The end of a sacred order: stuffed - or free

(Lk 14:1-6)

The Bible often presents salvation as a banquet in which God himself participates alongside man.

Here, specific reference is made to the assembly of those summoned to break bread [‘to eat bread’: v. 1 Greek text] – a scene still dominated by traditionalists or conformist Judaizers.

On the surface, all appears calm. All the more reason for the Lord (very mischievously) to throw a spanner in the works, to reshape its soporific aspects.

Where He makes His presence felt in earnest - even in places dedicated to the peaceful celebration of the Sacraments - nothing remains as it was before.

His frankness still astounds and confounds all quietism.

It is strange that a hydropic man could have entered the house of a Pharisee - but significant, in the sense of the Gospel message.

In the home of the leader [whether old-fashioned or 'approved' fashionable], the human guests are stuffed with vaguely spiritual platitudes - not with the luminous and living Faith.

There, one moves with difficulty.

In the assembly (coincidentally), someone cannot stand; he is full of... with things to be eliminated as soon as possible - or they will not make it.

But it is only Jesus' question that immediately cleanses the useless excesses inoculated drop by drop by false guides into the unfortunate.

Inside the well in verse 5, it is as if not a donkey or an ox had fallen, but a brother or a son, and ourselves.

In short: the excuses of religious legalism [ancient or à la page] and good manners do not even touch the Father.

The leaders present do not know what to say: in reality, they have nothing to say (to anyone).

They do not even vaguely conceive of God's Will as Love that intervenes promptly, that gets involved in our vulnerabilities or eccentricities.

Pope Francis would say of them, in his third encyclical: 'accustomed to looking away, passing by, ignoring situations' (Fratelli Tutti, n.64).

Instead, the Son - and anyone who makes him Present - takes humanity by the hand, in its Uniqueness. And heals its limitations.

But He acts not to stick to it [as the directors of the time would have done] but to make it lighter, able to breathe and not just compress.

Humanity liberated, finally autonomous - capable of tracing a path on its own legs; even if it turns out to be 'distant'.

This is a ruthless brushstroke by Luke, which highlights the difference between empty 'teaching' - albeit in religious form - and 'action of Faith' linked to concrete life (v.3).

In choosing between the real good of the person and the reputation of the group [the ruling clique], Jesus has no doubt.

On the other hand, for the great devotees and leaders, giving credence, or the prestige of the institution, and the 'custom' of doctrine, as well as great sophisticated ideas... are their whole life.

The Master still does not remain silent today, and ridicules the personal inconsistency of some masters of theology who, while maintaining appearances, feel exempt from everything in their private lives.

In fact, it is precisely the 'experts' who sometimes lack 'the taste for recognising the other [...] for being themselves and for being different' (FT, 217-218).

Theology yes, but of the Incarnation. The spice of life is not permanence: it is better to eliminate unnecessary burdens.

In our assemblies there are naive and practising believers, but they are not very aware, rather unprepared and misguided.

We could say: faithful considered as glasses to be filled, devotees destined to say 'yes sir' and not express themselves: evaluated without any significant spiritual personality.

They are not welcomed as a gift, but rather neglected; cloaked in the thoughts, practices and objectives of others.

For some community leaders... they are just numbers.

Let us try to paraphrase John Paul II (Dives in Misericordia nos. 12-13) but with reference to the figure of the hydropic.

There are souls - of every Christian denomination - who fear becoming victims of oppression and hide themselves.

They lack inner freedom, the possibility of expressing their vocational character, of expressing what they believe in.

They do not feel able to be guided by the voice of conscience, which intimately indicates the right path to follow.

For fear of retaliation or ridicule, or rather lack of awareness, they prefer a peaceful existence in all areas of life.

Expressing themselves in a spontaneous, natural and healthy way could be uncomfortable - not in tune with the local domestication programme.

Thus, while manipulators tend to use them without scruples, simple people continue to place themselves in a subordinate position.

They do not even remotely imagine or are educated to consider themselves custodians of a precious, unique Pearl for the work of Salvation.

They undergo a kind of daily torture that clogs them with external ideas, observances that do not correspond to their soul and their right to truth and freedom.

In short, as the Gospel passage illustrates, the Church takes the educational risk and reveals the meaning of 'Christ in action' only when it brings unstable people closer to the sources of conscience and personal 'flesh'.

In short, even originality or pain come to us to generate the right eyes; to teach us how to live. To remind us that we are called to be born again, far beyond the idea of 'perfection'.

In this way, we cannot rely solely on context, on external approval; realities often devoid of humanising passion.

