22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [30 August 2026]

First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah (20:7–9).

The central theme here is Jeremiah’s inner struggle: the fire of the Word.  His is an experience of persecution and inner turmoil that he endured throughout his life. And he is not alone: many other prophets and, later, Jesus himself faced similar situations. Jeremiah carried out his ministry during the 40 years leading up to the disaster in Jerusalem in 587 BC and the deportation to Babylon. Forty years of spiritual decline. His task was to foretell the catastrophe, not to be a harbinger of doom, but on the contrary in the hope of securing, at the very last moment, the conversion of the king and the people. He spared no effort to warn his contemporaries, whilst there was still time, but they, in turn, spared no effort to silence this spoilsport. It is in this contentious and distressing context that the private reflections from which we have read an excerpt arise: his ‘confessions’. Unfortunately, the word ‘lamentations’, which derives from this, has taken on a pejorative connotation, and this is unjust: Jeremiah’s confessions are magnificent, full of sorrow, yes, but even more so full of faith and passion for the cause of his God. In today’s text, he reveals to us the inner struggle taking place deep within him: torn between God’s call, which urges him to speak, and human wisdom, which urges him to remain silent: ‘I said, “I will think no more of him; I will speak no more in his name!” But in my heart there was like a burning fire, shut up in my bones; I tried to hold it back, but I could not’ (Jer 20:9). To give up would mean abandoning his fellow citizens to their sad fate and betraying God’s trust. It is clear why this text is set before us on the Sunday when we hear the Gospel following Peter’s confession at Caesarea. When Jesus asked the disciples, ‘Who do you say that I am?’, Peter replied that Jesus was the expected Messiah. But immediately afterwards, Jesus reveals to the disciples the fate that awaits him: Passion, the cross, death and resurrection (Mt 16:21). Peter protests: ‘God forbid, Lord; this shall never happen to you.’ But Jesus calls him ‘Satan’ and warns the disciples that they will not be treated any better than their Master: ‘If anyone wishes to come after me… (Mt 16:24–25). This proves that every true prophet is inevitably a thorn in the side of the prevailing ideas of the moment. The consuming fire of the Word of God, which calls for conversion, is not meant to please: ‘I have become a byword all day long; everyone mocks me,’ confesses Jeremiah, and he does not hide the fact that at times he is afraid. He hears people talking behind his back and plotting to get rid of him: ‘I hear the slander of many’ (Jer 20:10). The prophet is all the more troublesome because, as the Lord’s messenger, the Lord gives him the strength to carry on despite all the persecution, so that there is no way to silence him. It is clear why persecution is inevitable. The verses preceding today’s reading describe a particularly harrowing episode: Jeremiah had so exasperated everyone in the Temple with his rebukes that the priest Pashur had him tied to a pillory, hanging upside down in the public square. The next day, when Pashur himself came to untie him, thinking that such punishment had calmed him down, Jeremiah spoke out even more forcefully and took his anger out on Pashur himself. Yet these confessions of Jeremiah’s, steeped in sorrow, are at the same time an admission of the all-consuming passion that burns within him and, ultimately, illuminates his life: ‘You have seduced me, Lord, and I let myself be seduced’ (Jer 20:7). He complains, yes, but he would not give his place to anyone else. The Word was a burning fire in my heart, a consuming fire that brings to mind Psalm 68/69: ‘Zelo for your house has consumed me’, which aptly expresses the persecution suffered by all the prophets. To begin with, this was the case with the people of Israel, entrusted with a prophetic mission in the service of the nations. Throughout their history, they sought to remain faithful to that mission, and this earned them terrible persecution at times. Then it was the case for all the prophets, one after another, and subsequently for the early Christians, who imitated Jesus, who was ultimately silenced. But nothing can silence the Word of God: Christ is risen; and now we know that a day will come when people will hear the Word and finally find their light in it. 

Responsorial Psalm (62/63) 

