[1–2 November]

First Reading from the Book of Revelation (Rev 7:2–4, 9–14)

 1. Saint John recounts and describes a vision: ‘I, John, saw an angel ascending from the east, from where the sun rises, and afterwards I saw a vast multitude, which no one could count.’ Let us contemplate, together with the apostle, a mystical vision – in other words, a symbolic representation which should not, however, be interpreted literally. To understand the message the author intends to convey, we must look beyond the images he describes. John describes a great procession made up of two distinct groups. The first group consists of 144,000 people, whom he calls servants of God. This number is not to be understood literally, but symbolically, and these people bear the seal of the living God, which represents Baptism. They are therefore the baptised, that is, the Christians of that time who were being persecuted, to whom John addresses himself in the Book of Revelation, the final book of the Bible. The second group consists of an immense and innumerable multitude, coming from every nation, tribe, people and language, representing the whole of humanity. The number four, present symbolically in this list, refers to the created world, the cosmos and all human beings, perhaps also through the reference to the four cardinal points. But what is the meaning of these symbols?  The immense crowd is dressed in white robes, stands before the throne of God and the Lamb, and holds palm branches in their hands; all these elements have a specific meaning: the white robes signify purity and the wedding garment, a symbol of salvation; standing signifies the state of those who have been raised from the dead and have conquered death; and the palm branches are a symbol of victory; the throne of God and the Lamb depicts the divine presence before which the multitude of the saved gathers. All these symbols prove that these people have attained salvation, and the multitude itself proclaims this, affirming that salvation belongs to God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.

2. But what is the relationship between the baptised and the multitude of the saved? An important point is that the second multitude—that immense crowd drawn from all humanity—does not bear the seal of Baptism described for the first group. This raises a question: who contributed to the salvation of this multitude? According to the interpretation proposed by the text, a fundamental role is played precisely by the 144,000, that is, by John’s contemporary Christians. At the end of the first century, these Christians faced terrible persecution under Emperor Domitian (81–96 AD). Despite their suffering and difficulties, they were called to remain faithful to their faith and to continue bearing witness to the Gospel. Their perseverance was important not only for themselves, but also because it could bear fruit for others. The main message that John wishes to convey to persecuted Christians is a call not to lose faith and to persevere even in the most difficult situations, for the sufferings endured during persecution are not in vain: through their witness, Christians can contribute to the salvation of all humanity. 

3. Here the apostle speaks of the ‘great trial’, referring to the persecutions that Christians at that time were forced to endure. It is precisely in this trial that a profound meaning is found: fidelity to God, especially when it involves suffering, becomes a means through which other people are led to salvation. The vision, therefore, is not merely intended to reassure persecuted Christians, but also to show that their witness has universal value. The message is clear: through this image, the Book of Revelation teaches that when Christians remain faithful in the face of persecution, their witness bears fruit that extends far beyond their own community; and by persevering faithfully through trials and often cruel martyrdom, believers contribute to the salvation of all humanity. The vision thus conveys a message of hope: the harsher the trials, the more the Christian becomes an instrument of conversion and salvation for many. Note: the Roman army used to place a mark on the foreheads of recruits; in the same way, the baptised person becomes a soldier of the King of Heaven, and this protective seal was also known in the Old Testament (Ex 12:7; Ez 9:4). Furthermore, in the Book of Revelation, John sees the victory of the poor and the lowly as a revelation of God’s victory over the forces of evil.

Responsorial Psalm (23/24)  

1. We find ourselves in the Temple of Jerusalem. A great procession approaches and, upon reaching the gates of the Temple, two choirs begin to sing in turn, engaging in a dialogue: ‘Who shall ascend the mountain of the Lord? Who may stand in his holy place?’ The prophet Isaiah had already compared God, thrice Holy, to a consuming fire and asked this  question: ‘Who among us can stand before this consuming fire? Who can stand before these eternal flames?’ (Isaiah 33:14). The meaning is that humankind, on its own, would be unable to bear the sight of God and the splendour of his glory. The psalm expresses the joy and triumph of the chosen people, who are welcomed into God’s presence through no merit of their own. 

2. One of the great revelations to the people of Israel is that God is the Holy One, completely distinct from every other reality, yet at the same time draws near to humankind. Despite his holiness and greatness, God allows man to stand in his presence and to live in communion with him. This psalm is linked to the feast of All Saints because the saints are those who have ascended the Lord’s mountain and have been welcomed into his presence, and now join the angels in their song of praise. During Mass, Christians sing the Sanctus, uniting themselves spiritually with the multitude of angels and saints; and today, on the Feast of All Saints, the liturgy commemorates this immense multitude, which no one can count. 

