XXX Sunday in Ordinary Time (year C)  [26 October 2025]

May God bless us and may the Virgin protect us. Another lesson on prayer from Jesus in the Gospel, and what a lesson! 

   First Reading from the Book of Sirach (35:15b-17, 20-22a)

 'God does not judge by appearances' (Sir 35) The book of Sirach, written by Ben Sira around 180 BC in Jerusalem, was born in a time of peace and cultural openness under Greek rule. However, this apparent serenity hides a risk: contact between Jewish and Greek culture threatens the purity of the faith, and Ben Sira intends to transmit the religious heritage of Israel in its integrity. The Jewish faith, in fact, is not a theory, but an experience of covenant with the living God, discovered progressively through his works. God is not a human idea, but a surprising revelation, because 'God is God and not a man' (Hos 11:9). The central text affirms that God does not judge according to appearances: while men look at the outside, God looks at the heart. He hears the prayer of the poor, the oppressed, the orphan and the widow, and – in a wonderful image – 'the widow's tears run down God's cheeks', a sign of his mercy that vibrates with compassion. Ben Sira teaches that true prayer arises from precariousness: when man discovers himself to be poor and without support, his heart truly opens to God. Precarity and prayer are of the same family: only those who recognise their weakness pray sincerely. Finally, the sage warns that it is not outward sacrifices that please God, but a pure heart disposed to do good: What pleases the Lord above all is that we keep away from evil. The Lord is a just judge, who does not show partiality, but looks at the truth of the heart. In summary, Ben Sira reminds us that God does not judge by appearances but by the heart, that authentic prayer arises from poverty, and that divine mercy is manifested in his compassionate closeness to the little ones and the humble.

Responsorial Psalm (33/34:2-3, 16, 18, 19, 23)

 Here is another alphabetical psalm, i.e., each verse follows the order of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. This indicates that true wisdom consists in trusting in God in everything, from A to Z. The text echoes the first reading from Sirach, which encouraged the Jews of the second century to maintain the purity of their faith in the face of the seductions of Greek culture. The central theme is the discovery of a God who is close to human beings, especially those who suffer: "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted." This is one of the greatest revelations of the Bible: God is not a distant or jealous being, but a Father who loves and shares in human suffering. Ben Sira poetically said that "our tears flow down God's cheeks": an image of his tender and compassionate mercy. This revelation is rooted in the journey of Israel. In the time of Moses, pagan peoples imagined rival and envious gods. Genesis corrects this view, showing that suspicion of God is a poison, symbolised by the serpent. Through the prophets, Israel gradually came to understand that God is a Father who accompanies, liberates and consoles, the 'God-with-us' (Emmanuel). The burning bush (Ex 3) is the foundation of this faith: 'I have seen the misery of my people, I have heard their cry, I know their sufferings'. Here God reveals himself as the One who sees, listens and acts. He does not remain a spectator, but inspires Moses and his children with the strength to liberate, transforming suffering into hope and commitment. The psalm reflects this experience: after undergoing trials, the people proclaim their praise: "I will bless the Lord at all times" because they have experienced a God who listens, liberates, watches over, saves and redeems. The name "YHWH," the "Lord," indicates precisely the constant presence of God alongside his people. Finally, the text teaches that in times of trial it is not only permissible but necessary to cry out to God: He is attentive to our cry and responds, not always by eliminating suffering, but by making himself present, reawakening trust, and giving us the strength to face evil. In summary, the psalm and the reflection that accompanies it give us three certainties: God is close to those who suffer and hears the cry of the poor. His presence does not take away the pain, but illuminates it and transforms it into hope. True faith comes from trust in this God who sees, hears, frees and accompanies man at all times.

Second Reading from the Second Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to Timothy (4:6-8, 16-18)

 "The good fight" (2 Tim 4:6-18). The text presents St Paul's last spiritual testament, written while he was in prison in Rome, aware that he would soon be executed. The letters to Timothy, although perhaps composed or completed by a disciple, contain his authentic words of farewell, imbued with faith and serenity. Paul describes his imminent death with the Greek verb analuein, which means 'to untie the ropes', 'to weigh anchor', 'to dismantle the tent': images that evoke the departure for a new journey, the one towards eternity. Looking back, the apostle takes stock of his life using the sporting metaphor of running and fighting: "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." Like an athlete who never gives up, Paul has reached the finish line and knows that he will receive the "crown of righteousness," the reward promised to all the faithful. He does not boast about himself, because this crown is not a personal privilege, but a gift offered to all those who have lovingly desired the manifestation of Christ. The 'just judge', God, does not look at appearances but at the heart — as Sirach taught — and will give glory not only to Paul, but to all those who live in the hope of the Lord's coming. The apostle's life was a constant race towards the glorious manifestation of Christ, the horizon of his faith and his service. He recognises that the strength to persevere does not come from him, but from God himself: 'The Lord gave me strength, so that I might fulfil the proclamation of the gospel and all nations might hear it'. This divine strength sustained his mission, enabling him to proclaim Christ until the end. Paul explains that Christian life is not a competition, but a shared race, in which each person is called to run at their own pace, with the same ardent desire for the coming of Christ. In his letter to Titus, he defined Christians as those who “wait for the blessed hope and the appearing of the glory of our great God and Saviour Jesus Christ” — words that the liturgy repeats every day at Mass. In his hour of trial, Paul also confesses the loneliness of the apostle: The first time I made my defence, no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be held against them (v. 16) . Like Jesus on the cross and Stephen at the moment of his stoning, he forgives and transforms abandonment into an experience of intimate communion with the Lord, who becomes his only strength and consolation. Paul is the poor man of whom Ben Sira speaks, the one whom God listens to and consoles, the one whose tears flow down God's cheeks. His final words reveal the hope that overcomes death: "So I was delivered from the lion's mouth. The Lord will deliver me from all evil and bring me safely into heaven, and save me in his kingdom" (vv. 17-18). He does not speak of physical deliverance - he knows that death is imminent - but of spiritual deliverance from the greatest danger: losing faith, ceasing to fight. The Lord has kept him faithful and given him perseverance until the end. For Paul, death is not defeat, but a passage to glory. It is the birth into true life, the entrance into the Kingdom where he will sing forever: 'To him be glory for ever and ever. Amen.'

