so that the Church may be a place of absolute safety and radiant holiness. We must heal this wound to heal the world.
Therefore, let us leave this place not as passive observers of a dying world, but as active architects of a new one. Let your families be schools of reverence for life. Let your workplaces be arenas of integrity and peace. Let your politics be driven by justice for the poor and the pursuit of reconciliation. Let your digital voices spread truth and charity, not division and lies. In the spirit of the great reformers of the Church, like Saint Peter Damian, who fought tirelessly for the integrity and renewal of the Christian community in his time, let us be unwavering in our mission to renew the face of the earth.
The choice is before us, stark and urgent: to build or to destroy. To bless or to curse. To be children of the light or architects of the darkness. With Jesus’s help, with the strength of the Eucharist within us, let us choose to build, to bless, and to be the light. Let us go forth, and let our lives be the sermon this world desperately needs to hear.
Amen.
What can we do?
In the face of violence against the innocent, our first practical duty is to become guardians of truth in our own circles. Challenge rumors and gossip, especially those that dehumanize others. When you hear a harmful stereotype or a baseless accusation, do not let it pass unchallenged. Speak a word of reason. Support, through donations or volunteer time, organizations that provide legal aid and safe havens for victims of mob violence and persecution. In your daily interactions, practice radical kindness, especially towards those who are marginalized or easily scapegoated in your own community. See the person, not the prejudice.
Confronting the reality of war and conflict requires us to become active peacemakers in our own spheres. This means deliberately rejecting the language of division and hatred in our political and social discourse. Seek out credible news sources that provide context, not just sensational headlines. Support humanitarian aid organizations that are on the ground, helping civilians caught in the crossfire. In your own life, practice the difficult art of listening to understand those you disagree with, rather than to defeat them. Heal the conflicts around your own dinner table, in your workplace, and in your parish. Peace is built person by person.
When we see a disregard for life and dignity, even in structured environments, we must reaffirm a culture of profound respect. In your workplace, school, or community groups, never turn a blind eye to "hazing" or dangerous rituals disguised as games or bonding. Have the courage to speak up for safety and sanity. Advocate for and support programs that foster mental health, responsible leadership, and ethical conduct in all professions. In your daily life, treat every person you encounter—from the customer service agent to the stranger on the street—with an unwavering respect for their inherent dignity. Refuse to participate in any culture that treats human life as cheap or as a means to an end.
Our faith calls us not to distant outrage, but to proximate, practical love. Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. The world is healed by a million small, faithful actions of justice, peace, and respect.
Go in peace.
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