Every time we consider human history, we find warfare around; the violence and battles are a crosscutting for all cultures and regions. It's like the human being has a tendency deep inside to create conflicts, but the Bible says that everything that God created was good then. What about this reality? Well, we can recognize the reality of evil as a tendency prevalent in human nature, but not as something included in the original design, but provoked by the presence of sin. The creation has an enemy, who tries every moment to create conflict with God and His creation included us. Sometimes we can experience spiritual battles even if we don't notice it, or we can confuse it with personal or material warfare. The truth is, we are amid a spiritual warfare with the evil from Genesis until Jesus comes again. This evil acquires concrete manners, material, historical, structural, and spiritual.

When we think about being prepared to face a battle, we can consider the story of the moose. National Geographic ran an article about the Alaskan bull moose. The males of the species battle for dominance during the fall breeding season, literally going head-to-head with antlers crunching together as they collide. Often, the antlers, their only weapon, are broken. That ensures defeat. The heftiest moose, with the largest and strongest antlers, triumphs. Therefore, the battle fought in the fall is really won during the summer, when the moose eat continually. The one that consumes the best diet for growing antlers and gaining weight will be the heavyweight in the fight. Those that eat sport weaker antlers and less bulk. There is a lesson here for us. Spiritual battles await. Satan will choose a season to attack. Will we be victorious, or will we fall? Much depends on what we do now--before the wars begin. The bull-moose principle: Enduring faith, strength, and wisdom for trials are best developed before they're needed.

Luke clearly presents us the relationship between the Last Supper of Jesus and the Jewish Passover Supper, and in this way, also clarifies the relationship between the Passover of Egypt and the Passover of Jesus. The Supper and His death acquire meaning essentially in unity with the resurrection. Jesus carries out the plan of salvation established by God, and accepts voluntarily and with total obedience, the path of suffering that He must undertake due to the fight against the power of darkness that opposes this plan and to which Jesus had already defeated at the beginning of His ministry, in the story of the temptations. In Gethsemane, the true humanity of Jesus appears crudely, who, in full internal combat, comes to sweat blood.

Luke emphasizes the meaning of the passion not so much because of a rebellion against Rome, but as the fulfillment of the prophecies, those of the just Servant and martyr who suffers the fate of the prophets. The mercy of Jesus, His attentive approach to specific people, which Luke's gospel highlights, is also present in this long story: despite the suffering and painful situation He is going through, Jesus still has time to heal His ear cut off from the servant, to look at Peter after the denials, to worry about the women and children of Jerusalem, and, already nailed to the cross, He forgives the executioners. The last words of Psalm 31 express absolute trust in the Father on the part of the one who finds himself consumed by pain and mocked by everyone.

Although He is from afar, His people follow Jesus to the cross and watch him die. This way, they can be witnesses. Luke has structured his gospel as a long path that leads Jesus to Jerusalem. In the passion story, He invites us to continue following Jesus Christ along this same path, which passes through suffering and death, but does not end with a cold tomb excavated in the rock. Luke, in the second work, Acts of the Apostles, will discuss the Church as the work of the Holy Spirit and as the area in which the mission of Jesus continues to be present among His followers and witnesses of him. Thus, the Church emerges as a sacrament of Jesus, in which He lives and acts. The passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus also reveal to us the final destiny of man, the meaning of His life, His sufferings, and that of His own death. Thus, He is the hope of those who experience decline and weakness in old age, approaching the always dramatic point of death.

How can one be trained to face a spiritual battle? How can we do it if we are not totally aware of what is really happening? In all disciplines, the key factor is the training; we must be aware that as Christians, we are exposed to spiritual battles at every moment because we live in a war with evil. When we rest in Christ and trust God's promises, even though spiritual warfare runs through both the Old and New Testaments, the apostle Paul in Ephesians 2:1-3 helps us to identify the three main types of spiritual warfare in Scripture, which are: the world, the devil, and the flesh. In the Greek Orthodox tradition, the day after Easter was devoted to telling jokes. They felt they were imitating the cosmic joke that God pulled on Satan in the Resurrection. Satan thought he had won and was smug in His victory, smiling to himself, having the last word. So, he thought. Then God raised Jesus from the dead, and life and salvation became the last words. At the end of Scripture, John the apostle witnesses a heavenly vision of Satan, death, and hell all being thrown into the lake of fire where they will be tormented forever (Rev 20).

Therefore, as we review what Scripture and the church have said about spiritual warfare, we must always remember that we already know the outcome: Jesus has won the victory in this spiritual warfare, and we live in the Spirit and power of His victory. In the power of the Spirit, we can take up a peaceful and confident attitude, knowing that our Lord has conquered all our enemies. Every time we face a spiritual battle, we can consider that God is with us, and Jesus won the victory for us. In any case, in the end, God will show us His mercy and goodwill, and we can be sure that His plan is better for us than ours, and we can live in peace under His plan for eternity.

