5th Lent Sunday (year A)  [22 March 2026]

May God bless us and may the Virgin protect us! This Sunday touches upon the theme of death and of life that does not die. In the face of such fear of dying, may this word of salvation kindle within us the invincible hope of living eternally in God, who is Love

*First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (37:12–14)

This text is very brief, but it is clear that it forms a single unit: it is framed by two similar expressions; at the beginning, ‘Thus says the Lord God’, and at the end, ‘The word of the Lord’. A frame that is evidently intended to give solemnity to what it encloses. Whenever a prophet deems it necessary to specify that he is speaking on behalf of the Lord, it is because his message is particularly important and difficult to hear. Today’s message is therefore what lies within this framework: a promise repeated twice and addressed to God’s people, for God says “O my people”; on both occasions the promise concerns two points: firstly, “I will open your graves”; secondly, “I will bring you back to the land of Israel”, or “I will let you rest in your own land”, which amounts to the same thing. These expressions allow us to situate the historical context: the people are in exile in Babylon, at the mercy of the Babylonians, annihilated (in the true sense of the word, reduced to nothing), as if dead; this is why God speaks of graves. The expression ‘I will open your graves’ therefore means that God will raise up his people. Reading chapter 37 of the Book of Ezekiel, we see that this brief text follows a vision of the prophet known as ‘the vision of the dry bones’ and provides an explanation of it: the prophet sees a vast army of the dead, lying in the dust; and God says to him: your brothers are so desperate in their exile that they believe themselves to be dead, finished… well, I, God, will raise them up. This entire vision and its explanation thus evoke the captivity of the exiled people and their restoration by God. For the prophet Ezekiel, it is a certainty: the people cannot be wiped out, because God has promised them an eternal Covenant that nothing can destroy; therefore, whatever the defeats, the ruptures, the trials, it is known that the people will survive and regain their land, because this is part of the promise. “I will open your graves… O my people, and bring you back to the land of Israel”: ultimately, there is nothing surprising about these words; Israel has always known that its God is faithful; and the expression “You shall know that I am the Lord” precisely means that it is through his faithfulness to his promises that the true God is recognised. But why repeat almost the same things twice? In reality, the second promise does not merely repeat the first, but expands upon it:  It continues: I will open your graves and bring you out of your tombs and let you rest in your own land, and you shall know that I am the Lord: all this  is a return to the situation prior to the disaster of the Babylonian exile. In this second promise there is much more, something new and never seen before: “I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live”; here the New Covenant is announced: from now on the law of love will no longer be written on tablets of stone, but in hearts. Or, to use another expression of Ezekiel, human hearts will no longer be of stone, but of flesh.

Here there is no room for doubt: the repetition of the phrase “my people” clearly shows that these two promises herald a rebirth, a restoration of the people. This is not a matter of individual resurrection. Individual death did not compromise the future of the people; and for a long time it was the future of the people, and that alone, that mattered. When someone died, it was said that they had fallen asleep with their fathers, without imagining any personal survival; on the contrary, the survival of the people has always been a certainty, because the people are the bearers of God’s promises. To believe in individual resurrection, two elements are required: firstly, an interest in the individual’s fate — something that did not exist at the beginning of biblical history; an interest in one’s personal fate is a later development. Secondly, it is essential to believe in a God who does not abandon you to death. The certainty that God never abandons humanity did not arise suddenly; it developed in step with the concrete events of the history of the chosen people. The historical experience of the Covenant is what nourishes the faith of Israel; it is the experience of a God who frees humanity from all forms of bondage and intervenes ceaselessly to liberate them; a faithful God who never goes back on his word. It is this faith that guides all of Israel’s discoveries; indeed, it is their driving force. Four centuries after Ezekiel, around 165 BC, these two combined elements—faith in a God who continually liberates humanity and the discovery of the value of every human person—led to faith in individual resurrection. It became evident that God would liberate the individual from the most terrible and definitive form of slavery, that of death. This discovery came so late to the Jewish people that, in Christ’s time, it was not yet shared by all: the Sadducees, in fact, were known as those who did not believe in the resurrection. Perhaps, however, Ezekiel’s prophecy might have surpassed his own understanding, without him realising it. The Spirit of God spoke through his mouth, and we might think: Ezekiel did not know how great was what he was proclaiming

*Responsorial Psalm (129/130) 

In the Psalter there is a group of fifteen psalms bearing a particular name: Song of Ascents. Each of them begins with the words ‘Song of Ascents’, which in Hebrew signifies going to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. In the Gospels, moreover, the expression ‘going up to Jerusalem’ occurs several times with the same meaning: it evokes the pilgrimage for the three annual feasts and, in particular, the most important of these, the Feast of Tabernacles. These fifteen psalms therefore accompanied the entire pilgrimage. Even before arriving in Jerusalem, they already foreshadowed the unfolding of the festival. For some, one can even guess at which point in the pilgrimage they were sung; for example, Psalm 121/122 – ‘How joyful I was when they said to me: “We shall go to the house of the Lord”… now our feet stand within your gates, Jerusalem…’ – was probably the psalm of arrival. Psalm 129/130 is one of these Songs of Ascent; it was probably sung during the Feast of Tabernacles as part of a penitential celebration, which is why guilt and forgiveness feature so prominently in the psalm: ‘If you keep track of sins, O Lord, O Lord, who can stand before you?’.  The sinner who pleads here is certain of being forgiven; it is the people who together acknowledge God’s infinite goodness, his tireless faithfulness (his Hesed) and man’s radical inability to respond to the Covenant. These repeated acts of unfaithfulness are experienced as a true spiritual death: “From the depths I cry out to you”, a cry addressed to Him whose very being is Forgiveness: this is the meaning of the expression “with you is forgiveness”. God is Love and is Gift, and the two are one and the same. Now “forgiveness” is nothing other than a gift that goes beyond everything. To forgive means to continue to offer a Covenant, a possible future, beyond the other’s infidelities. Let us recall the story of David: after the killing of Bathsheba’s husband, the prophet Nathan announced God’s forgiveness to him even before David had uttered a single word of repentance or confession. The idea that God always forgives, however, does not please everyone; yet it is undoubtedly one of the central teachings of the Bible, right from the Old Testament. And Jesus forcefully takes up this same teaching: for example, in the parable of the Prodigal Son in the Gospel according to Luke (chapter 15), the father is already out on the road waiting for his son (a sign that he has already forgiven him) and opens his arms to him even before the son has opened his mouth. And the example of God’s totally gratuitous forgiveness was given to us by Jesus himself on the cross: those who were killing him did not utter a single word of repentance, yet he says: ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’. It is precisely in his forgiveness, says the Bible, that God manifests his power. This too is a great discovery of Israel; consider what the Book of Wisdom states: “Your strength, Lord, is the source of justice… you who possess strength, judge with gentleness and rule us with great indulgence” (Wis 12:16, 18). The certainty of God’s mercy does not breed presumption or indifference towards sin, but humble and amazed gratitude: “With you is forgiveness, so that we may fear you.” This concise formula indicates the believer’s attitude before God, who is nothing but gift and forgiveness. This certainty of forgiveness, always offered beyond all fault, inspires in Israel an attitude of extraordinary hope. Repentant Israel awaits forgiveness “more than the watchmen await the dawn”. “He will redeem Israel from all its sins”: similar expressions recur frequently in biblical texts. They announce to Israel the definitive liberation, the liberation from all the sins of all time. Israel awaits even more: precisely because the people of the Covenant experience their own weakness and ever-recurring sin, but also God’s faithfulness, they await from God himself the definitive fulfilment of his promises. Beyond immediate forgiveness, what they await from age to age is the definitive dawn, which they hope for against all hope, like Abraham: the dawn of the Day of God. All the psalms are permeated by this messianic expectation. Christians know with even greater certainty that our world is moving towards its fulfilment: a fulfilment that has a name, Jesus Christ: “Our soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the dawn”.

*Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (8:8–11)

“I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live,” announces Ezekiel in the first reading, but from baptism, Saint Paul reminds us here, this is a reality, and he uses a figurative expression: the Spirit of God dwells within you. Taking this literally, one commentator speaks of a change of ownership. We have become the dwelling place of the Spirit: it is he who is now in charge. It would be interesting to ask ourselves, in all areas of our lives, both personal and communal, who is in charge, who is the master of the house within us; or, if we prefer, what is our purpose in life. According to Paul, there are not many alternatives: either we are under the influence of the Spirit, that is, we allow ourselves to be guided by him, or we do not allow ourselves to be inspired by the Spirit, and this he calls being under the influence of the flesh. Being under the influence of the Spirit is easy to understand: simply replace the word ‘Spirit’ with the word ‘Love’, as the Letter to the Galatians demonstrates when explaining the fruits of the Spirit: ‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control’ (Gal 5:22–23); in a word, love expressed in all the concrete circumstances of our lives. Paul is the heir to the entire tradition of the prophets: and they all affirm that our relationship with God is realised in the quality of our relationship with others; in the ‘Songs of the Servant’, the Book of Isaiah (chapters 42; 49; 50; 52–53) forcefully asserts that living according to the Spirit of God means loving and serving one’s brothers and sisters. Once life according to the Spirit—that is, life according to love—has been defined, it is easy to understand what Paul means by life according to the flesh: it is the opposite, namely indifference or hatred; in other words, love is turning away from oneself, whilst life under the influence of the flesh is centring on oneself. The question: ‘Who is in charge?’ here becomes ‘Who is the centre of our world?’ And those who are under the influence of the flesh cannot please God, says Paul. On the contrary, Christ is the beloved Son in whom God is well pleased, that is, he is in perfect harmony with God precisely because he too is all love. In this sense, the account of the Temptations, read on the first Sunday of Lent (Matthew chapter 4), is very eloquent because Jesus appears totally centred on God and on his Word and resolutely refuses to focus on his own hunger or even on the demands of his messianic mission. If the text of the temptations is presented to us every year at the start of Lent, it is because Lent is precisely a journey of shifting our focus away from ourselves in order to refocus on God and on others. Later on, in the same Letter to the Romans, Paul says that the Spirit of God makes us children: it is he who prompts us to call God ‘Father’. That which is love within us comes from God; it is our inheritance as children. The Spirit is your life, Paul says again: to put it another way, love is your life. After all, we know from experience that only love is creative. What is not love does not come from God and, precisely because it does not come from God, is destined for death. The great good news of this text is that everything within us that is love comes from God and therefore cannot die. As Paul says: ‘If God raised Jesus from the dead… he will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you’.

From the Gospel according to John (11:1–45)

We have got into the habit of calling this passage the resurrection of Lazarus, but, to tell the truth, it is not the most appropriate term; when we proclaim ‘I believe in the resurrection of the dead and in eternal life’, we mean something quite different. Lazarus’s death was, in a sense, merely a parenthesis in his earthly life; after Jesus’ miracle, his life resumed its ordinary course and was, more or less, the same as before. Lazarus simply had his earthly life extended. His body was not transformed and he had to die a second time; his first death was not what it will be for us, that is, the passage to true life. So one might ask: to what end? In performing this miracle, Jesus took great risks, for he had already drawn far too much attention to himself… and for Lazarus, it was merely a matter of postponing the final appointment. It is St John who answers our question: ‘what was the purpose of this miracle?’ He tells us that it is a very important sign: Jesus reveals himself as the one in whom we have eternal life and in whom we can believe, that is, upon whom we can stake our lives. After all, the chief priests and the Pharisees were not mistaken: they fully understood the gravity of the sign performed by Jesus, for the Gospel of John tells us that many, many began to believe in him precisely because of Lazarus’s resurrection, and it was then that they decided to put him to death. This miracle thus sealed Jesus’ death sentence; thinking about it two thousand years later, it seems paradoxical: being able to restore life deserved death. A sad example of the aberrations to which our certainties can lead… Let us return to the account of what we might call the ‘raising of Lazarus’, because it is not a true resurrection but rather an extension of earthly life. Let us make just two observations. 

