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

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

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

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

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

*Responsorial Psalm (129/130) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+Giovanni D’Ercole

The Lord of Life (or the pale sign)

(Jn 11:1-45)

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

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

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

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

Ultimate World does not interfere with the natural course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then: «Untie him and let him go!».

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lord of Life (or the pale sign)

(John 11:1–45)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And let us stop weeping for the ‘dead’!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therefore: “Unbind him and let him go!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Pope Francis, Angelus, 29 March 2020]

To reflect on and live out the message:

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

On Bethany [continuation of the passage on Lazarus]:

Jesus Comes to the Feast, but in Secret

(John 11:45–56)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Brothers and Sisters, 

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

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

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

[Pope Benedict, Angelus, 9 March 2008]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And love opposes death and desires life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For love desires life and opposes death.

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

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

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

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

The Gospel passage for this fifth Sunday of Lent is the resurrection of Lazarus (cf. Jn 11:1-45). Lazarus was Martha and Mary’s brother; they were good friends of Jesus. When Jesus arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has already been dead for four days. Martha runs towards the Master and says to Him: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died!” (v. 21). Jesus replies to her: “Your brother will rise again” (v. 23) and adds: “I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live” (v. 25). Jesus makes himself seen as the Lord of life, he who is capable of giving life even to the dead. Then Mary and other people arrive, in tears, and so Jesus — the Gospel says — “was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.... Jesus wept” (vv. 33, 35). With this turmoil in his heart, he goes to the tomb, thanks the Father who always listens to him, has the tomb opened and cries aloud: “Lazarus, come out!” (v. 43). And Lazarus emerges with “his hands and feet bound with bandages and his face wrapped with a cloth” (v. 44).

Here we can experience first hand that God is life and gives life, yet takes on the tragedy of death. Jesus could have avoided the death of his friend Lazarus, but he wanted to share in our suffering for the death of people dear to us, and above all, he wished to demonstrate God’s dominion over death. In this Gospel passage we see that the faith of man and the omnipotence of God, of God’s love, seek each other and finally meet. It is like a two lane street: the faith of man and the omnipotence of God’s love seek each other and finally meet. We see this in the cry of Martha and Mary, and of all of us with them: “If you had been here!”. And God’s answer is not a speech, no, God’s answer to the problem of death is Jesus: “I am the resurrection and the life” ... have faith. Amid grief, continue to have faith, even when it seems that death has won. Take away the stone from your heart! Let the Word of God restore life where there is death.

Today, too, Jesus repeats to us: “Take away the stone”. God did not create us for the tomb, but rather he created us for life, [which is] beautiful, good, joyful. But “through the devil’s envy death entered the world” (Wis 2:24) says the Book of Wisdom, and Jesus Christ came to free us from its bonds.

We are thus called to take away the stones of all that suggests death: for example, the hypocrisy with which faith is lived, is death; the destructive criticism of others, is death; insults, slander, are death; the marginalization of the poor, is death. The Lord asks us to remove these stones from our hearts, and life will then flourish again around us. Christ lives, and those who welcome him and follow him come into contact with life. Without Christ, or outside of Christ, not only is life not present, but one falls back into death.

The resurrection of Lazarus is also a sign of the regeneration that occurs in the believer through Baptism, with full integration within the Paschal Mystery of Christ. Through the action and power of the Holy Spirit, the Christian is a person who journeys in life as a new creature: a creature for life, who goes towards life.

May the Virgin Mary help us to be compassionate like her son Jesus, who made our suffering his own. May each of us be close to those who are in difficulty, becoming for them a reflection of God’s love and tenderness, which frees us from death and makes life victorious.

[Pope Francis, Angelus, 29 March 2020]

(Jn 7:40-53)

In the Gospel passage, the religious authorities judge everyone with contempt.

Anyone who has always imagined himself as master will not be willing to make himself a disciple of a subversive Revelation.

While the élite marginalizes Christ, even the gendarmerie commanded to perpetuate and oversee the world’s security is amazed by the power of the new Word-Person.