This psalm echoes the experience of Jeremiah, whom we encounter in the first reading, who endured inner turmoil and constant attacks, even though his passion for God—stronger than anything else—helped him to endure every threat and humiliation. However, this psalm was not composed to speak of Jeremiah; rather, it is like a prayer that King David might have composed whilst being hunted down by his enemies. The Old Testament recounts at least three episodes in which David had to take refuge in the Judean desert: the first two times to escape the murderous rage of King Saul, who had become so jealous of David that he wanted to kill him. The third time was even more dramatic: the one pursuing and seeking to kill David was his own son Absalom, who was too eager to seize the throne and hasten his father’s death, and who had already eliminated his elder brother. David did not immediately realise the danger, and by the time he did, it was too late: Absalom was on the verge of conquering Jerusalem; there was only one solution left: flight. And all of Jerusalem saw their king, humiliated, fleeing on foot from the holy city and climbing the Mount of Olives in tears (cf. 2 Sam 15:23–28). The words of this psalm are attributed to David: ‘Your love is better than life’ (v. 4). As is well known, the title of the psalms does not designate the author—in this case, King David. This psalm in particular contains several clear allusions to the Temple in Jerusalem, which David certainly did not know, as the Temple was only built by his son Solomon. ‘A psalm of David’ here means ‘in the manner of David, the one who thirsts for God’. The prayer ‘O God, you are my God; at dawn I seek you; my soul thirsts for you’ may have been David’s, but it is also that of all generations of the chosen people, from Abraham right up to the Day of Salvation. In the most dramatic periods, this prayer took on even greater force, as during the Exile in Babylon. Upon their return from the Exile, the people give thanks: ‘Yes, you have been my help; I rejoice in the shelter of your wings.’ These are the wings of the cherubim that cover the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies; but they also recall the wings of the great desert eagle that protects its brood whilst teaching them to fly: and Moses had taken up this image to express the care with which God had surrounded his people: ‘I carried you on eagle’s wings,’ God had said (cf. Ex 19:4; Dt 32:10–11). Then came the even more terrible periods of persecution in the 2nd century BC under the Greek king Antiochus Epiphanes, when many Jews died for their faith, proclaiming: ‘Your love, Lord, is worth more than life.’ This verse resonates particularly on this Sunday, when we shall hear Jesus say to his disciples: ‘Whoever loses their life for my sake will save it’ (Mt 16:25). This is the struggle of all the prophets.

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (12:1–2)

‘I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the tenderness of God’: this is the theme of the Letter to the Romans. The first eleven chapters deal with the major themes of Paul’s theology, which are set out at length and in depth: the universality of sin, justification by faith, the Paschal Mystery, the work of the Holy Spirit, and the salvation promised and granted to all. But all of this always returns to a single subject: the tenderness of God. Now, as in all his letters, Paul draws out for his readers the implications of his teaching: the discovery of God’s immense tenderness cannot fail to shake us to the core, or rather, to permeate our whole life from now on. ‘I urge you, brothers and sisters, by the tenderness of God…’. What he is about to say is closely linked to everything he has written so far, particularly in the final lines of the previous chapter: ‘God wishes to show mercy to all’, which are followed by the hymn of thanksgiving we read last Sunday: ‘Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgements, and his ways beyond our understanding!’ (Rom 11:32–33).  The logical response is to offer ourselves as a ‘living, holy sacrifice’. Therefore, says Saint Paul, there is no room for hesitation: to this God, so astonishing in his tenderness and his desire to save all humanity, there is but one possible response: that of trusting surrender, offering ourselves to him as a sacrifice so that he may accomplish his work within us. The verb ‘to sacrifice’ means ‘to make sacred’, and St Paul invites us to make our lives sacred—that is, divine. Paul devotes the remainder of his Letter to the Romans to setting out the nature of the Christian commitment: each person, according to their gifts and qualities, is invited to take their place in the Church’s mission, which is the service of all people. This commitment is an active participation in ‘God’s will’. This undoubtedly requires us to accept, day by day, to be transformed—that is, to ‘renew our minds’—which for us is, at times, a true conversion because, all too often, our thoughts are not God’s thoughts but those of men, as Jesus rebuked Peter at Caesarea Philippi, as we read in this Sunday’s Gospel. But the Spirit has been given to us to bring about this renewal within us, which requires us to refuse to conform to the mindset of this age (Rom 12:2). True freedom lies in charting our own course, whatever the siren calls of fashion may be; in loving the world without being enslaved by the world’s ways; and in remaining constantly immersed in God’s tenderness, even though we know full well that it is not easy.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (16:21–27)

