The difficult condition of the disciple in the Church and the world

(Mt 14:22-36)

Having reached the ultimate condition (v.23) Jesus does not allow the Apostles to keep the treasures of God for themselves.

He compels his own to the mission to the Gentiles (v.22). But the 'headwinds' were many.

About half a century after the Lord's death, the communities of Galilee and Syria faced a difficult crossing.

The securities of the ancient religion and the sense of rootedness in the customs of the “chosen” people were breaking down. Even small privileges of position were crumbling.

With the increasing entry of pagans into communities, third-generation believers were forced to ask themselves how they could break out of their old cultural isolation and open up to a new way of seeing things.

In addition to the persecutions, internal conflicts intensified: for example, over the position to be taken in relation to the Empire itself.

There was no shortage of heated debates about the figure and history of the Master himself - as well as on the attitude to take towards the tradition of the 'fathers' [which to some seemed a call to turn back].

Even though the situation was fraught with friction, bitterness, and rancour between Judaizers and those from paganism, as well as impetuous dangers, the Glad Tidings of unconditional Salvation could not be kept in an inner circle.

The quotation of the divine Name «I Am» (v.27) refers here to the Exodus story (3:14).

It is a reminder to the disciples. They still seemed to be in the grip of immediate fears about the real power of Life and Deliverance of Christ - so much so that they did not recognize Him (v.26).

Without ceasing, the Risen One still makes himself Present, so that we can open up and move forward; without the burden of opposition or nostalgia. There is a whole new reality waiting.

We are inhabited by the power of God (vv.28-31).

Authentic communities - «flap of his cloak» (v.36) that is of his Person - will still experience the power of the Spirit.

Through evangelization and the new way of living and helping others gratuitously, any storms that may be gathering on the horizon will clear up.

It will be replaced by an ever deeper and more acute experience of the burgeoning diversity of the 'other shore'; of one's neighbour, of oneself, of the life to come, and of God.

But the virtue that dominates the elements cannot be experienced as Peter intended, that is, as an external, immediate, decisive, and final power - but rather as mysterious and inner, animated in time, and of profound relationship.

The “victory” will be the result of Faith alone: trust in the strength that the silent Messiah gives.

Potency far greater than what we already know about ourselves - despite the fact that we often (like Simone) pretend to an easier, quicker, immediately decisive shortcut.

Emotionally relevant situations have their own meaning, they carry a significant appeal; they introduce a different introspection, the decisive change - a new 'genesis'.

Trial in fact activates souls in the most effective way, because it disengages us from the idea of stability, and brings us into contact with dormant energies, initiating the new dialogue with events.

In Him, we are therefore imbued with a different vision of danger.

[Monday 18th wk. in O.T. (year A),  August 3, 2026]

The disciple’s difficult plight in the Church and in the world

Mt 14:22–33 (22–36)

Some other providential care, of which you are unaware

‘It is good not to fall, or to fall and get back up again. And if it happens that we do fall, it is good not to despair and not to turn away from the love that the Sovereign has for mankind. For if He so wishes, He can indeed show mercy towards our weakness. Let us simply not turn away from him; let us not feel distressed if we are constrained by the commandments, and let us not lose heart if we achieve nothing […].

We must neither be in a hurry nor give up, but always start afresh […].

Wait for him, and he will show you mercy, whether through conversion, through trials, or through some other providential means of which you are unaware.’

(Peter of Damascus, Book Two, Eighth Discourse, in *The Philokalia*, Turin 1982, I,94)

Once the final state had been reached (v. 23), Jesus did not allow the Apostles to keep God’s treasures to themselves.

He compelled his followers to undertake the mission to the Gentiles (v. 22). However, there were many ‘headwinds’.

Some half a century after the Lord’s death, the communities of Galilee and Syria were facing a difficult journey.

The certainties of the ancient religion and the sense of being rooted in the customs of the ‘chosen’ people were beginning to crumble. Even the minor privileges of status were eroding.

With the increasingly marked influx of pagans into the communities, the third-generation believers were forced to ask themselves how to break out of their former cultural isolation and open themselves up to a new way of seeing things.

In addition to persecution, internal conflicts were intensifying: for example, over the stance to adopt towards the Empire itself.

There was no shortage of heated debates concerning the very person and history of the Master – as well as the attitude to adopt towards the tradition of the fathers [which to some seemed a call to turn back].

Although the situation was fraught with friction, bitterness and resentment between those of Jewish background and those from pagan origins, as well as impetuous dangers, the Good News of unconditional salvation could not be confined to a narrow circle.

The invocation of the divine Name ‘I Am’ here refers to the account in Exodus 3:14. It is a call to the disciples, who were still in the grip of immediate fears regarding Christ’s true power of life and liberation – so much so that they did not recognise him (v. 26).

Ceaselessly, the Risen One makes himself present once more, so that we may open ourselves up and move forward; free from the burden of divisions or nostalgia.

A whole new reality awaits us.

We are filled with God’s vigour (vv. 28–31), and even today, for our rebirth from the global crisis, we are called to a response of love that is personal, cultural, radical and unprecedented: a response that involves introspection, but not as intimidated subjects; one that is bold, but not as those who rush to the surface.

Authentic communities – ‘the hem of his garment’ (v. 36), that is, of his Person – will once again experience the power of the Spirit.

Through evangelisation and a new way of living and helping others freely, any storm that may be gathering on the horizon will dissipate.

It will be replaced by an ever deeper and more acute experience of the flourishing diversity on the other shore; of one’s neighbour, of oneself, of life itself as it unfolds, and of God.

But the virtue that masters the elements cannot be experienced as Peter intended—that is, as an external, immediate, decisive and final power—but rather as something mysterious and inner, brought to life over time and rooted in deep relationship.

The ‘victory’ will be the fruit of Faith alone: trust in the strength that the silent Messiah bestows.

A power far greater than that which we already know of ourselves – even though we often (like Simon) demand an easier, swifter, instantly decisive shortcut.

(Mt 8:23–27)

    The direction Jesus imposes on his followers seems to go against the grain, and brazenly breaks the rules accepted by all.

Whilst the disciples harboured nationalistic desires, the Master begins to make it clear that he is not the Messiah commonly expected, a restorer of the defunct empire of David or of the Caesars.

The Kingdom of God is open to all humanity, which in those turbulent times was seeking security, welcome and points of reference. Everyone could find a home and shelter there (Mt 13:32c; Mk 4:32b).

But the apostles and the church elders seemed averse to Christ’s proposals; they remained unmoved by such a broad concept of brotherhood – one that threw them off balance. This is a problem that remains very much alive and extremely serious.

The teaching and call imposed on the disciples is to cross to the other side (Mk 4:35; Lk 8:22), that is, not to keep things to themselves.

The Apostles have the task of communicating the Father’s riches to the pagans, who were regarded as impure and disreputable.

Yet it was precisely those closest to the Master who wanted nothing to do with risky excesses that would effectively highlight the far-reaching action of the Son of God.

They were content to adhere to the customs of common religiosity and an ideology of limited power.