The Lord replaces the Torah (vv.37-38). And whoever comes into contact with the new Temple is guided by the intimate ‘root’ that he has in his womb: and he wants to recognize it, inside.

He himself becomes a bubbling Sanctuary, which begins to think and act in conscience - starting from its core [suffocated perhaps, but indestructible].

A lesson in thinking ‘from below’, given to "superiors". Example that re-evaluates the theological judgment of the impious plebs (v.49).

And it is curious that the disobedience saving Christ [present in his faithful] originates from the lack of minute knowledge of the Law.

There is a great confusion of opinions regarding Jesus among the people.

For the groups that have established the tyranny of norms, its unforeseen origin - non-mysterious nor overwhelming - is difficult to intend - unacceptable for calibrated thinking.

Some believe him to be the “son of David”, others a Prophet; a deceiver or a good man (v.12) or someone who has ‘no education’ (v.15).

The point is that He does not come to impose the outdated discipline again, nor to patch up its customs.

Not even to purify the Temple, renewing its propitiatory practice.

Christ supplants it with the «now» of Reality that reveals an inconceivable God’s Face, which is grasped and expanded even from within each of us.

It is by no means the quiet reconfirmation of the usual things.

Tradition [written and oral] boasts deep-rooted arguments, but its fame causes confusion and hard confrontation between opposing supporters.

There is never anything Exceptional in all of this.

But in the depths of each one dwells a ‘naturalness that teaches’, even to the masters of the paradigm.

Spontaneity will not lead us to the weak defense of Jesus made by Nicodemus (vv.51-53) who relies on another obvious law to save the situation.

When you stop wanting to be just addicted - comes the amazement, the God’s vertigo; different interests.

The Christ-icon of Jn 7 wants to develop in us the image and innate talent of the spirit’ teacher who simply draws from the personal experience of the Father, of himself, of the reality.

We should not expect true answers come from someone outside, rated more experienced - to whom instead have (we) to teach the New that comes to save us.

The Vocation by Name is entrusted to the unknown Rabbi who already lives in us - and wants to emerge, expressing the divine unconscious already present.

The indispensable Gold, without induced mental burdens: only in conscience and character.

[Saturday 4th wk. in Lent, March 21, 2026]

(Jn 7:40-53)

In the Gospel passage the religious authorities judge everyone with contempt.

Those who have always imagined themselves masters will not be willing to become disciples of a subversive Revelation.

Unthinkable novelty, and not dated, that dares to crumble pedestals and legalisms.

As the elite dump Christ, even the gendarmerie commanded to perpetuate and guard the security of the ancient world is stunned by the power of the new Word-Person.

The Lord replaces the Torah:

"Now on the last day, the great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink, he who believes in me. As the Scripture has said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water" (vv.37-38).

He who comes into contact with the new Temple is guided by the intimate root in his womb, and wants to recognise it in himself.

To give life, to promote it; to love, to rejoice in life itself.

He himself becomes a bubbling sanctuary, which begins to think and act in consciousness - from his own (perhaps suffocated, but indestructible) kernel.

A lesson in thinking from below, given to 'superiors'.

An example that re-evaluates the theological judgement of the ungodly plebs (v.49).

And it is curious that the disobedience that saves Christ from seizure in his faithful originates from a lack of minute knowledge of the Law.

There is great confusion of opinion about Jesus among the people.

For the sects that have established the tyranny of norms, his unforeseen, non-mystical or overwhelming origin - unacceptable to mundane thinking - makes it difficult.

Some consider him a son of David, others a Prophet; a deceiver or a good man (v.12) or someone who has no studies (v.15).

The point is that He does not come to impose the old discipline again, nor to patch up the customs.

Not even to purify the Temple, renewing its propitiatory practice.

Christ supplants it with the now of reality that reveals an inconceivable Face of God, which is grasped and expanded even from within each one of us.

It is by no means the quiet reconfirmation of the usual things.

Tradition (written and oral) boasts deep-rooted arguments, but its reputation causes confusion and harsh confrontation between opposing supporters, [even today] fashionable or not.

Nothing exceptional is ever found in all this.

It is fundamental to realise that we no longer need principals.