In summary: The text presents Paul as a model of the believer who is faithful to the end. He experiences death as a departure towards God, not as an end. He looks at life as a race sustained by grace. He recognises that strength and perseverance come from the Lord. He understands that the reward is promised to all who desire the coming of Christ. He forgives those who abandon him and finds God's presence in solitude and weakness. He sees death as a passage into the glory of the Kingdom. Paul's "good fight" thus becomes the struggle of every Christian: to remain faithful in trials, to the point of running the last stretch with our gaze fixed on Christ, the source of strength, peace and hope.

*From the Gospel according to Luke (18:9-14)

A small preliminary observation before entering into the text: Luke clearly tells us that this is a parable... so we must not imagine that all the Pharisees or all the tax collectors of Jesus' time were like those described here. No Pharisee or tax collector perfectly matched this portrait: Jesus actually presents us with two very typical and simplified inner attitudes to highlight the moral of the story. He wants us to reflect on our own attitude, because we will probably recognise ourselves now in one, now in the other, depending on the day. Let us move on to the parable: last Sunday, Luke already offered us a teaching on prayer; the parable of the widow and the unjust judge taught us to pray without ever becoming discouraged. Today, however, it is a tax collector who is offered as an example. What relationship, one might ask, can there be between a poor widow and a rich tax collector? It is certainly not the bank account that is at issue, but the disposition of the heart. The widow is poor and forced to humble herself before a judge who ignores her; the tax collector, perhaps wealthy, bears the burden of a bad reputation, which is another form of poverty. Tax collectors were unpopular, and often not without reason: they lived in a period of Roman occupation and worked in the service of the occupiers. They were considered 'collaborators'. In addition, they dealt with a sensitive issue in every age: taxes. Rome set the amount due, and the tax collectors advanced it, then received full powers to recover it from their fellow citizens... often with a large profit margin. When Zacchaeus promises Jesus to repay four times as much to those he has defrauded, the suspicion is confirmed. Therefore, when the tax collector in the parable does not dare to raise his eyes to heaven and beats his breast saying, 'O God, have mercy on me, a sinner', perhaps he is only telling the plain truth. Being true before God, recognising one's own fragility: this is true prayer. It is this sincerity that makes him 'righteous' on his return home, says Jesus. The Pharisees, on the other hand, enjoyed an excellent reputation: their scrupulous fidelity to the Law, fasting twice a week (more than the Law required!), regular almsgiving, all expressed their desire to please God. And everything the Pharisee says in his prayer is true: he invents nothing. But, in reality, he does not pray. He contemplates himself. He looks at himself with complacency: he needs nothing, asks for nothing. He takes stock of his merits — and he has many! — but God does not think in terms of merit: his love is free, and all he asks is that we trust him. Let us imagine a journalist at the exit of the Temple interviewing the two men: Sir, what did you expect from God when you entered the Temple? Yes, I expected something. And did you receive it? Yes, and even more. And you, Mr Pharisee? No, I received nothing... A moment of silence, then he adds: But I didn't expect anything, after all. The concluding sentence of the parable sums it all up: "Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted." Jesus does not want to present God as a moral accountant who distributes rewards and punishments. He states a profound truth: those who exalt themselves, that is, those who believe themselves to be greater than they are, like the Pharisee, close their hearts and look down on others. But those who believe themselves to be superior lose the richness of others and isolate themselves from God, who never forces the door of the heart. We remain as we were, with our human 'righteousness', so different from the divine. On the contrary, those who humble themselves, who recognise themselves as small and poor, see superiority in others and can draw on their wealth. As St Paul says: 'Consider others superior to yourselves.' And this is true: every person we meet has something we do not have. This perspective opens the heart and allows God to fill us with his gift. It is not a question of an inferiority complex, but of the truth of the heart. It is precisely when we recognise that we are not 'brilliant' that the great adventure with God can begin. Ultimately, this parable is a magnificent illustration of the first beatitude: 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven'.

+ Giovanni D'Ercole

Flame and Peace, Diving and Division. Not tactical quietism

(Lk 12:49-53)

Difference “religiosity vs Faith” becomes evident in the comparison between mentality that identifies biblical Fire with punishment, and that of a sacred Flame poured out with passion of love (v.49) that evokes the Gift in our favor.

St Francis proclaimed: «Laudato sie, mi Signore, per frate focu,/ per lo quale ennalumini la notte:/ et ello è bello e iocundo/ et robustoso et forte».