First observation: for Jesus, only one thing matters, the glory of God; but to see the glory of God, one must believe (If you believe, you will see the glory of God, he tells Martha). Right from the start of the story, when they tell him: ‘Lord, the one you love is ill’, Jesus replies to the disciples: ‘This illness will not lead to death, but is for the glory of God’, that is, for the revelation of the mystery of God. Faith opens our eyes, removing the blindfold of mistrust that we had placed over our gaze. Second observation: here, faith in the resurrection takes its final step. In Israel, faith in the resurrection appeared late; it was clearly affirmed only in the second century BC, at the time of the persecution by Antiochus Epiphanes, and in Christ’s time it was not yet shared by everyone. Martha and Mary, evidently, are among those who believe in it. But in their minds it is still a resurrection at the end of time; when Jesus says to Martha: “Your brother will rise again”, she replies: “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day”. Jesus, however, corrects her: he is not speaking in the future, but in the present: “I am the resurrection and the life… Whoever believes in me, even if they die, will live; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die.” To put it plainly, we sense that the Resurrection is already here.” “I am the resurrection and the life” means that death as separation from God no longer exists: it is overcome in Christ’s resurrection, so that believers, with Paul, can say: “O death, where is your victory?”. Now nothing can separate us from the love of Christ, not even death. The true novelty of this Gospel is not that a dead person returns to life, but that life itself has a face: Jesus. When he says: ‘I am the resurrection and the life’, he is not merely promising a future event; he is affirming that those who live in communion with him are already entering a life that death cannot destroy. Lazarus will emerge from the tomb once more, only to die again; but those united with Christ will never return to the tomb as to a final prison. Biological death becomes a passage, not an end; a threshold, not an abyss. If we live in communion with God — that is, in love — we are already within eternity. For God is not merely the One who gives life: He is Life itself. And that which is united to Life cannot be annihilated.

As Saint Augustine writes: “Do you fear death? Love. Love kills death.”

And again, St Paul, in his Letter to the Romans: “Nothing can separate us from the love of God” (Rom 8:39). Herein lies the heart of the sign of Lazarus: whoever remains in love remains in God, and God remains in him, and this communion knows no end. The true resurrection begins now.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

(Jn 8:1-11)

Every day at sunrise, from the Mount of Olives, by contemplating the Temple, the people recited the Shema’ Israel, and so did Jesus.

Like many, he spent his nights in a cave, outdoors (Lk 21:37-38; Jn 8:1-2), then he went to Solomon's portico to teach.

A new Day begins. The confrontation with the sinful woman who represents us, activates a new Aurora.

The adulterer and the adulteress had to be put to death (Dt 22:22-24): why is no there the male accomplice one?

In many biblical passages, the 'woman' is a collective parable - here evoked for a catechesis against the traditionalist prosecutors who were also coming forward in the early communities.

[They don’t sleep at night, in order to spy on others and accuse them of their sins]. But there is a new ‘dawn’ (v.2) on the face of God.

In the whole scene the true accused is Jesus and his idea of ​​Justice, irregular. He does not allow the “gendarmes” to isolate persons.

Whoever makes a mistake or is unsteady, is not marked for life.

We are bent over by weights and can hardly stand up. Therefore, divine action unmasks the old fanatical wigs, not at all innocent.

The conciliatory and reflexive attitude turns the accusations right back on the veterans of the rules, who let the stones fall from their hands only when unmasked.

However, it is a theology passage, not a gossip piece.

In bygone leaders who like to organize trials even internal ones, there is sometimes no honesty: it is better that in the House of God they avoid being judges and accusers, and go back to their homes.

Incredible then that Jesus does not make sure that the woman is repentant, before forgiving her! In this the Son of God violates the Law, Tradition, the common way of thinking and teaching catechism!

His most incriminated sentence is a bomb, which has created embarrassment for centuries: «Stop hurting yourself, but I do not condemn you!»"  [sense of v.11].

The ‘living’ and true God proceeds without inquiries and penitential torments: he puts us back on our feet.

Therefore He does not want to have anything in common with the unexceptionable who cunningly shield themselves with ancient norms to annoy (and project their own defects onto others, in order to exorcise them).

That is why the Lord’s Finger on the ‘stone slabs’ of the esplanade of the Jerusalem Temple!

A clear accusation to the censors still accustomed to the Decalogue of the No […], who remained at the age of Sinai: opinionated and deadly ones, devoid of the flesh and Spirit ‘heart’ - corpses calibrated at room temperature.

Throughout the scene, Jesus - figure of the new Justice of the Father - remains crouched on the ground [cf. Greek text], threatened by those who are on top of him to accuse or take him hostage.

He remains subjected even to the adulteress reduced to silence, because the request for mercy is authentic even when it remains only implicit.

And in any case, Christ relates to each of us without incumbent upon. Looking at us all from below!

Here is the difference between Faith approach and assessments of trivial religiosity. The qualitative leap between Finger on the stone slabs, and the Looking on the persons.

To internalize and live the message:

In what situations did you consider: "Justice is done"?

On what occasions have you experienced divine judgment as understanding and mercy?

[Monday 5th wk. in Lent (year A.B), March 23, 2026]

Adulterous "Church", accused Jesus

(Jn 8:1-11)

What about an ancient codex of the Gospels with a torn 'page'?

Husbands did not want women to have a license of immunity from the Lord himself: God's action baffles.

But how does the Lord deal with those who have made mistakes in life? Or with people of a different cultural background [e.g.] from the West?

Can they be admitted to a direct relationship with Jesus, or must they undergo a long rigmarole of doctrinal and moralistic x-rays?

Christ proceeds without enquiry or accusatory penitential tares.

He only puts people and heterogeneous groups back on their feet - albeit all humiliated and mocked souls by the veterans of the postilion (who secretly indulge in everything).

He imposes - and chisels - Justice where it has been transgressed, at least in our conventional view.

The only reliable and convincing solution and judgement is the Good.

In Ephesus, bishop Polycrates had had to clash with the intransigents on the question of the readmission into the community of the lapsi ['slipped' in the confession of faith, under blackmail] or of those who had 'surrendered' the sacred books (traditores) because intimidated by threats of persecution.

The bishop of Rome, Sotère, had taken a position in favour of the rigorists. But as the Apostolic Constitutions testify, the more sympathetic ones explicitly referred to the episode of the adulteress, bearing in mind that God's action is a creative act that recomposes - not a gesture of hasty punishment.

Having disappeared from the Gospel according to Lk (cf. 21:38), the Gospel pearl has been recovered by Jn (8:1-11).

Again St. Augustine complained that the passage was excluded by leaders of some communities.

But going beyond petty moralisms, the pericope has significant theological weight.

In religions, the idea of divine just judgement is identical, because it is in harmony with the concept of common justice: unicuique Jus suum.

All the sarcophagi of ancient Egypt reproduce the scene of the scales with the two plates in perfect balance: on one the feather symbol of Maat goddess of wisdom; on the other the heart of the deceased, who is led by the hand by the god Anubis.

On the weighing depends the future happiness or ruin of the one being judged.

The Qur'an attributes to God the splendid title of 'Best of those who forgive'; yet even in Islam, the Day of Judgement is the moment of separation between the righteous and the wicked - the some ushered into paradise, the others banished to hell.