There is a 'fire' that lives within us, a Call by Name that knows how to dispose of useless, other people's ballast. They trample on us and pollute us; therefore, they must be placed in the background and overlooked.

Our journey in the Spirit - even in the official place of worship - is an unprecedented itinerary towards personal fulfilment.

We cannot stray from the Goal that belongs to us.

In this way, every pain will be short-lived and will teach us something: there we are simply giving birth to the essentiality that dwells within us.

The transition from religious meaning to a life of Faith brings with it the Easter leap of Freedom.

To internalise and live the message:

How would you describe your transition from religiosity to Faith?

Have you purified yourself of the inculcated trappings that weighed down your essential personality?

Have you freed yourself from the sophisticated thoughts that overlook the 'flesh'?

Have you made the Easter leap of freedom?

Reading, study and meditation of the Word should then flow into a life of consistent fidelity to Christ and his teachings.

Saint James tells us: "Be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves. For if any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like. But those who look into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and persevere, being not hearers who forget but doers who act - they will be blessed in their doing" (1:22-25). Those who listen to the word of God and refer to it always, are constructing their existence on solid foundations. "Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them", Jesus said, "will be like a wise man who built his house on rock" (Mt 7:24). It will not collapse when bad weather comes.

To build your life on Christ, to accept the word with joy and put its teachings into practice: this, young people of the third millennium, should be your programme!

[Pope Benedict, Message for the 21st World Youth Day, 9 April 2006]

11. Man rightly fears falling victim to an oppression that will deprive him of his interior freedom, of the possibility of expressing the truth of which he is convinced, of the faith that he professes, of the ability to obey the voice of conscience that tells him the right path to follow. The technical means at the disposal of modern society conceal within themselves not only the possibility of self-destruction through military conflict, but also the possibility of a "peaceful" subjugation of individuals, of environments, of entire societies and of nations, that for one reason or another might prove inconvenient for those who possess the necessary means and are ready to use them without scruple. An instance is the continued existence of torture, systematically used by authority as a means of domination and political oppression and practiced by subordinates with impunity. 

Together with awareness of the biological threat, therefore, there is a growing awareness of yet another threat, even more destructive of what is essentially human, what is intimately bound up with the dignity of the person and his or her right to truth and freedom.

13. The Church lives an authentic life when she professes and proclaims mercy-the most stupendous attribute of the Creator and of the Redeemer-and when she brings people close to the sources of the Savior's mercy, of which she is the trustee and dispenser.

[Pope John Paul II, Dives in Misericordia]

"The passage from the Gospel we have heard is taken from chapter XIV of Luke," explained the Pope, pointing out that "almost the entire chapter, except for a small part at the end, revolves around a meal, around the table, and everything that happens there happens at the table." Hence "the idea of the banquet at the end of the chapter," in the parable told by Jesus, particularly in verses 15-24 proposed by the liturgy of the day.

Referring to the beginning of the chapter, the Pontiff emphasised that "Jesus went to lunch at the house of a Pharisee who had invited him: Jesus always accepted." But "as soon as he entered, he saw a man suffering from dropsy and immediately went to heal him: Jesus always wants to heal us, all of us." However, the Pope recalled, "it was Saturday, all the doctors of the law were there, and he asked permission: 'Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath? And "these people, who never said what they thought - they were hypocrites - remained silent".

Jesus healed that sick man.

[Pope Francis, Santa Marta, in L'Osservatore Romano 07/11/2018]

End of a "sacred" order

(Lk 13:31-35)

The context in which Jesus lived was threatening: even in the outlying provinces of the Empire, power was absolute and those in authority were accountable to no one for the small-scale running of affairs.

But the building up of the Kingdom of God does not depend on any authorization of rapacious rulers on the territory of the provinces.

Those who want to fulfil their mission cannot satisfy the «foxes» who usurp power.

They are small and harmful situation’s parasites, but quick - even if they are not big roaring fairs as in the roman and senatorial court.

With his cunning attitude, king Herod (astute collaborationist) had managed to secure dominance for several decades, and a life without big jolts.

Each village in Palestine was manned by officials and delators of the sovereign, as well as practitioners and subordinates of the official popular religion [including the Pharisees, which Jesus sends back to the sender: v.32].

Antipas – like a puppet [fox] – always managed to stay afloat in any situation and keep to himself. 

But after having deluded himself of having settled the Baptist and his school with him, here the king is again alarmed by the rise of a greater danger.

The young Rabbi spread deep confidence not in the strong, but in the weak. In this way, he was working deeply in consciences, and seemed to be able to outclass even the Prophets.

