When the Pulpits Fell Silent

The forests no longer sing but burn. The rivers remember where they once flowed. Glaciers die without a funeral. Europe chokes beneath a ruthless sun. The fields await the next careless spark. Children inherit smoke, not skylarks. The seas rise, and still we bargain. The poor bury tomorrow with today. Governments issue polished promises. Markets mourn losses, not lost forests. The deepest wound is not the earth. The deepest wound is the Church. Where are the prophets now? Who dares cry, “Thus says the Lord!”? Our pulpits preach comfort and success. Outside, creation groans in anguish. Smoke climbs beyond stained glass. Silence has become our liturgy. Christ preached lilies and sparrows. We forgot the language of creation. The earth screams; the Church whispers. Watchmen have abandoned the walls. The bells should sound the alarm. Repent, before ashes become our creed. God has not abandoned the dust. May the Church recover its voice. Before the stones are forced to cry.