The discriminating factor is the Person, in the uniqueness of his Vocation; not the point of view corresponding to a greatness or a mania.

It is in the unexpected Son that the present and the future come - not in a code of ideas that can summarise the cues of "success" and embellish the already past.

Says the Tao Tê Ching (ii): 'The saint implements the unspoken teaching'. Master Wang Pi comments: 'Spontaneity is enough for him. If he rules, he corrupts'.

Within each person dwells a naturalness that teaches, even to masters of the law.

Spontaneity will not lead us to the feeble defence of Jesus made by Nicodemus (vv.51-53), who, in order to save the day, relies on another law, which is obvious after all.

When one stops wanting to be merely dependent - as one who is 'called' to stop the new that is appearing - comes the astonishment, the dizziness of God; different interests.

The Christ-icon of John 7 wants to develop in us the image and innate talent of the teacher of the spirit who simply draws from personal experience of the Father, of himself and of reality.

We should not expect answers to always come from someone outside, assessed as more experienced - instead it is we who must teach the new one who comes to save us.

The Calling by Name is entrusted to the unknown Rabbi who already inhabits us - and wants to surface, expressing the unconscious divine already present.

The indispensable Gold, without induced mental burdens: only in consciousness and character.

To internalise and live the message:

Do I feel able to receive the message of Life, or am I still jammed in the mechanism of the homologues who turn their eyes and ears away?

Do I remain sensitive to the call of the Lord even in the details of a life without glory or under investigation?

Words and Nature, codes that will not pass away

The Sources of Hope

(Lk 21:29-33)

The Sadducees thought that their exaggerated prosperity was the most expressive sign of the Messianic times.

The Essenes believed that the Kingdom of God [of which they wished to be a foretaste] could only be manifested when the chosen people had completely cleansed themselves of all obscurity and sacred market.

The Pharisees believed that the Messiah would be established when everyone had returned to the sacred traditions, written and oral.

Even among the early Christians, there was a variety of opinions on the matter.

Fortunately (then as now) some considered the Risen One already fully Present, never departed.

His living Spirit is manifested within each believer and in our midst - especially perceptible where there is a struggle for justice, emancipation, the fullness of life for all.

Luke ends his Apocalyptic Discourse with recommendations on the attention and penetrating gaze to be paid to the 'sign of the times'.

And - rooted in the Word of God that becomes an event and directs to the future, Hope ushers in a new phase of history.

Its depth surpasses all current possibilities, which on the contrary oscillate restlessly between signs of catastrophe.

(In old Europe, after several decades of an accommodating and soporific spiritual trend, we experience this by direct observation).

"When they have already sprouted, behold, by yourselves you know that summer is already near" (Lk 21:31).

Jesus reassures the disciples about their fears of the end of the world, and commands them not to look at coded messages, but at Nature.

Only in this way will they be able to read and interpret events.

Wise discernment, which serves not to close us off in the immediate present.

In fact, due to upheavals, a hasty evaluation could lead us to fear reversals, blocking growth and witness.

The world and things walk towards a Spring, and first and foremost in this sense we have a sentinel role.

On the ruins of a collapsing century, the Father makes clear what is happening - and continues to build what we hope [not according to immediate tastes].

Here and there we can catch its wisps, like the shoots on the 'fig tree'.

It is a tree that alludes to the fruit of love that God expects from his people, called to be tender and sweet: signs of the new season - that of healthy relationships.

In this way, the spirit of dedication manifested by the sons will be a prefiguration of the coming advent of a completely different empire - capable of replacing all others of a competitive nature in the consciousness.

The fig tree is precisely the image of the ideal people of blessings; Israel of the exodus to freedom, and a trace of the Father [in the reflective sobriety and sharing of the desert].

It remains for a long time bare and skeletal; suddenly its buds sprout, open up and in a few days it is clothed with luxuriant leaves.

Such will be the transition from chaos to the sensitive and fraternal order produced by the proclamation and assimilation of the Word: thought not equal; divine step into history.

Through suggestions that belong to the processes of nature, we are introduced to the discernment of the Mystery - expressed in the torrent of transformations.

