Modern Saints: Óscar Romero and the Preferential Option for the Poor (Sermon 11.2.25)

Scripture Readings: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4, Luke 19:1-10

Today’s first scripture reading comes from the little-known prophet Habakkuk. Unlike most prophets, Habakkuk does not address Israel’s sin or call the people back to God’s ways. Instead, he speaks from his own struggle to hold onto faith in a world filled with injustice and suffering.

He asks,  How can I believe in a God of justice when there is so much injustice?

So much violence?

So much chaos? 

Habakkuk prophesied around 600 B.C., during the final days of the southern kingdom of Judah. The northern kingdom had already fallen, and the threat of Babylonian invasion was drawing near. Under this pressure, Judah faced deep political instability, moral chaos, and spiritual confusion.

“Violence and destruction are before me,” the prophet cried. 

Everywhere he looked, he saw people taking advantage of each other, lying and stealing and cheating; people hurting each other with whatever they had at hand: whether it be swords or words or money. 

It was a society tearing itself apart: neighbor against neighbor, faction against faction, leaders divided against each other. 

Habakkuk’s world, it seems, is not so different from our own.

 “Strife and conflict abound.”

So it was, too, in another time and place—El Salvador in the late 1970s and 80s. The world of Óscar Romero. 

Since independence from colonial Spain in 1821, El Salvador’s history has been marked by instability and violence. From the 1930s through the 1970s, power shifted from one dictatorship to another, with elections often marred by fraud. 

Tensions reached a breaking point in February of 1977 after yet another disputed election.

Protests erupted in the capital. And rather than de-escalating the situation, government forces opened fire on the crowd, killing many civilians. Once in power, the new regime cracked down on dissidents, suspended civil liberties, and unleashed death squads that targeted anyone suspected of left-leaning sympathies. 

That very same month, Fr. Óscar Romero was the surprising choice to be the new Archbishop of San Salvador. A quiet scholar and theological conservative, he was seen as a safe choice at a time when the Church was divided between calls for social reform and loyalty to the right-wing government. Initially, Romero seemed wary of the Church’s growing focus on social justice and the efforts of his fellow clergy who worked alongside the exploited rural poor, advocating for land reform and economic justice. 

However, several events would irrevocably change the trajectory of Romero’s ministry and leadership. 

Before he was appointed Archbishop, Fr. Romero spent a brief period back in the countryside. There, his eyes were opened as he witnessed firsthand the harsh poverty of the farmers and peasants and the brutal repression they suffered under the security forces, especially around the election. 

Then, soon after, Fr. Romero’s close friend, Father Rutilio Grande, was ambushed and murdered, along with two civilians, by military forces. Grande had become a target for his prophetic ministry, speaking out about land reform, the divide between rich and poor, workers’ rights, and the call to make faith real among the poorest communities. He was the first priest killed in a conflict that was soon to erupt into a brutal twelve-year civil war. 

These experiences, his time in the countryside, and the murder of Fr. Grande culminated in a sort of conversion for Óscar Romero. Not a conversion of religion or doctrine, but a conversion of the heart. A conversion of conviction. He could not remain a passive intellectual as his people suffered. He must lead courageously—no matter the consequences.

Like the prophet Habakkuk, Fr. Romero looked out upon a world consumed by chaos and violence. Both men stood in that aching space between faith and despair, crying out for justice while the world seemed to fall apart. But where Habakkuk asks, “Why does God allow such violence?” Father Romero heard the question turned back onto humanity. “How can God’s people allow such violence?”

Fr. Romero realized that faith in God required more than passive waiting. It demanded bold witness. 

In the years that followed, El Salvador’s turmoil only deepened. Social reforms were suppressed, protesters were massacred, suspected dissidents disappeared at the hands of the military, and guerrilla groups began retaliating with violence of their own.

From his cathedral pulpit, Archbishop Romero became the voice of the voiceless. In a nation drowning in lies and misinformation, he dared to speak the truth—he denounced the killings, the torture, the kidnapping of community leaders. He called for justice and peace, and organized help for the victims of violence from both sides of the conflict. 

One of the central themes of Fr. Romero’s teaching became known as the “preferential option for the poor.” Today, it stands as a cornerstone of liberation theology and Catholic social teaching. Rooted in God’s care for the poor and in Jesus’ challenge to the oppressive powers of his time, this principle calls Christians to take bold, transformative action—breaking down systems of injustice and helping to build God’s Kingdom here on earth.