3. The psalm then describes the answer to the initial question: namely, the person who may stand before God is ‘one who has innocent hands and a pure heart’ and does not put their trust in idols. The primary meaning of ‘purity’ does not concern moral behaviour, for the people know that they are accepted by God not because of their own merits, but because of His benevolence; and the fundamental requirement is to remain faithful to the one true God by rejecting idols. In the Bible, the word ‘pure’ can be compared to its meaning in chemistry: a substance is pure when it is not mixed with other substances. In the same way, a pure heart is a heart that turns solely to God. Purity of heart, therefore, means above all total fidelity to God, and the psalm teaches that a person may stand in His presence not because they are perfect or have accumulated merits, but because they strive to live in fidelity to the one true God.

Second Reading from the First Letter of Saint John (3:1–3)

1. ‘Beloved, see…’: with these words, Saint John invites us to contemplate, for learning to see is fundamental to our life of faith. The entire history of humanity can be seen as a journey through which humankind learns to see in the right way. Jesus said: ‘They have eyes to see, yet they do not see.’ This is the tragedy of humankind: having eyes yet failing to recognise the truth, failing to see God’s love for humanity. Here, Saint John invites us to learn to see with the eyes of faith. The theme of seeing runs throughout the Bible and always carries the same meaning: knowing how to see and opening our eyes means discovering the true face of God, who is love.

2. Conversely, our way of looking can be distorted and lead us to misinterpret reality. As happened in the Garden of Eden, where everything depended on the way Adam and Eve looked at and interpreted their surroundings. At the centre of the Garden of Eden stand the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. God allows man to eat the fruit of all the trees, including the tree of life, but forbids him to eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The serpent asks the woman a seemingly innocent question: ‘Is it true that God has told you not to eat the fruit of any tree in the garden?’ The mere act of listening to the serpent begins to alter her perspective. Eve, in fact, starts to regard the forbidden tree as central, rather than the tree of life. Her attention shifts from the goodness of the gifts received from God to what has been forbidden to her. This detail is important because it shows how, at times, simply listening to a deceitful voice is enough to begin seeing reality in the wrong light. The serpent continues to deceive Eve, promising her that, if she eats the fruit, she will not die, but will become like God, knowing good and evil. The woman then looks at the tree and sees that it is good to eat, a delight to the eyes and desirable for gaining wisdom. The narrative deliberately emphasises words relating to sight and perception. She takes the fruit, eats it and offers it to Adam, who in turn eats it. At that point, the text states that both their eyes are opened and they see their own nakedness. Not only have they not become like God, but they begin to experience their nakedness—that is, their fragility and fundamental poverty—as a source of pain.  The story thus shows that a deceived gaze can lead man away from the truth and cause him to lose sight of God’s goodness.  

3. What connection exists between the story of Adam and Eve and this Reading?  The story of Adam and Eve has always been regarded as a key to understanding humanity’s unhappiness and suffering. Mankind, having been deceived, comes to suspect God and regard him as someone who wishes to prevent them from being happy. St John, on the other hand, invites us to do the opposite: ‘Look!’, that is, learn to see and open your eyes. The message is that we must learn to recognise the true face of God and his love for us. When God sets a limit on humankind, he does not do so to prevent us from being happy; on the contrary, he desires the good of humankind. This is why it is important to learn to look at reality through the lens of faith, without allowing ourselves to be deceived by what leads us to doubt his love. By following the example of the saints we commemorate today, let us learn to look with the eyes of faith, so that we may recognise God’s love and his plan for humanity; let us open our eyes to recognise the true face of God. The message is clear: God does not wish to deprive us of good, but loves us and desires our good. To live our faith authentically, we must therefore learn to look beyond appearances and recognise God’s goodness and love in our lives.