Its riches are contained in the codes of the Word and in concrete ordinary events. Caskets of invisible realities, which do not pass away.

Such richness will even (and especially) develop out of confusion and collapse, as if by intrinsic strength and essence, day by day.

Not out of abstract exemplariness, but out of the fullness of life rediscovering its roots - rediscovering them in error and in the small.

A paradoxical seed of hope, and omen of better conditions.

For without imperfection and limitation there is no growth or blossoming, no neighbouring kingdom (vv.30-31) which always "makes contact with wounds" [Fratelli Tutti n.261].

The Tao Tê Ching (LII) says: "The world had a beginning, which was the mother of the world; whoever has come to the mother, from the mother knows the son; whoever knows the son and returns to preserve the mother, until death runs no danger [...] Enlightenment is to see the small; strength is to stick to softness [...] This is called practising the eternal".

The Word of God and the rhythms of Nature are codes that pass time. Authentic, created, given, and revealed.

Sources of discernment, of the penetrating gaze, of the signs of the times, of free thought, of the Hope that does not settle.

To internalise and live the message:

What have you learnt by contemplating nature? A different Wisdom? 

Why do you consider it so far removed from the usual doctrine and its dirigiste or cerebral codes, which over time prove to be shoddy?

The world becomes a book. Art of vigilance

One of the characteristic attitudes of the Church after the Council is that of a special attention over human reality, considered historically; that is, over the facts, events, phenomena of our time. A word of the Council has entered our habits: that of scrutinising 'the signs of the times'. Here is an expression, which has a distant evangelical reminiscence: "Do you not know how to discern - Jesus once asked his hostile and malicious listeners - the signs of the times?" (Matth. 16:4). At that time the Lord was alluding to the wonders He was performing, which were to indicate the coming of the Messianic hour. But the expression has today, along the same lines, if you like, a new meaning of great importance: in fact, Pope John XXIII took it up again in the Apostolic Constitution, with which he called the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council, when, after observing the sad spiritual conditions of the contemporary world, he wanted to revive the hope of the Church, writing: "We like to place a firm trust in the divine Saviour ... who exhorts us to recognise the signs of the times", so that "we see amidst obscure darkness numerous signs, which seem to announce better times for the Church and for mankind" (A.A.S. 1962, p. 6). The signs of the times are, in this sense, portents of better times.

JOHN XXIII AND THE COUNCIL

The expression passed into the conciliar documents (especially in the Pastoral Constitution Gaudium et Spes, n. 4; we glimpse it in the admirable page of n. 10: then in n. 11; so in nos. 42, 44; so in the Decree on the Activity of the Laity, n. 14; in the Constitution on the Holy Liturgy, n. 43; etc.). This locution "the signs of the times" has therefore acquired a current use and a profound, very broad and very interesting meaning; namely that of the theological interpretation of contemporary history. That history, considered in its broad outlines, has offered Christian thought the opportunity, indeed the invitation, to discover a divine plan in it, has always been well known: what is 'sacred history' if not the identification of a divine thought, of a transcendent 'economy', in the unfolding of the events that lead to Christ, and from Christ they derive? But this discovery is posthumous; it is a synthesis, sometimes questionable in its formulations, that the scholar makes when the events are already complete, and can be considered in an overall perspective, and sometimes placed deductively in an ideological framework derived from other doctrinal sources, rather than from the inductive analysis of the events themselves. Now, instead, modern thought is offered the invitation to decipher in historical reality, in the present especially, the "signs", i.e. the indications of a meaning beyond that recorded by the passive observer.