If the inspectors had rushed from the centre of power over the territory (v.31), Jesus must have made it really big. Thus demonstrating total freedom from conditioning.

Therefore, the success of his thought could have provoked disorder in the structure of the system.

But God’s messengers do not flee from risk.

They do this not out of duty, but out of fidelity to themselves, and because they are attracted by a Vision that belongs to everyone: they manage to grasp and sense that the pains of childbirth will generate new Births.

In short, Jesus and his close friends live an existence marked by a kind of attraction of the Cross - out of Love that goes to the end, all the way, and does not disdain comparisons.

Jerusalem was the center of the people of God’ sons, "chosen" [only] to unfold the face of the Father.

Vocation of the holy city was not to surrender to a fox (v.32) but to become a brooding hen [v.34: properly, «hen»] that does not close but spreads wings for its little ones, gathering all the innocent.

Of course, their feeling for the fate of a homeland that lets itself go to vanities, to the ideology of power and its "advantage", embarking on the path of self-destruction, makes us weep with pain.

However - although defenestrated from his House in the ‘holy city’, as well as from the heart of those who demand only quietism - in Christ the authentic People of friends will propose themselves again (v.35) also on the path of failure.

Not colonizing the features, but in a simple way (not unilateral): inclusive; expanding the horizon and detaching from the tinsel and trappings.

My turning away from Herod’s cunning and the conformist subservience of all «foxes» (v. 32).

[Thursday 30th wk. in O.T.  October 29, 2026]

End of a "sacred" order

(Lk 13:31-35)

The context in which Jesus lives is ominous: the power [even of the peripheral courts of the Empire] was absolute and accountable to no one for its petty management.

But the building of the Kingdom of God does not depend on any authorisation, on any permission, on any good-natured concession by the usual known and rapacious rulers, on the territory of the provinces.

Those who want to fulfil their mission cannot please the 'foxes' who usurp power.

They are small and harmful situational pests, but they are quick-witted - though not as big boisterous beasts as in the Roman and senatorial courts.

With his shrewd attitude, King Herod (a cunning collaborator) had managed to secure his rule for several decades, and a smooth life.

Every village in Palestine was manned by the ruler's officials and denouncers, as well as practitioners and subordinates of the official popular religion [also Pharisees, whom Jesus sends back: v.32].

Antipas – like a puppet [fox] – always managed to stay afloat in any situation and keep to himself. 

But after he had deluded himself that he had settled the Baptist and with him his school, here he was again alarmed by the emergence of a greater danger.

The young Rabbi exuded confidence not in the strong, but in the weak. In this way, he worked deep in the consciences, and it seemed that he could surpass even the Prophets.

In fact, he had begun to arouse more emotions than the usual proposal of purifying the Temple and rekindling the spirit of the identity-religious, ancient origins.

Then, if from the centre of power in the land the inspectors had hastily arrived (v.31), Jesus must have really done it. Thus demonstrating total freedom from conditioning.

Therefore the success of his thought could have caused turmoil in the system.

But God's messengers do not leave risk territory, even knowing what awaits them: rejection, and worse.

True envoys do not give up, they do not allow themselves to be overwhelmed by seductions, nor beguiled by intimidators.

They do not do it out of duty, but out of loyalty to themselves, and because they are attracted by a Vision that belongs to everyone.

They are able to grasp the paradoxical fruitfulness of the Mystery, and precisely foresee that the pains of childbirth will generate new Births.

Then without more ado they go up to the city that martyrs the non-middle-aged (v.33).

All this, face to face with the opposition of the sullen and well-organised official authorities, who know how to debase the effervescence of people's lives.

Jesus and his intimates, if true followers, lead an existence marked by a kind of attraction of the cross - for Love that goes all the way and does not disdain confrontations [not because they are animated by sorrowful masochisms].

Certainly, their feeling for the fate of a homeland that indulges in vanities, the ideology of power and its 'advantage', embarking on the track of self-destruction, brings tears of sorrow.

Jerusalem was the centre of the people of God's children, "chosen" [only] to unfold the face of the Father.

The vocation of the holy city was not to surrender itself to a fox (v.32) but to become a hen [v.34: properly, "hen"] that does not close but spreads its wings for its young, gathering all the innocent.

The 'animals' that Christ in his callings proposes to us as a model are not the regal and predominant ones such as the eagle, the bull or the lion, but rather the domestic, subordinate and insignificant ones: lamb, hen, donkey, foal [e.g., "the hen", "the colt", "the lamb", "the donkey", "the colt"]. Messianic Entrance (Lk 19:28-40) followed by the Wailing over Jerusalem (vv.41-44)].

