It was 3 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 5, a normal day for our neighborhood, but tinged with anticipation after events in Aleppo, which opposition fighters had rapidly and unexpectedly seized a few days earlier. Everyone was at work, trying to convince themselves that things were normal and that the military conflict was far away.
Then news spread via official state TV that the city of Hama had fallen. Hama is about 30 miles away from Homs, where I serve as pastor of the Jesuit Fathers Monastery Church in Bustan al-Diwan. There was panic in the hearts of the people of Homs, and rational thinking had no place. Everyone tried to pack a bag or two, bitterly abandoning what they had tried to rebuild after returning from their first forced exile at the beginning of the Syrian revolution in 2011, when old Homs was under siege.
The monastery of the Jesuit Fathers in Homs has a special character and history. It was the shelter of dozens of Christians and Muslims, with whom Father Frans van der Lugt, a Dutch Jesuit priest who dedicated his life to coexistence, shared an epic of steadfastness before he was martyred in 2014 at the hands of a gunman, having lived through the turmoil of his beloved city. There, he gave and continues to provide a testimony of what it means to be a Christian for the sake of others. On the day of his death, he was temporarily buried in the monastery yard. Still, it was a prophetic sign of what he wished for the future of Syria: a rooted and courageous presence that realizes that there is no freedom without sacrifice.
Back in Homs, most people were uncertain: Is it a departure without return? Is it our destiny to live one displacement after another in our home country? All I could do then was to go out into the street and say loud and clear: The monastery door will never be closed. We’re staying, it’s going to be all right. You can take refuge there. The hearts of the departing were aching, due to their existential concern for their children and the bitter memories of the war. The scene continued like this for three hours, just before the divine liturgy, which was scheduled for 6 p.m.
At that moment, I gathered my strength and prayed as I began to think optimistically about possible scenarios. There was a special blessing to being the pastor at the church where Father Frans was martyred. He was a source of consolation and gave me a good example in my priestly ministry for two years. Following him is one of my greatest honors, a humbling experience for me.
The story doesn’t start this December, all of a sudden. When I arrived in Homs in 2022, devastated by the brutal war, I reacted positively and rebelliously to the reality. Living close to the tomb of Father Frans and reflecting on the sacrifice he made led me to go forward, “ila al-amam” as he often said. I studied with my Jesuit brothers the possibility of restoring two schools attached to the monastery. The first would become a spiritual center we named “The Garden of Peace,” while the second would be a cultural center called “The Jesuit Cultural Forum.” For almost a year and a half, I have been trying to spread a positive vibe, going against the mainstream pessimism, building for a future we might never know. One day, someone said to me: “What is the benefit of building, when people are emigrating more and more? For whom are these stones?”
We certainly seek to build a community, not stones. I have often seen the local people contemplating the revival of their neighborhoods. I was convinced that the martyrdom of Frans must be prophetic. This grain of wheat will not be sterile, it must bear fruit many times over (John 12:24), but it needs someone to help fulfill its potential.
Since my return, I have marked the anniversary of Father Frans’ martyrdom twice; the last time was on April 7, 10 years after his death. I read in the eyes of those who joined us at Mass a tear of hope, a hope of resurrection, even if we live at the bottom of a dark pit, as Frans portrayed it in his last homily prepared for Easter. At the time, he wrote: “We are preparing ourselves for Easter, reflecting on crossing from death to resurrection. We feel like we are in the valley of the shadows, but we can see that light far away, leading us to life again. … We hope that Syria experiences resurrection soon again … and let’s move forward.”
In this same small parish, I used to preach at the same altar, often alluding to the abuses of the Syrian regime and the dictatorship imposed on us by that “king.”
That same Thursday, some of the faithful who stayed in Homs arrived at church. The gospel was about the parable of the two houses. Jesus likens those who do not build on his words to those who build on sand and whose fall when the storm hits will be loud (Matthew 7:24-27). These verses came as a prophetic sign of the approaching fall of a defunct regime that built nothing on the grace of God and the love of the people.
I asked the believers to pray fervently for the imminent return of the other parishioners so that we could celebrate Christmas together. It seemed impossible given what they had previously experienced, but my hope was not based on political analysis or a reading of the military facts but rather on the meaning of true Christian hope, which is that God is the Almighty and that all our lives are under providence. I emphasized to the faithful that what they are experiencing is a blessing, because they are putting their hope to the test, especially since Pope Francis has dedicated this year to hope, and we have already entered Advent.
Advent, which prepares us to welcome the child Jesus, our God incarnated for us and our salvation, is a time full of tension, a time of anticipation of what is new. We are like the characters in the Christmas story who are waiting for the newborn who will bring true joy to our hearts. It is a journey that first and foremost requires patience, steadfastness and vigilance for the signs of the times. If one looks at the overall picture, one sees divine intervention in the course of what happened in the liberation of Syria.
This was one of the points of convergence with brother Bashir, a representative of Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, who visited me on the evening of Sunday, Dec. 8. On that day, I celebrated the divine sacrifice at the same altar but with a very different context. That dawn, the fall of the Assad regime was announced, marking the end of a dark era that lasted 54 years. I assured the faithful that Dec. 8, 2024, would be remembered in Syria forever. It is a gift from heaven, a gift from the Virgin Mary on her feast day. Bashir and I have different religious backgrounds. Yet during our meeting we realized that what was achieved was not man-made. We must receive it with humility and gratitude, as Ahmed al-Sharaa (formerly known as Abu Muhammad al-Jolani) said in his victory speech.
