In his Palm Sunday homily, Pope Leo XIV declared that God “does not listen to the prayers of those who wage war,” presenting Jesus as the King of Peace whose entry into Jerusalem was on a humble donkey, rather than a war horse.

“He did not arm himself, or defend himself, or fight any war. He revealed the gentle face of God, who always rejects violence,” the Pope said. “Brothers and sisters, this is our God: Jesus, King of Peace, who rejects war, whom no one can use to justify war.”

Pope Leo’s message is clear: God cannot be conscripted to justify violence. Yet today, religion is twisted to serve agendas of power. The temptation, especially in times of war, is to “enlist” God to one side or another.

The ongoing US-Israeli campaign in Iran has been framed by some as a divinely sanctioned effort, with the US defense secretary fusing Christian language with military aims, urging Americans to pray for success while invoking “eternal damnation” for enemies.

In Russia, the Orthodox Church has portrayed the invasion of Ukraine as a spiritual struggle against a “morally corrupt” West. Across these conflicts, faith risks undermining the very moral compass that religion seeks to uphold. Prayer becomes hollow when accompanied by actions that shed blood rather than build peace.

Holy Week offers a path toward hope and transformation. Christians are reminded that peace is not passive; it requires empathy and the rejection of violence as a solution. In a world where governments use faith to rally troops and justify destruction, the example of Jesus’ meekness and sacrificial love stands as a powerful counter-narrative.

But many ask: Will God hear our prayers for a ceasefire and an end to suffering of war victims? And if God is all-powerful, why does He seem silent before the machinery of war, amid the missiles and drone strikes?

The question on divine silence is as old as faith itself. It was asked in Jerusalem as Christ carried the cross. It was asked at Golgotha, where the sky darkened and the Son of God cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Divine silence is not new, it is woven into the story believers now commemorate.

Holy Week reflection suggest that God does hear prayers — through the conscience, through the quiet insistence that violence is not inevitable, through the persistent call to conversion. Prayer, then, is a moral awakening. It does not replace action, it demands it.

To pray for a ceasefire while justifying hatred is a contradiction. To ask God for peace while justifying war is to misunderstand both God and peace. This is why Pope Leo’s homily cuts so sharply: God does not listen to prayers stained with blood. Not because God refuses to hear, but because such prayers resist transformation.

Why, then, does God seem silent while people suffer?

The question is not unique to Christianity. It echoes in thoughts that have wrestled with human suffering—from the laments of the biblical figures to the reflections of Islamic scholars, from Eastern philosophies on suffering and detachment, to the quiet doubts of modern secular thought. Across cultures, humanity has asked why injustice persists despite our deepest hopes for goodness and order.

One possible answer is this: perhaps the silence we perceive is not the absence of God, but the presence of human freedom. A world in which love, justice, and peace are real choices can also be a world in which violence is prevalent. The same freedom that allows for compassion also allows for cruelty.

What, then, is the role of prayer?

If prayer is understood merely as a request for intervention, not getting any answer can feel like abandonment. But if it is seen as a way of aligning the human heart with justice and compassion, its meaning shifts. Prayer becomes not an escape from responsibility, but a call to conversion and to action.

To pray for peace is to accept the responsibility that comes with it. It is to question false narratives, confront the hatreds we justify, the indifference we tolerate. It is to recognize that the line between violence and reconciliation does not run only between nations, but through every human heart.

This insight is not confined to any one faith. It is echoed across traditions: that peace begins within, that compassion is stronger than vengeance, that the dignity of every human life must be upheld.

“Lay down your weapons,” Pope Leo XIV urged. “Remember that you are brothers and sisters.” Stripped of its religious language, the message remains: recognize one another’s humanity.

Ultimately, the question may not be whether God hears our prayers. It may be whether we hear what those prayers are asking of us — and whether we are willing to answer, not with words, but with the difficult, necessary work of peace in genuinely caring for fellow human beings. ([email protected])