For fear of not recognising him with sufficient dignity, his traditional 'bestiary' (as triumphant and High as it was meant to be inculcated in the unwitting masses) often had nothing to do, unfortunately, with the Gospel datum.

However - although defenestrated from its House in the holy city, as well as from the hearts of those who demand only quietism - in Christ the authentic People of friends will re-propose themselves (v.35) even on the road to failure.

Not out of affected goodness: in the meantime he will have broadened the horizon of his paternity to other peoples, in favour of concrete involvement.

This without - ever again - the swampy confines of local, specific, sometimes usurping culture, which everywhere produces alienation and disintegration.

By and large, things have gone as the encyclical Fratelli Tutti (paraphrasing) subtly denounces. In short, the best way forward has been deemed in history [by the prevailing dirigiste conviction] not to integrate, but to subjugate - arousing despair and constant distrust in the development of the common good. Despair and mistrust, masked "with the defence of certain values" [n.15].The ecclesiology of triumph once served as a foil to the kind of world that tended to dissolve particular consciousnesses.

In such top-down procedures, tensions were transferred by exacerbating even 'horizontal' conflicts - then colonising them; finally silencing them [FT nn.14-15].

Living word and current history, which sooner or later must be remedied. In a simple but not one-sided way: inclusive.

Thanks to a better biblical awareness and with the contribution of a new Magisterium, the living and cosmic Jesus becomes flesh.

He gradually detaches us from the trappings of a kingdom that seemed to satisfy consciences with the scheme of order...

My turning away from Herod’s cunning and the conformist subservience of all «foxes» (v. 32).

To internalise and live the message:

How do you live the critical moments of Redemption? Do you go along with the normalising inspectors who try to instil fear, or do you follow your prophetic mission?

What do you think of the cultural revolution taking place in the Church? Does it solicit - disturb - confirm you as son and brother? Let us hope so.

But what direction is this? How do we find it? Our Gospel passage offers two clues in this regard. In the first place it says that it is an ascent. This has first of all a very concrete meaning. Jericho, where the last part of Jesus' pilgrimage began, is 250 metres below sea-level, whereas Jerusalem the destination is located at 740 to 780 metres above sea level: a climb of almost 1,000 metres. But this external route is above all an image of the internal movement of existence that occurs in the following of Christ: it is an ascent to the true heights of being human. Man can choose an easy path and avoid every effort. He can also sink to the low and the vulgar. He can flounder in the swamps of falsehood and dishonesty. Jesus walks before us and towards the heights. He leads us to what is great, pure. He leads us to that healthy air of the heights: to life in accordance with the truth; to courage that does not let itself be intimidated by the gossip of prevalent opinions; to patience that bears with and sustains the other. He guides people to be open towards the suffering, to those who are neglected. He leads us to stand loyally by the other, even when the situation becomes difficult. He leads us to the readiness to give help; to the goodness that does not let itself be disarmed, even by ingratitude. He leads us to love he leads us to God. 

Jesus "went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem". If we interpret these words of the Gospel in the context of the way Jesus took in all its aspects a journey which, precisely, continues to the end of time in the destination, "Jerusalem", we can discover various levels indicated. Of course, first of all, it must be understood that this simply means the place, "Jerusalem": it is the city in which God's Temple stood, whose uniqueness must allude to the oneness of God himself. This place, therefore, proclaims two things: on the one hand it says that there is only one God in all the world, who exceeds by far all our places and times; he is that God to which the entire creation belongs. He is the God whom all men and women seek in their own depths, and of whom, in a certain way, they all have some knowledge. But this God gave himself a Name. He made himself known to us, he initiated a history with human beings; he chose a man Abraham as the starting point of this history. The infinite God is at the same time the close God. He, who cannot be confined to any building, nevertheless wants to dwell among us, to be totally with us. 

If Jesus, with the pilgrim Israel, goes up to Jerusalem, he goes there to celebrate with Israel the Passover: the memorial of Israel's liberation a memorial which, at the same time, is always a hope of definitive freedom, which God will give. And Jesus approaches this feast in the awareness that he himself is the Lamb in which will be accomplished what the Book of Exodus says in this regard: a lamb without blemish, a male, who at sunset, before the eyes of the children of Israel, is sacrificed "as an ordinance for ever" (cf. Ex 12: 5-6, 14). And lastly, Jesus knows that his way goes further: the Cross will not be his end. He knows that his journey will rend the veil between this world and God's world; that he will ascend to the throne of God and reconcile God and man in his Body He knows that his Risen Body will be the new sacrifice and the new Temple; that around him, from the hosts of Angels and Saints the new Jerusalem will be formed, that is in Heaven and yet also on the earth, because by his Passion he was to open the frontier between Heaven and earth. His way leads beyond the summit of the Mountain of the Temple to the heights of God himself: this is the great ascent to which he calls us all. He always remains with us on earth and he has always already arrived with God. He guides us on earth and beyond the earth. 