Resistance to the divine commission, as well as the agonising internal debate that had ensued, had already, in the 70s, unleashed a great storm within the assemblies of believers.

‘And behold, a great storm arose on the sea, so that the boat was being swamped by the waves’ (Mt 8:24).

The storm affected only the disciples, who were the only ones filled with dread; not Jesus: ‘but he was asleep’ (v. 24c) [this is the Risen One].

What was happening ‘inside’ the little boat of the Church was not merely a reflection of what was happening ‘outside’! This is the error that must be corrected.

For us too, such identification can stifle and make life stagnant, starting precisely with how we handle emotionally significant situations – which have their own meaning.

They always carry a significant appeal, introducing a different perspective, introspection and dialogue.

In short, from the peace of the divine state that reigns over chaos, the Lord draws attention to the matter and rebukes the apostles, accusing them of lacking faith.

Although devout, they lack even a shred of risk-taking. They lack love – like a mustard seed (v. 26) – to bring to humanity in order to renew it.

And are we believers still confused, at a loss? Does the chaos of preconceived notions still rage – not excluding selfishness, which inexorably rears its head?

Paradoxically, we are walking the path of the Exodus, of the experience of the first believers; true ‘knowledge’, because it is direct. One warning: we must not let fear get the better of us.

In Him, we are imbued with a different perspective on danger.

The Tao Te Ching (xxii) says: ‘The sage does not see for himself; therefore he is enlightened.’ Even in the narrowest of passages.

In fact, at all times it seems that Jesus expressly desires for the apostles those dark moments of confrontation and doubt (Mk 4:35; Lk 8:22b). First and foremost, it will be certain church leaders who are called to rid themselves of repetitive convictions. Only in this way will their Proclamation remain unhindered.

Indeed, textbook expectations (and the habit of creating conformist harmonies) stifle the blossoming of who we are and what we hope for.

Above all, what is troublesome or even ‘contrary’ has something crucial to tell us.

Even in the little boat of the congregations [cf. Mk 4:36], unease must find expression.

‘And they went up to him and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We are perishing!”’ (v. 25).

Peril is an opportunity to revive the essence of each individual and of the community itself.

Trial brings about change (hidden or repressed) and sets it in motion in the most effective way.

Novelty arises from natural contact with latent, primordial energies.

More than from conflicting forces or external events, anxiety, unease and anguish arise, in fact, from the very fear of facing the normal or decisive questions of existence.

This may stem from a lack of confidence: sensing danger perhaps only because we perceive ourselves, deep down, as not yet fully mature, and incapable of any other form of dialogue; of discovering and re-evaluating, converting, or reshaping ourselves.

The struggle to question oneself and the suffering that the adventure of Faith holds in store will fade even amidst the turbulence of the rough sea – which, precisely, does not want us to return to being ‘who we were before’ .

We simply need to let go of the idea of stability – even religious stability – and listen to life as it is, embracing it.

Even amidst its multitude of setbacks, bitterness, shattered hopes of harmony and sorrows – engaging with this torrent of new challenges, and encountering our own deepest nature.

The best antidote to the anxieties of our journey with Christ across the shifting waves of the unexpected is precisely not to avoid worries in advance – but rather to face them head-on and welcome them; to recognise ourselves in them, and let them run their course.

Even in times of global crisis, the anxieties that seem intent on devastating us come to us as energies preparing the way for other joys that long to burst forth. New cosmic harmonies; for wonder beginning with ourselves – and guidance from beyond.

Our little boat is in a state of inverted stability, turned upside down, impossible to balance; uncertain, unsuitable – yet energetic, sharp, capable of reinventing itself.

And it may even be excessive, but let the upheavals come.

For a proposal of Tenderness (which does not correspond) that is no relaxation zone, because it rhymes with terrible anxiety and… still neglected outskirts!

To internalise and live out the message:

On what occasions have you found easy what previously seemed impossible?

A splendid testimony:

    ‘Once, like the first disciples, we encountered the Lord and heard his word: “Follow me!” Perhaps at first we followed him somewhat hesitantly, looking back and wondering if this was truly our path. And at some point along the way, we may have had the same experience as Peter after the miraculous catch; that is, we were daunted by His greatness, by the magnitude of the task and by the inadequacy of our own humble selves, so much so that we wanted to turn back: ‘Lord, depart from me, for I am a sinner!’ (Luke 5:8) But then He, with great kindness, took us by the hand, drew us to Himself and said: ‘Do not be afraid! I am with you. I will not leave you; do not leave me!” And more than once, perhaps, the same thing has happened to each of us as it did to Peter when, walking on the water towards the Lord, he suddenly realised that the water was not supporting him and that he was about to sink. And like Peter, we cried out: “Lord, save me!” (Mt 14:30). Faced with the full fury of the elements, how could we have crossed the roaring, foaming waters of the last century and the last millennium? But then we looked to Him … and He took us by the hand and gave us a new ‘specific gravity’: the lightness that comes from faith and draws us upwards. And then He offers us the hand that sustains and carries us. He sustains us. Let us turn our gaze to Him again and again and stretch out our hands towards Him. Let us allow His hand to take hold of us, and then we shall not sink, but we shall serve the life that is stronger than death, and the love that is stronger than hatred. Faith in Jesus, the Son of the living God, is the means by which we grasp Jesus’ hand time and again, and through which He takes our hands and guides us. One of my favourite prayers is the petition that the liturgy places on our lips before Communion: ‘…never let me be separated from You’. We ask never to fall out of communion with his Body, with Christ himself, never to fall out of the Eucharistic mystery. We ask that he never let go of our hand…’.

[Pope Benedict, Chrism Mass homily, 13 April 2006]

Bread and miracles of the phantom Christ. And we, the hem of his cloak

(Mk 6:53–56 // Mt 14:34–36)

He who is devoted to the cause of non-violence and non-possession, who is driven by the search for truth and right vision, who is capable of resolving his own emotional and intellectual problems and can show others the way to overcome their emotional and intellectual problems, may wear the Master’s cloak [Acharya Mahaprajna].

Whilst crowds constantly throng around Jesus and prevent others from having a personal relationship with Him, we must find a way; at the very least, catch a glimpse of Him (v. 56).

‘And wherever He entered—whether villages, towns or hamlets—they would lay the sick out in the public squares and beg Him to let them touch even the fringe of His cloak. And all who touched Him were healed.’

In fact, the fringe of his cloak is his People – and each one of us, when by Grace we are enabled to perceive and extend his call, his spirit, his care, his action.

A ‘touch’ that is not merely a gesture: it calls for total involvement; personal faith, an inner search.

The crowds gathered around the Lord and the Church, his primary presence, seek bread and healing… but sometimes they forget to connect with the inner Person who gives and heals.

Yet even in these cases, the infallible Guide continues to offer his unbroken life-giving current – not through therapies that impose themselves upon souls like a bolt of lightning, but within real life.

God liberates, saves and creates, starting from tensions and flaws (including religious ones), because He wishes to lead us to awareness.

The Father desires to instil the value of the act of love that strengthens the weak; every re-creative, incarnate gesture, open to any sense of emptiness.