From the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (5:1–12a)

1. “When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; he sat down, and his disciples came to him. He began to speak and teach them, saying…” . Jesus ascends the mountain like Moses on Sinai, but whilst Moses came down bearing stone tablets and a Law with prescriptive rules, Jesus ascends the mountain—that is, he takes his place with authority; he sits down, which is the gesture of the Master, of the Rabbi who teaches with authority—and opens his mouth not to command anything, but to proclaim the gospel of holiness: ‘Blessed are…’. He does not, therefore, lay down precepts; rather, he paints a portrait; he does not say ‘you must be like this’, but exhorts: ‘you are already blessed if…’. The Beatitudes are not, therefore, eight new commandments, more difficult than the previous ones. They are, in truth, eight names of Jesus, the portrait of his life and his mission, his identity card which we can recognise in the lives of those who wish to follow him without compromise. And today, in the liturgy that invites us to contemplate all the saints in the glory of Heaven, we recognise holiness in its myriad forms. The saints are not, in fact, supermen, but people in whom the Beatitudes have taken flesh in such a way that their lives become a concrete realisation of them. In the diversity of their charisms, they remind us that it is possible for everyone – absolutely everyone – to become a saint, because Jesus, ‘the Holy One par excellence’, shows us the example and assures us of his constant support. Through Baptism we are all saints; in other words, we belong to God by his free mercy, and life is given to us as a concrete opportunity to embody the divine will within ourselves.  And today, in the splendour of Heaven’s triumph, we recognise the myriad faces that holiness takes on in the stories of people with such diverse spiritual experiences. Whilst every day of the year the liturgical calendar presents us with ‘Blessed and Saints’ recognised and proclaimed as such by the Church, today we embrace a vast multitude of simple and humble people—faces and names that are part of everyday life— people who quietly embody the Gospel Beatitudes, in each of which an aspect of God’s holiness shines forth.

2. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” The poor in spirit are not those who have nothing, but those who know they are not self-sufficient. They are the opposite of the ‘artificial intelligence’ man, who must optimise everything and control everything. The poor person says: ‘Lord, I need You’, and God in Jesus, who ‘though He was rich, became poor’ (2 Cor 8:9), needs to become a beggar for love, and God’s holiness becomes small. How many men and women, whose names we do not know, have lived in simplicity and poverty like St Francis, now known to all; and blessed, then, are those who do not build their lives on image, reputation or success, but entrust themselves to the fatherly hands of God.  ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.’ Here God reveals himself as the Comforter. Weeping is not weakness; it is the truest form of prayer, for God is not the God who wipes away tears with a quick fix, but the One who weeps with us. Jesus weeps over Jerusalem; he weeps for Lazarus. The believer’s tears are the holiness of God, who shares in the wounds of every human body; and blessed are those who do not flee from pain through endless distractions, but dwell within it and offer it up.  “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” The meek are not the weak who never get angry, but those who have strength and do not use it to crush others. God is meek: “Learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart” (Mt 11:29).  Meekness will conquer the world, and blessed are those who, in their families, at work and on social media, do not expect to win all the time. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled.” Righteousness here is not legalism, but tzedekah – that is, the ardent desire for God to reign and for human beings to be respected. God hungers for justice and cannot bear the harm done to the poor; and blessed are those who are not content to say ‘that’s just how everyone is’, but who hunger for a more just world. ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.’ Mercy is the heart of God—or rather, rachamim, his maternal compassion. God, therefore, does not have an algorithm that calculates; He has a heart that is moved, and blessed is the one who forgives seventy times seven, who pours oil—not vinegar—onto the wounds of every person. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ Pure is not the one who has never sinned, but the one whose heart is undivided. Cor mundum: a simple heart without ulterior motives. God is pure, transparent; He is light without shadow, and the pure-hearted see because they have no filters of self-interest. Blessed, then, are those who are clear-hearted, without masks, and do not live for ‘likes’. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.” Note: it does not say ‘blessed are the peaceful’, those who are calm, but ‘the peacemakers’, the builders of peace. In Hebrew, shalom is not the absence of war; it is the fullness of life. God is a peacemaker because he has broken down the wall between heaven and earth and acts within every heart thirsting for true peace. Blessed are those who do not harbour resentment, those who work for reconciliation, those who switch off their mobile phones at home to foster dialogue and become apostles of listening even where it seems impossible.  “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” This is the final seal. God is the one who is persecuted: from the manger to the cross, he has always been opposed and rejected. True holiness is a thorn in the side, for it unmasks the truth; and blessed are those who remain faithful even when it costs them dearly, those who do not sell their conscience for the sake of convenience. Ultimately, every beatitude reiterates: do not lose heart, and listen to Jesus, who points out the concrete path to happiness that not even death can annul. The world proclaims: blessed are the rich, the powerful, those who never weep, the cunning, the heartless, the violent, the victors. Jesus points to the exact opposite, and history shows that he is right. For example, who today remembers or glorifies Herod, Pilate and other figures who, over the centuries, seemed all-powerful? The Gospel, on the other hand, continues to change hearts and to sow saints along the paths of history. The multitude of saints we celebrate today are, as Pope Francis said, ‘the saints next door’: Grandmothers, mothers who pray and often weep in silence, fathers who bear the burden of the family without complaint, young people who choose purity in a world that embraces every kind of perversion, children, young people and sick adults who offer everything to Jesus for the conversion of sinners, priests who continue to bear witness to the joy of the Gospel even when everything seems too arduous and even futile. Ultimately, a saint is someone who, in their heart—despite their frailties and sins—allows themselves to be loved by God and follows Him, seeking to face life’s obstacles with persevering courage. 

Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed  [2 November]

Today, every priest is permitted to celebrate three Holy Masses, and specific readings are provided for each one. I shall limit myself here simply to commenting on three readings and a responsorial psalm.

First Reading from the Book of Job (19:1–23–27) 

1. The sacred author reflects on the meaning of suffering, of faith and of God as liberator, taking as his starting point the biblical figure of Job, the symbol of every person who suffers. Job represents the people of Israel and, more generally, all human beings who face the problem of evil, suffering, pain and death. He is not necessarily a historical figure: rather, he is a symbolic figure in whom billions of people recognise themselves, including ourselves when we suffer. The biblical writer is courageous because he dares to cry out and rebel against suffering in all its forms, but despite the pain, Job remains a man of faith, and his faith is founded on the conviction that God is close to every person who suffers. This certainty has accompanied the people of Israel ever since Moses’ experience before the burning bush (Exodus chapter 3), and Job considers this faith so important that he wishes his words to be engraved forever in stone, with an iron and lead chisel, so that no one may erase them. In ancient times, in fact, lead was poured into the engraved letters to make them more legible. 

2. My Redeemer lives. The word ‘Redeemer’ actually means ‘liberator’ and derives from the Hebrew term Go’el, which refers to the next of kin, responsible for freeing a family member who has fallen into slavery because of debt. In ancient Israel, if a person was forced to sell themselves into slavery to pay off debts, the nearest relative had to intervene to redeem them, paying the creditor and restoring their freedom (Leviticus 25:47–49). Similarly, if someone was forced to sell their land, the relative had the right to buy it back in order to preserve the family heritage (Leviticus 25:25). Financial payment was necessary, but it was not the main purpose: the fundamental aim was to free the person from slavery. This institution expresses an important principle: every member of God’s people must be free. For this reason, no Israelite should accept that a member of their family should remain a slave, and the people of Israel apply this idea to God as well, recognising him as their closest kinsman and their liberator. They therefore call him Go’el. God has proved Himself to be the liberator of Israel on several occasions, beginning with the deliverance from slavery in Egypt. Even during the exile in Babylon, the prophet Isaiah upheld the people’s hope by promising their deliverance.

3. In this brief text, which recalls Isaiah’s promise, it is worth recalling a few fundamental concepts.  Job represents every person who suffers and questions the nature of evil, pain and death. Faith is trust in a God who is close to those who suffer, even in the most difficult moments. Job’s cry shows that believing does not mean not suffering or not protesting against pain. God the Deliverer shows that Israel recognises God as its Go’el, the one who frees from slavery and restores hope. Freedom is the central value of redemption; money is merely a means to achieve it. The central message is that biblical faith does not deny suffering, but affirms that God is close to those who suffer and acts as a liberator and, according to some manuscripts, even as the ‘avenger of blood’ (Numbers 35:19), offering hope and freedom.

Responsorial Psalm (62/63)

1. The expression ‘I rejoice in the shadow of your wings’ comes from a psalm that describes the intimacy between God and his people. To understand it, one must imagine the Temple in Jerusalem before its destruction in 587 BC by Nebuchadnezzar. In the holiest part of the Temple, the Holy of Holies (literally, ‘Holy of the holy things’), stood the Ark of the Covenant, a chest of precious wood overlaid with gold, which held the tablets of the Law. Above the Ark stood two large statues of cherubim. The cherubim were celestial figures originating from the Mesopotamian tradition, depicted with the body and paws of a lion, a human face and large wings. In Mesopotamia they were worshipped as deities, whilst in Israel they were regarded as mere creatures in the service of God. Their outstretched wings symbolically protected the Ark and were considered the footstool of the divine throne. The priest who prayed in the Temple, beneath those wings, thus felt enveloped by God’s tenderness and protection, from dawn until nightfall. The other images in the psalm also draw on the lives of the Levites, those entrusted with religious service in the Temple. The phrase ‘I have beheld you in the sanctuary’ recalls that only the Levites were permitted to enter the holy part of the Temple. The words ‘All my life I will bless you’ indicate that their existence was consecrated to the praise of God, whilst ‘hands raised in invocation of your name’ describes their posture during prayer. The image of being satisfied as at a banquet recalls the sacrifices followed by communal meals and the portion of the sacrificial meat set aside for the Levites’ sustenance. Finally, the remembrance of God during the night recalls the lives of those who served in the Temple and spent their time there.