[«Praise be to you, my Lord, for brother fire, / through whom you light the night: / and he is beautiful and playful / and strong and powerful»].

For the little poor man of Assisi, fire was a «noble and useful element among the creatures of the Most High» [Legenda antiqua].

He had with «friar fire» a disconcerting relationship of courtesy. Certainly it didn’t drive out the night in the same way as the Sun, but brought light.

On the contrary, the disciples’ blaze was not very wise: James and John wanted it to incinerate opponents (Lk 9:54).

Before Jesus, John the baptizer awaited a Messiah who still would immerse everyone in a devouring and executioning bonfire (Lk 3:17).

The «fire» of Faith announced by the Person and activity of the Son does not consume, does not corrode.

On the contrary, it is like a ‘Bread’: fullness of energy for a «complete life», not a destructive or separating element.

All this revives people, relationships and surrounding realities. It changes our Relationship with God, with ourselves and our neighbour.

Such is the ‘division’ proclaimed (v.51): discrimination of our Call.

In common devotion the error of evaluation or the condition of weakness is considered an infirmity, to be pointed out, corrected, punished.

"Impurities" should not be ‘melted’ into divine and providential Fire: they should only be normalised according to atavistic prescriptions or more recent sophisticated ideas [à la page].

For life in the Spirit, on the other hand, attention is elsewhere: personal oscillations become possibilities; the fellings, a new Force.

Sense of incapacity, failure and impediments arouse intensity, exchange, dialogue, new elaborations, search for other processes.

Faith is kindled wave upon wave, in welcoming and responding to God who reveals himself, calls and continues to propose – even cross-cultural mixtures that entangle purisms.

Food and Flame are also… our unsatisfactory situations: boulders that seemed to crush and make us negative are taken on board, hired, becoming gasoline that animates and propels us forward.

«Incarnation» is the recovery of opposing sides.

On this path, imperfection becomes a driving force, with its Treasures that we cannot see, hidden behind dark sides.

They are those slopes that will then dominate our Desire.

In this way, Baptism is not a procedure or a coat of grey colour and common opinion.

It is not even a device that labels, immediately cornering personalities and tensions - but rather an «Immersion» (see v. 50 Greek text).

By taking care of the neglected parts and merging the "extraneous" or different sides, from the exteriority of things we are brought back to the Origin of what happens.

[Thursday 29th wk. in O.T.  October 23, 2025]

Flame and Peace, Immersion and Division. Not tactical quietism

(Lk 12:49-53)

"I have come to cast a fire on the earth, and how I wish it had already blazed!" (Lk 12:49).

The difference between religiosity and Faith is made evident in the comparison between the mentality that identifies the biblical Fire with punishment, and that of a sacred Flame poured out with a passion of love (v.49) that evokes the Gift on our behalf.

Francis proclaimed: "Laudato sie, mi Signore, per frate focu,/ per lo quale ennalumini la notte:/ et ello è bello e iocundo/ et robustoso et forte".

For the Poverello of Assisi, fire was a "noble and useful element among the creatures of the Most High" [Legenda antiqua].

He had with "frate focu" a disconcerting relationship of courtesy. Certainly it did not drive out the night in the same way as the Sun, but it brought light into it.

By contrast, the disciples' blaze was not much: James and John wanted it to incinerate adversaries or unfortunates (Lk 9:54).

Before Jesus, John the Baptizer was still waiting for a Messiah who would immerse everyone in a devouring and executing bonfire (Lk 3:17).

In the passage of e.g. Mt 19:13-15, the same theme is mixed up with the purist and fundamentalist ardour of the apostles, who at all costs wanted to detach Jesus from his beloved ones, who had not the slightest intention of being submissive.

The fire of Faith announced by the Person and activity of the Son does not consume, it does not corrode; on the contrary, it is like food: fullness of energy for a complete life, not a destructive or separating element.

It revives people, relationships and the surrounding reality. It changes our relationship with God, with ourselves and our neighbour. Such is the division proclaimed (v.51): the dividing line of our Calling.

In common devotion the error of judgement or weak condition is considered an infirmity, to be pointed out, corrected, punished.

Doctrine and discipline constitute the outer armour of consciences, and worship celebrates and inculcates them [not infrequently, in a conformist and shoddy, albeit pretentious, manner].

The "impurities" should not be "merged" into the divine and providential Fire: only normalised according to atavistic prescriptions, or sophisticated ideas à la page.

For life in the Spirit, on the other hand, the focus is elsewhere: personal fluctuations become possibilities; break-downs a new Force.

Sense of incapacity, failure and hindrances arouse intensity, exchange, dialogue, new elaborations, the search for other processes; even rages of indignation that flare up and stimulate redemption.

Faith ignites wave after wave, in welcoming and corresponding God who reveals himself, calls and still proposes - even cross-mixing, entangling abstract purisms.

"We dream as one humanity" - underlines the encyclical Fratelli Tutti (n.8), rejoicing "in the diversity" that inhabits us (cf. n.10).

In the imperfection of critical situations, the Father does not throw stones at us, but Bread [not stale - as in ancient ideologies].

Our unsatisfactory situations are also Food and Flame: the boulders that seemed to crush us and made us negative are taken up, they become petrol that projects; jubilation, which - instead of 'settling' us - makes us grow again.

Called to collaborate, we participate in the same creative, free and cheering action of the Lord.