Troubles do not arise from misfortune or punishment: they come to allow us to blossom anew, precisely from the pains of the soul.

If they persist, there is no need to fear: they become more explicit messages from our own higher Self.

It means that something in our inner orchestra is out of tune or neglected, and must either fade away or be uncovered and brought into play.

Otherwise, we will not be able to grow towards the destiny that characterises a Calling and every hardship.

Even the symptoms of restlessness belong to our innate essence – which always holds the power of relevance.

The key, therefore, will not be our appearance, nor our health, but rather the very acceptance of bitterness and hardship, which come to clear away the non-essential – and to liberate trapped spiritual impulses.

These are energies of imbalance, yet they seek to be transformed into the ability to cast off ballast; as well as to better accommodate and integrate our calling into our own story, so as to build life anew.

Perhaps quite a few would prefer to await a miraculous arrival of the Master [the archetypal healer] who brings immediate benefit and instant favours.

An external salvation with a magical flavour – fleeting, even if physically palpable or even taking on an ethical guise.

A phenomenal, yet simplistic, Lord.

An Appearance that dies straight away, only for us to start all over again – were it not for the fact that He (within us, in our turning points) embraces the very uncertainties that mark us.

And the long duration of these processes, which gradually take on a more intimate significance.

Total and sacred redemption – truly messianic – is not given to superficial fanfare.

Healing is not a spectacle. It is achieved solely step by step; thus it remains profound and radical.

It becomes capable of new beginnings and acts of giving birth to energy that is still in its embryonic stage, precisely starting from individual precariousness.

His People of the inner circle – a presence no longer ineffable and mysterious – strive in closeness to erase the false image of the philosophical or legal God, who is always external. 

A sovereign or imperious driving force, distant and absent – touchy, predatory – who occasionally makes an appearance; he neither transcends nor reaffirms. He never looks upon our present.

Thus the Church rejects the idea of the Eternal One who ratifies, but also that of the mass miracle-worker, who provides immediate solutions – so dear to the merchants of miracles.

A figure who easily takes hold of our imaginations.

We proclaim his true Face through words and deeds, precisely to destroy the idea of the phantom Christ from the previous passage (v. 49), a deplorable and absurd figure.

An evanescent icon, purely apologetic, which, unfortunately, throughout history has given ample scope to those in business with the Most High.

In this way, being healed does not mean escaping transience.

For a life as the saved, a transformation from within is needed; a new beginning. A different foothold in goodness.

Jesus walks through our world like a silent wayfarer, and accepts even a rudimentary faith.

Yet, even with unassuming power, the divine impulse works within every seeker of meaning and every person in need.

It takes up residence there personally, beginning precisely with our interrupted dreams.

The Lord cannot be imprisoned or confined: he draws near to carry out a great cleansing, to shift our gaze, and to renew the stale universe.

Thus He transforms our soul, through the experience of His free communion,

a fellowship that seeks to take up residence within us, to merge with and expand the drive for life – perhaps lying dormant in our inaction. So that each of us may be amazed by ourselves, by unknown passions, by new relationships.

Believers and the community manifest, in empathetic ways, the incisive healing power of Faith in the Risen One, beginning with their own intimate lives.

We experience this alive in the monotonous, unfulfilling and precarious day-to-day – yet capable of changing the structure of existence hidden in humble neighbourhoods [v.56: ‘hamlets’] and its unspoken destiny.

Without disturbing us with special, one-sided or overbearing effects.

The Tao Te Ching (xi) states: ‘Thirty spokes meet at a single hub, and in its non-being lies the usefulness of the cart’.

Far removed from the civilisation of appearances lies the improvement of our condition and security, away from insecurity.

Not merely a superficial, indiscreet and fleeting recovery.

Phenomenal, yet merely fleeting and inconclusive, or one that ultimately fades away.

To internalise and live out the message:

How do you view Jesus? As a miracle-worker or a restorer?

How do you behave towards those who are excluded or seem to have no shepherd?

Excita, Domine, potentiam tuam, et veni

“Excita, Domine, potentiam tuam, et veni” – with these and similar words, the Church’s liturgy prays repeatedly […]

These invocations were probably formulated during the twilight years of the Roman Empire. The collapse of the fundamental legal systems and the underlying moral attitudes that gave them strength led to the breaking of the defences that had hitherto protected peaceful coexistence amongst people. A world was coming to an end. Frequent natural disasters further heightened this sense of insecurity. There was no force in sight that could halt this decline. All the more insistent, then, was the invocation of God’s own power: that He might come and protect humankind from all these threats.

“Excita, Domine, potentiam tuam, et veni”. Even today we have many reasons to join in this prayer […] The world, with all its new hopes and possibilities, is at the same time troubled by the impression that the moral consensus is dissolving—a consensus without which legal and political structures cannot function; consequently, the forces mobilised to defend these structures seem destined to fail.

Excita – the prayer recalls the cry addressed to the Lord, who was sleeping in the disciples’ boat as it was being tossed about by the storm and on the verge of sinking. When his powerful word had calmed the storm, he rebuked the disciples for their lack of faith (cf. Mt 8:26 and parallels). He meant to say: faith has been sleeping within you. He means the same thing to us too. In us, too, faith so often lies dormant. Let us therefore pray to Him to rouse us from the slumber of a faith that has grown weary, and to restore to faith the power to move mountains – that is, to put the affairs of the world in their proper order.

[Pope Benedict, to the Roman Curia, 20 December 2010]

Once, like the first disciples, we encountered the Lord and heard his words:  "Follow me!" Perhaps, to start with, we followed him somewhat hesitantly, looking back and wondering if this really was the road for us. And at some point on the journey, we may have had the same experience as Peter after the miraculous catch; in other words, we may have been frightened by its size, by the size of the task and by the inadequacy of our own poor selves, so that we wanted to turn back. "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord" (Lk 5: 8). 

Then,  however,  with  great  kindness, he took us by the hand, he drew us  to  himself  and  said  to  us:   "Do not fear! I am with you. I  will not abandon you, do not leave me!". 

And more than just once, the same thing that happened to Peter may have happened to us:  while he was walking on the water towards the Lord, he suddenly realized that the water was not holding him up and that he was beginning to sink. And like Peter we cried, "Lord, save me!" (Mt 14: 30). Seeing the elements raging on all sides, how could we get through the roaring, foaming waters of the past century, of the past millennium? 

But then we looked towards him... and he grasped us by the hand and gave us a new "specific weight":  the lightness that derives from faith and draws us upwards. Then he stretched out to us the hand that sustains and carries us. He supports us. Let us fix our gaze ever anew on him and reach out to him. Let us allow his hand to take ours, and then we will not sink but will serve the life that is stronger than death and the love that is stronger than hatred. 

Faith in Jesus, Son of the living God, is the means through which, time and again, we can take hold of Jesus' hand and in which he takes our hands and guides us. 

One of my favourite prayers is the request that the liturgy puts on our lips before Communion:  "...never let me be separated from you". Let us ask that we never fall away from communion with his Body, with Christ himself, that we do not fall away from the Eucharistic mystery. Let us ask that he will never let go of our hands...