The rabbis of Jesus' time held that mercy intervened at the moment of reckoning: it prevailed only when good and bad works were equal.

The adulterer and the adulteress were to be put to death (Deut 22:22-24): how come the male escapes?

In many biblical passages, the 'woman' is a collective parable - here evoked for a catechesis against the traditionalist prosecutors who also came forward in the early communities.

The trouble with moral courts is that too many protagonists seem more inclined to condemn 'symbols' than to get to the bottom of matters.

Despite the strict penitential practices of the early centuries and the controversy between laxists and strictists, the gemstone recovered and formerly removed from many manuscripts reiterates the incriminated phrase: 'I do not condemn you'!

And he even sketches a Jesus who does not ask beforehand whether the woman was repentant or not!

Shocking episode? No, because this is about theology, not the news.

Every day at sunrise the people from the Mount of Olives contemplating the Temple recited the Shemàh, and so did Jesus.

Like many, he spent the nights in a cave, in the open air (Lk 21:37-38; Jn 8:1-2), then went to the Temple to teach.

Another 'Day' begins.

The confrontation with the sinner who represents us begins a new 'dawn' - on the Face of God.

What sentence does the Lord pronounce in his House [Church]?

It is not said what Jesus was teaching, for he himself is 'the' Word, the Teaching.

Each gesture tells how the Father relates to the one who has strayed, or comes from an uncertain background.

He helps the lost son to recover, and says [in short]: 'I do not condemn you, but stop hurting yourself'.

Jesus crosses the bridge-viaduct over the Cedron valley and enters the temple esplanade through the Golden Gate.

There he finds hearts steadfast in the retributive justice of Sinai, that of the cold tables of stone.

Justice of the scribes and Pharisees of the vice squad who - pressing - were standing over him [so the Greek text].

Justice by scales and sanhedrin? No, Benevolence that makes the wicked righteous, that makes pure those who draw near - those from multiform paganism, considered theological adulterers."Justice is done" for us means that the guilty are straightened out, punished and separated from the unrighteous.

God instead makes righteous those who once were not. He precisely retrieves the wretch from the abyss, and makes him breathe.

[Perhaps the woman is a symbolic image of a subordinate primitive community, coming to the Faith but with mixed cultural origins and uncertain practices, judged tumultuously free].

Forgiveness is not a defeat, nor a surrender. After all, there is no shortage of those who make a shield of laws to annoy and hide behind screens.

In short: the true defendant of the pericope is the Son and his idea of Justice!

Hence the Finger on the Ground: resting on the stone slabs of the Temple esplanade in Jerusalem.

This is a very serious accusation against the spiritual guides of official religiosity and all those who, upon becoming leaders of the first Christian realities, immediately intended to replicate their hypocrisies.

Inebriated by the rank and file of leaders and censors, they too show that they have remained in the Sinaitic, stone age.

An age of old supponents without a heart of flesh, strangers to the warmth of the divine Spirit.

Indeed, not a few manuscripts from the first centuries demonstrate the obsessive communitarian attachment to a very rigid ethical discipline.

There was a risk of returning to the ideology of the 'best': ruthless and gabellant, icy and judgmental, chastising; confusing about the passions - that of the 'chosen' and 'upright'.

Acolytes who were proponents of death; corpses incapable of fiery desire, of explicit passion; because - at least in façade - they were calibrated to room temperature.

Instead, throughout the scene Jesus remains crouched on the ground!

He even relates to the adulteress by looking up at her from below (cf. Greek text)!

He is even subjected to the adulteress, an icon of an uncertain or 'lesser' church - one that gathers the formerly distant free. The same ones who now approached the threshold of fraternities with a past and moral baggage that was perhaps questionable.

In short, every demand for mercy is authentic even when it remains only implicit - and in any case Christ relates to each of us without looming!

In the life of Faith, God is beneath us, and so do those who authentically represent Him.

The LORD is not a legislator, nor a weigher, nor a plaintiff - not even a notorious judge who passes sentence at once.

In this way and 'lapidary' tone, Pope Francis has repeatedly said:

"I prefer a Church that is bumpy, wounded and dirty from being out on the streets, rather than a Church that is sick from being closed and comfortable clinging to its own security. I consider missteps less serious than not moving at all!".

The difference of Faith's approach with the assessments of banal religiosity? The qualitative leap between Finger on the plates and Look at the people.

To internalise and live the message:

In what situations have you considered, 'Justice is done'?

On what occasions have you experienced divine judgement as understanding and grace?

The liturgy proposes to us, this year, the Gospel episode of Jesus who saves an adulterous woman condemned to death (Jn 8: 1-11). While he is teaching at the Temple the Scribes and Pharisees bring Jesus a woman caught in the act of adultery for which Mosaic law prescribed stoning. Those men ask Jesus to judge the sinful woman in order "to test him" and impel him to take a false step. The scene is full with drama: the life of that person and also his own life depend on Jesus. Indeed, 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 and opens consciences to a greater justice, that of love, in which consists the fulfilment of every precept (cf. Rom 13: 8-10). This is the justice that also saved Saul of Tarsus, transforming him into St Paul (cf. Phil 3: 8-14).

When his accusers "went away, one by one, beginning with the eldest", Jesus, absolving the woman of her sin, ushers her into a new life oriented to good. "Neither do I condemn you; go, and do not sin again". It is the same grace that was to make the Apostle say: "One thing I do, forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead. I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus" (Phil 3: 13-14). God wants only goodness and life for us; he provides for the health of our soul through his ministers, delivering us from evil with the Sacrament of Reconciliation, so that no one may be lost but all may have the opportunity to convert. In this Year for Priests I would like to urge Pastors to imitate the holy Curé d'Ars in the ministry of sacramental pardon so that the faithful may discover its meaning and beauty and be healed by the merciful love of God, who "even forces himself to forget the future so that he can grant us his forgiveness!" (Letter to Priests for the Inauguration of the Year for Priests, 16 June 2009).

Dear friends, let us learn from the Lord Jesus not to judge and not to condemn our neighbour. Let us learn to be intransigent with sin starting with our own! and indulgent with people. May the holy Mother of God, free from all sin, who is the mediatrix of grace for every repentant sinner, help us in this.