2. In reality, the psalm is a metaphor: the Levite represents the whole people of Israel, who from the very beginning of their history until the end of time seek God and long to live in intimacy with him. When the psalm says ‘I seek you from the dawn’, it refers not only to the beginning of the day, but to the dawn of time—that is, to Israel’s search for God throughout its history. The words ‘My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you, like parched land, thirsty and without water’ profoundly express this longing. The image of the barren land awaiting rain to come back to life was particularly vivid for the people of Israel, who were accustomed to experiencing drought. In the same way, the soul needs God to regain life and hope. The central message is that Israel has thirsted for God from the very beginning of its history, and this thirst becomes even more intense because the people have already experienced his presence and closeness. The most authentic prayer springs precisely from an awareness of our spiritual poverty and our need for God, like the cry of a dehydrated person who pleads: ‘I am thirsty’.

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (8:14–23)

1. On the occasion of the commemoration of All Souls’ Day—that is, of those who have already returned to the Father—we are inevitably confronted with the mystery of death. The Church invites us to reflect on God’s great plan, which encompasses our entire lives, our deaths and those of all people. In his Letter to the Romans, Paul describes this plan as a birth: that of a new creation and a new humanity. This is why he states that the whole of creation groans and suffers as if in the pangs of childbirth. This image suggests that God’s plan is being realised gradually, like a birth that requires time and suffering. Creation, therefore, is not merely an event of the past, but a project that is constantly unfolding. The people of Israel lived in expectation of God’s promises; Paul, who shared this hope, came to understand that expectation in a new light after encountering the risen Jesus.

2. Everything depends on the resurrection of Christ: if Christ had not risen, our faith and our hope would collapse; if, however, he has risen, then the world has changed, because love and life have triumphed over hatred and death, and the Kingdom of God has already begun. Through the resurrection of Jesus, we have already entered the new world and can live as new people. In his first letter, John states that we are already children of God, even though what we will be has not yet been fully revealed. When Christ appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is (1 John 3:2–3). The hope of Christians is that Christ’s resurrection will reach all humanity and transform it, spreading like a contagion. Jesus himself said: ‘I have come to set the earth on fire, and how I wish it were already ablaze!’ (Luke 12:49).

Our mission is therefore to spread the fire of God’s love throughout the world, knowing that the Holy Spirit is always at our side. It is the Holy Spirit who continues to work in the world to draw it towards God. As Paul reminds us, we have already received the Holy Spirit, but we are still awaiting our full adoption as children of God and the redemption of our bodies. Ultimately, the central message of this text is that death is not the end of God’s plan. Thanks to Christ’s resurrection, we are called to live in the hope of a new creation and, whilst awaiting the full realisation of our lives as children of God, to bear witness to love and to spread the fire of the Holy Spirit throughout the world.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (25:31–46).

1. Yesterday we celebrated the multitude of the saved, praising God in the glory of the Trinity. Today we come to the cemetery and pause to pray for our dear departed who are journeying towards that same destination. The Church, as a wise mother, invites us to listen to the most demanding Gospel passage: the final judgement that awaits us at the end of life.  Jesus says: ‘When the Son of Man comes in his glory, with all his angels, he will sit on the throne of his glory. And all the nations will be gathered before him.’ This is a truth we sometimes forget: for everyone, with death, the day of judgement will come, and with judgement, eternal destiny—heaven or hell. This is not a judgement reserved for just a few, and there is no way out, for death comes to everyone and that day is known only to God. Foolish, therefore, is the person who lives as if they were never to die: they build houses, careers, bank balances, dreams up all manner of plans, without ever lifting their gaze towards heaven, and does not bother to prepare for the encounter with the One who will examine our lives on our final day, a day unknown to us.  Jesus, however, in his mercy, has already revealed to us the content and context of the examination that will mark that encounter. Who will be the judge? Not a cold-hearted official in a court of law, but the Son of Man, the King who reigned  from the manger in Bethlehem to the utter abandonment of Golgotha, He who has already paid the price for us by giving His life for our salvation; the Good Samaritan of the parable who became our neighbour. The judgement, therefore, will not be an act of vengeance, but a revelation of the truth that saves, knowing every hidden intention of ours. And He will carry out this judgement like the shepherd who separates the sheep from the goats. He does not separate the good from the bad by judging on the basis of how much they have prayed or fasted, or how many rosaries they have recited. He separates on the basis of a single criterion: whether they have loved in a concrete way by performing the works of mercy: “ ‘I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to see me.’ Not, therefore, a test of theology, but an examination of reality, a true test of love made flesh. ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you? ’ ‘When did we see you like that and fail to serve you?’ This judgement, in truth, begins right here and now, in every act of love towards our neighbour. Every time we visit an elderly person, feed the hungry, welcome a stranger, forgive, or comfort the despondent, we are already writing, of our own accord, the judgement we will deserve. 

