'This is the fundamental theme of my preaching: nothing is more important to me than human life’ (March 16, 1980). Romero proclaimed these words less than ten days before he was shot and killed at the altar at Mass on Monday, March 24, 1980. They capture well his heart and his vision as a follower of Christ, his prophetic preaching, pastoral visits, and personal prayer. During his three years as archbishop (1977–1980), Romero lamented El Salvador’s fall into an ever deeper spiral of polarisation and violence in response to the legitimate aspirations of his people for a more just society. As he saw his friends killed, catechists abducted and tortured, rural villages terrorised, business leaders kidnapped, and a great many other horrors, he sought to guide his Church down the narrow path of faithfulness. At the centre of this path was a simple truth: each human person has been created, redeemed, and called by God and thus has an infinite and inviolable dignity.

Such words, of course, are easily spoken – and easily become one of many vacuous platitudes. In Romero, however, they became a blazing fire, a force that compelled him to proclaim the truth of God and society each week from the pulpit. And they became an uncompromising commitment of love until the end. Romero knew the struggle to truly affirm and live what we confess with our lips. He was no naive optimist. He warned that the idols of money, national security, and political parties must not be underestimated – people will kill for these – not to mention the selfishness and indifference that reside in the human heart. He warned again and again against the temptation to preach a comfortable, anesthetising Gospel that will disturb no one. The opposite of this, of course, is the Gospel’s continual call to conversion. As he once proclaimed, ‘I will never grow weary of shouting this word: “conversion!”’ (August 21, 1977). This call went forth every Sunday from the cathedral of San Salvador to the thousands present and the tens of thousands more listening on the radio (Romero’s Sunday homily became the most listened to program of the week).

For Romero, the key to avoiding a falsely comforting and dangerously evasive preaching is a firm commitment to one’s faith in the incarnation. He regularly condemned a ‘disincarnate faith’ and a ‘disincarnate preaching’ that fail to enter the messiness of history. For the preacher of the word, he insists, ‘We cannot segregate God’s word from the historical reality in which it is proclaimed because then it would not be the word of God. It would be mere history, a pious book, a Bible that is just another book in our libraries. It becomes God’s word because it vivifies, enlightens, contrasts, repudiates, and praises what is going on today in this society’ (November, 27, 1977).

Such lines are repeated endlessly in his preaching. If human dignity stands at the theological centre of his vision, the commitment to incarnate that truth is what gave it force: ‘I attempt each Sunday to present this mystery of Christ in a way that is not vague and abstract. My preaching should not be the same here in El Salvador as it would be there in Africa or at some other time in history. Rather I want to preach Christ who becomes incarnate here in El Salvador in 1978, the Christ who accompanies us through the changes of our actual history, the Christ who sheds light on the events of this week’ (January 15, 1978).

Romero’s insistence here offers a profound challenge to every preacher and pastoral leader: do we know our communities well enough to preach an incarnate gospel? It is striking how much of Romero’s week was spent listening and learning. Certainly, he prayed with the Gospels and studied official Church teaching – both generously fill his preaching. But his diary and sermons speak every week of the impact of his pastoral visits throughout the archdiocese: encountering Christian communities committed to the gospel, laity studying and applying the Bible to their lives, the poor who bear the weight of injustice, and victims and families of ever-increasing repression. His preaching reflected his profound commitment to understand his Salvadoran reality – the hopes, fears, and struggles of a suffering people: ‘As I listen all during the week to the cries of the people and behold so much horrible crime and shameful violence, I ask the Lord to give me appropriate words for consoling, for denouncing, and for calling to repentance’ (March 23, 1980).

In this work of consoling, denouncing, and calling for conversion, the dignity of the human person always remained his guiding star. Crucially – and I can’t emphasise this point enough – he did not preach human dignity simply when he felt called to touch upon matters clearly political. Instead, he sought at all times to form a people to truly see and respond to the dignity of their brothers and sisters. Take, for example, his many reflections on prayer: ‘You have a great capacity! The most beautiful part of the human vocation is to speak with God, to enter into dialogue with your Creator.’ And then he continues this same point with a more critical edge: ‘Those who do not pray because they kneel down before the god of materialism – be it money or politics or anything else – have not understood the true greatness of being a human person’ (May 29, 1977). Romero knew that we always turn to something in worship, and that this object deeply forms all that we do. To those who had abandoned prayer, perhaps thinking that it represents a childish and irresponsible posture towards the real challenges we face, Romero implored: ‘prayer will not diminish you and make you smaller!’ (September 4, 1977). Instead, he envisioned modern Christian life as a balance between Martha and Mary: certainly an active, socially-committed life represented by Martha; however, without forgetting the one thing necessary represented by Mary: ‘If they had even a little of God in their heart, they would see in each person a brother or sister, an image of God… they would discover the reason for all we do: God, Christ, human dignity’ (July 17, 1977).