[Pope Benedict, Chrism Mass homily, 13 April 2006]

4. In turn, the calming of the storm on the Sea of Galilee can be reinterpreted as a ‘sign’ of Christ’s constant presence in the ‘boat’ of the Church, which has often, throughout history, been exposed to the fury of the winds in times of storm. Jesus, roused by the disciples, commands the winds and the sea, and a great calm ensues. Then he says to them: ‘Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’ (Mk 4:40). In this, as in other episodes, we see Jesus’ desire to instil in the apostles and disciples faith in his active and protective presence, even in the stormiest hours of history, when doubt about his divine assistance might creep into their hearts. Indeed, in Christian homiletics and spirituality, miracles have often been interpreted as ‘signs’ of Jesus’ presence and as a guarantee of the trust placed in him by Christians and the Church.

5. Jesus, walking on the water towards his disciples, offers another ‘sign’ of his presence and assures them of his constant watchful care over the disciples and the Church. ‘Take heart; it is I; do not be afraid,’ says Jesus to the apostles, who had taken him for a ghost (cf. Mk 6:49–50; cf. Mt 14:26–27; Jn 6:16–21). Mark notes the apostles’ amazement ‘because they had not understood the miracle of the loaves and their hearts were hardened’ (Mk 6:52). Matthew records Peter’s request to step out onto the water to go and meet Jesus, and notes his fear and his cry for help when he felt himself sinking: Jesus saves him, but gently rebukes him: “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” (Mt 14:31). He also adds that “those in the boat fell down before him, exclaiming: ‘Truly, you are the Son of God’” (Mt 14:33).

[Pope John Paul II, General Audience, 2 December 1987]

Today’s Gospel recounts a particular prodigious deed of Jesus: He walks at night on the waters of the lake of Galilee toward his disciples who are crossing the lake in a boat (cf. Mt 14:22-33). The question is: Why did Jesus do this? Like a show? No! But why? Maybe because of an urgent, unforeseeable need to help his disciples who were blocked by a headwind? No, because he himself had planned everything, he had made them depart that evening. The text even says he “made them” (cf. v. 22). Maybe he did it to give them a demonstration of his greatness and power? But this is not like him, who is such a humble person. So, why did he do it? Why did he want to walk on the waters?

Behind the walking on water there is a message that is not evident, a message we need to grasp. In fact, at that time, great expanses of water were held to be the haunts of evil powers that man was not able to master. Particularly when storms made them turbulent, these abysses were symbols of chaos and recalled the darkness of the underworld. Now, the disciples found themselves in the middle of the lake when it was dark. They are afraid of sinking, of being sucked in by evil. And here comes Jesus who walks on the water, that is, over the powers of evil. He walks over the forces of evil and says to his disciples: “Take heart, it is I; have no fear” (v. 27). This is the message Jesus gives us. This is the meaning of the sign: the powers of evil that frighten us, that we cannot master, immediately take on smaller proportions with Jesus. By walking on the waters, He wants to say, “Do not be afraid. I put your enemies under my feet” — a beautiful message — I put your enemies under my feet — not people! — not that type of enemy, but death, sin, the devil. These are the enemies of the people, our enemies. And Jesus tramples on these enemies for us.

Today, Christ repeats to each of us, “Take heart, it is I; have no fear!” Take heart because I am here, because you are no longer alone on the turbulent waters of life. And so, what should we do when we find ourselves on the open sea at the mercy of headwinds? What should we do when we face the fear of the open sea, when we see only darkness and we feel we are going under? We need to do two things that the disciples do in the Gospel. What do the disciples do? They call onand welcome Jesus. At the worst moments, in the darkest of storms, call on Jesus and welcome Jesus.

The disciples call on Jesus: Peter walks a little on the waters towards Jesus, but then gets frightened. He sinks and then cries out: “Lord, save me!” (v. 30). Invoke Jesus, call on Jesus. This prayer is beautiful. It expresses the certainty that the Lord can save us, that he conquers our evil and our fears. I invite you to repeat it now all together. Three times together: Lord, save me! Lord, save me! Lord, save me!

And then the disciples welcome. First they call on, then they welcome Jesus into the boat. The text says that as soon as he got into the boat, “the wind ceased” (v. 32). The Lord knows that the boat of our life, as well as the boat of the Church, is threatened by headwinds, and that the sea on which we sail is often turbulent. He does not spare us the hard work of sailing; rather — the Gospel emphasizes — he pushes his disciples to depart. He invites us to face difficulties so they too might become salvific places , so Jesus can conquer them, so they become opportunities to meet him. In fact, in our moments of darkness, he comes to meet us, asking to be welcomed like that night on the lake.

So, let us ask ourselves: How do I react when I am afraid, in difficulties? Do I go ahead alone, with my own strength, or do I call on the Lord with trust? And what is my faith like? Do I believe that Christ is stronger than the adversarial waves and winds? But above all: Am I sailing with him? Do I welcome him? Do I make room for him in the boat of my life — never alone, always with Jesus? Do I hand the helm over to Jesus?

In the dark crossings, may Mary, the mother of Jesus, Star of the Sea, help us to seek the light of Jesus.

[Pope Francis, Angelus, 13 August 2023]

17th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [26 July 2026]

First Reading from the First Book of Kings (3:5, 7–12)

This passage from the First Book of Kings recounts the first great celebration of the reign of Solomon, David’s successor on the throne of Jerusalem. After his coronation, Solomon went to the sanctuary at Gibeon to offer a great sacrifice and there uttered a prayer that would become a model for all Israel.

However, the historical context shows that Solomon was not a perfect man. His accession to the throne was marked by dynastic struggles, political intrigues and violence. Although he was one of David’s youngest sons, he managed to secure power thanks to the rivalries among his elder brothers and the decisive intervention of his mother, Bathsheba. After his coronation, he swiftly eliminated his opponents. Therefore, his renowned wisdom was not an innate quality, but a gift received from God. True wisdom thus emerges as the most precious of all goods. Once in power, Solomon realised the difficulty of governing. This realisation represents the first sign of his wisdom. He recognised that the most precious good is not wealth or power, but wisdom, and that it comes only from God. In his prayer, he presents himself with humility: ‘I am a young and inexperienced man; grant your servant a discerning heart to govern your people and to distinguish between good and evil.’ His request recalls the hidden treasure and the precious pearl of which Jesus will speak in the Gospel (Mt 13:44–46): wisdom is worth more than any other good. Here is a lesson for all those who govern. The second lesson concerns not only kings, but anyone who exercises authority. Solomon does not ask for personal advantages, a long life, riches or victory over his enemies. He asks only for what is necessary to serve the people entrusted to him. In this, he shows that he has understood the ideal of the monarchy of Israel: the ruler must not seek his own interests, but the good and safety of the people. The prophets, beginning with Nathan, constantly reminded the kings of Israel of this mission. God’s response is generous: He appreciates the selflessness of the request and responds by granting Solomon a wise and discerning heart, superior to that of all other kings; by giving him the ability to discern and govern justly; and, furthermore, by granting him what he had not asked for: wealth, glory and prestige. This reveals God’s generosity: those who seek His will above all else also receive other gifts in addition. The theme echoes Jesus’ teaching: ‘Seek first the Kingdom of God, and all these things will be given to you as well’ (Mt 6:33).