14 King Herod heard about this, for Jesus’ name had become well known. Some were saying,[a] “John the Baptist has been raised from the dead, and that is why miraculous powers are at work in him.” 15 Others said, “He is Elijah.” And still others claimed, “He is a prophet, like one of the prophets of long ago.” 16 But when Herod heard this, he said, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised from the dead!” 17 For Herod himself had given orders to have John arrested, and he had him bound and put in prison. He did this because of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, whom he had married. 18 For John had been saying to Herod, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.” 19 So Herodias nursed a grudge against John and wanted to kill him. But she was not able to, 20 because Herod feared John and protected him, knowing him to be a righteous and holy man. When Herod heard John, he was greatly puzzled[b]; yet he liked to listen to him.

There are moments in history when society becomes confused about the difference between power and truth, when authority is mistaken for righteousness, and when silence feels safer than speaking. It is precisely in those moments that the prophetic voice becomes necessary, uncomfortable, and dangerous. The Gospel according to Mark places us in such a moment when it tells the story of Herod Antipas and John the Baptist. Herod hears the name of Jesus spreading throughout the region, and his conscience awakens in fear. “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised,” he says. This is not theology speaking; it is guilt. It is the sound of a ruler haunted by the truth he tried to silence.
 
John the Baptist was not a political revolutionary in the conventional sense, nor was he a social commentator offering opinions from a distance. He was a prophet, someone who read reality under the light of God’s will and dared to say out loud what others whispered in private. John looked at Herod’s life, at his abuse of power, at his unlawful relationship, and he named it for what it was: injustice. Not because John enjoyed confrontation, but because prophecy is not born from anger; it is born from fidelity. To be a prophet is to love God’s truth more than one’s own safety.
 
Mark tells us that Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man. This detail is crucial. Herod was not ignorant of the truth; he was disturbed by it. He listened to John, but he did not change. And this is often the tragedy of power: it can hear the truth without obeying it. Herod was caught between fear and fascination, between conscience and convenience. He wanted to protect John, but he wanted to protect his image even more. And so, when the moment came, the prophet’s voice was silenced, not because it was wrong, but because it was inconvenient.
 
Yet prophetism does not end when prophets are imprisoned or killed. The prophetic word lingers. It echoes. It returns in the form of memory, restlessness, and judgment. That is why Herod cannot hear about Jesus without trembling. When society refuses to listen to prophets, it does not escape accountability; it only delays it. The Gospel reminds us that truth suppressed does not disappear; it waits.
 
This is where Psalm 85 speaks into the silence left behind by the prophet’s voice. “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak,” the psalmist says, “for He will speak peace to His people.” Notice the movement here: before peace can be experienced, listening must occur. Prophetic listening always precedes ethical renewal. The psalm does not describe peace as the absence of conflict, but as the presence of righteousness. “Steadfast love and faithfulness will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss each other.” This is not poetic decoration; it is a vision of social order restored.
 
Prophetism, then, is not merely about denunciation; it is about redirection. It exposes what is broken so that healing can begin. It names injustice so that mercy can take root. The psalmist imagines a land where faithfulness springs up from the ground and righteousness looks down from the sky. This is a powerful image: ethics is not imposed from above alone, nor does it emerge from human effort alone. It is the meeting place between God’s will and human response. When society listens to God, the land itself changes.
 
In this light, John the Baptist’s ministry was not a failure, even though it ended in death. His voice prepared the way not only for Jesus, but for a different way of understanding power, authority, and life itself. Jesus will continue the prophetic work, not by shouting louder, but by embodying the truth John proclaimed. Where John confronted from the margins, Jesus will confront from within. Where John pointed to repentance, Jesus will offer redemption.
 
The role of the Church today is inseparable from this prophetic tradition. We are not called to dominate society, but to discern it. Not to echo power, but to question it. Not to bless injustice, but to expose it under the light of the Gospel. Prophetism is not about predicting the future; it is about telling the truth about the present so that the future can be redeemed. When the Church forgets this, it risks becoming a court chaplain rather than a prophetic community.
 
Psalm 85 ends with hope: “The Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase.” This is not optimism; it is trust rooted in obedience. Ethical renewal does not begin in palaces or prisons; it begins when people choose to listen, to repent, and to act justly. When prophets speak, and society listens, righteousness stops being abstract and becomes tangible. Justice is no longer a slogan; it becomes a way of life.
 
May God grant us the courage to hear the prophetic word, even when it unsettles us. May we have the humility to read our reality through the lens of the Gospel. And may we become a people through whom righteousness and peace meet again, not only in words, but in the way we live together. Amen.

Jesus left there and went to his hometown, accompanied by his disciples. 2 When the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. “Where did this man get these things?” they asked. “What’s this wisdom that has been given him? What are these remarkable miracles he is performing? 3 Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t this Mary’s son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas and Simon? Aren’t his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him. 4 Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home.” 5 He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them. 6 He was amazed at their lack of faith. Then Jesus went around teaching from village to village. 7 Calling the Twelve to him, he began to send them out two by two and gave them authority over impure spirits. 8 These were his instructions: “Take nothing for the journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in your belts. 9 Wear sandals but not an extra shirt. 10 Whenever you enter a house, stay there until you leave that town. 11 And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, leave that place and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.” 12 They went out and preached that people should repent. 13 They drove out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.

