The Voice of the Voiceless

A Curious Pilgrim Reflection

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.” — Luke 4:18

Tomorrow at St. James Episcopal Church, our summer study of the saints brings us to Archbishop Oscar Romero. As I have reflected on his life, I have discovered that I admire him for more than his courage. I recognize something of my own journey in his.

Romero knew from an early age that he wanted to become a priest. At thirteen, he entered seminary, devoting his life to serving Christ and His Church. His early ministry emphasized prayer, personal holiness, examination of conscience, and faithfulness to the Church. He believed that holiness was found not in extraordinary acts but in faithfully offering one’s ordinary life to God.

Then tragedy changed everything.

When his dear friend, Jesuit priest Rutilio Grande, was assassinated for standing alongside the poor of El Salvador, Romero could no longer remain silent. He did not abandon prayer or the Church. Instead, his prayer gave him courage, and his love for Christ compelled him to become a voice for those who had no voice. He preached that every human being possesses God-given dignity. For that conviction, he was assassinated while celebrating the Holy Eucharist on March 24, 1980.

As I reflected on Romero’s story, I realized that my own life has also been shaped by loss.

The death of my father when I was fourteen changed me forever. He was not only my father but my first pastor and the person who nurtured my call to ministry. Years later, the stillbirth of our daughter, Amanda Joy, left a wound that has never completely disappeared. Grief has a way of changing us. It can make us bitter, or it can deepen our compassion.

Looking back, I can see that God did not waste those painful experiences. They taught me to listen more carefully to those who hurt. They made me less interested in having all the answers and more interested in simply being present with another person. They transformed my ministry from trying to fix people into walking beside them.

One of the great gifts of Romero’s life is the reminder that holiness is lived in ordinary places. The spirituality that first shaped him, with its emphasis on offering everyday work to God, reminds us that every vocation can become holy. As an Episcopalian, I hear that same truth every Sunday when we gather around the Lord’s Table. The Eucharist sends us back into the world to become Christ’s hands and feet.

I have learned that holiness is found in praying the Daily Office, writing these reflections, sharing coffee with a friend, listening to another person’s story, welcoming someone to my table, and seeing every person as one created in the image of God.

Romero also reminds me that liberation begins within our own hearts. God continues to free me from the need to rescue everyone, from loneliness that once drove unhealthy relationships, and from fear that often kept me from simply trusting His grace. Christ’s work of liberation is not only about changing society; it is about changing us.

Perhaps that is what it means to become a voice for the voiceless.

Sometimes the voiceless are the poor, the oppressed, and the forgotten. Sometimes they are the lonely neighbor, the grieving widow, the frightened child, or the person who believes no one sees them.

Sometimes, if we are honest, the voiceless person is ourselves.

Jesus heard every one of them.

As followers of Christ, we are called to do the same.

I doubt I will ever stand before presidents or confront governments as Oscar Romero did. But I can invite someone to my table. I can pray. I can write words of hope. I can welcome the stranger. I can speak for those whose dignity is ignored. I can remind people that they are deeply loved by God.

Perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps that is how ordinary pilgrims become saints—not through extraordinary accomplishments, but through thousands of quiet acts of love offered to Christ.

As Romero once said, “We are prophets of a future not our own.”

May God give each of us the courage to become a voice for the voiceless, wherever He has planted us.

Grace and peace,

The Curious Pilgrim