The Most Dangerous Peace: Why August 15 Could Change the World

On August 15, the world will hold its breath.

At the international summit between Russia and the U.S.—at least in theory—a way out of the spiral of conflicts devastating entire regions may emerge. But while the talks revolve around "ceasefires," "strategic balance," and "collective security," an old voice, more than a century old, rises again with uncanny relevance: that of Pope Leo XIII.

It was 1894 when the pontiff published the apostolic letter Principibus populisque universis. At first glance, it seemed addressed to the rulers of his day; in truth, it was a universal manifesto on the nature of peace and the danger of war in disguise. In those pages, Leo XIII lucidly denounced the false tranquility of a Europe that claimed to be at peace, but in reality lived under the constant threat of arms:

"For many years now, we have lived in a peace more apparent than real. Distrustful of one another, nearly all nations rush feverishly into an arms race. Young men… are forced to abandon farming, study, and work in order to take up weapons. State finances are exhausted by enormous expenditures. This state of armed peace has become intolerable."

Those words—written in an age of breech-loading rifles and black-powder cannons—sound as if they were describing our world of armed drones and hypersonic missiles. "Armed peace"—the illusion that piling up more weapons guarantees security—was, for Leo XIII, a dead end. Not only does it leave the risk of conflict intact, it corrodes societies from within: it empties the fields, devalues labor, drains economies, and plants seeds of suspicion and fear.

But the Pope didn't stop at condemnation. In those very lines, he anticipated a distinction that political science and international relations would not clearly articulate until much later: the difference between negative peace and positive peace. The former is merely the absence of direct violence—a fragile, temporary truce. The latter is the building of a just order, in which the root causes of violence—political repression, economic exploitation, cultural oppression—are removed.

Here lies the startling modernity of Leo XIII. In the midst of a pontificate that often clashed politically with liberal modernity and the newly unified Italian state, he could see beyond, recognizing that authentic peace cannot rest on fear and military calculus. What is needed is social justice, and an international order perceived as fair by all.

The pontiff even glimpsed the seeds of a "good globalization":

"Never before has the sentiment of human brotherhood penetrated so deeply into souls… With incredible speed, lands and seas are crossed, not only for commerce and scientific research, but also to spread the word of God."

It was a prophetic vision of a connected world, where technical and scientific progress would serve encounter, not domination.

And yet, amid today's noise, that message risks being lost—were it not for the fact that, just over a century later, a successor to Leo XIII—Leo XIV—echoed it from his very first address as Pope: "Peace cannot be armed." Almost a direct quotation, barely noticed, yet forming an ideal bridge between two eras.

Like his predecessor, Leo XIV faces a world divided into blocs, riven by conflict, and steeped in mutual distrust. The weapons change, the alliances change, but the psychological and political mechanism remains the same: armaments are stockpiled in the name of security, yet in reality, they prepare the ground for the next war.

The thread uniting the two popes is the awareness that peace built on threat is a fragile truce. An equilibrium based on fear will inevitably shatter the moment one actor believes it holds an advantage. Meanwhile, societies are corroded—crushed under the weight of ever-swelling military budgets and a culture that normalizes conflict as a tool of foreign policy.

On the eve of the August 15 summit, there is a real danger of witnessing yet another edition of the diplomatic theater in which peace is discussed without questioning the war system itself. And here is where a prophetic gesture could make all the difference.

The Holy Father could—and should—call for August 15 to become a World Day of Prayer for Peace, beginning with First Vespers. A moment to engage believers of every faith, for true peace is not the monopoly of any one religion, but the heritage of all humanity. It would not replace diplomacy, but accompany it with the moral and symbolic power of a shared commitment—one that speaks to the hearts of peoples as well as to the chancelleries.

August 15, the Feast of the Assumption, already holds universal significance in the Christian calendar. Transforming it into a symbolic date for peace would inscribe in the liturgical year a commitment that is also political and cultural: to build a just order where security is born from cooperation, not from threat.

From the cry of Leo XIII to the voice of Leo XIV runs a clear, enduring message: armed peace is a deception; true peace is disarmament, justice, and fraternity.

And tomorrow, while the world watches the negotiating tables, we might discover that the most radical proposal is not a clause in a treaty, but an invitation—ancient yet ever new—to pray, to act, to build a peace that needs no weapon to guard it.

Marco Baratto