Responsorial Psalm (118/119)

In the First Reading, Solomon, at the beginning of his reign, had grasped the essential truth: true wisdom is the most precious treasure and can come only from God. 

He continues in the psalm: ‘The law from your mouth is more precious to me than thousands of pieces of gold and silver.’ And the psalmist adds: ‘How wonderful are your commandments; that is why I keep them!’ For the believer, faithfulness to the commandments is a delight, not a burden. This psalm is a litany of love for the Law; today’s verses are just a short stanza from a very long psalm: 176 verses = 22 stanzas of 8 verses each.  Why 22 stanzas? Because there are 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet. Each stanza is an ‘acrostic’: all 8 verses begin with the same letter, and the stanzas follow the alphabetical order from Alef to Tav.  This is not literary virtuosity. It is a true profession of faith: a poem in honour of the Law, a meditation on the gift of God that is the commandments. Rather than a ‘psalm’, it is a litany in honour of the Law. It may sound strange to us, but that is how it is. In the Bible, to love the Law is to love the Father’s gift; this is why the biblical believer truly loves the Law. The commandments are not endured as God’s dominion over us, but as advice—the only valid advice for living happily. When the biblical person says this, they mean it with all their heart. And the Law is not endured as dominion; it is received as a gift that God gives to his people to warn them against all false paths. It is said that God ‘gives’ his Law, and it is indeed regarded as a ‘gift’. God did not merely free Israel from slavery in Egypt. By giving his Law, God has, in a sense, provided the ‘user’s manual’ for freedom. The Torah is an expression of God’s love for his people. If God is Love, his Law leads to love.  We did not have to wait for the New Testament to discover that God is Love and that the Law has but one purpose: to lead us along the path of love. The entire Bible is the story of the chosen people’s learning, in the school of brotherly love, from Deuteronomy (Dt 6:4) to Leviticus (Lv 19:18).  The famous Rabbi Hillel, who lived from 70 BC to 10 AD, said: ‘Do not do to your neighbour what you would hate for yourself: this is the whole of the Torah; the rest is commentary. Go and study.’ He also said: ‘Do not judge your neighbour until you have been in his place.’ Jesus takes the same line: the two commandments of love for God and for one’s neighbour sum up the whole Law. And the Golden Rule echoes this as follows: ‘Do to others whatever you would have them do to you: for this is the Law and the Prophets’ (Mt 7:12). Finally, this psalm resembles a litany: after the first three verses, which affirm the happiness of those faithful to the Law, the remaining 173 verses address God directly, at times in a contemplative tone, at others in supplication: ‘Open my eyes, that I may see the wonders of your Law’ (v. 18), and the litany continues, almost always repeating the same phrases. In Hebrew, eight identical words recur throughout all the stanzas to describe the Law: Law, Word, Precepts, Statutes, Commandments, Judgements, Promises, Ways. Only lovers repeat themselves like this without ever tiring. Nor is the number 8 coincidental: in the Bible, it is the number of the new creation. God created the first Creation in seven days; therefore, the eighth day will be that of the renewed Creation, of the ‘new heavens and new earth’. This will finally come to pass when all humanity lives according to God’s Law—that is, in love—because they are one and the same. 

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (8:28–30)

For weeks now we have been reading chapter eight of the Letter to the Romans: Paul contemplates the whole of human history as a long journey towards a magnificent future. One day we shall be like Jesus Christ, in his image, and we shall be one with him.  This is God’s plan: ‘God calls those he loves according to his plan’ (Rom 8:28), with the best commentary: ‘God chose you from the very beginning for salvation, through the Holy Spirit who sanctifies and through faith in the truth. For this is what he has called you to through our Gospel, so that you may share in the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ’ (2 Thessalonians 2:13–14). This plan, which culminates in union with Christ, is the work of the Spirit, made possible by our free participation. Paul puts it even more simply: ‘God calls you to his Kingdom and to his glory’ (1 Thessalonians 2:12). We are on a journey towards the transformation of our whole being, a ‘shaping’ that will mould us in the image of Christ.  Earlier, Paul had compared this transformation to a birth: ‘The whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth’ (Rom 8:22). Here we see the image of entering into a great family: God has ‘predestined us to be conformed to the image of his Son, so that he might be the firstborn among many brothers’ (Rom 8:29).  Shortly before, he had called us “children of God” and had continued: “If we are children, then we are also heirs: heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ” (Rom 8:17). To God’s invitation to take part in this great plan, we respond with faith and trust. It is often said: “Man proposes, God disposes”, but here Paul says the opposite: ‘God proposes, man disposes’. God does not impose his plan on us; he proposes it to us. From the very beginnings of Revelation, we hear God calling humankind and proposing his Covenant to us, as if God were tirelessly repeating: ‘Love me, trust me, for I love you’. And this plan of God depends on our freedom.  In today’s passage, the freedom to accept or refuse is expressed as follows: ‘Moreover, we know that all things work together for good for those who love God, for those who are called according to his purpose’ (Rom 8:2).  The verb ‘to love’ indicates man’s free response to God’s proposal. It is not a feeling, it is an impulse, it is the adherence of ‘faith’ . Yet we remain free not to love God. In Paul’s vocabulary, we are all ‘known, called, justified, and brought into his glory’, provided we accept him. And he describes the journey of those who wish to enter into this plan of salvation.  First, God sent his Son (Col 1:18). Thus, those who respond to God’s love resemble that Son who fulfilled the Father’s will for salvation: predestined, called, justified, glorified—that is, brought into perfect harmony with God, made partakers of his divine nature, already welcomed into his glory. It is no surprise that Paul concludes immediately afterwards: ‘What more can be said?’ Rom 8:31.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (13:44–52)