This presence of the 'sign' in the realities perceived by our immediate knowledge deserves lengthy reflection. In the religious field, the "sign" holds a very important place: the divine realm is not ordinarily accessible to our knowledge by direct, experimental, intuitive means, but by way of signs (thus knowledge of God is possible for us through introspection of things, which take on the value of a sign [cf. Rom. 1:20]; thus the supernatural order is communicated to us by the sacraments, which are sensible signs of an invisible reality, etc.); human language, too, comes to us through conventional phonetic or scriptural signs, by which thought is transmitted; and so on. In the entire created universe we can find signs of an order, of a thought, of a truth, which can act as a metaphysical bridge (i.e. beyond the framework of physical reality) to the ineffable, yet surreal world of the 'unknown God' (cf. Act. 17, 23 ff.; Rom. 8, 22; Lumen gentium, no. 16). In the perspective that we are now considering, it is a question of identifying "in the times", that is, in the course of events, in history, those aspects, those "signs" that can give us some news of an immanent Providence (a thought that is usual for religious spirits); or there may be clues (and this is what interests us now) of some relationship with the "kingdom of God", with its secret action, or - even better for our study and our duty - with the possibility, with the availability, with the need for apostolic action. These clues seem to us to be precisely 'the signs of the times'.

THE WORLD BECOMES A BOOK

Hence a series of important and interesting conclusions. The world becomes a book for us. Our life today is very much engaged in the continuous viewing of the external world. The media are so overgrown, so aggressive, that they engage us, distract us, take us away from ourselves, empty us of our personal consciousness. Here: let us be careful. We can move from the position of mere observers to that of critics, of thinkers, of judges. This attitude of reflected knowledge is of the utmost importance for the modern soul, if it wants to remain a living soul, and not a mere screen of the thousand impressions to which it is subject. And for us Christians, this reflexive act is necessary, if we want to discover "the signs of the times"; because as the Council teaches (Gaudium et spes, no. 4), the interpretation of "the times", that is, of the empirical and historical reality, which surrounds and impresses us, must be done "in the light of the Gospel". The discovery of the "signs of the times" is a fact of the Christian conscience; it results from a confrontation of faith with life; not to artificially and superficially superimpose a pious thought on the cases of our experience, but rather to see where these cases postulate, due to their intrinsic dynamism, their very obscurity, and sometimes their very immorality, a ray of faith, an evangelical word, that classifies them, that redeems them; that is to say, the discovery of the "signs of the times" takes place in order to point out to us where they come of themselves to meet higher designs, which we know to be Christian and divine (such as the search for unity, peace, justice), and where a possible action of our charity or apostolate comes to match a maturing of favourable circumstances, indicating that the hour has come for a simultaneous progress of the kingdom of God in the human kingdom.

THE METHOD TO BE FOLLOWED

This method seems indispensable to us in order to avoid certain dangers, to which the attractive search for the "signs of the times" could expose us. First danger, that of a charismatic prophetism, often degenerating into bigoted fantasy, which gives fortuitous and often insignificant coincidences miraculous interpretations. The greed to easily discover "the signs of the times" can make us forget the often possible ambiguity of the evaluation of the facts observed; and this all the more so if we must recognise to the "People of God", that is, to every believer, an eventual capacity to discern "the signs of God's presence or design" (Gaudium et spes, no. 11): "the sensus fidei" can confer this gift of wise discernment, but the assistance of the hierarchical magisterium will always be providential and decisive, when the ambiguity of interpretation deserves to be resolved either in the certainty of the truth, or in the utility of the common good.

The second danger would be constituted by the purely phenomenal observation of the facts from which one wishes to extract the indication of the 'signs of the times'; and this is what can happen when these facts are detected and classified in purely technical and sociological schemes. That sociology is a science of great merit in itself and for the purpose that interests us here, that is, for the search for a superior and indicative meaning of the facts themselves, we gladly admit. But sociology cannot be a moral criterion in its own right, nor can it replace theology. This new scientific humanism could mortify the authenticity and originality of our Christianity and its supernatural values.

THE ART OF CHRISTIAN VIGILANCE

Another danger could arise from considering the historical aspect of this problem as prevalent. It is true that the study here is concerned with history, it is concerned with time, and it seeks to derive from it signs proper to the religious field, which for us is all gathered in the central event of the historical presence of Christ in time and in the world, from which the Gospel, the Church and its mission of salvation derive. In other words, the immutable element of revealed truth should not be subject to the mutability of the times, in which it spreads and sometimes makes its appearance with "signs" that do not alter it, but allow it to be glimpsed and realised in pilgrim humanity (cf. CHENU, Les signes des temps, in Nouv. Revue Théol. 1-1-65, pp. 29-39). But all this only calls us to attention, to the study of the "signs of the times", which must make our Christian judgement and our apostolate shrewd and modern in the midst of the torrent of transformations in the contemporary world. It is the ancient, ever living word of the Lord that resounds to our spirits: "Watch out" (Luc. 21:36). May Christian vigilance be the art for us in discerning the "signs of the times".