[Pope Benedict, Angelus 21 March 2010]

14. Jesus enters into the concrete and historical situation of women, a situation which is weighed down by the inheritance of sin. One of the ways in which this inheritance is expressed is habitual discrimination against women in favour of men. This inheritance is rooted within women too. From this point of view the episode of the woman "caught in adultery" (cf. Jn 8:3-11) is particularly eloquent. In the end Jesus says to her: "Do not sin again", but first he evokes an awareness of sin in the men who accuse her in order to stone her, thereby revealing his profound capacity to see human consciences and actions in their true light. Jesus seems to say to the accusers: Is not this woman, for all her sin, above all a confirmation of your own transgressions, of your "male" injustice, your misdeeds?

This truth is valid for the whole human race. The episode recorded in the Gospel of John is repeated in countless similar situations in every period of history. A woman is left alone, exposed to public opinion with "her sin", while behind "her" sin there lurks a man - a sinner, guilty "of the other's sin", indeed equally responsible for it. And yet his sin escapes notice, it is passed over in silence: he does not appear to be responsible for "the others's sin"! Sometimes, forgetting his own sin, he even makes himself the accuser, as in the case described. How often, in a similar way, the woman pays for her own sin (maybe it is she, in some cases, who is guilty of the "others's sin" - the sin of the man), but she alone pays and she pays all alone! How often is she abandoned with her pregnancy, when the man, the child's father, is unwilling to accept responsibility for it? And besides the many "unwed mothers" in our society, we also must consider all those who, as a result of various pressures, even on the part of the guilty man, very often "get rid of" the child before it is born. "They get rid of it": but at what price? Public opinion today tries in various ways to "abolish" the evil of this sin. Normally a woman's conscience does not let her forget that she has taken the life of her own child, for she cannot destroy that readiness to accept life which marks her "ethos" from the "beginning".

The attitude of Jesus in the episode described in John 8:3-11 is significant. This is one of the few instances in which his power - the power of truth - is so clearly manifested with regard to human consciences. Jesus is calm, collected and thoughtful. As in the conversation with the Pharisees (cf. Mt 19:3-9), is Jesus not aware of being in contact with the mystery of the "beginning", when man was created male and female, and the woman was entrusted to the man with her feminine distinctiveness, and with her potential for motherhood? The man was also entrusted by the Creator to the woman - they were entrusted to each other as persons made in the image and likeness of God himself. This entrusting is the test of love, spousal love. In order to become "a sincere gift" to one another, each of them has to feel responsible for the gift. This test is meant for both of them - man and woman - from the "beginning". After original sin, contrary forces are at work in man and woman as a result of the threefold concupiscence, the "stimulus of sin". They act from deep within the human being. Thus Jesus will say in the Sermon on the Mount: "Every one who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Mt 5:28). These words, addressed directly to man, show the fundamental truth of his responsibility vis-a-vis woman: her dignity, her motherhood, her vocation. But indirectly these words concern the woman. Christ did everything possible to ensure that - in the context of the customs and social relationships of that time - women would find in his teaching and actions their own subjectivity and dignity. On the basis of the eternal "unity of the two", this dignity directly depends on woman herself, as a subject responsible for herself, and at the same time it is "given as a task" to man. Christ logically appeals to man's responsibility. In the present meditation on women's dignity and vocation, it is necessary that we refer to the context which we find in the Gospel. The dignity and the vocation of women - as well as those of men - find their eternal source in the heart of God. And in the temporal conditions of human existence, they are closely connected with the "unity of the two". Consequently each man must look within himself to see whether she who was entrusted to him as a sister in humanity, as a spouse, has not become in his heart an object of adultery; to see whether she who, in different ways, is the cosubject of his existence in the world, has not become for him an "object": an object of pleasure, of exploitation.

[Pope John Paul II, Mulieris Dignitatem]

The liturgy presents us the episode of the adulterous woman (cf. Jn 8:1-11). In it, there are two contrasting attitudes: that of the scribes and the Pharisees on the one hand, and that of Jesus on the other. The former want to condemn the woman because they feel they are the guardians of the Law and of its faithful implementation. Jesus, on the other hand, wants to save her because he personifies God’s mercy which redeems by forgiving and renews by reconciling.

Let us thus look at the event. While Jesus is teaching in the Temple, the scribes and the Pharisees bring him a woman who has been caught in adultery. They place her in the middle and ask Jesus if they should stone her as the Law of Moses prescribes. The Evangelist explains that they asked the question in order “to test him, that they might have some charge to bring against him” (v. 6). One might think that this was their purpose: behold the iniquity of these people — a ‘no’ to the stoning would have been a pretext to accuse Jesus of disobeying the Law; a ‘yes’ instead, to report him to the Roman Authority which had reserved such sentences to itself and did not permit lynching by the people. And Jesus must respond.

Jesus’ interrogators are confined to narrow legalism and want to oblige the Son of God to conform to their perspective of judgment and condemnation. However, he did not come into the world to judge and condemn, but rather to save and offer people a new life. And how does Jesus react to this test? First of all, he remains silent for some time and then he bends down to write on the ground with his finger, almost as if to remind them that the only Legislator and Judge is God who had inscribed the Law on stone. And then he says: “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her” (v. 7). In this way, Jesus appeals to the conscience of those men: they felt they were the ‘champions of justice’, but he reminds them of their own condition as sinners, due to which they cannot claim the right to life or death over one of their fellow human beings. At that point, one after the other, beginning with the eldest — that is, those who were more fully aware of their own failings — they all went away, and desisted from stoning the woman. This episode also invites each of us to be aware that we are sinners, and to let fall from our hands the stones of denigration, of condemnation, of gossip, which at times we would like to cast at others. When we speak ill of others, we are throwing stones, we are like these people.

And in the end only Jesus and the woman are left there in the middle: “misery with mercy”, as Saint Augustine says (In Joh 33:5). Jesus is the only one without fault, the only one who could throw a stone at her, but he does not do so, because God “does not want the death of the wicked but that the wicked convert and live” (cf. Ez 33:11). And Jesus sends the woman on her way with these wonderful words: “Go and do not sin again” (Jn 8:11). And thus Jesus opens a new path to her, created by mercy, a path that requires her commitment not to sin again. It is an invitation that applies to each one of us. When Jesus forgives us, he always opens a new path on which to go forward. In this Lenten Season, we are called to recognize ourselves as sinners and to ask God for forgiveness. And, in its turn, while forgiveness reconciles us and gives us peace, it lets us start again, renewed. Every true conversion is oriented toward a new future, a new life, a beautiful life, a life free from sin, a generous life. Let us not be afraid to ask Jesus for forgiveness because he opens the door to this new life for us. May the Virgin Mary help us to bear witness to all of the merciful love of God, who through Jesus, forgives us and renders our lives new, by always offering us new possibilities.