In this passage from the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus presents four brief parables to explain the meaning of the Kingdom of Heaven: the hidden treasure, the pearl of great price, the net cast into the sea, and the householder who brings out of his treasure things both new and old. The treasure and the pearl: the absolute value of the Kingdom. The first two parables convey the same message: a man discovers a treasure hidden in a field; a merchant finds a pearl of exceptional value. In both cases, the protagonists sell everything they own to acquire that unique treasure. This act of renunciation is not experienced as a loss, but as a joy, because the value of the treasure infinitely surpasses that of everything else. Jesus teaches that the Kingdom of God is the greatest good that exists. Those who discover it realise that it is worth more than any earthly wealth, security or success. The net and the final judgement. The third parable describes a bountiful catch. Once the net has been hauled ashore, the fishermen separate the good fish from the bad. Jesus applies this image to the Last Judgement: at the end of time, there will be a definitive distinction between what belongs to the Kingdom and what opposes it. As in the parable of the wheat and the tares, however, it is not simply a matter of dividing people into two rigid categories. Good and evil coexist within every person’s heart. The parable highlights the gravity of human choices: one cannot serve both God and other ‘masters’ at the same time. This is why Jesus continually calls for conversion: ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is near.’ The same teaching emerges in his encounter with the rich young man: called to leave everything to follow Christ and gain a treasure in heaven, he is unable to give up his securities and goes away sad. These parables show that following Christ requires concrete decisions. There are no half-measures: every choice must be assessed in the light of the Kingdom of God. To welcome the Kingdom means being willing to let go of whatever prevents one from fully adhering to God’s will, just as one who sells everything to acquire the treasure or the pearl—a treasure both ancient and new. After asking his disciples whether they had understood his teaching, Jesus adds a fourth parable: ‘Every scribe who has become a disciple of the Kingdom of Heaven is like a householder who brings out of his treasure things both new and old.’ The scribes had a profound knowledge of the Old Testament Scriptures. However, in order to welcome the Kingdom proclaimed by Jesus, they had to open themselves to the newness of his revelation without losing the heritage they had received. The true disciple cherishes both: the treasure of the Old Covenant and the newness brought by Jesus Christ. This is why Jesus affirms: ‘I have not come to abolish the Law and the Prophets, but to bring them to fulfilment.’ The Old and New Testaments are not opposed to one another: the former prepares and announces, the latter realises and brings to fulfilment. Knowing both constitutes the true treasure of the Christian faith. The life of Paul of Tarsus represents a living synthesis of these parables. Having enjoyed prestige as a Jew and a Pharisee, he regards all that as a loss compared with the knowledge of Christ. In his letter to the Philippians, he states that every human privilege pales in comparison with the gift of Christ, for which he was willing to lose everything. Ultimately, the four parables converge on a single teaching: the Kingdom of God is the supreme treasure; it is worth giving up everything to obtain it; our choices have decisive consequences; the disciple must embrace both the richness of the Old Covenant and the newness of Christ; true wisdom lies in recognising that nothing is of greater value than communion with God. The ‘treasure hunt’ of which Jesus speaks is not the pursuit of material goods, but the discovery of the Kingdom, a treasure so great that it renders everything else secondary.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)   [19 July 2026]

First Reading from the Book of Wisdom (12:3, 16–19)

The Book of Wisdom, written in Greek by a Jew from Alexandria shortly before the coming of Christ, is addressed to people steeped in Greek culture, which exalted intelligence and philosophy as the highest paths to knowledge. The author, however, reminds us that true wisdom belongs to God and that his mysteries are not attained through human knowledge, but are received as a gift and with humility. This is the same truth that Jesus expresses when he points out that the Father reveals his secrets to the little ones rather than to the wise of this world (Mt 11:25, Lk 10:21). The central theme of the text is the relationship between omnipotence and mercy. On the one hand, God is the absolute Lord of the universe: there is no other God; he rules over all things and possesses infinite power. On the other hand, this power is not manifested through violence, but through gentleness and goodness: God cares for all things, judges with leniency, governs with tenderness and, after sin, always offers the possibility of conversion. The author puts forward a surprising idea: God is merciful precisely because he is almighty. Human beings, often insecure about their own authority, feel the need to flaunt their power; God, on the other hand, who possesses all power, has nothing to prove. This is why his power is expressed in patience, forgiveness and tenderness. This image of God is the fruit of a long journey of revelation. Through the prophets, Israel learnt that God is not a tyrannical ruler, but a loving Father. Like Elijah on Mount Horeb, believers discover that God does not reveal himself in the storm or the earthquake, but in the gentle breeze. His strength is unobtrusive yet invincible, for it is the strength of love. This discovery also has implications for humankind. If we are created in God’s image, we are called to imitate his way of acting. Therefore, the righteous do not seek domination or violence, but humanity, compassion and service. Jesus takes up this same teaching when he instructs his disciples that the logic of power must not prevail amongst them, but rather that of the service of love (Mk 9:35; Mt 20:26–27; Mt 23:11; Lk 22:26). In short, God’s greatness does not lie in dominating by force, but in saving through mercy; and his omnipotence is manifested in forbearance, forgiveness and the ability to always offer humankind a new chance. Those who wish to resemble God must make goodness—and not power—the measure of their lives.

Responsorial Psalm (85/86)  

In this psalm, the image of a tender and merciful God emerges, one who reveals his power through mercy. If we read the psalm in the light of the first reading, taken from the Book of Wisdom, we realise that the author marvels at both God’s greatness and his tenderness. One explains the other, for if God is forgiving towards humankind, it is precisely because He is almighty. And this dual emphasis – forgiveness and greatness – recurs in the stanzas of the psalm: the 1st and 3rd stanzas focus on forgiveness; the second stanza is about greatness.  First stanza: ‘You who are good and forgiving, you are full of mercy towards those who call upon you.’  Third stanza: ‘You, Lord, are a merciful and compassionate God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness. Turn to me and have mercy.’  2nd stanza: “Great are You and You work wonders; You alone are God”. In the third stanza, “a merciful and compassionate God” leads us to God’s great revelation to Moses on Mount Sinai (Ex 34:6). It comes at the worst possible moment, immediately after the episode of the golden calf, when Moses, in his anger, had broken the tablets of the Law. The Covenant had been desecrated by the people, who had made themselves an idol. God does not renounce the Covenant: he tells Moses to carve two new stone tablets, upon which he will inscribe the same words. This is a sign of mercy. And it is precisely here that he says: “God, merciful and gracious, slow to anger…”. It is interesting to note Moses’ reaction here (cf. Ex 34:8–9). The author of the psalm reacts just as Moses did: he recalls God’s mercy and ‘takes Him at His word’, imploring Him: ‘You, Lord, God of tenderness and compassion… Turn your gaze upon me and have mercy on me’.  In all our prayers, we too recall his merciful plan for humanity and implore him to hasten its fulfilment (cf. Rom 8:26–27). The parallel with the Book of Exodus continues because, following the revelation and Moses’ response, God establishes a covenant (cf. Ex 34:10). But the psalm adds something new compared with the Book of Exodus, as it was written much later. During the Babylonian exile, Israel became aware of the universal nature of God’s plan—namely, that all nations are called to know him. But how can they come to know him? By discovering God’s work on behalf of his people. The Jewish people do not presume to convert others, but they understand that God’s work on their behalf becomes a means of conversion for other nations: if they open their eyes, they recognise the God of Israel as their Saviour and turn to him. 