He directs us to the unprecedented Peace of becoming wholeness, of all-round humanisation yet to be acquired.

The Plan of Love evolves and strengthens through concrete events, not excluding the enthralling dynamics that arise from the awareness of one's own boundary - of which one should not be rid of.

Faith does not create disintegrating idols, equating eccentricity and sin, it only rests its gaze on them to understand, allowing them to melt and blossom from that mouldable energetic magma, transfiguring us.

For old beliefs it was unimaginable that the Most High did not feel repugnance for our condition - and precisely on the folds of carnal precariousness wanted to build a story of salvation.

Instead, the Son is our accomplice. He even winks at those aspects that the conformist gaze dismisses as imbalances, disorders, illnesses.

He wants to make of each one of us not a censor or a do-gooder, but an unrepeatable masterpiece - not built in a test-tube, but which you do not expect.

The Lord does not standardise or sterilise, demanding acting or climbing out of nature. It is He who humanises Himself - even in our quirks.

He recognises Himself in that which is steeped in expectation and sweat, even though it is deemed unbecoming of the [even devout, or conversely, sophisticated] man who yearns to elevate himself.

Do we feel settled and 'arrived'? Only here there is no 'fire', no passion, no discovery, no genesis, no therapy - and we are not even at the threshold of Faith.

"Incarnation" is the recovery of opposite sides: imperfection becomes a spring, with its treasures we cannot see, hidden behind dark sides.It is those sides that will then dominate our Desire.

That's the whole game: we start from where we are, and attention to the occasions of the imperfect present - which we must not rush to disinfect - will make us wince at the unexpected life that re-emerges there.

The Flame of the Spirit that is building the Newness of God lurks in the embers and sides deemed inconclusive or opposing - it does not place itself in the shop window to stifle instinct at once.

Thus the Church: not 'functional', but life-giving. Kingdom and territory not marked by tactical pacifism, which anaesthetises.

In this way, Baptism is not a rubric or a hand of grey and common opinion, nor a device that brands, immediately cornering personalities and tensions - but an Immersion (v.50 Greek text).

"Now why do you not also judge for yourselves what is right?" (v.57).

In Christ we are empowered to think and are made autonomous, for a solid fraternity with ourselves, which has 'stopped' - and which unfolds by revitalising Oneness.

By tending the neglected parts and merging the extraneous or dissimilar sides, from the exteriority of things we are brought back to the Origin of what happens.

Dear Brothers and Sisters, 

In this Sunday's Gospel there is an expression of Jesus that always attracts our attention and needs to be properly understood. 

While he is on his way to Jerusalem, where death on a cross awaits him, Christ asked his disciples: "Do you think that I have come to give peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division". And he adds: "[H]enceforth in one house there will be five divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided, father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against her mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law" (Lk 12: 51-53). 

Anyone who has even the slightest knowledge of Christ's Gospel knows that it is a message of peace par excellence; as St Paul wrote, Jesus himself "is our peace" (Eph 2: 14), the One who died and rose in order to pull down the wall of enmity and inaugurate the Kingdom of God which is love, joy and peace. 

So how can his words be explained? To what was the Lord referring when he said he had come - according to St Luke's version - to bring "division" or - according to St Matthew's - the "sword" (Mt 10: 34)? 

Christ's words mean that the peace he came to bring us is not synonymous with the mere absence of conflicts. On the contrary, Jesus' peace is the result of a constant battle against evil. The fight that Jesus is determined to support is not against human beings or human powers, but against Satan, the enemy of God and man. 

Anyone who desires to resist this enemy by remaining faithful to God and to good, must necessarily confront misunderstandings and sometimes real persecutions. 

All, therefore, who intend to follow Jesus and to commit themselves without compromise to the truth, must know that they will encounter opposition and that in spite of themselves they will become a sign of division between people, even in their own families. In fact, love for one's parents is a holy commandment, but to be lived authentically it can never take precedence over love for God and love for Christ. 

Thus, following in the footsteps of the Lord Jesus, in accordance with St Francis of Assisi's famous words, Christians become "instruments of peace"; not of a peace that is inconsistent and only apparent but one that is real, pursued with courage and tenacity in the daily commitment to overcome evil with good (cf. Rom 12: 21) and paying in person the price that this entails. 

The Virgin Mary, Queen of Peace, shared until his martyrdom her Son Jesus' fight with the Devil and continues to share in it to the end of time. Let us invoke her motherly intercession so that she may help us always to be witnesses of Christ's peace and never to sink so low as to make compromises with evil.

[Pope Benedict, Angelus 19 August 2007]

1. The World Day of Peace this year is being celebrated in the shadow of the dramatic events of 11 September last. On that day, a terrible crime was committed: in a few brief hours thousands of innocent people of many ethnic backgrounds were slaughtered. Since then, people throughout the world have felt a profound personal vulnerability and a new fear for the future. Addressing this state of mind, the Church testifies to her hope, based on the conviction that evil, the mysterium iniquitatis, does not have the final word in human affairs. The history of salvation, narrated in Sacred Scripture, sheds clear light on the entire history of the world and shows us that human events are always accompanied by the merciful Providence of God, who knows how to touch even the most hardened of hearts and bring good fruits even from what seems utterly barren soil.  

This is the hope which sustains the Church at the beginning of 2002: that, by the grace of God, a world in which the power of evil seems once again to have taken the upper hand will in fact be transformed into a world in which the noblest aspirations of the human heart will triumph, a world in which true peace will prevail.