Thus, the dimensions of our sequela become visible in the ascent of Jesus the goal to which he wants to lead us: to the heights of God, to communion with God, to being-with-God. This is the true destination and communion with him is the way to it. Communion with Christ is being on the way, a permanent ascent toward the true heights of our call. Journeying on together with Jesus is at the same time also a journeying on in the "we" of those who want to follow him. It introduces us into this community. Since the way to true life, to being people in conformity with the model of the Son of God Jesus Christ, surpasses our own strength, this journey always means being carried. We find ourselves, so to speak, roped to Jesus Christ together with him on the ascent towards God's heights. He pulls and supports us. It is part of following Christ that we allow ourselves to be roped together; that we acknowledge we cannot do it alone. This act of humility, entering into the "we" of the Church is part of it; holding tight to the rope, the responsibility of communion not breaking the rope through stubbornness or self-importance. Humbly believing, with the Church, like being a roped-party on the ascent towards God, is an essential condition for the following of Christ. This being roped together also entails not behaving as masters of the Word of God, not running after a mistaken idea of emancipation. The humility of "being with" is essential for the ascent. The fact that in the Sacraments we always let the Lord once again take us by the hand is also part of it; that we let ourselves be purified and strengthened by him; that we accept the discipline of the ascent, even when we are weary.

[Pope Benedict, Palm Sunday homily 28 March 2010]

5. One of the parables narrated by Jesus on the growth of the kingdom of God on earth makes us discover very realistically the character of struggle that the kingdom entails, due to the presence and action of an "enemy", who "sows tares (or weeds) in the midst of the wheat". Jesus says that when "the harvest flourished and bore fruit, behold, the weeds also appeared". The servants of the master of the field would like to pluck it out, but the master does not allow them to do so, "lest it happen that . uproot the wheat also. Let the one and the other grow together until the harvest, and at the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, 'Catch the darnel first and bind it in bundles to burn it; but the wheat you shall put in my barn' (Mt 13:29-30). This parable explains the coexistence and often the intertwining of good and evil in the world, in our lives, in the very history of the Church. Jesus teaches us to see things with Christian realism and to treat every problem with clarity of principles, but also with prudence and patience. This presupposes a transcendent vision of history, in which we know that everything belongs to God and every final outcome is the work of his Providence. However, the final fate - with an eschatological dimension - of the good and the bad is not hidden: it is symbolised by the harvesting of the wheat in the storehouse and the burning of the tares.

[Pope John Paul II, The Growth of the Kingdom,

http://www.clerus.org/clerus/dati/2000-06/14-2/GP9127.html]

Today God continues to weep - with fatherly and motherly tears - before calamities, wars unleashed to worship the god of money, so many innocents killed by bombs, a humanity that does not seem to want peace. It is a strong invitation to conversion that Francis re-launched in the Mass celebrated on Thursday morning, 27 October, in the chapel of the Casa Santa Marta. An invitation that the Pontiff motivated by recalling that God became man precisely to weep with and for his children.

In the passage from Luke's Gospel (13:31-35) proposed by the liturgy, the Pope explained, "it seems that Jesus had lost his patience and also uses strong words: it is not an insult but it is not a compliment to say 'fox' to a person". To be precise he says to the Pharisees who told him about Herod: "Go and tell that fox". But already "on other occasions Jesus spoke harshly": for example, he said "perverse and adulterous generation". And he called the disciples 'hard-hearted' and 'foolish'. Luke reports the words in which Jesus makes a real 'summary of what is to come: "it is necessary for me to go on my way because it is not possible for a prophet to die outside Jerusalem"'. Basically, the Lord "says what will happen, he prepares to die".