In the readings of that day, the Prophet Baruch invites Jerusalem to celebrate its victory (Baruch 5:1-2). I shared in my sermon that Jerusalem means the city of peace, and it is every city and country that seeks to live the true peace that comes from the Lord. This reading flowed so sweetly into the hearts of the believers that there was no need to explain it.
There was great joy on that blessed Sunday. Syrians were unable to express their elation in adequate words, proof that something miraculous beyond comprehension had happened, a dream shared by all. Who could have imagined that the statues of Hafez al-Assad and his sons would topple, that the yoke of slavery would fall so easily? More than that, how did the bloodbath stop before it even started? How did our homes not get destroyed, as we are used to in revolutions? We do not know, but I believe that God’s providence covered us in mercy.
I had not intended this essay to be a spiritual reflection but our Christian life is at the center of our lived experience. In the words of the Bible, I found the inspiration to urge my parishioners to a new way of living, a way that they had forgotten or had not seen. The citizen in general, and the Christian in particular, has been marginalized from political life, and the word “politics” has become synonymous with oppression, favoritism and all the moral corruption that surrounds it. The Church recognizes that the Christian has a role in public affairs and, as Christians, we must be active rather than passive in political life in its noble sense, as Pope Francis describes it.
In Matthew’s Gospel account, Jesus says, “the kingdom of heaven is taken by striving [jihad]” (Matthew 11:12). Of course, the word “jihad” in Arabic has an Islamic connotation for many, and a negative meaning, especially with the rise of extremist movements. But Jesus invites us to a kind of positive radicalism, a radicalism that asks us to be builders of the kingdom we hope for. According to Jesus Christ, we have no right to stand idly by and watch the events unfold as if we were an impartial evaluation committee. What is happening in Syria concerns us Christians as well, and now more than ever we must be active and not marginalized, demanding our rights not as a minority but as citizens witnessing our Christianity amid our daily obligations.
However, the role of a shepherd is not limited to words only; he must match words with deeds, because “love ought to be put more in deeds than in words,” as St. Ignatius de Loyola says in his “Spiritual Exercises.” That same week, I drew on my practical experience and shared it with a small group from the Jesuit Refugee Service. We set out to convert some of the monastery’s halls into rooms that could house some of the displaced people. We couldn’t have predicted what would happen that day and we were planning to increase the number of rooms in case it was catastrophic. We took in about 20 people for a few days and it reminded me of those who lived with Father Frans under the siege. Although things are easier nowadays, the symbolism of the scene meant a lot to me and generated in me a willingness to give and be generous, following the example of my role model who, despite the bitterness of the events, planted the most beautiful memories in the hearts of those who lived with him.
A week after the liberation, I was immersed in the revival of school reconstruction workshops, rejoicing in the return of workers of different sects and celebrating each other’s safety. A delegation of journalists accompanied by an elderly man and two veiled daughters said they had lived there during the first siege. When I asked the man, Farhan, where he had taken refuge and whether he had lived with Father Frans, he said he had and had stayed in a basement room. I knew right away that he meant the small chapel where we celebrate the daily Mass, which we turned into a Nativity grotto as we prepared for the holidays. As Farhan shared his story, I connected his situation with that of the Holy Family. The nativity scene is one of a family looking for shelter, and Father Frans opened this humble chapel to serve as a shelter for a small Muslim family.
Realistically, most of us have fear in our hearts and this is legitimate, because of what each of us experienced in the years of the civil war. There is a fear of the unknown that should not shackle us. On the other hand, there is also a fear among minorities of how the victorious, predominantly Islamist factions will present themselves. However, what cannot be justified is the fear of expressing our opinions in front of whoever is in power. Therefore, I find myself encouraging my parishioners to freely and boldly express their opinions. Everyone must get used to disagreement; those from the majority before those from the minority.
These days are blessed, especially on a personal level, as they have helped me to live my pastoral responsibilities and prepared me for receiving the Christmas season. If Father Frans was preparing before his martyrdom for the Feast of the Resurrection, today I can share with him this great joy because, after the darkness, we have seen the light, and what he once predicted has begun to come true.
However, we are at the beginning of a long journey that requires us to take a courageous stance, the stance of our Lord Jesus Christ. Today, more than ever, we must stop being like the children of the yard who do not know how to rejoice or how to mourn (Matthew 11:16-19). We must stop being lukewarm and meaningless, and must also avoid an attitude of detachment that aims to gain the world while losing ourselves (Mark 8:36).
We Christians are the salt of the earth and our mission is to bear witness to the truth as it sets us free (John 8:32) and to give our Christian commitment the meaning of our existence. Our Church is the Church of martyrs and our legacy is very precious. We cannot ignore the sacrifices of many men and women, including Father Frans and others. Here we are at the beginning of a new journey, and we can only say “ila al-amam.” The Lord of History is leading us toward the fullness of his kingdom, in which he invites us to be partners, thus realizing the depth of our vocation to be the image and likeness of God in our love, hope and faith.
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