Peace: the work of justice and love 

2. Recent events, including the terrible killings just mentioned, move me to return to a theme which often stirs in the depths of my heart when I remember the events of history which have marked my life, especially my youth.  

The enormous suffering of peoples and individuals, even among my own friends and acquaintances, caused by Nazi and Communist totalitarianism, has never been far from my thoughts and prayers. I have often paused to reflect on the persistent question: how do we restore the moral and social order subjected to such horrific violence? My reasoned conviction, confirmed in turn by biblical revelation, is that the shattered order cannot be fully restored except by a response that combines justice with forgiveness. The pillars of true peace are justice and that form of love which is forgiveness.

[Pope John Paul II, Message for the xxxv World Day of Peace]

The Gospel for this Sunday (Lk 12:49-53) is part of Jesus’ teachings to the disciples during his journey to Jerusalem, where death on the cross awaits him. To explain the purpose of his mission, he takes three images: fire, baptism and division. Today I wish to talk about the first image: fire.

Jesus expresses it with these words: “I came to cast fire upon the earth; and would that it were already kindled!” (v. 49). The fire that Jesus speaks of is the fire of the Holy Spirit, the presence living and working in us from the day of our Baptism. It — the fire — is a creative force that purifies and renews, that burns all human misery, all selfishness, all sin, which transforms us from within, regenerates us and makes us able to love. Jesus wants the Holy Spirit to blaze like fire in our heart, for it is only from the heart that the fire of divine love can spread and advance the Kingdom of God. It does not come from the head, it comes from the heart. This is why Jesus wants fire to enter our heart. If we open ourselves completely to the action of this fire which is the Holy Spirit, He will give us the boldness and the fervor to proclaim to everyone Jesus and his consoling message of mercy and salvation, navigating on the open sea, without fear.

In fulfilling her mission in the world, the Church — namely all of us who make up the Church — needs the Holy Spirit’s help so as not to let herself be held back by fear and by calculation, so as not to become accustomed to walking inside of safe borders. These two attitudes lead the Church to be a functional Church, which never takes risks. Instead, the apostolic courage that the Holy Spirit kindles in us like a fire helps us to overcome walls and barriers, makes us creative and spurs us to get moving in order to walk even on uncharted or arduous paths, offering hope to those we meet. With this fire of the Holy Spirit we are called to become, more and more, communities of people who are guided and transformed, full of understanding; people with expanded hearts and joyful faces. Now more than ever there is need for priests, consecrated people and lay faithful, with the attentive gaze of an apostle, to be moved by and to pause before hardship and material and spiritual poverty, thus characterizing the journey of evangelization and of the mission with the healing cadence of closeness. It is precisely the fire of the Holy Spirit that leads us to be neighbours to others, to the needy, to so much human misery, to so many problems, to refugees, to displaced people, to those who are suffering.

At this moment I am thinking with admiration especially of the many priests, men and women religious and lay faithful who, throughout the world, are dedicated to proclaiming the Gospel with great love and faithfulness, often even at the cost of their lives. Their exemplary testimony reminds us that the Church does not need bureaucrats and diligent officials, but passionate missionaries, consumed by ardour to bring to everyone the consoling word of Jesus and his grace. This is the fire of the Holy Spirit. If the Church does not receive this fire, or does not let it inflame her, she becomes a cold or merely lukewarm Church, incapable of giving life, because she is made up of cold and lukewarm Christians. It will do us good today to take five minutes to ask ourselves: “How is my heart? Is it cold? Is it lukewarm? Is it capable of receiving this fire?”. Let us take five minutes for this. It will do everyone good.

[Pope Francis, Angelus 14 August 2016]

29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year C)  [19 October 2025]

May God bless us and may the Virgin Mary protect us. Once again, a strong reminder of how to live our faith in every situation in life.

First Reading from the Book of Exodus (17:8-13)

 The test of faith. On Israel's journey through the desert, the encounter with the Amalekites marks a decisive stage: it is the first battle of the people freed from Egypt, but also the first great test of their faith. The Amalekites, descendants of Esau, represent in biblical tradition the hereditary enemy, a figure of evil who tries to prevent God's people from reaching the promised land. Their sudden attack on the rear of the caravan — the weakest and most tired — reveals the logic of evil: to strike where faith falters, where fatigue and fear open the door to doubt. This episode takes place at Rephidim, the same place as Massah and Meribah, where Israel had already murmured against God because of the lack of water. There the people had experienced the trial of thirst, now they experience the trial of combat: in both cases, the temptation is the same — to think that God is no longer with them. But once again God intervenes, showing that faith is purified through struggle and that trust must remain firm even in danger. While Joshua fights in the plain, Moses climbs the mountain with God's staff in his hand — a sign of his presence and power. The story does not focus on the movements of the troops, but on Moses' gesture: his hands raised towards the sky. It is not a magical gesture: it is prayer that sustains the battle, faith that becomes strength for the whole people. When Moses' arms fall, Israel loses; when they remain raised, Israel wins. Victory therefore depends not only on the strength of weapons, but on communion with God and persevering prayer. Moses grows tired, Aaron and Hur support his hands: this is the image of spiritual brotherhood, of the community that bears the weight of faith together. Thus, prayer is not isolation, but solidarity: those who pray support others, and those who fight draw strength from the prayers of their brothers and sisters. This episode thus becomes a paradigm of spiritual life: Israel, fragile and still on its journey, learns that victory does not come from human strength, but from trust in God. Prayer, represented by Moses' raised hands, does not replace action but accompanies and transfigures it. The person who prays and the person who fights are two faces of the same believer: one fights in the world, the other intercedes before God, and both participate in the one work of salvation. Finally, the praying community becomes the living sign of God's presence at work in his people, and when a believer no longer has the strength to pray, the faith of his brothers and sisters sustains him. The story of Amalek at Rephidim is not just a page in history, but an icon of Christian life: we all live our battles knowing that victory belongs to God and that prayer is the source of all strength and the guarantee of God's presence.