[Pope Francis, Angelus 7 April 2019]

The Lord of Life (or the pale sign)

(Jn 11:1-45)

The event of death is disconcerting, and that of a friend of God in community [Bethany] perhaps accentuates the questions about the meaning of our belief and commit ourselves thoroughly.

Why in the time of greatest need does the Lord let us fall? Why does He seem not to be there (v.21)?

Letting even His dearest friends die, Jesus educates us: it is not His intention to procrastinate biological existence (vv.14-15), nor simply improve it a little.

“Eternal” [in the Gospels, the very Life of the Eternal: Zoe aiònios] is not this form of life [in the Gospels: Bìos - possibly strengthened] but only its times of strong love.

Ultimate World does not interfere with the natural course.

For this reason the Lord does not enter the “village” where others went to console and give condolences.

He wants Mary to leave the house where everyone cries in despair and mourns funeral - as if everything was over.

He intends to get us out of the “small hamlet” where it is believed that the earthly end can be only delayed, until the tomb without a future.

The natural emotion for detachment does not hold back tears, which spontaneously «flow from the eyes, sliding down» [dakryein-edakrysen].

Intimate upheaval does not produce a broken and screamed cry [klaiein] as the inconsolable one of the Jews (vv.33.35).

No farewell. For this reason, it follows the order to remove the stone that at that time closed the tombs (v.39).

The strong Call is absolutely imperative: the ‘deceased’ ones are not ‘dead’ ones, as ancient religions believed; their lives goes on.

«Lazarus, out here!» (v.43): it is the cry of the victory of life. 

In the adventure of Faith in Christ we discover that life has no stones on it. Enough, mourning the deadly situations, and the "dead ones"!

The Appeal that the Lord makes is that there is no disappeared souls’ world, separated from us; stand-alone, devoid of communication with the actual one.

Archaic beliefs imagined Hades or Sheôl as a dark, fog-soaked cavern, populated here and there by insubstantial wandering larvae.

On the contrary, the world of the living ones is not separated from that of the ‘deceased’ ones.

«Lazarus is asleep» (v.11), that is: he is not a fallen, because men do not die. They pass from the creaturely life [bìos] to full Life [Zoe].

The ‘deceased’ left this world and entered the world of God, re-Born and begotten to his authentic, complete and definitive being.

Then: «Untie him and let him go!».

In short, Lazarus did not simply end up in the pit, nor, having been well put back on his feet by Christ, did he reappear in this form of life for another stretch... inexorably marked by the limit.

In the Gospel passage, in fact, while everyone goes to Jesus, Lazarus does not.

It is not this not what Jesus can do in the face of death. He does not immortalize this condition, otherwise all existence would continue to be a useless escape from the decisive appointment.

And it is time to stop crying our loved ones: «deceased», not ‘dead’.

We must not hold them back with obsessive visits, tormented memories, talismans, condolences: let them exist happily in their new condition!

Life for us and Life for those who have already flourished in the world of God's Peace - where we will live fully: with each other and for each other.

[5th ​​Sunday of Lent (year A), March 22, 2026]

The Lord of Life (or the pale sign)

(John 11:1–45)

     Last Sunday, the Gospel led us to reflect on the sign of the opening of the eyes.

Even in those who have lost their way, there can be a growing awareness of personal dignity and vocation through faith.

One question remains: if a Light is given at the right time... perhaps it is of little use.

Christ imparts to us a consciousness rich in perceptions and capable of wise, spiritual and missionary endeavour – but is there a final Goal, or does it all end here?

If we must manage on our own, what is the point of the biblical Promises? 

Why do we feel a longing for Fullness, only to plunge into nothingness?

Where is God’s love and omnipotence? And the Risen One, the life of the Eternal One present among us? Has not his very life already been given to us?

The event of death is disconcerting, and that of a friend of God in the community [Bethany] perhaps heightens the questions about the meaning of our faith and our wholehearted commitment.

Why, at the moment of greatest need, does the Lord allow us to fall? Why does He seem not to be there (v.21)?

Nevertheless, we understand that managing to endure an endless old age would not be a victory over death.

The belief of ancient cultures is that when the gods formed humanity, they assigned death to it, and kept life for themselves.

Anyone who had gone on a desperate quest for the mythical herb that makes the old young had to resign themselves to the fact that to die meant setting off for a land of no return.

By allowing even his dearest friends to perish, Jesus teaches us: it is not his intention to prolong biological existence (vv. 14–15), nor simply to improve it a little.

Christ is not a ‘doctor’ who comes to postpone the appointment with death, but rather the One who conquers death – because He transforms it into a Birth.

After all, a truly authentic, human and humanising life needs to face our condition head-on.

Health and physical life are gifts that everyone wishes to prolong, but which must ultimately be surrendered, in the Final Destination that no longer fades.

Eternal [in the Gospels, the very Life of the Eternal: Zoè aiònios] is not this form of life [in the Gospels: Bìos – perhaps enhanced] but only its moments of profound love.

This is the authenticity of the grace to be sought and cultivated. A permanence to which we must respond, a unique condition that cannot defeat us.

The Definitive World does not interfere with the natural course of events, although it may already manifest itself – in the intimate reality of multifaceted coexistence.

But this higher experience [of Covenant even amidst hardships] lies solely in that which is indestructible; personal, and in micro and macro relationships.

In particular, Communion: the sole sign of the form of Life that takes charge but does not falter, has no limits, and will have no end.

For this reason, the Lord does not enter the ‘village’ where others have gone to console and offer condolences.

He wants Mary to leave the house where everyone weeps in despair and offers funeral condolences – as if everything were over.

He intends to draw us out of the ‘little village’ where it is believed that the earthly end can only be senselessly postponed, until the grave with no future.

He wants us decisively out of the little village where everyone is in mourning and remains with the false consolation of funeral rites, ‘relief’ seasoned only with pretty little phrases.

The natural emotion of parting does not hold back the tears, which spontaneously ‘flow from the eyes, slide down’ [dakryein-edakrysen].

The emotion does not produce a wild, wailing cry [klaiein] like that of the inconsolable Jews [vv.33.35 Greek text; the English translation is confusing].

No farewell. For this reason, the command follows to remove the stone that at that time sealed the tombs (v.39).

The powerful call is absolutely imperative: the ‘deceased’ are not ‘dead’, as ancient religions believe; their life continues.

‘Lazarus, come out!’ [v.43 Greek text]: it is the cry of life’s victory. 