[Pope Paul VI, General Audience 16 April 1969].

Word and diversity

All human things, all things that we can invent, create, are finite. Even all human religious experiences are finite, they show one aspect of reality, because our being is finite and always understands only a part, some elements: "latum praeceptum tuum nimis". Only God is infinite. And therefore his Word is also universal and knows no boundaries. By entering therefore into the Word of God, we truly enter the divine universe. We leave the narrowness of our experiences and enter into reality, which is truly universal. By entering into communion with the Word of God, we enter into the communion of the Church that lives the Word of God. We do not enter into a small group, into the rule of a small group, but we step out of our limitations. We step out into the wide, into the true breadth of the one truth, the great truth of God. We are truly in the universal. And so we go out into the communion of all brothers and sisters, of all humanity, because in our heart is hidden the desire for the Word of God that is one. Therefore, evangelisation, the proclamation of the Gospel, the mission are not a kind of ecclesial colonialism, with which we want to include others in our group. It is getting out of the limits of individual cultures into the universality that connects all, unites all, makes us all brothers. Let us pray again that the Lord will help us to truly enter into the 'breadth' of his Word and thus open ourselves to the universal horizon of humanity, that which unites us with all diversity.

[Pope Benedict, Meditation to the 12th General Assembly of the Synod, 6 October 2008].

The people thought that Jesus was a prophet. This was not wrong, but it does not suffice; it is inadequate. In fact, it was a matter of delving deep, of recognizing the uniqueness of the person of Jesus of Nazareth and his newness.

This is how it still is today: many people draw near to Jesus, as it were, from the outside. Great scholars recognize his spiritual and moral stature and his influence on human history, comparing him to Buddha, Confucius, Socrates and other wise and important historical figures.

Yet they do not manage to recognize him in his uniqueness. What Jesus said to Philip at the Last Supper springs to mind: "Have I been with you so long, and yet you do not know me, Philip?" (Jn 14: 9).

Jesus is often also considered as one of the great founders of a religion from which everyone may take something in order to form his or her own conviction. Today too, "people" have different opinions about Jesus, just as they did then. And as he did then, Jesus also repeats his question to us, his disciples today: "And who do you say that I am?".

Let us make Peter's answer our own. According to the Gospel of Mark he said: "You are the Christ" (8: 29); in Luke, the affirmation is: "The Christ of God" (Lk 9: 20); in Matthew resounds, "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God" (16: 16); finally, in John: "You are the Holy One of God". These are all correct answers which are also right for us.

[Pope Benedict, homily 29 June 2007]

But that victory opened, for John Paul II, another front, no less important and no less heartfelt, in which indeed he lavished enormous energy and which he made the subject of constant pastoral and doctrinal reminders. It is the fear, for him rather an awareness, that after the end of communism, a combination of democracy and cultural relativism, the fruit of a consumerist and materialist society, could be born in the countries of successful capitalism. In John Paul II's largely prophetic analysis, this alliance would produce a tragic loss of identity due to secularisation and the disappearance of the religious dimension from the conscience of individuals and the collective behaviour of civil societies.

In his most committed social encyclical, the Centesimus Annus of 1 May 1991, it is very clear that the mixture of freedom without truth appeared explosive and fatal to Pope Wojtyla. From this awareness arose or sharpened in him a tenacious mistrust of modernity, its pressure, its demands, its secularist mechanisms and automatisms. And this diffidence strengthened in him the decisive rejection of the compromises that modernity requires or imposes on the believer, especially on that believer who had thought of accepting the logic of modernity, as the Second Vatican Council and, after the Council, many of those clergy and believers who demanded a more democratic, more liberal Church, more in tune with the times.