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (8:26–27)

Saint Paul has already said that the life of the baptised is under the influence of the Spirit. He emphasises once again the role of the Holy Spirit (in this chapter he mentions him 18 times). He highlights that the life of the baptised unfolds entirely under his influence, if we allow ourselves to be guided by him. The Spirit dwells within us, and God’s great plan is like the process of childbirth. The labour pains are the prelude to great joy. “I consider that the sufferings of the present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed… We know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth.” And it is the Spirit who guides our prayer, as we read in this very brief text which nevertheless contains an important contrast: on the one hand, in the last verse: ‘it is in accordance with God’s will that the Spirit intercedes for the saints’; on the other: ‘he comes to the aid of our weakness, for we do not know how to pray as we ought’. It teaches us that we pray by entering into God’s will, looking at the world and at ourselves through God’s eyes; rejoicing in the signs—however small—of the Kingdom’s advance, which are brotherhood, sharing, solidarity and respect. We must never lose heart in the face of humanity’s slow progress, for the Spirit blows ceaselessly even if it is not always visible. The reference to the Lord’s Prayer is immediate: ‘Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven’—three expressions that draw us into God’s plans.  We need the help of the Holy Spirit to enlighten our prayer, just as Jesus promised: “I will pray to the Father, and he will give you another Paraclete to be with you for ever” (Jn 14:16). He knows the secrets of God’s plan, as Paul so aptly puts it: “The Spirit searches everything, even the depths of God… We have not received the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who comes from God, so that we may know what God has bestowed upon us’ (1 Cor 2:10–12). And the model is Jesus, always guided by the Spirit: his whole life is marked by the fulfilment of the Father’s mission, right up to Gethsemane, when he proclaims, ‘Father, not my will, but yours be done’ (Mark 14:36). And the author of the Letter to the Hebrews sums up his life thus: “Upon entering the world, Christ says… ‘Behold, I have come to do your will, O God’” (Hebrews 10:5, 9).

From the Gospel according to Matthew (13:24–43) 

The parable of the weeds is not primarily intended to explain the origin of evil, although it reaffirms a fundamental principle: God is not the author of evil. As in the account in Genesis, everything God has created is good; the owner of the field sows only good wheat, whilst the weeds are the work of an enemy. In the context of the Gospel of Matthew, however, this parable is linked to that of the sower. Having shown that the proclamation of the Kingdom does not always bear the hoped-for fruit, Jesus addresses a new question: why not immediately remove what stands in the way of good? The servants suggest pulling up the weeds, but the owner forbids this so as not to uproot the wheat as well. Only at harvest time will the separation take place.

The message is clear: it is not for human beings to pass final judgement or to eliminate evil in others; this task belongs to God. Jesus therefore invites us to live with the simultaneous presence of good and evil in the world and within communities, avoiding elitist or fanatical attitudes. Matthew was probably addressing a community tempted to draw a rigid distinction between the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’. At the end of time, God will make the final judgement. The Bible often presents judgement as a separation between the righteous and the wicked, but the reality is deeper: the line separating good from evil runs through the heart of every person. No one is merely righteous or merely holy, but we all carry within us both the good wheat and the weeds. God will not destroy the good along with the evil: he will save that which, in each of us, is capable of bearing fruit. After the parable of the weeds, Jesus tells the parables of the mustard seed and the yeast. Whilst the previous parables highlighted the obstacles to the Kingdom, these reveal its inner strength. What is small and hidden inevitably grows to full realisation: the seed becomes a great tree and the yeast causes the whole dough to rise. Herein lies the central teaching that Jesus sets out in three fundamental attitudes: trust, because the Kingdom of God grows even when we cannot see it; patience, because the harvest will come at the time appointed by God; and humility, because no one can consider themselves entirely righteous or authorised to judge others. God’s patience stems from his desire not to lose even a single good ear of corn amongst the weeds. But above all, it reveals that God never ceases to hope for humanity’s conversion and for the transformation of the ‘tares’ in our hearts into good grain. This is the true meaning of his merciful patience.     

+Giovanni D’Ercole

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [12 July 2026]

First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah (55:10–11)

The central theme of this passage is the image of rain: the Word of God is life-giving rain; it does not return until it has fulfilled its mission of forgiveness and reconciliation. This oracle concludes the Second Isaiah (Isaiah 40–55) As prophets often do, Isaiah uses an image: rain and snow are daydreams for an Eastern farmer accustomed to often arid soil. In Babylon, where he is in exile with his people in the 6th century BC, the benefits of rain are experienced. A sun-drenched land, such as Israel or Babylon, flourishes anew at the first rain. The prophet applies this effectiveness to the Word of God: ‘So shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth: it shall not return to me empty.’ Isaiah emphasises this effectiveness for two reasons. 1) He announces the end of the Exile and the return to Jerusalem. For 50 years, the inhabitants of Jerusalem have been in exile in Babylon. Isaiah promises, on God’s behalf, their liberation and their departure from Babylon. To believe in a promise long awaited requires trust in the Word of God. This is why Isaiah is so firm: ‘my word… shall not return to me empty…’. Statements about the effectiveness of the Word (‘Davar’ means both ‘word’ and ‘event’) are always made during difficult times in Israel’s history, when it is necessary to cling to faith.  Examples: ‘All flesh is like grass… dry grass; the flower withers, but the word of our God stands for ever’ (Isa 40:6–8); ‘I am watching over my word to bring it to pass’ (Jer 1:12). These words were spoken to combat idolatry, for during the exile the temptation was strong amongst the inhabitants of Jerusalem, who, in the face of defeat, thought it better to turn to the gods of the victorious Babylonians, since they were effective. There is a sarcastic passage by the prophet Isaiah: poor people who use the same wood to make a fire and to carve idols; then they expect help from those lifeless idols they have made themselves (cf. Isa 44).  2) The other reason for emphasising the power of the word is that the ‘mission’ of the Word is forgiveness and reconciliation. Immediately before this text, he notes: ‘Seek the Lord whilst he may be found; call upon him whilst he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the Lord, who will have mercy on him, and to our God, who abundantly forgives. For my thoughts are not your thoughts…’ (Isaiah 55:6–8).  The ‘mission’ referred to here is therefore a mission to proclaim God’s free forgiveness and the reconciliation of humanity with Him: God will ultimately reconcile humanity to Himself. Later, Paul will say the same: ‘God our Saviour desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth’ (1 Tim 2:4). This plan of God is fulfilled through the Incarnation of the Word and the sending of the disciples as ambassadors of reconciliation: “God has reconciled us to himself through Christ and has entrusted to us the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Cor 5:18). 

Responsorial Psalm (64/65)

Psalm 64 is a votive offering from a people written upon their return from exile to thank God for their deliverance: on the surface, it is a song of renewed creation, but it is not merely a song about nature. The liturgy presents us only with the final verses (10–14), which appear to be a contemplation of nature, but the preceding verses are fundamental, and without them the true meaning of the psalm is lost. This is a vow of thanksgiving for the return from exile, made in Babylon in the 6th century BC: if God frees us and brings us back to Israel, we shall celebrate in his temple. Deliverance is experienced as forgiveness because the exile was regarded as a punishment for the sins of the people and their leaders, and the return is a ‘return to favour’: God wipes the sinful past clean.  ‘Our sins have overwhelmed us; you forgive them’. It is clear that Israel’s election becomes a mission, and the people celebrate God’s faithfulness: “Blessed are those whom you have chosen and brought near: they shall dwell in your courts.” Just as the Levites had a special place to serve God in the temple, so Israel has a special place amongst the nations: when the other nations see Israel’s salvation, they will recognise that the God of Israel is the only Saviour. With the return to the homeland, a new life begins; it is a true re-creation. For this reason, the final bucolic section should not be separated from the central theme, which is thanksgiving. Lush nature is an image of new life and of God’s greatest gift: forgiveness