He described this principle powerfully in one of his sermons, saying: 

“The mission of the Church is to identify itself with the poor and to join with them in their struggle for justice. By so doing, the Church finds its own salvation.”

This past week, I spent time reading Fr. Romero’s sermons, letters, and writings from that period. I encourage everyone to read his own words in The Violence of Love. As I was reading, I was struck by how often he spoke of conversion. 

In describing the Gospel’s preferential option for the poor, he preached: 

“It is not that we pander to the sins of the poor and ignore the virtues of the rich. Both are in need of conversion. But the poor, in their condition of need, are disposed to conversion. They are more conscious of their need of God. "

This theme of conversion grew more prominent as his calls for justice grew bolder. 

“All of us, if we really want to know the meaning of conversion and of faith, must become poor, or at least make the cause of the poor our own inner motivation. That is where we begin to experience faith and conversion: when one has the heart of the poor, when one knows that financial capital, political influence, and power are worthless. And that without God we are nothing.”

For this courageous witness, Fr. Romero was viciously attacked by the press, denounced by wealthy church members, harassed by government soldiers, and criticized by his conservative colleagues. 

One of the qualities I most admire in Fr. Romero’s preaching is that he refused to condemn those who viciously opposed him. He never spoke from hatred or superiority. Instead, he spoke the truth—boldly and urgently—to those with power and privilege, but always with love, compassion, and deep respect for their humanity.

Fr. Romero understood that peace in El Salvador could never come through vengeance or division. It would require the participation—even the transformation—of the nation’s elite.

In one of his final sermons, he addressed them directly:

“I hope that this call of the Church will not further harden the hearts of the rich and powerful. You are the principal protagonists in this hour of change. On you depends, in great part, the end of violence. There can be no clinging to our feudal past. This is a new age—an age where all God’s children may live in peace, and freedom, and dignity.”

Fr. Romero knew that God’s peaceable kingdom requires more than calling for the liberation of the poor and oppressed—it also calls for the conversion of the rich. Conversions like that of the tax collector Zacchaeus featured in today's Gospel reading.

Zacchaeus was a man of privilege and power, who had built his wealth on the backs of others. To many of his own people, he would have been considered a traitor.

Instead of condemning Zacchaeus, like so many around him, Jesus invites himself over for dinner. He chose relationship over rejection—fellowship over judgment.

What Luke’s narrative shows us is that Zacchaeus' conversion wasn’t just an emotion or a faith statement; it was a process of transformation that moved him to action. Upon meeting Jesus, he saw clearly the injustice of his wealth when he was surrounded by poverty. And so he resolves to make it right: giving half of what he owned to the poor and paying back those he had cheated fourfold.

Fr. Romero knew that redemption and peace were possible for those like Zacchaeus, who were complicit in systems of harm and who benefited from abuse. Redemption is initiated by God’s grace, but repentance of the heart and acts of justice bring that grace to life.

Fr. Romero often spoke of the deep wounds carried by the people of El Salvador—the mothers who wept for their children, the communities shattered by violence, the countless lives cut short. Yet even in the midst of such grief, he reminded them that the dead were not gone. As he said in the words that opened our service, “the force of liberation involves not only those who remain alive, but also those whom others have tried to kill—who are now more present than before in the people’s movement.”

Early in 1979, as the violence reached its peak, Romero spoke words that would soon prove prophetic:

“I have often been threatened with death. If they kill me, I shall arise in the Salvadoran people. Let my blood be a seed of freedom and a sign that hope will soon be reality. A bishop will die, but the Church of God—which is the people—will never perish.”

His bold witness to the preferential option for the poor—his unwavering insistence that faith must stand with the oppressed—made him a target. And on March 24, 1980, as he lifted the bread and cup of communion, a government assassin shot him dead. 

As Romero prophesied, his body fell—but his voice, his memory, his spirit live on. 

Today, as SNAP benefits are being held hostage, as millions of Americans scramble to put food on the table this November,  as healthcare for millions hangs in the balance, and as the rich and powerful party in White House in the style of the Great Gatsby, the words and the witness of Archbishop Óscar Romero still ring clear. 

To follow Christ is to stand in solidarity with the poor. 

For if the Gospel is not good news to the poor, then it is not the Gospel at all.

Sermon preached by Rev. Delaney Piper at Highlands Presbyterian Church on 11.2.25.