Renewal within the Church, an antidote to one-sidedness
(Mt 5:1–12)
In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is the new Moses who ascends ‘the Mount’. But the young Lawgiver does not proclaim rules engraved on stone tablets, but rather his own experience of the Father… ‘seeing the crowds’ (v. 1).
At the crossroads between divine nature and the fullness of humanity, the new Rabbi sketches a sort of self-portrait: as the Son; in favour of his brothers and sisters. Gathered together in a spirit of family.
A bud of a welcoming world – which Matthew seeks to encourage in his small churches. Where no one is above and no one is always below; nor is there one person at the front and another at the back.
Only humanising upheavals [such as the reversal of roles and conditions] that strengthen the fabric of harmony.
Therefore, in the House belonging to all, there must be a rotation and reversal of figures, situations and criteria of eminence, and thus of chains of command – signs of the Kingdom to Come.
A reversal capable of sharpening sensitivity to Communion [at that time, there was lively friction between Judaising experts, the top of the class, and the latest arrivals on the threshold of the brotherhoods of faith].
At that time, the mindset of precedence and supremacy was so deeply rooted that all religions recognised hierarchies.
Those who considered themselves entitled to precedence [within the community!] always raised a question of apparent self-evidence:
Is it not part of the natural order of things that in human society there should be firsts and last, the learned and the ignorant, rulers and subjects?
After all, the legal principle that once governed, for example, the entire law of private property in the Latin world is also the motto inscribed at the head of a well-known official Catholic daily newspaper: Unicuique Suum.
Even Leo XIII, the Pope of the social encyclicals, recognised that ‘in human society it is in accordance with the order established by God that there should be princes and subjects, masters and labourers, rich and poor, the learned and the uneducated, nobles and commoners; the duty of charity incumbent upon the rich and the property-owning classes is to provide for the poor and the needy’.
This was the mindset of a sin of mere omission: it is enough, they thought, to practise charity afterwards.
The Lord’s position is very, very different: the powerful are by no means blessed by God – just as the wealthy patriarchs of the First Testament were also supposed to be.
Their alien world – the palaces, and even their exquisite clothing – is a perfect metaphor for the inner emptiness and transience in which they revel.
Their gluttony is a sign of an inner abyss to be filled – a sort of nervous hunger, accompanied by a sense of vertigo.
And so it goes, from alienation to alienation.
On ‘the Mount’, by contrast, the discreet work of the Spirit is proclaimed, signifying the character of a modest holiness, animated by the Love that is a gift, in itself divinising and humanising [a quality manifested in the so-called ‘poor in Spirit’].
A holiness which transcends the ancient fiction of the rulers, who piled one upon the other, reciting the same script.
Until now, in fact, the masses had been left high and dry: whoever the ruler might be who seized power, the humble flock remained subjugated, sad and stifled; unworthy even to present themselves before the Lord.
All condemned and inadequate.
Even the community of disciples is heartbroken, for it does not accept the inequalities of a pyramid-shaped society, which tends to level out and annihilate the Gifts of God scattered throughout all humanity – regardless of social class.
The authentic disciple is, in fact, moved to tears: these express the dimension of inner energy that purifies external ideas; it makes us true from within, essential on the outside.
Affliction leads us back into ourselves; it restores contact with our roots and the primordial virtues, which regenerate us.
A sadness which, in the context of finitude and conscious limitation, makes us empathetic, splendidly human.
Intimately dissatisfied: opponents of injustice. For every person who is not placed in a position to express their abilities is an insult to the Plan of Salvation.
This is not a matter of charity or philanthropy: it is a deliberate, social choice (v.5).
For within every marginalised person lies, in fact, an Artist who is denied the chance to express themselves, who is neither discovered nor valued for their own sake or for the sake of others; rather, they are regarded as an outsider or a deviant.
Annalena Tonelli spoke, in fact, of the least of these, whose suffering she wished to alleviate, as ‘murdered Mozarts’: she wished to reach out to them and involve them, so that together they might enrich one another. She possessed a mother’s compassion – and her heart was with her abandoned brothers and sisters in their misery.
The same severity prevailed in religions, whose leaders instilled in the people a strong and vulgar nationalist horde mentality, and offered the followers mere consolation.
In the Kingdom of Jesus, however, there must be no ranks – which is why the plans of the ambitious and those who claim to be infallible do not align with His.