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul to the Romans (8:18–23)

Creation is not complete; it is a work in progress and eagerly awaits the revelation of the children of God. This means that creation is not an event of the past: it is an ongoing project, comparable to a work of art.  Let us imagine the creation of an immense bronze sculpture. From the very first day, the artist knows that it will require patience and time: the process involves many successive stages.  There are hardships, struggles and risks to face; one must have a clear understanding of where this sometimes thankless work is leading and assess every possible difficulty. Only the artist can already visualise the finished work in his mind, but the challenge lies in how to describe the glimpsed beauty to his collaborators, and to share it with them with the same passion. God’s project is comparable to the birth of a work of art: Paul speaks specifically of ‘childbirth’. Only God, for now, can describe the finished work. And who has the mission to complete it? We do, each in our own small way, but above all the Spirit who breathes upon the world to direct it towards God. ‘We have received the firstfruits of the Spirit, but we await adoption as children, the redemption of our body’. In the biblical sense, ‘body’ refers to our whole being. Redemption of the body: our whole being, still in chains today, bound by sin, will finally be set free and free to live as children of God. We speak of the ‘firstfruits’, which biblically refer to the first handful of ears of corn or the firstborn lamb of the flock in spring. They were both the beginning and the promise of the entire harvest. A beautiful image to convey that we already possess the down payment of our ultimate salvation: “the love of God has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Rom 5:5). And it is because we already possess the firstfruits, because we are already animated by the Spirit, that we groan as we await our final transformation. Yet it is always the Spirit who continues the work in the world.  In the Fourth Eucharistic Prayer we say: “ He – your Son – has sent from you, Father, as a first gift to believers, the Holy Spirit who continues his work in the world and brings every sanctification to fulfilment”. “Every sanctification” – that is, every transformation.  For now, creation is still “subject to futility”, but in the new heavens and new earth that we await, towards which we strive, this energy will become a passion for unity: ‘According to his promise, we await new heavens and a new earth, in which righteousness dwells’ (2 Pet 3:13). Then creation will be ‘set free from the bondage of corruption to enter into the freedom of the glory of the children of God’.  Paul speaks of the whole of creation and the cosmos, not just of us. He takes up a theme familiar to the Bible: the disharmony caused by Adam’s wrong choice plunges the entire garden—that is, the whole of creation—into chaos: “The ground shall be cursed because of you” (Gen 3:17).  Conversely, when righteousness dwells on the earth, not only humans but also animals will know peace. Humanity is part of the cosmos and cannot be conceived of without it. This is one of the meanings of Isaiah’s magnificent ‘parable’ of the animals: ‘The wolf shall dwell with the lamb… the lion shall feed on straw like the ox… They shall do no harm or destroy any more on all my holy mountain, for the knowledge of the Lord shall fill the earth as the waters cover the sea’ (Isaiah 11:6–9). As Paul says in Ephesians: it is ‘the whole universe, the things in heaven and on earth’ that will one day be brought together under one Head, Christ (Ephesians 1:9–10). It is our privilege to be able to catch a glimpse of the completed work even now. Returning to the analogy of the work of art: we who are engaged in God’s plan have an immense privilege compared to an artist’s collaborators: we can already glimpse the completed work: “The Word became flesh and dwelt amongst us; and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth” (Jn 1:14).  Meanwhile, this great labour of bringing forth the new humanity continues amidst pain and groaning. All the more reason for believers to find the courage to proclaim, even now, the glory promised to all creation.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (13:1–23)

Jesus speaks in parables because the ‘parable’ is a literary genre of the Jewish tradition, similar to a narrative with a pedagogical purpose, designed to lead the listener to change their perspective. A parable is not an allegory: not every detail has a precise meaning; the lesson comes from the overall context.  

  The disciples ask why Jesus speaks in parables, and Jesus gives three reasons: firstly, to distinguish between the disciples and the crowd: ‘To you it has been given to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but to them it has not been given.’ Secondly, to console them, because their opponents ‘look without seeing, listen without hearing or understanding’. Jesus quotes a passage from Isaiah to them: “This people’s heart has grown callous; their ears are hard of hearing, and they have closed their eyes…” (Isaiah 6:9–10). Thirdly, to recall the Old Testament theme of the two paths: “To those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have not, even what they have will be taken away.” In Matthew and Mark, this teaching in parables immediately follows the disputes with the Pharisees and with those who refuse to recognise Jesus as the Messiah, revealing their hardened hearts and their imperviousness to the Word. Indeed, the more the listeners shut themselves away in their certainties, the more impervious they become to the Word. The parables are a pedagogical means of touching those hardened hearts. However, the disposition of the heart is decisive in understanding Jesus. I shall now return to these words: ‘To those who have, more will be given’ – which is the theme of the two paths already present in the Old Testament and which always presents human existence as a crossroads. If you take the right path, every step brings you closer to your goal: ‘Give to the wise, and he will become wiser still; instruct the righteous, and he will increase his knowledge’ (Prov 9:9). If, on the other hand, you choose the wrong path, every step takes you further away. A clear choice is therefore required: either to listen, to open your ears to be taught and transformed by the Word; or to refuse to listen and become increasingly hard of hearing. In the parable of the sower, Jesus shows what the obstacles to preaching are.  Jesus is the Word of God made flesh (Jn 1:14); and he communicates only the Father’s Word: “The word that you hear is not mine, but the Father’s who sent me” (Jn 14:24). Yet he finds it difficult to find fertile ground.  What are the difficulties involved in listening to the Word? First of all, the cares of the world which choke out the demands of the Kingdom (Mt 6:25–34). A deeper difficulty is not trusting Jesus and recognising him as the Messiah. The disciples themselves stumbled: after the discourse on the bread of life, many said, ‘This teaching is hard! Who can accept it?’ From that moment on, many of the disciples turned back, and Jesus said to the Twelve, ‘Do you also wish to go away?’ Peter replied, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life’ (John 6:60–68). Despite the difficulties, Jesus proclaims that the harvest—‘a hundredfold, sixtyfold or thirtyfold’—is certain, though it comes at a high price. The Kingdom of God will be established through many failures. To enter into the understanding of the Kingdom is solely a gift from God: ‘It has been granted to you to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven… Blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear…’ Those who have received the seed in good soil are those who hear the Word and understand it with a receptive heart, capable of receiving from God the light that comes only from Him. This openness, too, is a gift. The Pharisees and the crowd were not yet ready. Jesus had Ezekiel in mind when he said, ‘Those who received the seed among the thorns are those who hear the Word, but the cares of the world and the allure of wealth choke the Word.’ Ezekiel writes: “They come to you as a people gather; they listen to your words, but do not put them into practice; their mouths are full of lusts, their hearts are set on gain. To them you are like a love song, with a sweet voice, well played” (Ezek 33:30–32).  

+ Giovanni D’Ercole