Romero spent three years preaching this vision into the increasing bloody reality of El Salvador. He was accused by his opponents – including fellow bishops – of politicising the gospel. When he saw media operations controlled by the wealthy elite covering up crimes and repression, he proclaimed in detail from the pulpit what his legal aid office had documented and verified; when popular movements were demonised and attacked, he insisted on the right of all people to organise; when catechists and priests were disappeared, tortured, and killed, he demanded investigations and spoke clearly of the sad state of the country. He knew that this was a delicate and dangerous task. He had to explain himself. Was he meddling in politics? He responded:

‘When I was a student in Rome, I was deeply moved by a very beautiful statement of Pope Pius XI: “The church is not involved in politics, but when politics touches the altar, the church defends the altar.” The rights of the human person are of great concern to the church. Whenever life is endangered, mother church is concerned. At this moment the church is very mindful of the many mothers who are suffering in our land. The church is concerned about those who are unable to speak, those who suffer, and those who are tortured or silenced. This is not being political. Rather, those involved in politics are touching the altar’ (May 8, 1977).

Just as early Christian theologians insisted that almsgiving is an act akin to offering gifts to God at the eucharistic table, Romero sees the dignity of the human person as an altar of God. And, as he makes clear, this image must be defended. This universal truth thus demands a preferential option for the poor, the marginalised and the vulnerable. Romero makes concrete calls for an end to violence, more equitable sharing of land, just wages, fair legal processes – in short, what is found in Catholic social doctrine – because of his commitment to defend the dignity of all.

And this truly includes all.

Even as he led the Church to an ever-deeper solidarity with the poor and to an uncompromising rejection of injustice, he still saw the dignity of those perpetrating the violence. And thus, he calls for their genuine conversion. At the funeral Mass of his good friend Fr. Rutilio Grande, who was killed in an ambush style attack alongside two campesinos, Manuel Solórzano and Nelson Lemus, Romero turns to address the killers. In a moment that is typical in his preaching, he says: ‘Who knows if those who are responsible for this criminal act (and therefore excommunicated) are hearing these words on a radio there in their hideout and in their conscience? We want to tell them, “Brother criminals, we love you, and we ask God to pour forth repentance into your hearts because the church is incapable of hatred; the church has no enemies”’ (March 14, 1977). ‘Brother criminals’. This phrase captures beautifully the heart of Romero’s preaching.

Romero’s insistence on incarnating the Gospel’s proclamation of human dignity provides the key for understanding his most famous words. These words were delivered at the conclusion of his homily on Sunday, March 23, 1980. And they would seal his fate. In response, a plan to kill him was set in motion and he would be assassinated at the altar the next day. With a calm yet insistent tone, he said: ‘I would like to make an appeal especially to the men of the army, and concretely to the National Guard, the police, and the troops. Brothers, you are of part of our own people. You are killing your own brother and sister campesinos, and against any order a man may give to kill, God’s law must prevail: “You shall not kill!” (Exodus 20:13). No soldier is obliged to obey an order against the law of God. No one has to observe an immoral law. It is time now for you to reclaim your conscience and to obey your conscience rather than the command to sin. The church defends the rights of God, the law of God, and the dignity of the human person and therefore cannot remain silent before such great abominations. We want the government to understand well that the reforms are worth nothing if they are stained with so much blood. In the name of God, then, and in the name of this suffering people, whose laments rise up each day more tumultuously toward heaven, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression!’ (March 23, 1980).

The end of this passage, capped off by long applause, is rightly famous. However, the opening should stand out as well: ‘Brothers, you are of part of our own people. You are killing your own brother and sister campesinos.’ Romero offers a clear challenge to the armed forces but also to each one of us: Look around and look within: what do you see? What do you truly see? Do you see God’s image? Do you see your brother or sister in Christ?

St. Augustine once said: ‘The entire life of a good Christian is in fact an exercise of holy desire. You do not yet see what you long for, but the very act of desiring prepares you, so that when he comes you may see and be utterly satisfied’ (Homilies on 1 John, included in the Roman Office for the 6th week of Ordinary Time). Romero could agree – here we would turn to his robust theology of the Kingdom of God. However, we could also adjust Augustine’s phrase: for Romero, the Christian life is an exercise in holy seeing. It is obvious – if we look at society and our everyday relationships – that we do not yet see the splendid beauty and preciousness of the human person. But we should long to. This longing marks Romero’s own journey as well as his powerful, prophetic preaching. The Christian life is a journey of learning to see and respond to human dignity – our own and all those around us.

All of Romero’s homilies – the original Spanish and English translations – can be found at the Romero Trust website (https:// www.romerotrust.org.uk/romero-homilies/). I have generally used those translations in this piece.