The Spirit of Christ identifies spontaneously not with the usual aggressive energy of wild beasts, of those who prevail because they are more cunning and stronger – but with the person who makes themselves available.
We are women and men characterised by hearts of flesh – not of beasts (Dan 7).
The Beatitudes – the new Decalogue of ‘the Mount’ – allude precisely to a sort of divine condition, incarnate and transmissible to anyone, as peaceful and creative as love, and therefore waiting to be discovered.
Blessed is the course and the outcome of the true and full development of the divine plan for humanity.
In the Gospels, this character is not hindered by those who frequent places of ill repute, but paradoxically by the regulars of sacred precincts.
According to Jesus, purity of heart is not linked to external legal purity – as was believed in all forms of devotion – but rather to a purified gaze and the absence of duplicity.
The growth and humanisation of the people are therefore not hindered by sinners, but precisely by those whose ministry is to make the Face of God known to all!
In short, the burden of preconceptions with which they approach reality and relationships prevents the established and entrenched authorities from recognising the Lord’s calls in the events of life and in Nature itself.
The same applies to the peacemakers.
They work towards the complete restoration of Life and Brotherhood, of naturalness itself and of equitable coexistence.
All this is done in a spirit of selflessness that transcends selfishness by recognising the ‘poor We’ that extends throughout the world.
Jesus’ self-portrait, as revealed in the Beatitudes of Matthew, embodies the image of a young boy – who, at that time, counted for nothing.
The Lord recognises himself precisely in a household servant; a shop assistant, who nevertheless possesses within himself a mysterious and delightful divine spark.
It is the only identification that Jesus loves and wishes to impart to us: that of the one who cannot afford not to recognise the needs of others.
A dimension of sacredness without distinctive halos: not cynical, but one we can share. Because it is linked to perception and instinctive reciprocity, to spontaneous friendship towards women and men – experienced in our likeness to the Father.
Obviously: this is not a proposal compromised by the usual inexorable rigmarole [doctrine and discipline] that stifles eccentricities; on the contrary, it is thoroughly likeable and endearing, inclusive.
The Blessed One’s condition is therefore what makes us Unique – not the sanctity regulated by procedures, which is always bent on abhorring and exorcising the danger of the unusual.
Precisely for this reason – on the contrary – an obsession with precedents has characterised the life of the Church for centuries; just as has the feudal and monarchical idol of stability for life.
The Master does not deny our right to do something great… but he does not equate it with possession, power or appearances.
On a path towards Beatitude and Divinisation, the Master does not stir up the impulses to hold on to, climb up or dominate: these do not bring Happiness.
Rather, he relies on our spontaneous freedom to give, to come down and to serve – a freedom entrusted first and foremost to the top of the class. Those who, throughout history, have become accustomed to lording it over others through moralising and cunning.
God does not deny the legitimate impulses of the self to be recognised. We do not participate in life as though we were destined for failure, but rather as those who have been promoted – who do not suppress their own needs.
But not in order to win ‘the race’. In this way, the Lord leads us to reflect on authentic fulfilment.
It is not an external achievement, but an intimate one, made our own. It is thus capable of shaping our deepest inclinations, in all their richness and over the course of a journey.
Aristotle asserted that – beyond artificial circular arguments or superficial proclamations – one truly loves only oneself. This is no trivial question.
Whether one accepts this or not, the growth, development and flourishing of our qualities take place within a wise Path.
A path that may even be interrupted, yet knows how to allow itself the right pace – including to encounter new states of being.
Genuine and mature love expands the boundaries of the ego that craves supremacy, visibility and self-interest. It integrates it with primordial, dormant energies to which we have not given space – understanding the ‘You’ within the ‘I’.
A journey and a force that ultimately expands our capacities and our lives. Otherwise, in every circumstance and, sadly, at any age, we shall remain trapped in the childish game of those who jostle on the steps to prevail.
As Pope Francis said regarding mafia-like phenomena: ‘We need men and women of Love, not of honour!’
The Tao Te Ching (XL) states: ‘Weakness is what the Tao employs.’ And Master Wang Pi comments: ‘The high has the low as its base; the noble has the base as its foundation.’
We feel fleeting and often disappointed, yet we want to be happy, not just here and there: we are uncertain, yet we seek full and lasting joy. It is obvious that we can find it only in a disconcerting proposition.
