DOI- 10.5281/zenodo.19792370
Savio Saldanha SJ
In times like these,
conscience does not remain calm and undisturbed. It stands at the edge of
history, listening to the noise of war, propaganda, and fear, and asking what
truth still means when everything around us is being used, edited, repeated,
and manipulated. I feel this deeply because the world today does not simply
inform us; it presses itself upon us, often before we have time to think, pray,
or even breathe.
I have often wondered how a
Christian, and especially a Jesuit, is meant to live in such a world. How do we
remain faithful to compassion without being swept away by outrage? How do we
speak truth without becoming cruel? How do we stay awake to suffering without
losing interior freedom? These are not abstract questions for me. They are
questions that arise in silence, after prayer, when the heart is still carrying
the weight of the world.
The other
dilemma I face is voiced out by Hannah Arendt who in her collection of essays ‘Thinking without a banister’, says ‘What is most difficult
is to love the world as it is, with all the evil and suffering in it.’ As a
Jesuit, I feel the weight of these words in my life. How can I go on joyfully
with all this strife and hatred around me? How can I fulfill my vocation to
love the oppressed without speaking against the oppressors? And am I supposed
to take sides or remain in silence? If I am to remain in the world, I must do so
honestly, without pretending that injustice is less real than it is. And yet
honesty alone is not enough. The question remains: what kind of response does
truth require?
In this context, I found myself
drawn to the witness of Pope Leo XIV. His public stand for peace, and his
refusal to be dragged into the mudslinging of political spectacle, struck me as
an important reminder that the Church must speak clearly without becoming
partisan. He did not deny the moral gravity of unjust war. He simply refused to
let truth be reduced to the tactics of the day. That witness mattered to me,
because it suggested that moral courage and institutional restraint can
coexist.
It may seem strange to turn to Stoic
philosophy in such a moment, but Stoicism has something useful to say when the
heart is overwhelmed. Epictetus teaches that we should distinguish between what
is in our control and what is not. At first, this can sound cold, even
unrealistic. I cannot simply switch off my sorrow when I hear of civilian
deaths, nor should I. But Stoicism is not asking me to become numb. It is
asking me not to become enslaved by what I cannot govern.
Seneca’s language of the “first
movements” helped me here. Shock, fear, anger, grief — these arrive before
reflection. They are not shameful in themselves. The real moral question is
what I do after the first wave passes. Do I allow the emotion to harden into
despair, hatred, or paralysis? Or do I gather myself, pray, reflect, and decide
what response is faithful to truth and charity?
This is where the Serenity Prayer
speaks with surprising force. There are things I cannot change, things I can
change, and the wisdom lies in knowing the difference. For a Christian, this is
never about retreating into emotional distance. It is about forming the heart
so that it can act without being consumed.
I have sometimes been tempted to
retreat into interiority. Silence is necessary; self-examination is necessary;
prayer is necessary. But there is also a temptation to use reflection as an
excuse for inaction. One can remain forever in analysis, discussion, and
self-interpretation while the world burns outside. I know this temptation well
especially in certain structured environments where speaking about action can
become a substitute for acting.
The most famous articulation of this
sentiment is by St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians. In 1
Corinthians 13:2 he writes, "And though I have the gift of prophecy,
and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all
faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity (love), I am
nothing." Thomas Kempis in his book ‘The Imitation of Christ’, Book
1, Chapter 2, echoes this beautifully when he writes, “If you knew the
whole Bible by heart, and the sayings of all the philosophers, what would it
all profit you without the love of God and without grace?". These
words disturb me because they expose a danger I do not want to ignore: that the
life of the mind can become self-enclosed.
The problem, then, is not reflection
itself. The problem is reflection detached from responsibility. The mind must
return to the world. Silence must become discernment, and discernment must
become action. If contemplation does not eventually open outward in service,
truth begins to lose its moral weight.
The Catholic Church has never
treated war as morally light or easily justified. The Just War tradition, as
summarized in the Catechism of the Catholic Church (§§2307–2312), begins from a
presumption in favor of peace and sets demanding moral limits on the use of
force. It does not bless violence; it restrains it. It asks whether the harm
inflicted by the aggressor is grave and certain, whether peaceful alternatives
have truly been exhausted, whether there is a reasonable chance of success, and
whether the use of force will avoid creating greater evil than the evil it
seeks to stop.
What I find important in this
tradition is not only its rules, but its moral seriousness. War is never
normalized. It is judged, measured, and feared. Augustine and Aquinas did not
write to make war acceptable in the abstract; they wrote because they knew that
a fallen world sometimes presses leaders toward tragic decisions. Their
teaching insists that even when force is used, conscience must remain vigilant,
because the moral law does not disappear in times of conflict.
This matters because it prevents two
opposite errors. One is naïve pacifism that ignores evil and leaves the
innocent undefended. The other is moral surrender, where violence becomes
routine and is explained away as necessary. The Catholic tradition rejects
both. It asks instead for discernment shaped by truth, justice, and charity.
War, Civilians,
and Moral Limits
In light of that tradition, the
present conflict involving Iran raises serious moral concerns. When measured
against the criteria of the CCC, the case for war appears deeply questionable.
The extent of the harm caused by the aggressor remains disputed, the
possibility of peaceful alternatives has not been convincingly exhausted, and
the proportionality of military action remains morally difficult to defend.