From ‘You are the Christ’ to the rejection of the cross. This account follows Peter’s memorable profession of faith which we heard last Sunday: ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’, a statement which earned him this reply from Jesus: ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah: it was not flesh and blood that revealed this to you (that is, you did not guess it on your own), but my Father in heaven. Like any blessing, this ‘Blessed are you’ sounds like a compliment – and what a compliment! – but also like encouragement. And indeed, it will take a great deal of courage for Peter to remain faithful to this first profession of faith. For he does not yet fully grasp its significance, and Jesus has not finished surprising him. In fact, Jesus accepts, at least implicitly, Peter’s recognition of his title as the Messiah: ‘My Father has revealed this to you’. And immediately afterwards, he sets out his plan, which does not fit at all with the common idea people had of the Messiah: ‘From that time on, Jesus began to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer greatly…’ (Mt 16:21). It was a world turned upside down: a king without weapons or privileges… Worse still, a king who was mistreated and seemingly consenting… . He speaks of suffering greatly and even of being put to death! Peter has some reason to protest because, like many of his contemporaries, he was expecting a triumphant, glorious, powerful Messiah-King who would drive the Roman occupiers out of Jerusalem. What Jesus announces is therefore unacceptable: the almighty God cannot allow such things to happen! One might almost entitle this text: ‘Peter’s first denial’, his first refusal to follow the Messiah in his suffering. Jesus faces this spontaneous refusal on Peter’s part as a real temptation for himself and tells him so vehemently: ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me’ (Mt 16:23). We must allow the Spirit to transform—and at times completely overturn—our plans and ideas if we are to remain faithful to God’s plan. As Paul says in the second reading, we must allow the Spirit of God to transform our ways of seeing (cf. Rom 12:2) and we will experience wonderful surprises, for God’s ways are entirely different from our own. We must never lose sight of Isaiah’s famous words: ‘God says: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord’ (Isaiah 55:8–9). ‘If I understood God, he would not be God,’ said Saint Augustine. We must therefore accept being taken by surprise: the apostles and all the Jews of their time were, Peter foremost among them. With rare exceptions, they had anticipated a powerful, triumphant Messiah; instead, Jesus is the very antithesis of these grand expectations. God’s plan is nothing other than the salvation of the world, that is, the birth of a new humanity, one that will live solely by tenderness and mercy, in the image of God Himself. The logic of the cross is required to save humankind, and the salvation of humankind—that is, our total and definitive conversion to love and forgiveness, to brotherhood and peace, to sharing and justice—cannot happen with a wave of a magic wand. The salvation of humankind inevitably involves a slow transformation of humankind, but how can we transform humankind without showing them the way? Therefore, it was absolutely necessary for Jesus to walk the path of gentleness, goodness and forgiveness to the very end, in order to give us some chance of walking it ourselves. This is why Jesus, when explaining his passion and death to the disciples on the road to Emmaus, said ‘it had to be’, in the sense of ‘unfortunately, it had to be’. God’s plan of salvation is not compatible with a triumphant Messiah. For people to come to a full knowledge of the truth (1 Tim 2:4), they must discover the God of tenderness and forgiveness, of mercy and compassion, and this is not achieved through power but through the supreme gift of the Son’s life. We can then better understand this saying of Jesus: ‘No one has greater love than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends’ (John 15:13). Only this supreme proof of love can lead us, too, to walk the path of love.

NOTE. ‘You are a stumbling block to me’ – the Greek word skandalon means ‘stumbling block’ – and our frailties and doubts can become stumbling blocks for ourselves or for others.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

21st Sunday in Ordinary Time  (year A)  [23 August 2026]

First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah (22:19–23)

We are in Jerusalem around 700 BC, during the reign of Hezekiah. The steward of the royal palace, Shebna, holds a very important office: he is entrusted with the ‘keys of the house of David’, a symbol of the authority to control access to the king and to govern in his name. The prophet Isaiah accuses Shebna of two serious offences: 1. He supported an alliance with Egypt against the Assyrian empire, a choice that would have led to grave consequences for the kingdom: the offence, therefore, of giving bad advice. 2. Instead of serving the people, he was primarily concerned with his own prestige and power: the offence of pursuing his own interests. For this reason, Isaiah announces his dismissal and the appointment of Eliakim, described as a true servant of the people. He is entrusted with the keys to the kingdom with the words: ‘If he opens, no one will shut; if he shuts, no one will open.’ From this historical event, the sacred author draws several important messages: 1. God acts within concrete history, and political events too form part of the history of salvation. 2. Nothing escapes God’s plan of salvation, and everything contributes to its fulfilment. 3. In this context, the role of the prophets is to call rulers and those in power to justice and the common good. 4. We must constantly remember that all authority is a service: power exists for the good of the people, not for the personal interest of those who exercise it. 5 We must not forget that when the good of his people is threatened, God intervenes to raise up faithful leaders, for he never abandons his people or his plans for salvation. 

Responsorial Psalm (137/138)

The prayer of the poor rises above the clouds. This short psalm (138 according to the Hebrew numbering, 137 in the Greek) is a prayer of thanksgiving that summarises the entire history of the Covenant between God and Israel. As is often the case in the psalms, the ‘I’ who speaks actually represents the whole people of Israel, chosen by God to know his love and bear witness to it before the nations. The psalm opens with a thanksgiving: ‘I give you thanks, Lord, with all my heart’. In the Greek version, the reason for this praise is specified: God has heard the prayer of his people. This is one of the fundamental convictions of the biblical faith. Ever since the experience of Moses at the burning bush, God has presented himself as the one who sees the suffering of his people, hears their cry and knows their anguish. He is not indifferent to human suffering, but sustains his children so that they may not be overwhelmed by evil. This is why the psalm states that the Lord, though he is most high, looks with care upon the humble. The same teaching is taken up by Ben Sira: ‘The prayer of the poor pierces the clouds’, that is, it reaches God. And Jesus, too, will express the same trust before Lazarus’s tomb: ‘I knew that you always hear me’ (John 11:41–42). This is a universal psalm which, in some parts, lends itself to various possible interpretations due to differences between the Hebrew and Greek texts. The phrase ‘I will sing to you in the presence of the angels’ in the Hebrew text could be translated as ‘before the gods’ (the Elohîm). The two readings are not mutually exclusive: ‘Before the angels’ evokes the heavenly liturgy, in which the heavenly beings continually praise God with the song ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’, as in the vision of the prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 6:3). ‘Before the gods’ is a profession of faith: the God of Israel is the one true God, whilst the idols of the nations have no power whatsoever. A Syriac translation, on the other hand, proposes: ‘I sing to you before the kings’. In this case, Israel’s mission to bear witness to the Lord before all the peoples of the earth comes to the fore. Rather than contradicting one another, the three interpretations complement one another. The psalm sings of God’s love and faithfulness. In the Bible, ‘love and faithfulness’ is a phrase that denotes God’s unshakeable faithfulness to the Covenant. For Israel, remembering God’s love and faithfulness means remembering that the Lord never abandons his people, even when they prove unfaithful. The conclusion is trust in God’s work. Indeed, the psalm ends with a plea: ‘Do not forsake the work of your hands’. This is not a request born of fear, but of trust. The believer knows that God’s love is eternal and that, despite human frailty, the Lord will continue to carry out his plan of salvation. The final message is therefore simple and profound: God always hears the cry of the lowly and the poor; his faithfulness never fails and his work in history continues. For this reason, the believer can praise him with gratitude and entrust themselves to him with complete confidence.