In ancient times, it was thought that one could encounter God in the intoxicating emotions generated by experiences of success, typical of successful men. But the persecuted and crucified Son challenges this outward appearance.
Other decisive encounters were considered to be those on the summits of evocative heights, or the devout and frenzied act of throwing oneself right into the sacred precincts that Jesus intended to dismantle, forcing the people to leave them [John 10:1–16, Greek text].
Luther interprets the Son of God on the Mount as ‘Mosissimus Moses’. However, Matthew speaks of ‘the Mount’ – not a platform – as the symbol and setting of an eternal Call, intended not only for members of the most well-equipped institutes of perfection who are able to ascend.
In concrete terms, these are the moments when we ourselves, incorporated into the human wholeness of Christ, feel the fullness of being: like the soul’s passage into her sacred centre, and a special harmony of ideas, words and actions between our nature and the divine.
‘The Mountain’ is the (theological) place where one casts aside the cunning, conformist thoughts, knowledge and calculations of the worldly plain. Where the premises of fleeting, superficial happiness [that which lasts a minute or an hour] are set aside.
Therefore, ‘Blessed are the poor “in Spirit” – that is, “by the Spirit”’ – says Jesus [v.3a, Greek text].
In the Christian community, it is important (precisely) to grow together.
The Lord takes pleasure in those who embrace this orientation, where his feelings become deeply our own – and what matters is not the minutiae, but the direction of our journey.
The specific details of a life of love are left to personal creativity and the diversity of people; sensibilities, cultures and situations.
What counts is the fundamental choice for the good and for communion, understood not as uniformity – but as the harmonious coexistence of differences.
This is not to hysterically despise wealth: it is a matter of sharing it, so that it may multiply, rather than hoarding it for oneself. Otherwise, everything becomes an insurmountable obstacle to life, and the preserve of the quickest.
Those who have freely divested themselves of the superfluous in order to share it do so ‘for the Spirit’, that is, for Love: by free choice, with passion and without distinction between those within their circle and those outside it.
Thus, the enriched person becomes a lord.
In turn, the wretched may not be poor ‘in Spirit’ if they are full of themselves, boastful, arrogant, and indifferent to others; if they lack an open heart, are averse to dialogue, and intent on improving their own condition through compromise and deceit – merely desiring to take the place of the rich only to then imitate their deceitful, subjugating and opportunistic ways.
The voluntary renunciation of the selfish and petty use of one’s material and intellectual resources sets us apart as children of God.
Fellow human beings; already here and now capable of experiencing the blessed life of Heaven: being with and for others, whilst remaining true to ourselves.
Indeed, the promise accompanying the first Beatitude (v.3a) does not guarantee entry into Paradise in the afterlife, in some distant future.
The exchange of gifts guarantees the experience of divine life itself, right here on earth.
In pagan religions, the state of Blessed Life was a jealously guarded and exclusive privilege of the deities, who reluctantly shared it; and, reassuringly, only after death. Yet only halfway.
In Christ and through the Way, despite our partial failures, or our possible limited abilities and natural frailties – indeed, precisely because of them – we discover a Father who is a friend of full, abundant Joy: immediate, energetic, boundless happiness. Which arises even from states of weakness.
The Father is not the God of religions that cloud and stifle life: he does not bless the greed of the few, which leaves the multitudes in need.
Did the last of the commandments require us to feel content and not covet what belongs to others?
The first of the Beatitudes proposes that we should desire that others too may have the same things and opportunities in life as we do.
The dynamics of falling in love, in all its forms, presuppose a vibrant Fullness that flows out in every direction – recognising the opposites within us and the legitimate desire for expressive fulfilment in our brothers and sisters.
To internalise and live out the message:
How do you overcome doubt by turning inwards? What do you proclaim through your life? Does it go beyond direct experience? Do you know of realities that manifest the Risen One? How do you point out paths brimming with hope? Or are you selective and remain silent?
They have passed on the Light
All the Saints, between religious sentiment and Faith
By embodying the spirit of the Beatitudes, we ask ourselves what the difference is between a common ‘religious sentiment’ and ‘living by Faith’.
In ancient devotions, the Saint is the composed, perfect and detached [yet predictable] man; and the opposite of a Saint is a ‘sinner’.
In the proposal for a life lived fully in the Lord, the ‘saint’ is a person of communicative understanding who lives for fellowship, creating it where it does not exist.
