In Memory of Number 12

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.”
—Matthew 5:9

In honour of Number 12, whoever they are to you—a name, a memory, a face lost to violence or war—we turn our hearts this week to the deep and urgent call to pray for peace.

There is a truth we must reckon with: in times of war, those who start the conflict are rarely the ones who suffer its wounds. The decision-makers, the politicians, the commanders, they speak of strategy and strength from comfortable homes, surrounded by their children, with food on the table and safety at their door. Meanwhile, on the fields of battle and in bombed-out cities, it is the poor, the young, the vulnerable, the voiceless who bleed. It is children who cry out in fear, mothers who bury their babies, and families who scatter like dust in the wind.

Peace is not a passive wish. It is a calling. It is the Christian’s holy defiance against the normalization of violence and the worship of power. As followers of Christ, the Prince of Peace, we are not only to pray for peace but to seek it with our whole lives. To advocate for justice. To lift our voices against oppression. To remember that every missile launched, every bullet fired, has a face at the other end, a face beloved by God.

We can no longer afford to turn away. Whether it’s Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Israel, Iran, Russia or our own communities torn apart by sexual orientation discrimination, racism, sexism, poverty, or abuse, violence anywhere is a threat to peace everywhere. And the church cannot be silent. We must become sanctuaries not just for worship, but for witness. We must be the voice for the silenced and the shield for the harmed. 

I know what it is to face danger—not for war, but for love. As an LGBTQIA advocate and a pastor, I’ve received threats, been called names, and feared for my life. Still, I speak. Because silence kills. In the face of danger, love must be louder. Peace must prevail. 

My heart beats for the old people, alone in hospital beds, listening to bombs falling like thunder, wondering if anyone will remember them. My heart aches for the mothers who carry their children through streets soaked with blood, begging God for just one more breath, one more day.

My heart cries out for the little ones, the kids who once giggled on swings, who now flinch at every loud noise, who draw pictures of tanks and graves instead of flowers and rainbows. Their innocence is shattered. Their peace is stolen. And what did they do to deserve it?

I grieve for the wounded, lying in hospital corridors with no medicine, no power, no voice. And I weep for those who die alone, too many to name, too many to mourn properly.

This is what it is to face danger, not just bullets and bombs, but the cruel indifference of a world that keeps turning while others are buried under rubble.

As we gather in worship this Sunday, let us bring before God the names we remember, the children who never got to grow up, the families who pray simply to survive another night. Let us honour them, not with more weapons or more fear, but with a fierce, unyielding commitment to peace. Let us stand against the lie that violence is strength and embrace the truth that peace is power.

And now, somewhere in a war zone, the playgrounds are empty. The swings move in the wind with no laughter to catch them. The sandboxes are full of ashes. The soccer balls lay flat. The children do not play anymore, they survive.

If you can tonight, hold your child or your grandchildren close, feel their heartbeat, watch them breathe and know that another mother, somewhere else, is holding only silence.

If you can happily call out today that dinner is ready, and get family and loved ones to respond by coming to the dining table, remember that Number 12 is the child who will be bombed and killed today when it is supposed to be dinner time, Number 12 is the child who saw her mother’s body torn apart by shellfire.

Number 12 is the boy who can no longer speak, not because he doesn’t have words, but because he has seen too much.

Number 12 is the little girl who carries her baby brother through rubble, crying, “Mama, wake up,” though Mama will never wake again.

Number 12 is the child who used to play soccer in the streets, who now runs not for the ball, but from gunfire.

And in honour of Number 12, whose life, like so many, should not be forgotten, let our prayers rise like incense, and our actions rise like resistance.

May we be a people of peace.
May we be a church of peace.
May we, with trembling and hope, continue to seek it.

We ask the Spirit to breathe peace into a world choking on war.
Because peace is not the absence of fighting.
It is the presence of justice.
It is the memory of laughter in the streets.
It is the right of children to grow up.
It is God’s dream for us.

So let our prayers rise like a wail in the wilderness.
Let our compassion turn into courage.
Let our tears water the seeds of a better world.

In honour of every child.
In honour of every innocent life.
In honour of the forgotten.
In memory of Number 12.

May we never again look at war without trembling.
And may we never again speak of peace without acting.

Amen.

—Rev. Daniel Addai Fobi is the leader of the God’s Beloved group at Kitchissippi United Church in Ottawa, and an advocate for 2S and LGBTQIA+.

The views contained within these blogs are personal and do not necessarily reflect those of The United Church of Canada.