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (11:33–36)

This passage concludes Paul’s reflection on the rift within the Jewish people following the emergence of the Christian community. For centuries, the Jews had been certain that they were the people chosen by God to bear witness to the one true God before the world, and his Covenant had been confirmed throughout history. The prophets had recalled this vocation, proclaiming that Israel would be a light to the nations and an instrument of salvation for all peoples. The emergence of Christianity triggered a profound crisis, and a group of Jews arose who recognised Jesus as the long-awaited Messiah. Paul, who was Jewish and became a Christian, experienced this rift first-hand. On the one hand, he adhered to Christ; on the other, he suffered at the sight of the majority of his people rejecting the Gospel. This gave rise to his question: has God perhaps rejected Israel? Has the Covenant been annulled and replaced by a new people? Paul finds an initial answer in the Scriptures: the Covenant, founded on God’s gratuitous love and not on the people’s abilities or merits, cannot be revoked because God is faithful to his promises and cannot deny himself. For this reason, Paul affirms that ‘God’s gifts and his call are irrevocable’ (Rom 11:29). The second reason for hope is the conviction that the relationship between God and Israel – described by the prophets as a spousal love – will be maintained even in times of suffering, which are transformed into opportunities for salvation. A portion of Israel—the so-called ‘faithful remnant’ spoken of by the prophets—has accepted Christ, and Paul is convinced that this process will lead to full salvation: he cannot explain how, but he is certain of it. Having reached this point, Paul offers no further theoretical explanations, but contemplates the mystery of God: ‘Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are  his judgements and his ways beyond our understanding!’  The final message, which draws on words from Isaiah, Job and the wisdom tradition,  is an invitation to Christians to cultivate an attitude of humble trust: God’s plans are beyond human understanding, but his faithfulness is certain. 

From the Gospel according to Matthew (16:13–20)

We have reached a decisive moment in the Gospel of Matthew. At Caesarea, Peter  recognises Jesus as the Messiah without Jesus having just performed any extraordinary sign: Peter’s faith springs from an inner revelation. For this reason, Jesus says to him: “Blessed are you, Simon, son of Jonah, for neither flesh nor blood has revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” True faith does not arise from human intelligence, but is a gift from God. And this is what is new about Peter’s confession: it is not the use of individual titles, but their connection. Jesus asks who the ‘Son of Man’ is, and Peter replies that he is the ‘Son of God’. In this way, he recognises that the glorious figure foretold by Daniel is one and the same as the Messiah sent by God. However, Peter does not yet fully understand the mystery of Jesus. He knows that Jesus is the Messiah, but he has not yet realised that he is the Son of God made man. This understanding will mature after the Resurrection and the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Immediately after Peter’s profession of faith, Jesus begins to proclaim openly his Passion, death and Resurrection. The expression ‘from that time on’ indicates that a fundamental milestone in the understanding of his identity has been reached. In Jesus’ time, the expression ‘Son of God’ was essentially equivalent to ‘Messiah’ or ‘King consecrated by God’. The disciples had already used this title after the miracle of walking on water, but at that time they had been struck above all by his power. During his trial before the high priest, Jesus once again combines these two titles, declaring that the Son of Man will come on the clouds of heaven and sit at the right hand of God. Yet it is precisely at that moment that his kingship is revealed, not through force, but through the love with which he entrusts himself into the hands of men. In Caesarea, following his profession of faith, Peter is entrusted with the mission of leading the Church: “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church.” The rock does not refer to a personal quality of Peter—who would repeatedly demonstrate his frailties—but to the faith he received from the Father. The foundation of the Church is therefore faith in Jesus Christ. The Church is the new people of God, the “people of the saints of the Most High” foretold by Daniel, united to Christ as the body is to its head. And Peter receives the power of the keys. Jesus adds: “Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.” This is the so-called power of the keys, which recalls the symbol of the authority entrusted in the Old Testament to Eliakim. This does not mean that Peter and his successors are omnipotent, but that God undertakes to accompany their mission. The Church has the task of bringing people into communion with the Father and opening up access to the Kingdom for them. The final message is Jesus’ reassuring word: ‘I will build my Church’. It is not the Church that saves itself, nor is it people who build it by their own strength. It is Christ himself, the Risen One, who sustains and guides her. This is why Jesus can promise that the gates of hell shall not prevail against her. The strength of the Church does not depend on the perfection of her members, but on the faithfulness of Christ, the Son of the living God, who continues to build her throughout history.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

(Mt 23:27-32)

John Chrysostom writes in his Commentary on the Gospel of Mt:

«If the conscience of each one could be opened, how many worms, how much rottenness and what unimaginable filth we would find in it. Vile and perverse desires, more filthy than the worms themselves» (73:2).