But "then immediately Jesus changes tones," Francis pointed out. "After this loud outburst," in fact, "he changes his tone and looks at his people, he looks at the city of Jerusalem: 'Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those who were sent to you!'" He looks at "the closed Jerusalem, which has not always received the messengers of the Father". And "Jesus' heart begins to speak with tenderness: 'Jerusalem, how often have I wanted to gather your children like a hen her chicks!'". Here is "the tenderness of God, the tenderness of Jesus". That day he "wept over Jerusalem". But "that weeping of Jesus," the Pope explained, "is not the weeping of a friend before the tomb of Lazarus. That is the weeping of a friend before the death of another"; instead "this is the weeping of a father who weeps, it is God the Father who weeps here in the person of Jesus".

"Someone said that God became man so that he could weep for what his children had done," said the Pontiff. And so "the weeping before the tomb of Lazarus is the weeping of a friend". But what Luke recounts 'is the weeping of the Father'. In this regard, Francis also recalled the attitude of the 'father of the prodigal son, when his youngest son asked him for the inheritance money and went away'. And "that father is sure, he did not go to his neighbours and say: 'look what happened to me, but this poor wretch what he did to me, I curse this son! No, he did not do this'. Instead, said the Pope, "I am sure" that that father "went off crying alone".

True, the Gospel does not reveal this detail,' Francis continued, 'but it tells us that when the son returned he saw the father from afar: this means that the father continually went up to the terrace to watch the path to see if the son was coming back'. And 'a father who does this is a father who lives in weeping, waiting for his son to return'. Precisely this is "the weeping of God the Father; and with this weeping the Father recreates in his Son all creation".

"When Jesus went with the cross to Calvary," the Pontiff recalled, "the pious women wept and he said to them: 'No, do not weep over me, weep for your children'". It is the "weeping of a father and mother that God continues to do even today: even today in the face of calamities, of the wars that are waged to worship the god money, of so many innocents killed by the bombs that the worshippers of the idol money throw down". And so 'even today the Father weeps, even today he says: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, my children, what are you doing?"'. And "he says this to the poor victims and also to the arms dealers and to all those who sell people's lives".

In conclusion Francis suggested that we "think that God became man in order to weep. And it will be good for us to think that our Father God weeps today: he weeps for this humanity that does not understand the peace he offers us, the peace of love".

[Pope Francis, homily at St Martha's, in L'Osservatore Romano 28/10/2016]

30th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [25 October 2026]

First Reading from the Book of Exodus 22:20–26 

This text forms part of the Book of the Covenant, that is, the law which God gave at Sinai immediately after the Ten Commandments. It is not an isolated civil law, but the practical consequence of the Covenant that has just been made. Israel has come out of Egypt, has experienced slavery and liberation, and now God says to them: your freedom must become justice for the most vulnerable.

Four groups are protected in this text: the stranger, the widow and the orphan, and the poor person seeking a loan. Three different groups, yet united by a single principle: those without protection must find divine protection in Israel. For the stranger, the historical memory applies: ‘You were strangers in the land of Egypt.’ Those who have known what it is like to live without rights cannot allow others to remain without rights, and God reminds Israel of its own history to prevent it from becoming an oppressor. For the widow and the orphan, the rationale is even stronger. In ancient patriarchal society, without a husband and without adult sons, these people were vulnerable to the confiscation of their property, to exploitation and to starvation. This is why the law states: ‘If you afflict them, when they cry out to me, I will hear their cry and my anger will be kindled.’ The verb ‘to hear’ is central. The cry of the poor, zaaq in Hebrew, is the prayer that God cannot ignore. God takes the side of the wronged. Not afflicting the widow and the orphan is not merely a social duty; it is an act of fidelity to God himself. For the poor debtor, the law intervenes on two fronts. It commands that usury must not be practised: do not impose interest on those who are already poor; in other words, do not turn another’s need into profit. And return the pledge before sunset. In the ancient world, a cloak was the poor person’s only possession – a blanket at night and a garment by day – so taking it as a pledge meant leaving the person unprotected. The law commands that it be returned because human dignity is worth more than financial security. The conclusion, then, is the key to it all: when the poor cry out, I will hear them, for I am merciful; and God calls for social justice because, if He is merciful, so too must His people be. Here, then, is the text’s deepest message: God does not present Himself as a cold lawgiver or a distant judge, but as the One who listens and is moved. True liturgy and true worship are not the sacrifice offered on the altar if the heart remains indifferent to the cry of the weak. God’s holiness is not power; it is active compassion, and human holiness consists in imitating this compassion of His.