2. Just as it is foolish to live without ever realising that one might die at any moment, so too is it foolish to live in anguish at the thought of death. This passage from the Gospel was not written to terrify us, but to encourage us. Let us not forget that the Judge is the very same Jesus who said: ‘I have not come to judge the world, but to save the world’; he is the very same who, on the cross, forgave the thief: ‘Today you will be with me in paradise’; he is the very same who promised: ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy’. For the Christian, therefore, death will not be an encounter with a foreign and severe king and judge, but an embrace with divine mercy. If, then, we seek to recognise the face of Christ in the poor and in the people we meet on the streets of this world, at that very moment that same face will reveal itself to us in the splendour of an eternal ‘face-to-face’ encounter. But there remains one truth we must not forget: judgement is serious and true; heaven exists for those who have believed in divine love, and hell will be for those who, in full freedom and awareness, have decided to say ‘no to love’ forever. 

3. At this point, a question arises: what do the dead tell us through their silence?  When we visit them in cemeteries, we bring flowers and light candles – gestures that are undoubtedly commendable expressions of remembrance and love. But they implore us for a greater gift: to pray for them, for they need our prayers, the Holy Mass and indulgences. At the same time, they remind us that we can honour their memory in a tangible way when we visit the sick, welcome a stranger, help those who ask for support and forgive those who offend us: they remind us that every work of corporal and spiritual mercy is the only way to prepare ourselves for the Last Judgement. Ultimately, they tell us: ‘We have made many mistakes, but we have tried to love, and you must do the same; do not waste time, love today, for today is “the favourable day”’ . Ultimately, they urge us to fill our lives with actions, choices and decisions consistent with our  faith; for when death knocks at our door, it will take love – and concrete love – to hear these words: ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the Kingdom prepared for you since the foundation of the world’.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed

On the occasion of the recent passing of my parents, to the torment of the illness and the loss of both (soon) was added the annoyance of an environment that continued to give me "condolences".

As for good manners, of course, but who has assimilated the language of the Faith does not mourn anyone, nor does he speak of "dead" but of Deceased ones. They live.

Not as survivors of the blows that life holds, but as ‘dilated’ ones; authentic, adorned - finally fully realized.

Women and men… ‘blossomed’ in everything, experiencing a new kind of being in their own essence; a different existence.

As if in an atmosphere of pure love, where like Jesus, one does not live for oneself, but as one with one another and for one another.

With no more pressing deadlines, nor any abandonment.

The term comes from the Latin verb «defungor» [infinitive «defungi»] which indicates the partial term of a story, not a total fulfillment.

Not a definitive border that would open on the nullifying and cavernous abyss of lost shadows or larvae without momentum, devoid of identity and future - after the transit in time.

The condolences [from the Latin «cum-dolēre»] turned willingly within a purely pagan mentality or linked to an archetypal sense of religiosity.

That kind of conviction led relatives and friends to grieve - a hopeless cry - which Jesus openly rebukes [Jn 11:33 Greek text; some translations are uncertain].

To believe that with death everything ends means to imagine that existence is a progressive decay into the void.

This conviction makes any path of growth, even spiritual, consider absurd. And it postulates the senselessness of getting involved, of committing oneself to the ideal of the lasting Good - for a Beautiful that continues beyond our earthly life and in favor of our neighbour.

“Condolences” therefore indicate in themselves that everything is over.

In the epigraph on the portal of a cemetery of a town not too far from me we read an inscription in large letters: «here over the centuries lay affections vanity hopes».

The cold of the end of all beautiful things, and the "ice" of the neoclassical revisited in early twentieth century style... perfectly matched on whitewashed travertine coating.