In his effective Commentary on the Gospel of Mt, St Jerome writes:

«The sepulchres on the outside are white with lime, adorned with marble and gold, resplendent in their colours; but inside they are full of the bones of the dead. So also the perverse teachers, who say one thing and do another: in dress they show purity and in speech humility; but inside they are full of all decay and impure desire» (4).

Jesus takes a stand against hypocrisy and inconsistent extrinsicism. He does so against authorities who save clothing, ideas and image, but radically unfaithful.

He regrets that they appear fictitious and correct, while inside they are a total denial of the respect for God that they showcase.

Thus they let the dark side of the world stagnate, instead of helping us to remove it.

The ostentatious pity for the great ancestors denounces a guilt complex (vv.29-32), not a profoundly intimate key feature - a unifying sphere of being and acting.

Spiritual masters are in the field not to show off - but to benefit, to give colour, new life; to promote authentic and cheering, creative situations.

The Lord proposes a renewal that reaches deep within, more intimate than the epidermal fuss; that touches the place and dimension of the encounter with the Father.

He is not content with 'monuments' with unseemly surprise, inside.

We are always tempted to remain on the level of an embellished surface, seeking easy and immediate gratification, esteem, honour - especially we priests, who not infrequently like to lull ourselves into accolades.

We satisfy ourselves with epidermal things, why? Encountering oneself, others and reality requires an onerous commitment: that of questioning oneself; stepping out of forms, and external fashions.

The whitewashed tombs appear sacred and graceful, but one knows what they sometimes contain.

Not always crystal-clear diamonds; not always expressions of a direct line with others and with God.

In short, the conspicuousness of pomp and paraphernalia, or winking patinas, is a kind of projection.

Artifice that does not allow thoughts to be processed; it only drives away tiring nightmares - in the most childish way.

Love, on the other hand, lives on real sparks - it does not cross them unscathed by contenting itself with self-representation in decorative signs, or in ideology that lures the naive.

Screens of incredible emptiness.

While recognizing the facets of great artistic expression and differing opinions as legitimate, Jesus would have subscribed to a principle of the Puritan laity: «The greater the ceremonies, the lesser the Truth».

[Wednesday 21st wk. in O.T.  August 26, 2026]

Duality or integral practice: branches and Roots

(Mt 23:23–32)

    On how to remain on the Path that fosters growth, and to fulfil one’s natural calling, the Tao Te Ching states (LIX):

‘ ‘Sink deep roots and strengthen the trunk: this is the Way of long life and eternal youth.’

And Master Wang Pi comments: ‘To accumulate virtue means to focus on the root and only then to raise the branches.’

When the leaders of a dubious form of religiosity seek to gain credibility, they dwell on abstract ideas or minutiae, and turn a blind eye to what is aberrant.

In ancient times, the duplicity between what they displayed and what they practised was proverbial.

To conceal their ignoble spirit of plunder (v. 25), they conjure up all manner of legalistic subtleties, thereby overshadowing the essential requirements.

Even in Israel, they never followed the line taken by the Prophets: they plotted to make Jesus—who was exposing them—suffer, seeking to discourage him with mocking insults and accusations—with the aim of undermining his boldness.

Yet the new Rabbi continued his scathing condemnation of religious formalism, which created barriers to any profound exploration of the motivations behind one’s actions. 

Nevertheless, his story helps us to understand that even the harsh circumstances and the ambiguous attitudes of the leaders themselves can be an opportunity and a starting point.

Perhaps a gift, to take action. The inner man comes alive even by shattering a mask, a role, a formal duty, a persona; an established icon of wanting to appear rather than to be.

For us today, too, it is a matter of taking the greatest risk with Christ, in favour of a long inner adventure.

Here we touch upon those realms where the Call by Name is unlike any other.

There, where we encounter ourselves, our deepest vocational identity, our unexpressed talents, and the divine Author’s signature, in Uniqueness.

If we do not silence it, then the vocational Seed that does not lie, and which guides, will emerge within us; the Risen One, present, who reveals himself to be understanding, gentle, attentive, utterly personal, yet clear.

Attention to detail and minutiae is good and driving (v.23) only if it is united with this intimate discovery of one’s own unique Mission.

Here, the call to fundamental values does not imply indifference or contempt for what seems secondary: such a call may conceal a unique character.

