Our Church at the Crossroads of Eternity

Yesterday, in the heart of the Catholic Church, a sacred drama reached its summit. The conclave has ended. White smoke has risen. A new pope has been chosen — a moment that reaches back through centuries, a moment when the Church stands poised, not merely looking to the future, but standing at the crossroads of eternity. Inside the Sistine Chapel, beneath Michelangelo’s fresco of the Last Judgment, the prayers of the cardinals have been answered, and the Church now looks to her new shepherd.

To the world, this moment may seem like mere pageantry. But to those with eyes to see, it is the beating heart of a greater mystery. We are living in Ezekiel’s valley—a generation surrounded by dry bones. And this conclave is not merely the choosing of a pope; it is the sound of a summons echoing through the ages, calling the Church—and each of us—to rise, to breathe, to live again.

For we are living in an epic, a battle not unlike the great sagas of old, not unlike The Lord of the Rings, where ordinary souls are swept into a cosmic clash that divides light and darkness, Heaven and Hell. We are not mere bystanders in history’s unfolding—we are participants, whether we like it or not. Every choice, every silence, every courageous stand or fearful retreat reveals our allegiance. And there is no battleground more decisive, no test more revealing, than the battle over life itself.

This is the great drama of our time. For what happens on earth echoes in eternity. This is the sacramental principle: that visible things carry invisible weight, that earthly matters bear eternal consequences. How we regard the unborn, the most defenseless among us, reveals how we regard God Himself. It unveils whether we are aligned with the Author of Life—or with the ancient Enemy, the one who, from the beginning, sought to mar and murder the image of God in man.

Every time we stop at a stop sign, we yield control over our bodies—not because metal poles have authority but because we know human life matters. Yet even as we obey these small safeguards, we have learned to tolerate—even champion—the destruction of life in the womb.

“The care of human life and happiness, and not their destruction, is the first and only legitimate object of good government,” wrote Jefferson. And yet, in this contradiction of our age, we convict criminals by DNA, we mourn the dead by DNA, but when that same DNA marks a new life, we call it potential, a choice, disposable. This is not science; it is surrender.

The abortion pill—that bitter fruit of modernity—leaves behind not only the blood of the unborn but the shattered bodies and souls of mothers. The 2025 data unflinchingly reports that 11 percent suffer serious complications: hemorrhage, sepsis, emergency surgeries. But deeper still lies the spiritual wreckage: a culture that has forgotten its own soul, its divine origin, its eternal destiny.

We are not merely debating policy; we are making our stand on the battlefield of eternity. Abortion is not simply a “social issue.” It is the dividing line between Heaven and Hell on earth. It is where our allegiance is laid bare, where the Enemy wages his most insidious campaign, and where Christ calls us to rise in His name. Abortion is not simply a “social issue.” It is the dividing line between Heaven and Hell on earth.Tweet This

The Dobbs decision returned abortion to the states, affirming self-determination. Yet even as Missouri, Kansas, and Idaho sought to protect the unborn, the Trump administration’s Department of Justice intervened to defend federal access to abortion pills. The headlines may blur, but the spiritual battle cuts clear: Will we defend life, or will we cloak our complicity in legal technicalities and political calculations?

And what of the Church—our shepherds, bishops, priests? Too many stood silent when churches were shuttered while liquor stores remained open. Too many gave timid nods when parents were pushed aside, when children were led to destruction without father or mother beside them. But this is no time for caution. This is the hour of Ezekiel. “Prophesy, son of man! Say to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live!”

We live in the Easter season—the time of Resurrection, the triumph of the Lamb who was slain. But are we ready to stand with Him? Or will we bow to the fear and convenience of this world? Do we dare look past the slogans, the scaffolding of politics, to the trembling human heart, to the terrified woman at the clinic door, to the child unseen and unheard, to the dry bones of our own dulled conscience?

“If we accept that a mother can kill even her own child, how can we tell other people not to kill one another?” asked Mother Teresa.

We must repent. We must turn. We must be anchored in Christ—not in our own strength but in the One whose love shatters the gates of death. There is no victory without the Cross. There is no peace without truth. We must become His rescuers—not political agents of mere reform but warriors of mercy, prophets of life, proclaimers of hope.

“Freedom consists not in doing what we like, but in having the right to do what we ought,” said John Paul II. Let us rise to that calling. And let us pray — fervently, humbly — that the world may discover in this new pope not merely a leader in Rome and of the universal Church, not merely a man of title or office, but a true and undisputed Vicar of Christ, a shepherd after God’s own heart. May his witness ignite the Church anew, calling forth a people alive with the Spirit, ready to stand, to serve, to love without fear. Let the Spirit breathe across these dry bones. Let the Church — let each of us — stand and live. And may our stand for life resound not only in this world, but in the world to come.