In the adventure of Faith in Christ, we discover that life has no stones laid upon it.

Enough of lamenting over life-destroying situations. They bring us closer to our roots, and to full blossoming.

And let us stop weeping for the ‘dead’!

The call the Lord makes today – even after two millennia! – is that there is no sunken world of the departed.

Compared to our journey on earth, those who have passed on are not clearly separated from us; in a place of its own, cut off from communication with the present.

Archaic beliefs, in fact, imagined that Hades or Sheol was a dark cave, shrouded in mist, here and there populated by insubstantial, wandering spirits.

The world of the living is not separated from that of the dead.

‘Lazarus has fallen asleep’ (v.11), that is to say: he is not fallen, for men do not die. They pass from creaturely life [bìos] to full Life [Zoè].

The deceased has left this world and entered the world of God, reborn and brought forth into his authentic, complete, definitive being.

Therefore: “Unbind him and let him go!”

In short, Lazarus has not simply ended up in the grave, nor, having been revived by Christ, does he return to this form of life for another spell… inexorably marked by its limits.

In the story, in fact, whilst everyone goes towards Jesus, Lazarus does not.

This is not what Jesus can do in the face of death. He does not immortalise this condition; otherwise, existence would continue to be a futile flight from the decisive rendezvous.

And it is time to stop mourning the loved one: ‘deceased’, not ‘dead’.

We must not hold them back with obsessive visits, tormented memories, talismans, condolences: let them exist happily in their new condition!

Life for us and Life for those who have already blossomed in the world of God’s Peace – where  we live life to the full: with one another and for one another.

A state which we can thus foreshadow, by dissolving no few inner blocks, external impediments, and relational bonds; drowned in the moods of bitterness, consternation, and despondency:

‘Even today, Jesus repeats to us: “Take away the stone”. God did not create us for the grave; he created us for life—beautiful, good, joyful.

We are therefore called to remove the stones of everything that smacks of death: for example, the hypocrisy with which faith is lived is death; destructive criticism of others is death; offence and slander are death; the marginalisation of the poor is death.

The Lord asks us to remove these stones from our hearts, and life will then blossom once more around us.

Christ lives, and whoever welcomes him and adheres to him comes into contact with life. Without Christ, or outside of Christ, not only is life absent, but one falls back into death.

May each of us be close to those who are undergoing trials, becoming for them a reflection of God’s love and tenderness, which frees from death and brings life to victory.”

[Pope Francis, Angelus, 29 March 2020]

To reflect on and live out the message:

When faced with bereavement, what atmosphere do you sense at home, in church, at the cemetery, during the funeral? And how do condolences affect you?

On Bethany [continuation of the passage on Lazarus]:

Jesus Comes to the Feast, but in Secret

(John 11:45–56)

    Christ is everything that the Jewish feasts had promised and proclaimed.

They interpreted these events authoritatively, yet unconsciously (verses 47–52 delight in words with double meanings).

The high priest was in fact speaking in the name of God: he interpreted the situation in a divinely inspired manner.

In Christ, the fulfilment of the promise made to Abraham was beginning: the era of the dispersion of mankind was coming to an end.

The Cross would fulfil the Temple’s vocation: the gathering of the people and the unity of the human being from the arid and distant land, in sharing and gratuitousness.

But what, even for Jesus, could have been the (energetic) starting point for not retreating within the confines of his own environment down to the smallest detail, and for setting in motion a path of rebirth?

The community of Bethany [‘house of the poor’] is an image of the earliest communities of faith, destitute and composed solely of brothers and sisters, without co-opted or appointed authorities. On a human scale.

Where those bonds that prevented one from going beyond the already known could be broken. Without patriarchs whose control was calibrated, obsessive and vindictive – where one does not watch over others.

A haven of healthy relationships, which managed to give meaning even to wounds.

It is the only place where Jesus felt at ease, that is, the only reality in which we can still recognise him as alive and present in our midst – indeed, the Source of life for the humble and the needy.

The Gospel passage jarrs with the vulgar cunning of the leaders and the out-of-scale nature of the venues and prescribed festivals.

As if no lifeblood flowed there between the holiness of God and the real lives of the humble.

Although the Master did good – as in all regimes, there was no shortage of informers (v.46).

On the other hand, a large part of the inhabitants of Jerusalem found their material sustenance in the income generated by the Temple’s activities.

Imagine if the top of the class would have let the bone be snatched from their mouths, to follow a stranger who intended to supplant the official institution and positions of privilege with a bare-bones utopia.

The throne of the princes of the fraternal House, on the other hand, was devoid of cushions, and the community’s coordinator was a woman: Martha [‘lady’]. A leader in reverse, a servant.

Far from a reactionary defence of privileged positions and the old order... still all downward pressures and a drive to ‘sort things out’ according to the chain of command, which never give us any inspiration for new life. A sticky situation that the synodal journey initiative is finally attempting to break free from.

Under Domitian, these small alternative communities – though caring for the little ones and the far-flung – had to live as Jesus did: in hiding.

They paid for unity with the cross. But they renewed the life of the empire.

Dear Brothers and Sisters, 

In our Lenten journey we have reached the Fifth Sunday, characterized by the Gospel of the resurrection of Lazarus (Jn 11: 1-45). It concerns the last "sign" fulfilled by Jesus, after which the chief priests convened the Sanhedrin and deliberated killing him, and decided to kill the same Lazarus who was living proof of the divinity of Christ, the Lord of life and death. Actually, this Gospel passage shows Jesus as true Man and true God. First of all, the Evangelist insists on his friendship with Lazarus and his sisters, Martha and Mary. He emphasizes that "Jesus loved" them (Jn 11: 5), and this is why he wanted to accomplish the great wonder. "Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I go to awaken him out of sleep" (Jn 11: 11), he tells his disciples, expressing God's viewpoint on physical death with the metaphor of sleep. God sees it exactly as sleep, from which he can awaken us. Jesus has shown an absolute power regarding this death, seen when he gives life back to the widow of Nain's young son (cf. Lk 7: 11-17) and to the 12 year-old girl (cf. Mk 5: 35-43). Precisely concerning her he said:  "The child is not dead but sleeping" (Mk 5: 39), attracting the derision of those present. But in truth it is exactly like this: bodily death is a sleep from which God can awaken us at any moment. 

