Father Joseba Kamiruaga Mieza, CMF
As I write this reflection in the sweltering heat of summer 2025, with headlines screaming of bombs in Gaza, death in Ukraine, and political violence justified in the name of divine authority, I am compelled to ask again the same disturbing question: What kind of religion justifies war, genocide, and the systematic destruction of human life?
We live in a time of deep contradiction. Religions profess peace, but too often serve as fuel for violence. From Gaza to Sudan, from Myanmar to Israel, the most terrifying part is not just the bloodshed—it is that too many perpetrators invoke God while committing it. And we, as Christians, must confront this scandal with honesty, humility, and courage.
The conflict in the Holy Land—the very birthplace of our faith—is heartbreaking. I do not pretend to offer political analysis, but as a priest, I must ask: How has God become a weapon? How is it that Judaism, a faith rooted in the longing for shalom—peace—is invoked to justify policies that cut off humanitarian aid and threaten annihilation? How is it that radical Islamist movements, too, frame death as divine justice?
This pattern is not unique. Every major religion bears the weight of violence done in its name. The common thread is clear: when religion and politics fuse, when theology becomes a tool for domination, and when belief loses its soul to power, atrocities follow.
Religions profess peace, but too often serve as fuel for violence. From Gaza to Sudan, from Myanmar to Israel, the most terrifying part is not just the bloodshed—it is that too many perpetrators invoke God while committing it
David Hume once remarked that the errors of philosophy are amusing, but the errors of religion are dangerous. While I disagree that all philosophical mistakes are light-hearted, I deeply agree with Hume’s second point: religious error has consequences that tear through human lives, communities, and nations.
Religious people—whether imams, rabbis, monks, or priests—must constantly examine our own traditions. Every faith carries within it the potential for both healing and harm. Sacred texts, when twisted out of context, can become dangerous. Even our own Christian history—marked by the Crusades, inquisitions, and colonial missions—reminds us that no religion is immune.
If religions are to be a force for peace, we must rescue them from within. It is not enough to point fingers at others. We must purify our own hearts, our theologies, and our institutions. We must teach the next generation not merely to believe, but to discern—to ask hard questions, to interpret sacred texts responsibly, and to live the truth in love.
This task begins with the simple yet revolutionary commandment: “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain” [Exodus 20:7]. Most of us remember this from catechism class as a prohibition against swearing or blasphemy. But it goes much deeper. The Hebrew root of “in vain” suggests not just profanity, but falseness, futility, even idolatry. It warns us against manipulating God’s name for selfish or political ends.
When we say “in God’s name” and use that phrase to justify dominance, hatred, or violence—whether in politics, family, or religious communities—we commit a form of theological blasphemy. We turn God into an idol we can control. And the God of Abraham, the God of Jesus Christ, will not be used.
Sacred texts, when twisted out of context, can become dangerous. Even our own Christian history—marked by the Crusades, inquisitions, and colonial missions—reminds us that no religion is immune
We must remember: God’s name is not a weapon. God’s name is mystery, promise, and presence. In Exodus 3:14, God reveals himself not with a label, but with a promise: “I will be who I will be.” God is not an object to possess, but a companion who walks with his people.
If this is true, then every time we invoke God’s name, it must be in reverence, humility, and love. Not to divide, but to unite. Not to control, but to serve. Not to kill, but to give life.
This is not only the responsibility of priests or theologians. It belongs to all people of faith—and indeed to all humanity. Educators, parents, lawmakers, and cultural leaders must work together to ensure that religious belief is never weaponised. Politics and religion must remain separate—not because religion is unimportant, but because its truth must remain free.
The Church has a responsibility to model this. As Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi once said, there is a small-minded religiosity that, paradoxically, pulls us further from God. If our faith leads to judgment instead of compassion, if our prayers are louder than our love, we have gone astray. We must constantly verify our faith against the measure of charity.
This brings me to a document that, in my view, deserves far more attention than it receives: the Document on Human Fraternity, signed by Pope Francis and Grand Imam Ahmed Al-Tayeb in Abu Dhabi in 2019. It is a profound call for peace, dialogue, and mutual respect among religions. I worry that it has fallen into the shadows of our global memory.
We must purify our own hearts, our theologies, and our institutions. We must teach the next generation not merely to believe, but to discern—to ask hard questions, to interpret sacred texts responsibly, and to live the truth in love
That document was not merely a diplomatic gesture. It was a prophetic act. It reminded us that the true goal of religion is not power, but fraternity. That those who claim to know God must be the first to defend human dignity. And that if faith does not lead to justice, peace, and compassion—it is a lie.
Let me conclude with a prayer that still echoes in my heart—written not by a saint or a pope, but by Voltaire, an Enlightenment thinker who, despite his critiques of institutional religion, captured something truly divine. His “Prayer to God,” from the Treatise on Tolerance [1765], is as relevant today as it was then:
“You have not given us hearts to hate one another, nor hands to slay one another… Let the slight differences between all our foolish opinions not be signs of hatred and persecution. May all men remember that they are brothers.”
I echo that prayer today.
Dear brothers and sisters, let us not allow the name of God to be turned into an instrument of fear, exclusion, or war. Let us not remain silent when leaders—religious or political—abuse their spiritual authority to justify injustice. And let us take seriously the call to holiness, which always begins with seeing God in the face of the other.
To all who suffer because of war, displacement, or religious hatred: we are with you. And we, as a Church, will not stop proclaiming what Pope Leo XIV recently reminded the world: “A different world is possible.” A world where religion builds bridges, not barriers. A world where the name of God brings healing—not harm.
May that world begin with us.
Father Joseba Kamiruaga Mieza, CMF
Claretian Missionary