But being in tune with modern times was not a siren call for John Paul II. To the danger of relativism he opposed Christianity as a strong thought, truth as an antidote to scepticism, faith as a defence against nihilism, as shown by two documents that not a little divided consciences and not a little brought the Pope the accusation of dogmatism or conservatism or pre-conciliar restoration. One is the encyclical Redemptoris missio of 7 December 1990, which speaks of "Jesus Christ the only saviour", the other is the Declaration Dominus Iesus of 6 August 2000, which declares "contrary to the faith of the Church the thesis regarding the limited, incomplete and imperfect character of the revelation of Jesus Christ".

Also from the fear of the alliance between democracy and relativism came Pope Wojtyla's intransigent positions on two fundamental issues.

The first issue is that of identity, in particular European identity, which John Paul II never stopped tracing back to its Christian roots and for whose recognition, even formal, within the new constitution of Europe he fought without retreat. In the face of the Europe of markets and rights, he claimed the Europe of values and spirit, that of the apostles Peter and Paul, and of the saints and martyrs Cyril and Methodius, who carried out the same work of Christianisation in the East of the continent that the former brought to the West. It was the Europe of the 'two lungs', the Europe spiritually unified and not just politically enlarged.

The second issue is that of the recognition of the dignity of the person in any manifestation and phase of existence, from which sprang his firm and unhesitating condemnation of every form of disrespect for man, from abortion to euthanasia, from contraception to artificial insemination, from genetic experimentation to embryo research. John Paul II, the same one who had asked 'pardon' for the Church's errors in the Galileo case, but who had never embraced the scientist principle of the complete autonomy of scientific research, rejected the idea and practice of the limitlessness of the boundaries of bioethics, which instead must stop where it clashes with respect for human life and dignity. The battle against cultural relativism also marks a moment of tension or rethinking in the work of John Paul II. He had been the initiator of the inter-religious dialogue project, the aim of which was to unite the three great monotheistic religions under the common banner of spirituality in order to enhance their points of contact and strengthen their mission. But this very dialogue, by its very logic, risked running the risk of cultural relativism.

The problem is well known and terribly intricate. Dialogue assumes that the truth of one can be exchanged or corrected for the truth of the other. Therefore, dialogue rejects absoluteness and admits reciprocity of positions. But, then, if dialogue is practised, how can Christ be said to be the only truth and therefore the absolute truth? And conversely, if Christ is the only truth, on what basis, beyond that of personal respect for the interlocutors, is dialogue possible?

Right in the midst of rampant relativism, John Paul II was faced with this distressing dilemma. He could not reject interreligious dialogue, which was part of his conception and action, and he could not run the risk that this dialogue would shake the foundations of the Christian faith.

The fight against cultural relativism marked another tension in the work of John Paul II, especially in recent years, when global changes have accelerated dramatically and the evil of a new totalitarianism, that of Islamic fundamentalism responsible for 9/11, has again loomed in history. In the face of this tragic event and its consequences, Pope Wojtyla chose the strong position of taking sides on the front of peace and also pacifism, against war and resolutely against the hypothesis of a clash of civilisations. This was also a tension, because to affirm the good and bring peace it is sometimes necessary to fight against evil, as John Paul II knew first hand, he son of a martyred land, a constant victim of aggression and oppression, the last of which were the Nazis and the Communists.

I have spoken of tensions, others have said of contradictions and taken critical, even harshly critical positions in the face of what seemed to be the 'closures' of John Paul II. But for those who understand the meaning of faith, criticism is definitely out of place. Contradiction is the spirit of the Gospel, it is the essence of Christianity, which is in the world in order to give the world a meaning that is outside the world, which lives the historical condition in order to redeem it, not to accommodate or lie down in it. The theological and pastoral problems provoked by these tensions, always essential and never avoidable, will be the heritage and the challenge of whoever succeeds John Paul II. With history back in motion, evil returning, and a new demand for religious identity pressing in, he will need firm and clear vision, firmness and gentleness, tenacity and openness. Those same qualities to which Pope Wojtyla was a tireless witness during his 27 years of pontificate.

[Pope John Paul II, Address to the Senate 5 April 2005; website commentary]