On the journey of the children of God, the saint is indeed the excellent person, but in the fullest sense of the word – complete and dynamic, multifaceted; even eccentric. Not in a one-sided, moralistic or sentimental sense.
In Latin, *perficere* means to bring to completion, to go all the way.
In this complete and integral sense, ‘perfect’ becomes an authentic, embodied value: a possible attribute of every person who is aware of their own vulnerability and does not despise it.
Women and men of faith cherish every opportunity or emotion that lays bare their state of nakedness [not guilt] in order to open up new paths and renew themselves.
From the perspective of life in the Spirit, the holy one [in Hebrew Qadosh, a divine attribute] is indeed the ‘detached’ person, but not in a partial or physical sense, rather in an ideal one.
It is not the person who, at a certain point in life, distances themselves from the human family to embark on a path of purification that would elevate them. Deluding themselves into thinking they are improving.
As the encyclical Fratelli Tutti emphasises: ‘A human being [...] does not fulfil themselves, does not develop, cannot find their own fulfilment [... and] does not come to recognise their own truth in depth unless through encounter with others’ (no. 87).
The authentic witness is not driven by contempt for existential chaos – nor is he eager to outsource the difficulties of managing his own freedom by handing it over to an alienating agency, with a detached mindset (which resolves the drama of personal choices).
In Christ, the human being is ‘set apart’ from the common mindset, insofar as they are true to themselves, to their own unquenchable Fire – to their passions, to their own irreplaceable uniqueness and Vocation.
And at the same time, ‘set apart’ from external competitive criteria: of possession, of power, of appearance. Self-destructive forces.
In their place, he concretely substitutes the brotherhood of giving, of serving and of humbling oneself [from the ‘persona’]. These are fruitful energies.
All for global communion, and in truth also with one’s own inner character – avoiding proselytising and seeking the limelight.
The true believer knows his redeemed limits; he sees the possibilities within imperfection... Thus, he replaces the assumptions of keeping things to oneself, of rising above others and dominating them, with a fundamental humanising triad: giving, the freedom to ‘come down’, and collaboration.
This is authentic Detachment, which does not shy away from one’s own or others’ inclinations, nor does it despise the complex nature of the human condition.
In this way, the ‘saint’ experiences the essential Beatitude of the persecuted (Mt 5:11–12; Lk 6:22–23) because they have the freedom to ‘lower themselves’ in order to be in harmony with their own essence, co-existing in their originality.
In terms of Faith, the Saint is therefore no longer physically ‘separated’, but rather ‘United’ with Christ – and cast out like Him, amongst the weak brothers and sisters.
In short, the Divine Plan is to form a Family of the small and the frail, not to carve out a group of ‘strong’ friends who are ‘better’ than others.
Only this vision of the Focolare spurs us on to set out.
Consequently, the opposite of a saint is not a ‘sinner’, but rather someone unfulfilled or incomplete.
Let us consider the reason for this once more (in terms of vocation and personal journeys).
Jesus was a friend of tax collectors and public sinners not because they were better than the ‘good’, but because, in matters of religion, the ‘righteous’ often lack spontaneity; making themselves impervious, closed off, and resistant to the action of the Spirit.
Surprisingly, the Lord himself repeatedly found that it was precisely those who were devoutly lacking who were inclined to question, take notice, rethink, and break away from habit – in order to forge new paths, even if proceeding by trial and error.
Unable to take refuge behind the cloak of social pretence, once they had become aware of their own situation (and over time) – compared with those who considered themselves ‘successful’ and friends of God – these ‘strangers’ became more truly human than the ‘flawless’ ones, and more willing to love.
Self-examination is fundamental from a biblical perspective.
At every turn, Scripture offers us a spirituality of the Exodus: a path of liberation from shackles, to be travelled on foot, step by step. It is a spirituality that values paths of seeking, exploration and self-discovery, as well as the newness of a God who does not repeat but creates.
The call that the Word addresses to us is to set out on a journey; this is the crux of the matter. And we have always been ‘those of the Way’ who do not pass by, nor turn our gaze away [cf. Lk 10:31–33; FT, 56ff].
In the classical pagan worldview, women and men are essentially ‘nature’; therefore, their existence in the world is conditioned [I recall that my professor of theological anthropology, Ignazio Sanna, even described it as ‘de-centred’], indeed determined by their birth (fortunate or otherwise).