Responsorial Psalm (120/121) 

Psalm 120/121 belongs to the group of 'Psalms of Ascents' (Ps 120-134), composed to accompany the pilgrimages of the people of Israel to Jerusalem, the holy city situated on high, symbol of the place where God dwells among his people. The verb 'to ascend' indicates not only geographical ascent but also and above all a spiritual movement, a conversion of the heart that brings the believer closer to God. Each pilgrimage was a sign of the Covenant and an act of faith for Israel: the people, travelling from all parts of the country, renewed their trust in the Lord. When the psalm speaks in the first person — "I lift up my eyes to the mountains" — it actually gives voice to the collective "we" of all Israel, the people marching towards God. This journey is an image of the entire history of Israel, a long march in which fatigue, waiting, danger and trust are intertwined. The roads that lead to Jerusalem, in addition to being stone roads, are spiritual paths marked by trials and risks. Fatigue, loneliness, external threats — robbers, animals, scorching sun, cold nights — become symbols of the difficulties of faith. In this situation, the words of the psalm are a profession of absolute trust: "My help comes from the Lord: he   made heaven and earth." These words affirm that true help comes not from human powers or mute idols, but from the living God, Creator of the universe, who never sleeps and never abandons his people. He is called "the Guardian of Israel": the one who watches over us constantly, who accompanies us, who is close to us like a shadow that protects us from the sun and the moon. The Hebrew expression "at your right hand" indicates an intimate and faithful presence, like that of an inseparable companion. The people who pray this psalm thus remember the pillar of cloud and fire that guided Israel in the desert, a sign of God who protects day and night, accompanying them on their journey and guarding their lives. Therefore, the psalmist can say: 'The Lord will guard you from all evil; he will guard your life. The Lord will guard you when you go out and when you come in, from now on and forever." The pilgrim who "goes up" to Jerusalem becomes the image of the believer who entrusts himself to God alone, renouncing idols and false securities. This movement is conversion: turning away from what is vain to turn towards the God who saves. In the New Testament, Jesus himself was able to pray this psalm as he "went up to Jerusalem" (Lk 9:51). He walks the path of Israel and of every human being, entrusting his life to the Father. The words "The Lord will guard your life" find their full fulfilment at Easter, when the pilgrim's return becomes resurrection because it is a return to new and definitive life. Thus, Psalm 121 is much more than a prayer for travel: it is the confession of faith of a people on a journey, the proclamation that God is faithful and that his presence accompanies every step of existence. In it, historical memory, theological trust and eschatological hope come together. Israel, the believer and Christ himself share the same certainty: God guards life and every ascent, even the most difficult, leads to communion with Him.

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul to Timothy (3:14-4:2)

In this passage from the second letter to Timothy (3:14-4:2), Paul entrusts his disciple with the most precious legacy: fidelity to the Word of God. It is a text written at a difficult time, marked by doctrinal confusion and tensions in the community of Ephesus. Timothy is called to be a 'guardian of the Word' in the midst of a world that risks losing the truth it has received. The first words, 'Remain faithful to what you have learned', make it clear that others have abandoned the apostolic teaching: fidelity then becomes an act of spiritual resistance, a remaining anchored to the source. Paul speaks of 'dwelling' in the Word: faith is not an object to be possessed, but an environment in which to live. Timothy entered into it as a child thanks to his mother Eunice and his grandmother Lois, women of faith who passed on to him a love for the Scriptures. Here we have a reference to the communal and traditional character of faith: no one discovers the Word on their own, but always in the Church. Access to Scripture takes place within the living Tradition, that 'chain' that starts with Christ, passes through the apostles and continues in believers. 'Tradere' in Latin means 'to transmit': what is received is given. In this fidelity, Scripture is a source of living water that regenerates the believer and roots him in the truth. Paul affirms that the Holy Scriptures can instruct for the salvation that is obtained through faith in Christ Jesus (v. 15). The Old Testament is the path that leads to Christ: the entire history of Israel prepares for the fulfilment of the Paschal mystery. 'All Scripture is inspired by God': even before it became dogma, it was the deep conviction of the people of Israel, from which arose respect for the holy books kept in the synagogues. Divine inspiration does not cancel out the human word, but transfigures it, making it an instrument of the Spirit. Scripture, therefore, is not just another book, but a living presence of God that forms, educates, corrects and sanctifies: thanks to it, the man of God will be perfect, equipped for every good work (vv. 16-17). From this source springs the mission, and Paul entrusts Timothy with the decisive command: "Proclaim the Word, insist on it at the opportune and inopportune moment" (v. 4:2) because the proclamation of the Gospel is a necessity, not an optional task. The solemn reference to Christ's judgement of the living and the dead shows the gravity of apostolic responsibility. Proclaiming the Word means making present the Logos, that is, Christ himself, the living Word of the Father. It is He who communicates himself through the voice of the preacher and the life of the witness. But proclamation requires courage and patience: it is necessary to speak when it is convenient and when it is not, to admonish, correct, encourage, always with a spirit of charity and a desire to build up the community. Truth without love hurts; love without truth empties the Word. For Paul, Scripture is not only memory, but the dynamism of the Spirit. It shapes the mind and heart, forms judgement, inspires choices. Those who dwell in it become "men of God," that is, persons shaped by the Word and made capable of serving. Timothy is invited not only to guard the doctrine, but to make it a source of life for himself and for others. Thus, the Word, accepted and lived, becomes a place of encounter with Christ and a source of renewal for the Church. The apostle does not found anything of his own, but transmits what he has received; in the same way, every believer is called to become a link in this living chain, so that the Word may continue to flow in the world like water that quenches, purifies and fertilises. In summary: Scripture is the source of faith, Tradition is the river that transmits it, and proclamation is the fruit that nourishes the life of the Church. To remain in the Word means to remain in Christ; to proclaim it means to let Him act and speak through us. Only in this way does the man of God become fully formed and the community grow in truth and charity.