This is especially so when civilians
suffer. Any damage to schools, homes, hospitals, or infrastructure reminds us
that war rarely remains within the boundaries claimed for it. Even when
military objectives are invoked, the lived reality is often grief for families,
fear for children, and long-term instability for whole populations. The bombing
of the Iranian school, and the killing of innocent children, is therefore not
merely a tragic event to be remembered; it is a moral wound that demands justice,
not indifference.
At the same time, moral judgment
must not become moral vanity. To say that a war is unjust is not the same as
claiming pure innocence for oneself or one’s side. A Christian conscience
should resist propaganda, but it should also resist the temptation to speak as
though history were simple. The duty is not to excuse violence, but to see it
clearly enough to oppose it truthfully.
Peace is often spoken of as if it
were merely the absence of fighting. But Christian moral thought does not treat
peace as silence after violence. Peace is a form of order, justice, and
restrained power. It requires patience, truthfulness, and a willingness to keep
human dignity visible even in disagreement. It is not sentimental. It is
demanding.
That is why the work of discernment
matters so much. We are constantly being invited to react quickly, speak
loudly, and choose sides before we have understood the depth of what is
happening. But conscience should not be ruled by haste. It should be formed by
truth, tested by charity, and strengthened by prayer. Only then can it resist
the pressure to turn every conflict into a performance.
I remain convinced that the Church
must continue to speak for peace, not as a political faction but as a moral
witness. That witness will sometimes unsettle people. It should. Truth often
does. But if it is true, it must also be humble, careful, and willing to bear
the cost of being misunderstood. The civil society and people of goodwill
should come together irrespective of their religions and other differences and
join together in this peace initiative.
Before any moral judgment can become action, it must
pass through discernment. Saint Ignatius taught me that not every strong
feeling is a command, and not every noble impulse is already wisdom. The heart
can be stirred by compassion, but it can also be pushed by fear, pride,
impatience, or the desire to appear right. That is why discernment matters: it
helps me ask not only what I feel, but where the movement is leading me.
In moments of conflict, Ignatian
discernment begins with attention. I must notice what stirs within me when I
hear of war, civilian suffering, propaganda, or public debate. Do I feel only
anger? Do I want revenge disguised as justice? Do I feel an urge to remain
silent because speaking is costly? Or do I sense a quiet invitation to truth,
patience, and fidelity? These questions matter because the spirit of God does
not normally work through confusion, haste, or self-display, but through a
deeper freedom that leads toward love.
Ignatius also taught that
consolation and desolation are not merely emotional states. They are spiritual
orientations. Consolation draws a person toward greater faith, hope, charity,
humility, and peace. Desolation pulls the soul toward closure, despair,
agitation, or sterile certainty. In the face of war, this distinction becomes
very practical. A response shaped by consolation will not be naïve, but it will
be peaceful, truthful, and willing to serve. A response shaped by desolation
may feel forceful, but it often leaves the heart more divided than before.
This is why I cannot simply ask
whether I am “pro-war” or “anti-war,” as though moral life were a slogan. The
deeper question is whether my response is helping me grow in freedom before
God. Ignatian discernment asks me to pause, test the movement, pray over it,
and then choose what leads more surely to love, justice, and the common good.
It asks me to resist the pressure of immediate reaction and to seek instead the
interior clarity that makes responsible action possible.
For me, this is one of the most
demanding parts of Christian life. It is easier to react than to discern. It is
easier to denounce than to understand. It is easier to remain in private reflection
than to enter the world with a clear conscience. But Ignatius does not permit
me to remain comfortable. He asks me to be attentive, truthful, and available
to God’s movement even when that movement costs me something.
At this crossroads, the Christian
task is not to become emotionally detached, nor to become politically reactive.
The task is harder and more beautiful: it is to remain interiorly free before
God while remaining outwardly faithful to the suffering of the world. Ignatian
discernment has shown me that conscience is not formed only by feeling, nor
only by ideas, but by the slow testing of spirits in the light of truth. It
asks me to speak more carefully in public and private, refusing to spread anger
where understanding is needed. It asks me to pray not as an escape, but as a
way of forming a conscience capable of acting with clarity and charity in a
confused world.
I therefore return to the same
conviction with greater clarity: conscience must not be outsourced, and it must
not be hurried. It must be formed through prayer, tested by discernment, and
then translated into charity. Reflection is necessary, but it is not the end.
Judgment is necessary, but it is not enough. What finally matters is whether my
response leads me toward truth, justice, humility, and peace. So this is where
I stand: at the crossroads between silence and speech, between fear and
responsibility, between reaction and discernment. I do not wish to be ruled by
propaganda, nor by my own passions, nor by the illusion that moral seriousness
requires anger. I wish instead to listen more deeply, judge more truthfully,
and act more lovingly.
And if Ignatius has taught me
anything, it is that God is found not only in prayer but also in the careful,
costly choices that prayer makes possible. In a divided world, that may be the
most faithful way to live: not to escape the turmoil, but to enter it with a
conscience made free enough to seek the greater good.
- Catechism of the Catholic
Church, §§2307–2312.
- Augustine of Hippo, Contra
Faustum; City of God, Book XIX.
- Thomas Aquinas, Summa
Theologiae, II–II, q. 40.
- Gaudium et Spes, §§79–82.
- Compendium of the Social
Doctrine of the Church,
§§497–520.
- Hannah Arendt, Thinking
Without a Banister.
- Epictetus, Enchiridion.
- Seneca, selected moral
writings on emotions and judgment.
- Thomas à Kempis, The
Imitation of Christ.
- Deadly bombing of Iran
primary school ‘a grave violation of humanitarian law’: UNESCO https://news.un.org/en/story/2026/03/1167063
