There’s a strange picture forming in the world right now—so strange it almost looks foolish.
But before that, a small, almost throwaway moment.
I was going through photos of the No Kings rallies when I saw one banner: Elvis forever, Trump never.
I smiled. Because I knew right away—this wasn’t a Gen Z reaction. This was the kind of reaction from a senior who actually lived through Elvis Presley… or at least heard stories about him on a neighbor’s radio.
And then, just as quickly, the smile faded. Behind such a humor, something more serious was taking shape.
Imagine this: The most powerful man on earth, backed by the most powerful military ever assembled—being summoned by a court—with no army, no tanks, no missiles, and no fighter jets screaming across the sky.
Just paper. Witnesses. Names written down.
It sounds absurd. Until it doesn’t.
Prayers, Power, and Blood
On Palm Sunday, Pope Leo XIV didn’t whisper. He cut straight through the noise. Quoting the prophet Isaiah, he delivered a line that lands like a verdict.
No need to name names. The world already knows where to look.
You can feel it in the way people talk—half-said, half-smiled, like everyone’s in on the same inside joke. It even reminds me of that T-shirt I once saw online.
Funny on the surface. But underneath, it's saying something else: recognition has gone global—and so has accountability.
At some point, the laughter fades... and what's left is harder to swallow.
Sad to say, as one pundit stressed, there's no denying it anymore: Trump is not a fluke—he's America—a reflection, a product of a choice made in broad daylight, not in the shadows. The United States chose him—not just the image, but everything that came with it—his ugliness and cruelty.
And choices, especially on that scale, don't stay contained. They ripple outward. They reshape how a nation is seen, how it is remembered, how it is judged.
Which raises an uncomfortable question: when a nation's own institutions hesitate—or refuse—to hold power to account, what then?
The Road Not Taken?
There is, at least in theory, a path. Under Article 12(3) of the Rome Statute, a state—we the people—may accept the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court (ICC), even for acts its own courts do not pursue.
Whether that path is taken is another matter.
But the very fact that it exists—says something about the world we now live in.
No Kings in the Streets
When leaders start dressing war in the language of God—when bombs are baptized as “missions,” when violence is framed as "destiny"—you don’t just have a political problem—you have a spiritual one. God is not a slogan you stamp on missiles.
And then, almost on cue, the streets answered.
Across cities in the U.S. and beyond, people gathered under a simple, defiant message: No Kings.
No loud theology. No complex arguments. Just refusal. A refusal to bow.
Somewhere deep down, people can feel it—when leadership starts to drift into something else… something heavier… something that wants not just obedience, but reverence.
That’s when the word King stops being symbolic—and starts becoming dangerous.
The Quiet Banner That Spoke The Loudest
But the loudest voices weren’t always the biggest signs. One quiet banner slipped through the noise:
“See you in The Hague.”
No shouting. No theatrics.
Just memory. The memory that power, no matter how absolute it looks in the moment, has a history of being called to account.
The Court With No Army
History is not imaginary. It lives in places like the ICC—a body with no armed forces, no battalions, no warships.
This reminds me of one communist leader, Joseph Stalin—in dismissing the influence of the Vatican, cynically asked the question:
“The Pope? How many divisions has he got?”
And yet, ICC has something empires quietly fear: A record.
For Iran war starters: 3,000-3,500 killed, highlighting over 165 school children directly hit and killed by U.S. tomahawk missile, let alone the grave global economic impact.
We've seen a version of this story before. Not in textbooks. Not in some distant land we only read about.
But here—closer to home—with Rodrigo Duterte.
A Familiar Story: From Power To Trial
Once untouchable. Once unquestioned by many. A leader who moved with the full force of the state behind him—his voice carried the weight of command, his presence cast a long and steady shadow across the nation.
And yet, slowly at first... then all at once, the conversation began to shift.
On March 11, 2025, the unthinkable happened—former president Duterte was arrested and flown to The Hague.
It unfolded with a swiftness that almost felt unreal—one turn after another, each more improbable than the last.
For a man whose popularity, power, and influence once seemed unassailable, the moment felt inconceivable. His networks, his reach, his grip on the machinery of power—by any human measure, these were walls too high to climb, too strong to break.
And yet, history moved. Not always loudly. Not always visibly. But it moved.
And in that movement, something deeper seemed to whisper beneath the surface—a truth long echoed in the Bible: "Nothing is impossible with God."
What once felt unreachable became real. What once sounded like wishful thinking took its place in history. Sometimes, what power builds over years... justice rewrites in a moment.
The stage changes. But the script doesn’t.
And now, the world watches another chapter unfold.
When War Wears God’s Name
A superpower entangled in a widening conflict. Civilian lives caught in the crossfire resulting to humanitarian toll of thousands of deaths and injuries, with hundreds of children killed or wounded.
Words like “obliterate” thrown around as if they don’t carry human faces behind them.
And beneath it all, a dangerous undertone:
That this is somehow righteous.
That this is somehow sanctioned.
That this is, in some way, a “holy” endeavor.
But there’s a problem with that narrative.
The Other King
It runs headfirst into a different King. The One invoked by Pope Leo on Palm Sunday.
The One who rode, not a warhorse, but a donkey.
The One who refused the sword as He toned down His disciples in Matthew 26:53 during His arrest:
“Do you think I cannot call on my Father, and He will at once put at my disposal more than twelve legions of angels?”
But, He didn’t.
The One who didn’t conquer by killing—but by absorbing violence and exposing it.
A King of peace, He is. And that kind of kingship doesn’t coexist comfortably with missiles wrapped in prayer. This is where the picture becomes almost unsettling. It flips the logic we’ve grown and been trained to accept: Might is right.
But what if it isn’t?
Right Is Might
What if the final word doesn’t belong to those who can strike hardest… but to those who can account for what was done?
That’s when that foolish image starts to make sense. A court with no soldiers—calling in those who command armies.
It echoes an old verse from the Bible.
History doesn’t always move fast. Justice doesn’t always arrive on schedule. But it has a way of showing up—quietly, stubbornly, and often when it’s least convenient for those who thought they were beyond its reach.
As Martin Luther King Jr. once put it:
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
The Sign That Waits
So maybe this isn’t just a story about two leaders. Maybe it’s about a pattern.
When men begin to act like kings—people begin to remember courts.
When power grows louder—accountability grows quieter—but sharper.
And somewhere, in the background, almost easy to ignore—a small sign awaits:
“See you in The Hague.”
Not a threat.
Just a reminder.
Content & editing put together in collaboration with ChatGPT
Head & bottom image created by ChatGPT; art design by Canva
Still photos courtesy of AFP photo/ Iranian Press Center/Getty Images, Time Magazine, Alternet, Boston 25 News, Getty Images, huffpost.com, Facebook, ICC, DepositPhotos, The White House, Freepik, Vecteezy, Adobe Stock, & ChatGPT image creator