From the Gospel according to Luke (18:1-8)

The context of this parable is that of the 'end times': Jesus is walking towards Jerusalem, towards His Passion, death and Resurrection. The disciples perceive the tragic and mysterious epilogue, feel the need for greater faith ('Increase our faith') and are anxious to understand the coming of the Kingdom of God. The term 'Son of Man', already present in Daniel (7), indicates the one who comes on the clouds, receives universal and eternal kingship, and also represents, in the original sense, a collective being, the people of the Saints of the Most High. Jesus uses it to refer to himself, reassuring his disciples about God's ultimate victory, even in a context of imminent difficulties. The reference to judgement and the Kingdom emphasises the eschatological perspective: God will do justice to his chosen ones, the Kingdom has already begun, but it will be fully realised at the end. The parable of the persistent widow is at the heart of the message: before an unjust judge, the widow is not discouraged because her cause is just. This example combines two virtues essential to Christians: humility, recognising one's poverty (first beatitude: 'Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God'), and perseverance, confident insistence in prayer and justice. The widow's persistence becomes a paradigm for faith in waiting for the Kingdom: our cause, too, based on God's will, requires tenacity. The text also recalls the connection with the episode in the Old Testament: during the battle against the Amalekites, Moses prays persistently on the hill while Joshua fights on the plain. The victory of the people depends on the presence and intervention of God, supported by Moses' persevering prayer. The parable of the widow has the same function: to remind believers, of all times, that faith is a continuous struggle, a test of endurance in the face of difficulties, opposition and doubts. Jesus' concluding question, "When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?", is a universal warning: faith should never be taken for granted; it must be guarded, nurtured and protected. From the early morning of the Resurrection until the final coming of the Son of Man, faith is a struggle of constancy and trust, even when the Kingdom seems far away. The widow teaches us how to face the wait: humble, stubborn, confident, aware of our weakness but certain of God's justice and saving will, which never disappoints those who trust in him totally. Luke seems to be writing to a community threatened by discouragement, as suggested by the final sentence: 'When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?'. This phrase, while appearing pessimistic, is actually a warning to be vigilant: faith must be guarded and nurtured, not taken for granted. The text forms an inclusion: the first sentence teaches what faith is — 'We must always pray without losing heart' — and the final sentence calls for perseverance. Between the two, the example of the stubborn widow, treated unjustly but who does not give up, shows concretely how to practise this faith. The overall teaching is clear: faith is a constant commitment, an active resistance, which requires stubbornness, humility and trust in God's justice, even in the face of difficulties and the apparent absence of a response.

+ Giovanni D'Ercole

Without intimate contentions

(Lk 12:39-48)

Jesus reproaches his intimates [those of the House]: it’s neither love nor freedom not to be able to understand in which direction to go, not to have a goal that transmits meaning to our pilgrimage.

Already in the communities of the first centuries was alive the idea of the end of the world and of the immediately subsequent «return» of the Risen One - to fix things, like any other Messiah. So someone didn’t commit himself anymore. Others was remaining with their noses up, to peer into the sky.

But the Coming of Christ is always imminent, and the Judgment on the things of the world has already been pronounced on the Cross.

In his Spirit who makes all events new, and in his disciples, the Lord has never moved elsewhere (nor above) [cf. Mt 28,20].

The final phase of history begins precisely from this germ of Faith not alienated, of Person not repressed, and of an alternative society; but the history to be written is the task of the Church.

The new heaven and new earth of the divinising Presence is already throbbing. In this way, He is next to us when we fight for realization and the full existence of everyone.

In no passage of the Gospels it’s written that Jesus «will return»: although not perceptible to the senses, He never went away.

He enjoys a full Life, not conditioned by space-time coordinates like ours.

He is the One Coming [Greek text, passim]: the One who incessantly makes Himself Present, and becomes a travelling companion - not only in exceptional figure.

The attention of the impressionable people already in the 80s shifted (unfortunately) to the Return instead of the «unceasing Coming» [that is, perception of his Friendship in even common things, in the Appeal of the needy; in the Call of intuitions, of the Word, of the companions of our journey; in the genius of time, and even in everyday facts].