Without extreme incentives, the motive behind our actions might well remain self-interest and concern for one’s own reputation, and so on.

This would pervade the soul through inaction or silence, rendering the lived experience of Faith barren and discredited.

In this way, even an internal or external contradiction can help bring forth our deepest self.

Even anger at disorder can trigger growth, so that we may live up to our Name.

Thus… we put down roots and strengthen the trunk; we stimulate an inner youthfulness. Keeping our sights set on the hidden Seed, before we let our branches grow.

The Master proposes a return to the essential – so too that we may follow the ‘unique and specific path that the Lord has in store for us’ [Gaudete et Exsultate, no. 11].

All this stems from a great desire to be born anew, in both small and great things, so that we may bring forth our deepest self.

To internalise and live out the message:

What is your well-filtered gnat, which someone has conditioned you to regard as a camel? What twisted monstrosity have you been forced to swallow, so that you might be deemed fit to follow the Lord?

Beautiful on the outside, rotten on the inside

Appearances: emptiness

(Mt 23:27–32)

    John Chrysostom writes in his Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew:

‘If one could open up the conscience of every person, how many worms, how much rot and what unimaginable stench would we find within. Vile and perverse desires, filthier even than the worms themselves’ (73:2).

Perhaps we were taken aback by the Pope’s stern stance against cheerful, casual and ambiguous forms of asset management, and in the realm of morality within the Catholic Church – a veritable campaign of clerical reform, which has gone so far as to reopen prisons.

But in taking a stand against the system of grand pretensions [hypocrisy and incoherent outward show], Jesus goes even further.

He does so in the face of the ancient authorities, the religious leaders and those who trade in the sacred – leaders who preserve their reputations, their ideas and their image, yet are radically unfaithful.

He laments their false and proper outward appearance, whilst inwardly they are the total negation of the respect for God that they put on display.

In this way, they allow the dark side of the world to fester, instead of helping us to rid ourselves of it.

The ostentatious piety shown towards the great ancestors betrays a guilt complex (vv. 29–32), not a deep, intimate conviction – the unifying core of being and action.

Hysteria that exorcises the vice of the ‘chosen ones’ of all time: getting rid of those who unmask their empty existence; as well as their well-adorned, intellectual or legalistic influence, which still confines the lives of so many people to tombs.

Spiritual masters are on the scene not to put themselves on display – nor to present themselves as menacing guides.

They must act to do good, to bring colour and new life; to foster authentic situations and new, uplifting and creative content.

In his detailed Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, St Jerome writes:

‘ Outwardly, the tombs are whitewashed with lime, adorned with marble and gold, resplendent in their colours; but inside they are full of the bones of the dead. So too are the perverse teachers, who say one thing and do another: in their dress they display purity and in their words humility; but inside they are full of every kind of rot and every impure desire’ (4).

The Lord calls for a renewal that reaches deep within, more intimate than mere superficial agitation; one that touches the very place and dimension of our encounter with the Father.

He is not satisfied with ‘monuments’ that harbour a surprise within.

We are always tempted to remain on the level of a beautified surface, in search of easy and immediate satisfactions, esteem and honour – especially we priests, who not infrequently love to lull ourselves with futile accolades.

And our various theatres of ostentatious yet hollow religiosity are more than willing to cloak the membership of the leading actors in the civilisation of fiction – clean and adorned – with spiritual prestige.

We are content with superficial things – why? Encountering oneself, others and reality requires a heavy commitment: that of questioning oneself; of stepping outside forms and external fashions.

But good manners are not enough to cover up so many terrible habits.

The false security of presenting our soap-opera façade is no longer enough: a figure adorned with even religious and devout status that one wishes to display.

The hypocrisy of complacent interpretations or over-the-top characterisations is an attitude that is not infrequently disguised and even criminal.

It is cheerfully leading us towards the dark evil of the most decadent emptiness and widespread sadness.

The whitewashed tombs of our premature graveyard appear sacred and graceful, but we know what they sometimes contain.

Not always crystalline diamonds; not always expressions of a direct connection with others and with God.

Therefore, the surprising commitment of the current hierarchies to internal purification remains a firm and entirely appropriate principle.

It is life that matters and must be promoted, not the papier-mâché facade of all that is unknown or hidden which has grown within our homes.

Indeed, it is precisely the mannerists or modernists, the superficial moralisers, the most vain proponents of ritual beauty or the latest fashions… who turn out to be the worst sort of people – leading double lives; lovers of a satrap-like style [perhaps for social redemption].

Herein lies the confusion of ideas, even for oneself, and the paradoxical act of disidentification.

In short, the ostentatiousness of grandeur and pretence, or of glossy facades that are always winking at us, is a sort of projection.

An artifice that prevents the formation of thoughts; it merely wards off exhausting nightmares – in the most childish way.

Love, on the other hand, thrives on real sparks – it does not pass through them unscathed, content to represent itself merely in decorative symbols, or in the ideology that lures the naive.

Screens of incredible emptiness.