This lordship over death does not impede Jesus from feeling sincere "com-passion" for the sorrow of detachment. Seeing Martha and Mary and those who had come to console them weeping, Jesus "was deeply moved in spirit and troubled", and lastly, "wept" (Jn 11: 33, 35). Christ's heart is divine-human:  in him God and man meet perfectly, without separation and without confusion. He is the image, or rather, the incarnation of God who is love, mercy, paternal and maternal tenderness, of God who is Life. Therefore, he solemnly declared to Martha:  "I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die". And he adds, "Do you believe this?" (Jn 11: 25-26). It is a question that Jesus addresses to each one of us:  a question that certainly rises above us, rises above our capacity to understand, and it asks us to entrust ourselves to him as he entrusted himself to the Father. Martha's response is exemplary:  "Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, he who is coming into the world" (Jn 11: 27). Yes, O Lord! We also believe, notwithstanding our doubts and darkness; we believe in you because you have the words of eternal life. We want to believe in you, who give us a trustworthy hope of life beyond life, of authentic and full life in your Kingdom of light and peace. 

We entrust this prayer to Mary Most Holy. May her intercession strengthen our faith and hope in Jesus, especially in moments of greater trial and difficulty.

[Pope Benedict, Angelus, 9 March 2008]

1. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (Jn 11:21, 32).

These words, which you heard read in today’s Gospel, are spoken first by Martha, then by Mary, the two sisters of Lazarus, and are addressed to Jesus of Nazareth, who was a friend to them and to their brother.

Today’s liturgy brings the theme of death to our attention. This is now the fifth Sunday of Lent, and the time of Christ’s Passion is drawing near. The time of death and resurrection. Today we look at this reality through the death and resurrection of Lazarus. In Christ’s messianic mission, this profound event serves as a preparation for Holy Week and Easter.

2. “. . . my brother would not have died”.

In these words resounds the voice of the human heart, the voice of a heart that loves and bears witness to what death is. We constantly hear talk of death and read news reports about the deaths of various people. There is a steady stream of information on this subject. There are even statistics on death. We know that death is a common and unceasing phenomenon. If around 145,000 people die every day across the globe, it can be said that people are dying at every moment. Death is a universal phenomenon and an ordinary occurrence. The universality and normality of this fact confirm the reality of death, the inevitability of death, but, at the same time, they in a sense obscure the truth about death, its penetrating eloquence.

The language of statistics is not enough here. The voice of the human heart is needed: the voice of a sister, as in today’s Gospel, the voice of a person who loves. The reality of death can be expressed in all its truth only through the language of love.

For love, in fact, resists death and desires life . . .

Neither of Lazarus’s two sisters says, ‘My brother is dead’, but says: ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died’.

The truth about death can be expressed only from a perspective of life, from a desire for life: that is, from remaining in the loving communion of a person.

The truth about death is expressed in today’s liturgy in relation to the voice of the human heart.

3. At the same time, it is expressed in relation to the mission of Christ, the Redeemer of the world.

Jesus of Nazareth was a friend of Lazarus and his sisters. The death of his friend resonated in his own heart with a particular poignancy. When he arrived at Bethany, when he heard the weeping of the sisters and of others dear to the deceased, Jesus “was deeply moved and troubled”, and in this state of mind he asked: “Where have you laid him?” (Jn 11:33).

Jesus of Nazareth is at the same time the Christ, the one whom the Father sent into the world: he is the eternal witness to the Father’s love. He is the definitive Spokesperson for this love before mankind. In a certain sense, he is its Hostage in relation to each and every one. In him and through him, the Father’s eternal love is confirmed and fulfilled in human history; it is confirmed and fulfilled in an overflowing manner.

And love opposes death and desires life.

Since the time of Adam, human death has been opposed to love: it is opposed to the love of the Father, the God of life.

The root of death is sin, which too is opposed to the love of the Father. In human history, death is linked to sin and, like sin, is opposed to love.

4. Jesus Christ came into the world to redeem man’s sin; every sin rooted in man. For this reason, he confronted the reality of death; for death is indeed united with sin in human history: it is the fruit of sin. Jesus Christ became the Redeemer of mankind through his death on the cross, which was the sacrifice that atoned for every sin.

In this death of his, Jesus Christ confirmed the testimony of the Father’s love. The love that resists death and desires life was expressed in the resurrection of Christ, he who, to redeem the sins of the world, freely accepted death on the cross.

This event is called Easter: the Paschal Mystery. Every year we prepare for it through Lent, and today’s Sunday brings this mystery close to us, in which God’s love and power were revealed, for life has triumphed over death.

5. What took place in Bethany at the tomb of Lazarus was, as it were, the final proclamation of the Paschal Mystery.

Jesus of Nazareth stood by the tomb of his friend Lazarus and said: “Lazarus, come out!” (Jn 11:43). With these powerful words, Jesus raised him to life and brought him out of the tomb.

Before performing this miracle, Christ “raised his eyes and said: ‘Father, I thank you for hearing me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the sake of the people standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me’” (Jn 11:41–42).

At the tomb of Lazarus, a particular encounter took place between death and Christ’s redemptive mission. Christ was the witness to the Father’s eternal love, to that love which resists death and desires life. By raising Lazarus, he bore witness to this love. He also bore witness to God’s exclusive power over life and death.

At the same time, at the tomb of Lazarus, Christ was the prophet of his own mystery: of the Paschal Mystery, in which his redemptive death on the cross became the source of new life in the Resurrection.

8. The pilgrimage which you have undertaken today on account of the Jubilee introduces you, dear military personnel gathered here from different countries, to the mystery of redemption, through the liturgy of this Sunday in Lent, which invites us to pause, I would say, on the threshold of life and death, to adore the presence and love of God.

Here are the words of the prophet Ezekiel: “Thus says the Lord God: ‘You shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and raise you from your tombs, O my people’” (Ezek 37:12–13).

These words were fulfilled at the tomb of Lazarus in Bethany. They were definitively fulfilled at the tomb of Christ on Calvary. Today’s liturgy makes us aware of this.

In the resurrection of Lazarus, the power of God was manifested over the spirit and body of man.

In the resurrection of Christ, the Holy Spirit was given as the source of new life: divine life. This life is man’s eternal destiny. It is his vocation received from God. In this life, the eternal love of the Father is realised.

For love desires life and opposes death.

Dear brothers and sisters! Let us live this life! May sin not reign in us! Let us live this life, the price of which is redemption through Christ’s death on the cross!

“And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you” (Rom 8:11).

May the Holy Spirit dwell in you always through the grace of Christ’s redemption. Amen.

[Pope John Paul II, homily for the Jubilee of the Military, 8 April 1984]