This message is of burning relevance today. Today’s strangers are migrants, refugees and undocumented people, but also the new neighbour, the one who is different in culture or faith. Many of our families were once migrants themselves and know what it means to be welcomed or rejected. The memory of our own past as strangers must challenge us: are our homes, our parishes, our country a welcoming inn or a fortress that turns people away? Our widows and orphans are the single mothers, the abandoned elderly, the children without a future, the victims of violence, and the young people without work. When a system crushes them with bureaucracy, unaffordable rents and precarious living conditions, God hears their cry. We cannot claim to love God whilst remaining indifferent. Our poor debtors are the families strangled by mortgages, by easy loans, by three-figure interest rates, by gambling. The biblical principle stands: no debt can take away dignity. Even today, one cannot take a man’s cloak – that is, his last possession – as security. The economy must always retain a human face. This is why Exodus 22:20–26 is not merely an ancient text; it is a call to translate faith into concrete actions. To welcome the stranger, to visit those who are alone, to lend without exploiting, to return what is needed to live. Then the cry of the poor will no longer be an accusation against us, but will become an opportunity to respond to the cry of God, who invites us to be merciful as he is merciful.

 Responsorial Psalm (17/18)

The title of the psalm attributes it to David, the Lord’s servant, who addressed the words of this song to the Lord when he was delivered from the hand of all his enemies and from the hand of Saul. It is a true hymn of thanksgiving, not a private prayer, but a liturgical song following a victory. We are probably at the Feast of the Covenant or the commemoration of a deliverance, and the king speaks in the first person, yet he represents the people. Here, only a few of the 51 verses of the psalm are quoted; it opens with a profession of faith: ‘I love you, O Lord, my strength, my rock, my fortress, my deliverer.’ Seven divine titles, like a crown. God is not described in the abstract, but in relation to concrete salvation. The Psalm goes on to recount the danger and the answered prayer. The king is grappling with the waters of death, the snares of Sheol, the torrents of Belial. It is the experience of mortal anguish, but the prayer from the temple is heard: ‘From his temple he heard my voice.’ Then comes the theophany, which forms the heart of the Psalm. God intervenes as a cosmic warrior. The earth trembles, the mountains smoke, the heavens draw near; God rides upon a cherub, hurling lightning and hail. The language is drawn from Sinai and from the myth of the warrior God who battles the sea and chaos. This is not a scientific description, but poetic language to convey that when God acts, the entire universe participates in the salvation of his chosen one. The king’s justice and victory follow. After the storm, God reaches out his hand and delivers from the deep waters and from powerful enemies. The rationale is central: ‘The Lord has rewarded me according to my righteousness.’ This is not presumption: David presents himself as one who observes the Law, a man of integrity. The Psalm echoes the theology of retribution: to those who are faithful, God is faithful; to those who are good, you are good; to the upright, you are upright. The Psalm concludes with a universal perspective: the delivered king sings not only for Israel, but proclaims God’s name amongst the nations.

For the believer today, this Psalm teaches us to pray in times of trial by invoking God’s names, to recognise that deliverance comes from him, and to live consistently, for faithfulness attracts faithfulness. The theophany reminds us that our personal history is part of a cosmic plan: God does not save on a small scale; he saves in such a way as to make the waters of chaos tremble, like a victorious warrior.

Second Reading from the First Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Thessalonians (1:5c–10)

Paul expresses his gratitude to the community in Thessalonica, which received the Gospel with genuine faith, despite difficulties and persecution. He recognises in the Thessalonians the tangible fruits of God’s work: their lives have been transformed by the Word and their witness has become an example to other believers. It was a newly formed community, born in difficult circumstances, yet it had managed to take root in the faith. Paul thus shows that the strength of the Church does not depend on the absence of problems, but on the ability to receive and live out the Gospel in the power of the Holy Spirit. First of all, Paul recalls that the Thessalonians received the Word ‘with the joy of the Holy Spirit’, even in the midst of tribulations. Their faith did not remain a mere theoretical commitment, but became an experience capable of facing difficulties. Christian joy, in fact, does not consist in the absence of suffering, but in the certainty of God’s presence even in the most difficult moments. And in this way, the Thessalonians became a model for the believers in Macedonia and Achaia. Their faith spread beyond the boundaries of the community, as a living proclamation of the Gospel. Paul emphasises that Christian witness is expressed not only through words, but above all through a life transformed by the encounter with Christ; and proof that the Thessalonians had been converted lies in their turning away from idols to serve the living and true God and to await his Son, Jesus, risen from the dead. This is a radical change: it is not merely a change in the way one thinks, but a shift in the very centre of one’s existence. Christian faith always involves a concrete choice: to leave behind what distances us from God, to live in his service, and to keep our gaze fixed on Christ, our hope.