His «Coming» is: in the goals that smile, but even and perhaps more in the obstacles to be lived, shifting our gaze - in the disappointments, wich lead us to seek a less outward joy.

Thus, according to the Lord’s desire, the good guide of the Christian community will become a servant of the lost, will not appropriate the goods of the Church, will also become vigilant in favour of others.

It’s essential that the first of the class do not let themselves be carried away by the adolescent desire to self-support and affirm themselves, with greedy for privileges and hoarding of relevant tasks.

Fidelity is an attitude required especially of those who in assemblies have a particular and precise mission of guidance: forbidden to abuse it!

The only desire from which they must feel caught up is to hasten the hour of Communion and introduce a regenerative energy, also in the roles.

But Peter is conditioned by the false traditional teaching, totally antithetical, and he cannot conceive it.

According to the Master, however, leaders of communities are not exclusive privileged or the elected, but those who are asked to do more and better.

Free people.

The only plausible objective of the particular path in the power of the Risen One is of a maternal and universal character: «to give birth to a new world, where all of us are brothers and sisters» [FT n.278].

[Wednesday 29th wk. in O.T.  October 22, 2025]

(Lk 12:39-48)

«You also be ready, for in the hour you do not believe the Son of Man is coming» (Lk 12:40).

Jesus pulls the ears of those in the House, not out of self-denial: it is neither love nor freedom not to be able to understand in which direction to go, not to have a goal that conveys meaning to our pilgrimage in search.

Already in the communities of the early centuries the idea of the end of the world and the immediate subsequent 'return' of the Risen One to set things right - like any Messiah - was alive.

So some were no longer committed. Others remained with their noses in the air, scanning the heavens.

But the Coming of Christ is always imminent, and the Judgement on the things of the world has already been pronounced on the Cross.

In his Spirit who makes all things new, and in his intimates, the Lord has never moved (elsewhere; or on high) [cf. Mt 28:20].

The final phase of history begins precisely from this seed of Faith not alienated, of Person not repressed, and of alternative society; but the history to be written is the task of the Church.

The new heaven and the new earth of the Divinising Presence is already palpitating. In this way, He is beside us as we strive for fulfilment and full life for all.

For this reason, in the epigraph to the encyclical Fratelli Tutti, here stands out the practical and eloquent figure of St Francis "who felt himself a brother to the sun, the sea and the wind, he knew that he was even more united to those who were of his own flesh. Everywhere he sowed peace and walked beside the poor, the abandoned, the sick, the discarded, the last" [n.2].

The Gospels and the recent Magisterium - no longer neutral - intone the de profundis to the peripheral, intimist and empty spirituality that has marked mass Catholicism in the West.

It is clear why in no passage of the Gospels is it written that Jesus 'will return': although not perceptible to the senses, he has never departed.

He enjoys a full Life, unconditioned by space-time coordinates.

He is 'the Coming One' [Greek text, passim]: he who comes without ceasing, and makes himself a companion on the journey - not only in exceptional figures such as the Saint of Assisi.

However, already in the 1880s the attention of impressionable people was (unfortunately) shifting to the Return instead of the providential Coming - the pivot of positive faith in life itself, which reveals the Face of the God-Con.

"Unceasing Coming": it is perception of his Friendship in things, even in the common, in the Call of the needy; in the Call of the insights, of the Word, and of the companions of our journey.

"Coming" is: in the goals that smile, but even and perhaps even more so in the stumbling blocks to be experienced - or circumvented, by shifting our gaze; in the disappointments, which guide us to seek a less outward joy.

It is the 'Advent' of Christ: the vocational instinct that activates us, the sense of vital fraternity, the sensitive friendship of all those who know how to understand, introduce and coordinate - as well as the predilection for quality relationships; the trust in the genius of time, even in everyday events.

In this way and according to the Lord's wish, the good leader of the Christian community will become a servant to the lost, will not appropriate the Church's goods, and will also become vigilant in favour of others.

It is imperative that those at the top of the class do not allow themselves to be carried away by the adolescent desire for self-assertion, with greed for privileges and hoarding of relevant tasks.

Loyalty is an attitude required especially of those who have a particular and precise task in the assemblies, that of leadership: do not abuse it!

The only eagerness they must feel is to hasten the hour of Communion and introduce a regenerative energy, even in their roles.

However, Peter is conditioned by the traditional false teaching, which is completely antithetical; and he cannot conceive it.

According to the Master, however, community leaders and leaders are not privileged or exclusively chosen, but those who are asked to do more and better - not for their benefit!

The world and the Church need fewer fake masters - rather, diligent and convinced servants, who attract by direct testimony. Not by prestige of titles and roles.

Free people.

The only plausible objective of the particular path in the power of the Risen One is of a maternal and universal nature: "to give birth to a new world, where we are all brothers" [FT n.278].

The Tao (LXVI) says: "The reason why rivers and seas can be sovereigns of a hundred valleys is that they keep well below them. So he who wants to be above the people with sayings sets himself below them, he who wants to be before the people with the person sets himself below them.

And Master Ho shang-Kung comments: "The world is not satisfied with the saint, because he does not contend with others for first or last place".To internalise and live the message:

To internalise and live the message:

Have you encountered servants or masters in your community?

Do the leaders help you to seek the leap, the authentic realisation, the inner joy?