According to the Bible, women and men are creatures, splendid and in themselves suited to their own mission, yet pilgrims and lacking.
God is the One who ‘calls’ them to become whole, restoring what is lacking.
To become the image and likeness of the Lord, we must develop the capacity to respond to a Vocation that makes us neither phenomena nor exceptional ‘perfect’ beings, but rather particular Witnesses.
Chosen by Name, just as we are; embracing our deepest being – even the unexpressed parts – to the point of recognising it in the ‘You’, and unfolding it in the ‘We’.
A person’s holiness is therefore intertwined with many of their states of dissatisfaction, of limitation, and even of partial failure – yet always whilst thinking and feeling reality.
For a New Covenant.
In the Old Testament, the believer came into contact with divine purity by frequenting sacred places, fulfilling prescriptions, reciting prayers, respecting times and spaces, avoiding embarrassing situations; and so on.
Our experience and conscience infallibly attest that strict observance is all too rare, or merely perfunctory: deep down, it often does not correspond to who we are – nor does it humanise us.
Sooner or later, it becomes a house of cards, all the more unstable the ‘higher’ it reaches. All it takes is one card placed clumsily, and the artificial structure collapses.
We realise our natural inability to meet such sterile requirements, (other people’s) blueprints and such lofty standards.
With Jesus, Perfection does not concern ‘thought’, nor the observance of an abstract Code of Conduct. Perfection refers to a quality of Exodus and Relationship.
In ancient contexts, the path of the children of God was cloaked in a mystical or ascetic proposal consisting of abstinence, fasting, retreats, a secluded life, and obsessive ritual observances… which in many situations formed the backbone of pre-Conciliar spirituality.
But in Scripture, the saints do not have halos, nor do they have wings.
They are not saints because they have performed incomparable and astonishing miracles of healing: rather, they are women and men embedded in the ordinary world and its most commonplace aspects.
They are familiar with the problems, weaknesses, joys and sorrows of daily life; the search for one’s own identity, character, or deepest calling.
And the apostolate; the family, the upbringing of children, work. Even the alluring power of evil.
In the First Testament, ‘Qadosh’ referred exclusively to an attribute of the Eternal One [the sole unchanging Person] – and His separateness from the tangled web of often confused earthly ambitions.
Despite our failings, however, in Christ we become capable of listening and perceiving; thus enabled to seize every opportunity to bear witness to the innate, vital, gratuitous nature of the divine and real initiative.
Ceaselessly, providential life presents itself and comes to meet us, opening up unthinkable passages that break through.
Its unprecedented paths of growth renew the whole of existence, which is interconnected and conformed.
This also causes us to marvel at our inner resources, previously unrecognised or unacknowledged and concealed, or unpredictably hidden behind dark sides.
That which is Distinguished is no longer pushed behind little clouds and confined within fortified enclosures.
Therefore, God’s adversary will not be transgression: rather, it becomes the lack of a spirit of communion, amidst differences.
The enemy of the history of Salvation is not religious incompleteness, but the gulf from the Beatitudes – and from the evolving spirit of the ‘wayfarer’ for whom ‘to journey’ is also [non-paradoxically] synonymous with ‘to err’.
God’s opposite is therefore not ‘sins’, but ‘Sin’ [in the singular, a theological term, not a moralistic one].
‘Sin’ is the inability to respond to a definitive Call, which acts as a catalyst to complete us, to regenerate us fully. This harmonises the opposing sides – in being ourselves and being-With.
It is here that Faith ‘saves’, right where we are – because it annihilates ‘the sin of the world’ (John 1:29), that is, low self-esteem and guilt; the humiliation of unbridgeable distances.
Indeed, Jesus does not prescribe doctrines, nor does he advocate fragmenting one’s own life into specific dogmas. Nor does he propose any religious ascent [in terms of progression] laced with effort.
Nowhere in the Gospels does Christ say to anyone, ‘Become holy’, but rather: with Him, like Him and in Him – united, to continually encounter one’s own innermost states.
Recognising them more fully, thanks also to the ‘You’ and the ‘We’.
The saint is the little one, not the hero who is all of one piece, uniform, predictable, and taken for granted.
A saint is one who, walking their own path in the wake of the Risen One, has learnt to ‘identify with the other, without regard to where [or] from where […] ultimately experiencing that others are their very own flesh’ (cf. FT 84).