St Paul invites us to reflect on the quality of our faith. To embrace the Gospel means allowing the Word to transform our daily choices, our relationships and the way we face life’s trials; and the joy of the Holy Spirit reminds us that even in suffering we can find strength and hope. Furthermore, like the Thessalonians, we are called to become credible witnesses to Christ, not so much through grand speeches as through concrete acts of love, service and solidarity. Finally, turning away from idols is more necessary than ever in our own time, for even today we can place the idols of consumer culture at the centre of our lives: success, money, power or the pursuit of approval. Conversion means recognising that only God can give fulfilment to our existence and living in confident anticipation of Jesus’ return. In conclusion, we can say that here Saint Paul presents a journey of faith that leads from listening to the Word to conversion, from conversion to witness, and from witness to hope. The Christian community thus becomes a tangible sign of God’s presence in the world, capable of proclaiming through its very life that Christ is risen and that salvation is found in him.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (22:34–40)

The greatest commandment. We are in Jerusalem, in the final days of Jesus’ life. Following the exchange with the Sadducees on the resurrection, the Pharisees gather in council, not to seek the truth, but to trap him. They send a teacher of the Law – an expert in the 613 precepts of the Law – with a trick question: which is the greatest commandment? For the rabbis, this is a classic debate between different rabbinic schools. Many rabbis of the school of Shammai maintained that the Sabbath was the greatest commandment; others, that it was circumcision; and still others, that it was the study of the Torah. Jesus responds succinctly, yet with startling depth. He does not cite any of the 613 commandments found in the Babylonian Talmud, Makkot 23b, and in the subsequent rabbinic tradition (248 positive commandments corresponding to the limbs or parts of the human body and 365 negative commandments corresponding to the days of the year), but draws upon two fundamental texts for Israel: the Shema: ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your strength’, found in Deuteronomy (cf. 6:5) and which every Jew recited morning and evening because, ultimately, it is the fundamental act of faith. The second text is found in the Book of Leviticus: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself’ (cf. 19:18). Jesus does something unprecedented: he places the two texts on an equal footing and says that the second is like the first, using the Greek term homoios, meaning equal in nature, not merely similar in importance. And he concludes: ‘On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.’ The image that emerges is that of a building: the entire Torah hangs on these two nails, and if you remove these two nails, the whole structure collapses. Jesus, therefore, does not abolish the 613 precepts, but points out the centre that sustains them. The Law is not, therefore, a burden of rules; it is the concrete expression of a twofold love, and Jesus reveals to us that God does not want mere religiosity; He asks for love – total love. To love God with all one’s heart, with all one’s soul, with all one’s mind means not reserving just a corner of one’s life for God, but the centre and the entirety of one’s life; for the heart is the will, the soul is life itself, and the mind is thought. It is not enough to say one believes; one must love through one’s choices, through one’s very breath, through one’s reason… To love one’s neighbour as oneself is the revolution. It does not say to love one’s neighbour more than oneself; it says ‘as oneself’, that is, with the same natural care with which we look after ourselves, nourish ourselves and seek what is good. One’s neighbour, therefore, is not a stranger; they are another version of oneself. And who is one’s neighbour? In the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus explains that we are called to be a neighbour to anyone we meet on our path, even to the enemy and the stranger. Loving God and loving one’s neighbour point to two inseparable forms of love, for one cannot claim to love God whilst hating one’s brother; nor can one truly love one’s brother without loving God, because it is only in God that we find the strength to love those who do not love us. These two pillars are like the wings of a bird: without a wing, no bird can fly. But how do we live out this new commandment today? On closer inspection, in our world we are witnessing a reversal of this hierarchy of values, for we place ourselves at the centre whilst God and our neighbour become mere options. We betray our first love every time our heart is divided amongst a thousand idols: work, success, money, image, power. We love God with our lips, but our minds and hearts are elsewhere. Jesus asks us today: have you given God first place, or just the leftovers of your time? It is easy to betray our love for our neighbour in this paradoxical age of connection and loneliness. We know everything about everyone on social media, yet we do not know our next-door neighbour, and perhaps not even those living under our own roof. Our neighbour sometimes becomes a nuisance, a rival, someone to be judged. Jesus reminds us that the measure of love is not a feeling, but a concrete act. Loving our neighbour as ourselves means treating others as you would wish to be treated when you are sick, poor, lonely or a stranger. The challenge, therefore, is a practical one. Love for God is measured by love for one’s neighbour, and love for one’s neighbour is rooted in the love of God. We cannot separate them, and when we truly love, the whole Law and the Prophets are fulfilled.

+Giovanni D’Ercole