Whilst recognising the legitimacy of the facets of great artistic expressions and differing opinions, Jesus would have endorsed the principle of the Anglo-Saxon puritanical laity: ‘The greater the ceremonies, the lesser the Truth’.

To internalise and live out the message:

Which forms of clerical hypocrisy [or blind adherence] annoy you, despite their ostentation?

The hypocritical accusers pretend to entrust the judgement to him whereas it is actually he himself whom they wish to accuse and judge. Jesus, on the other hand, is "full of grace and truth" (Jn 1: 14): he can read every human heart, he wants to condemn the sin but save the sinner, and unmask hypocrisy. St John the Evangelist highlights one detail: while his accusers are insistently interrogating him, Jesus bends down and starts writing with his finger on the ground. St Augustine notes that this gesture portrays Christ as the divine legislator: in fact, God wrote the law with his finger on tablets of stone (cf. Commentary on John's Gospel, 33,5). Thus Jesus is the Legislator, he is Justice in person. And what is his sentence? "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her". These words are full of the disarming power of truth that pulls down the wall of hypocrisy.

[Pope Benedict, Angelus 21 March 2010]

2. The present-day mentality, more perhaps than that of people in the past, seems opposed to a God of mercy, and in fact tends to exclude from life and to remove from the human heart the very idea of mercy. The word and the concept of "mercy" seem to cause uneasiness in man, who, thanks to the enormous development of science and technology, never before known in history, has become the master of the earth and has subdued and dominated.

15. Let us offer up our petitions, directed by the faith, by the hope, and by the charity which Christ has planted in our hearts. This attitude is likewise love of God, whom modern man has sometimes separated far from himself, made extraneous to himself, proclaiming in various ways that God is "superfluous." This is, therefore, love of God, the insulting rejection of whom by modern man we feel profoundly, and we are ready to cry out with Christ on the cross: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."137 At the same time it is love of people, of all men and women without any exception or division: without difference of race, culture, language, or world outlook, without distinction between friends and enemies. This is love for people-it desires every true good for each individual and for every human community, every family, every nation, every social group, for young people, adults, parents, the elderly-a love for everyone, without exception. This is love, or rather an anxious solicitude to ensure for each individual every true good and to remove and drive away every sort of evil.

[Pope John Paul II, Dives in Misericordia]

When it is said of someone that they are a person with a double life, it is not to pay them a compliment. On the contrary. It is those people who irritate, cause indignation, or often even disgust with behaviour that contradicts the things that they are paying lip service to. Whether it is a politician or a neighbour makes little difference: discovering, so to speak, a 'double life', is something that always hurts. And let us not mention the disillusionment it can generate, especially in young people.

But if preaching well and braying badly is always an irritating thing, when it is a priest doing it, it is even more intolerable. Because there is something more at stake. Pope Francis said it very clearly, and as always in a very direct and effective style, a few days ago. When, in the homily of the morning Mass at Santa Marta, he stressed how "it is ugly to see pastors of double life", indeed it is a real "wound in the Church". For the Pope, they are "sick pastors, who have lost their authority and go on in this double life"; and, he added, "there are many ways of carrying on the double life: but it is double ... And Jesus is very strong with them. Not only does he tell people not to listen to them but not to do what they do, but what does he say to them? "You are whited sepulchres": beautiful in doctrine, from the outside. But inside, rottenness. This is the end of the pastor who has no closeness with God in prayer and with people in compassion'.

For it is this that makes the difference. Francis reiterates it firmly: 'What gives a pastor authority or awakens the authority that is given by the Father, is closeness: closeness to God in prayer and closeness to people. The pastor detached from the people does not reach the people with the message. Closeness, this double closeness. This is the anointing of the pastor who is moved by God's gift in prayer, and can be moved by people's sins, problems, illnesses: let the pastor be moved. The scribes ... had lost the 'ability' to be moved precisely because 'they were not close either to the people or to God'". And without this closeness, or when for whatever reason it is lost, 'the shepherd ends up in inconsistency of life'.

It seems like re-reading the words that John Paul II, in his Holy Thursday letter addressed to priests around the world in 1986, dedicated to the Holy Curate of Ars, pointing to him, on the second centenary of his birth, as an example for all priests. 'It is certainly not a matter of forgetting,' wrote Benedict XVI, again on St John Mary Vianney, in his letter of indiction for the 2009 Year for Priests, 'that the substantial effectiveness of the ministry remains independent of the holiness of the minister; but neither can we overlook the extraordinary fruitfulness generated by the encounter between the objective holiness of the ministry and the subjective holiness of the minister. The Curé d'Ars immediately began this humble and patient work of harmonisation between his life as a minister and the holiness of the ministry entrusted to him, deciding to 'live' even materially in his parish church: 'As soon as he arrived, he chose the church as his dwelling... He would enter the church before dawn and only leave it after the evening Angelus. There one had to look for him when one needed him,' reads the first biography'. Consistency, then. Not duplicity. Because God's people need everything except whitewashed sepulchres.