Hope, on the other hand, draws us in and lifts our spirits; it overcomes the outrage and gives meaning to our journey.

Already the believers of the first centuries had supplanted the pagan idea of the appointment of our sister death as «dies infaustus», replacing it in its opposite: «dies Natalis».

Day of true Birth, within the same Life now complete, healed.

Life, which precisely proceeds - beyond the temporal or locality parameters. 

Without the fatigue of existing that we experience. Immersed in the vastness of being.

Life without the struggles against oneself.

An existence that continues within the fulfilling, blessing Embrace of a Father who does not depersonalise but rather expands the unique character and qualities of his sons.

In this blossoming full of light and warmth we are as if we were refounded on the prototype-Project of the authentic Son.

Alliance Trait that we should and perhaps could have been.

Overwhelmed ones with blissful Happiness, for our shadow-part is now included; devoid of judgments and comments.

[Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed,  November 2]

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).

(Mt 25:31–46)

    The famous passage on the Judgement presents the Risen One who is to come (v. 31) as the ‘Son of Man’ – that is, the authentic and complete fulfilment of the divine plan for humanity: his kind of ‘verdict’ follows from this.

God embraces the limited nature of his creatures; therefore, the conduct that gives meaning to our lives does not concern religious attitude in itself, but rather the attitude we have shown towards our fellow human beings.

This is the Gospel message of the recent encyclical [October 2020] on fraternity and social friendship.

Aware of the situation, the Magisterium today acts as a spur against any insular, obvious and conformist spirituality; against any form of folklore-based, parochial mysticism… empty, inward-looking, still confined within the confines of bedside-table beliefs.

In all ancient beliefs, the soul of the deceased was weighed on a notarial scale and judged according to whether the balance was positive or negative.

According to the rabbis, divine mercy intervened in their favour only when good and bad deeds were in balance.

Jesus does not speak of a court that pronounces immutable negative judgements on the whole person, but of aspects of a complete existence which – being indestructible in themselves because they humanise – are saved and taken up, introduced into eternal life.

‘Life of the Eternal One’ (v. 46, Greek text) alludes to a kind of life that is not biological but relational and one of wholeness of being, which we can already experience.

These are moments when our divine DNA has come to the fore, the Gold that dwells within us: when we have been able to respond to the needs not of God, but of life itself and of our brothers and sisters.

These are the moments when we have been attentive listeners to nature, to the hope and vocation of all – sensitive to the needs of others.

Opportunities that have enabled us to bring the human condition closer to the heavenly one.

Comparing the ‘works’ declared to be a ‘paradigm’ with those listed in classical Judaism (Isaiah 58:6–7) and other religions – even ancient Egypt [Book of the Dead, chapter 125] – we note the difference in verse 36: ‘I was in prison and you came to me’ (cf. vv. 39, 43).

The difference is striking precisely in terms of divine justice: it transcends legal considerations, for it creates justice where none exists.

The Father bestows life in every instance, for He is not merely good as is believed in all devout persuasions, but exclusively good.

The ‘righteous’, moreover, did not even realise they had done anything out of the ordinary: they responded spontaneously to their innate and transparent nature as children (v. 39).

They felt sympathy for the ‘flesh’ in the reality in which it finds itself – and wherever it may be – regarding it as familiar. They loved with and as Jesus, in Him.

They did not love for Jesus’ sake – as if the other’s condition could be set aside, and secretly regarded as a nuisance upon which to construct a fiction, however sympathetic.

The other observant believers, on the other hand, wholly absorbed in the formalities of ritual, doctrine and discipline that are of no interest to God, are surprised that the Father is not entirely where they had imagined Him to be.

That is to say, respectable but empty and stagnant like themselves, bound by the judgements of ordinary justice: ‘When did we see you […] in prison and fail to serve you?’ (v. 44).

The calling to reach out to others leads us spontaneously to transcend divisions: legalistic ones, those based on retribution, or prejudices and forms of worship.

This is the pre-eminent, weighty Salvation – which lies in what is direct and genuine. Not so much in organised plans; nor does it have any substance based on opinions.

We fulfil ourselves by responding to the instinctive call that arises from our own essential, altruistic nature: even if it is minimal, overlooked, or eccentric, unsteady and not very fulfilling – not extraordinary.

Without overly external conditions, it is recognised as being scattered throughout the soul and in the beneficent, divinising fullness of the ‘Son of Man’.