There are moments in the life of faith when belief is not easy, when trusting God feels less like certainty and more like walking through memory, doubt, and hope at the same time. I stand before you today as someone who has walked with the church for many years, but even more as someone whose life was interrupted and reshaped by Jesus Christ. I did not choose faith because it was convenient or culturally safe; I chose faith because Jesus changed my life. I believe in Him with all my heart. I believe He is Lord, Savior, and the incarnate love of God entering human history not as an idea, but as a presence. And yet, as we open Scripture today, we discover something unsettling: even Jesus Himself was not easily believed.
​
The Gospel tells us that Jesus returned to Nazareth, the place where He grew up, the land that knew His accent, His family, His ordinary years. Luke tells us that He stood in the synagogue and read the words of Isaiah, proclaiming freedom, healing, and God’s favor. Mark, however, places this scene later, after Jesus had already taught, healed, and astonished many. He was no longer unknown. His reputation had spread. And yet, when He arrived among His own people, they struggled, not because He lacked wisdom or power, but because He was too familiar. “Isn’t this the carpenter?” they asked. “Don’t we know His family?” Their questions reveal something deeply human: we often reject God not because He is distant, but because He comes too close.
 
This rejection echoes a much older story, one rooted in the historical memory of Israel. From the beginning, Israel’s story was marked by displacement, vulnerability, and suffering. They were a nomadic people, often caught between empires, frequently oppressed, rarely secure. Even their salvation story begins not with triumph but with slavery. In Egypt, fear turned neighbors into enemies and growth into a threat. Yet God did not abandon them. Instead, God entered their suffering and marked time itself with salvation. Exodus tells us that liberation began with a lamb, with blood on doorposts, with obedience carried out in trust before freedom was visible. Salvation was not earned; it was initiated. It was God who said, “Now is the time.” And that moment became a memory.
 
Memory matters because it shapes identity. Israel was commanded to remember, not nostalgically, but faithfully. The Passover was not merely about what happened; it was about who God is. And centuries later, Jesus sits at a table during Passover and does something radical. He does not erase the memory, He fulfills it. He becomes the Lamb. He places himself at the center of the story. What was once a symbol becomes flesh. What was once a promise becomes a presence. Salvation, once again, is revealed as an act of love initiated by God, not deserved by humanity.
 
The early church understood this deeply. In the book of Acts, we see fragile communities forming under pressure, guided not by power but by love. Paul and Barnabas travel from city to city, not conquering territory but strengthening souls. They appoint elders, pray, fast, and entrust people to God. When they return, they do not boast about success; they gather the church and tell stories of what God has done—how doors were opened, how faith crossed boundaries, how Gentiles were welcomed into the story. Love created movement. Memory created community. And salvation continued to expand, not through domination, but through witness.

Yet Jesus never promised that love would be easy. In Nazareth, love was resisted. Familiarity bred skepticism. Expectations limited faith. The people could not reconcile the Jesus they knew with the Messiah they hoped for. And so, the Gospel tells us, He could do a few miracles there, not because He lacked power, but because love cannot force itself upon unbelief. This moment reveals a painful truth: God respects human freedom, even when that freedom chooses rejection.
 
Still, Jesus does not stop loving. On the night before His death, He gathers His disciples, not to lecture them, but to love them. He washes their feet. He shares bread and wine. He speaks not of strategy, but of relationship. “Love one another as I have loved you,” He says. This is not a metaphor. This is a way of life. Love becomes the visible sign of belonging. The early Christians would be known not by arguments, but by compassion. Not by certainty, but by fidelity.
 
And this love is not sentimental. It demands something of us. It calls us beyond individualism, beyond fear of difference, beyond the comfort of similarity. It challenges racism, exclusion, violence, and indifference. It asks us to recognize the other, not as a threat, but as a neighbor. Jesus’ love is courageous enough to seek understanding even when wounded, and hopeful enough to believe that reconciliation is possible, even when it seems irrational.
 
When we come to the Lord’s Table, we do not come as spectators of history, but as participants in memory. We remember liberation. We remember rejection. We remember love poured out. And we are invited to carry that love beyond the sanctuary, into families, workplaces, neighborhoods, and broken systems. Salvation does not end at the altar; it begins there.
 
Perhaps today, like the people of Nazareth, we are tempted to ask, “Who is this Jesus, really?” Is He too familiar to surprise us? Too close to challenge us? Or is He still the One whose goodness runs after us, whose mercy never fails, whose love reshapes history one life at a time?
 
May the Spirit help us not only to remember, but to believe again. And may love, not fear, be the center of the new world God is still creating among us. Amen.