[Pope Francis, St. Martha; Salvatore Mazza in Avvenire 13 January 2018]

(Mt 23:23-26)

When leaders of an equivocal religiosity want to be accredited, they insist on abstract ideas or details, and pretend not to see the abnormal.

In ancient times, the duplicity between what they showed and what they cultivated was proverbial.

To cover up their despicable spirit of robbery (v.25), here they are to make sprout all sorts of legalistic subtleties, overshadowing the substantial demands.

Even in Israel, they were never on the line of the Prophets: they calculated to make Jesus suffer who exposed them, to discourage him with mocking insults and accusations - in order to undermine his boldness.

Yet the new Rabbi continued in the lashing condemnation of religious formalism, which created barriers to any profound motivations’ search for action.

However, his story makes us understand that even the harsh conditions and ambiguous attitudes of the authorities themselves can be an opportunity and a starting point.

Perhaps a gift, to act.

The inner person also enlivens by breaking a mask, a role, a formal task, a character; a consolidated icon of wanting to appear and not to be.

However, today it is also up to us to take the greatest risk with Christ, in favour of a long adventure of the soul.

Here we touch those spaces where the Call by Name does not resemble anyone else.

Where we meet ourselves, our profound vocational identity, the unexpressed talents, and the divine Author’s signature, in Uniqueness.

If we do not keep it quiet, then the vocational Seed that does not lie and guides us emerges; the present Risen Christ who reveals himself to be understanding, delicate, attentive, absolutely personal but clear.

Attention to details and minutiae is good and propulsive (v.23) only if it joins this intimate discovery of one’s singular Mission.

Here the reference to substantial values does not imply carelessness or contempt for what seems secondary: this appeal can conceal an unrepeatable character.

Devoid of extreme solicitations, the motive of our actions would perhaps remain the benefit and concern of our own fame; so on.

This would pervade the soul from not doing or not saying anything, making arid and discredited the experience of Faith.

In this way, even an internal or external contradiction can contribute to giving birth to our deepest side.

Even anger at a disorder can activate development, so that we correspond to our Name.

And so we sink our roots, strengthen the trunk, to stimulate inner youthfulness. With our sights set on the hidden Seed, before raising “branches”.

The Master proposes an ascent to essentiality - also so that we can follow the «one specific path that the Lord has in mind for us» [Gaudete et Exsultate n.11].

All in a great desire to be born again, in the small and the big, to give birth to our deepest side.

[Tuesday 21th wk. in O.T.  August 25, 2026]

In the Liturgy of the Word [...] the theme of God’s Law, of his commandments, makes its entrance in the Liturgy of the Word this Sunday. It is an essential element of the Jewish and Christian religions, where the complete fulfilment of the law is love (cf. Rom 13:10). God’s Law is his word which guides men and women on the journey through life, brings them out of the slavery of selfishness and leads them into the “land” of true freedom and life. This is why the Law is not perceived as a burden or an oppressive restriction in the Bible. Rather, it is seen as the Lord’s most precious gift, the testimony of his fatherly love, of his desire to be close to his People, to be its Ally and with it write a love story.

This is what the devout Israelite prays: “I will delight in your statutes, / I will not forget your word.... Lead me in the path of your commandments, / for I delight in it” (Ps 119[118]:16, 35). In the Old Testament the person who passes on the Law to the People on God’s behalf is Moses. After the long journey in the wilderness, on the threshold of the promised land, he proclaims: “Now, O Israel, give heed to the statutes and the ordinances which I teach you, and do them; that you may live, and go in and take possession of the land which the Lord, the God of your fathers, gives you” (Deut 4:1). And this is the problem: when the People put down roots in the land and are the depository of the Law, they are tempted to place their security and joy in something that is no longer the Word of God: in possessions, in power, in other ‘gods’ that in reality are useless, they are idols. Of course, the Law of God remains but it is no longer the most important thing, the rule of life; rather, it becomes a camouflage, a cover-up, while life follows other paths, other rules, interests that are often forms of egoism, both individual and collective.

Thus religion loses its authentic meaning, which is to live listening to God in order to do his will — that is the truth of our being — and thus we live well, in true freedom, and it is reduced to practising secondary customs which instead satisfy the human need to feel in God’s place. This is a serious threat to every religion which Jesus encountered in his time and which, unfortunately, is also to be found in Christianity. Jesus’ words against the scribes and Pharisees in today’s Gospel should therefore be food for thought for us as well.

Jesus makes his own the very words of the Prophet Isaiah: “This People honours me with their lips, but their heart is far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines the precepts of men” (Mk 7:6-7; cf. Is 29,13). And he then concludes: “You leave the commandment of God, and hold fast the tradition of men” (Mk 7:8).

The Apostle James too alerts us in his Letter to the danger of false piety. He writes to the Christians: “Be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves” (Jas 1:22). May the Virgin Mary, to whom we now turn in prayer, help us to listen with an open and sincere heart to the word of God so that every day it may guide our thoughts, our decisions and our actions.

[Pope Benedict, Angelus 2 September 2012]