Jesus’ ultimate teaching: a distinguished, comprehensive and wholly human judgement. 

Not a complacent or contrived response, based on mere concepts and accounts.

Jesus’ identification with the least of these remains unique: ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did for me’ (v. 40).

Conversely: ‘you did not do it for me either’ (v. 45).

His Person holds central significance, with no distinction between friends and opponents, between the devout and the unfaithful.

Commitment to Christ is not judged on the basis of works that are detached from the humanising Core.

Fine deeds that may be performed even without a spirit of benevolence [out of duty and custom, or even for prestige and self-interest] – but rather on the basis of love.

God is under no obligation to reward merit.

Good works may be displayed or performed even against the Father: as if to tie His hands.

A misrepresentation typical of religions that promise rewards to the devout.

A misunderstanding alien to the experience of Faith, whose only certainty lies in the risk of exploration, in growth, in the quality of relationships – precisely, those that humanise.

Life and death are clearly distinct [‘right and left’: proverbially, fortune and misfortune] according to the characteristics of authentic piety towards God himself… because his honour is reflected in the uplifting of women and men, as they are in their concrete circumstances.

The sole non-negotiable principle is service to the good of every person. 

Works of love are an expression of true communion with Christ – thus freed from intellectual and artificial constraints: from every kind of limitation or judgement that conditions their value.

In short, we must not do things that are calculated, extraordinary or mechanical, but let God act – whilst respecting and valuing our neighbour for who they are.

Even outside the visible sphere of the apostles’ kingdom (or of a doctrine or discipline), there is an authentic ‘Christianity’: the civilisation of the children.

In short, there is no predestination to the condemnation of those who are distant, errant or imperfect, except for a lack of brotherhood that recovers the impossible – even ‘against the law’.

The authentic kingship of Christ and his own.

In Palestine, in the evening the shepherds used to separate the sheep from the goats, which needed shelter from the cold.

To emphasise its importance, the issue raised by the evangelist draws on the vivid imagery of rabbinic preaching.

The problem is not a question of who is saved and who is not.

The question is rather: on what occasions are we happy to be outdoors even at ‘night’, and do we act in a more human way – and on what occasions do we behave in a more beast-like, closed-off manner, yet without becoming… lambs?

In Christ, the victory over selfishness loses its meaning as the annihilation of possibilities for individual growth – which is not achieved through stubbornness.

Its power is anything but stagnant and divisive. It does not conceal the abilities we cannot see, or what we do not know.

Opposing situations are the glorious moments of one and the same victory. This is evident in the continuation of the passage, which proclaims the other extreme of love: ‘the Son of Man is to be handed over to be crucified’ (Mt 26:2).

Therefore, Matthew’s aim is not to describe the end of the world, but to provide guidance on how to live wisely [today] in order to build a Family and not be captivated by the immediate glitter of false jewellery – however well presented.

The Gospel’s call emphasises the contrast with a frivolous spirituality: the only appropriate distinction.

The man of God does not indulge in career ambitions—not even ecclesiastical ones—nor in every whim.

The Tao Te Ching (iii) suggests, addressing even the wise ruler: ‘Do not exalt the most capable; ensure that the people do not quarrel; do not value goods that are hard to obtain; ensure that the people do not become thieves; do not acquire what may be coveted; ensure that the hearts of the people are not troubled’.

Master Wang Pi comments: ‘When the most capable are exalted, their names are glorified; the glory extends beyond their office, and they are constantly at loggerheads, comparing their abilities. When goods are valued beyond their utility, the greedy rush upon them, fighting amongst themselves; they breach walls, break open chests, and become thieves at the risk of their lives’.

And Master Ho-shang Kung adds, regarding ‘those whom the world deems excellent’: ‘With their specious eloquence, they adapt to circumstances whilst straying from the Tao; they cling to form whilst rejecting substance.’

The Lord’s Call reaffirms the qualitative aspects of the Person in relationship: He illustrates how it is worth staking one’s life.

This is so that all may experience the fullness of being – which is not the result of opportunism.

Nor is it a matter of belonging: any distinction between those ‘called’ within the visible Church and those distant from it is set aside.

The powerful imagery of this Gospel passage serves to make us reflect, open our eyes, broaden our horizons, and impress upon our conscience just how much is worth staking: everything, when it comes to the choices we must make.

The authentic love that moves heaven and earth is that which manages to make even the wicked do what is right – through a free Gift, devoid of conditions and forms of self-love. Even free from sacred judgements.

The Tao (xxxiii) intuits: ‘Who does these things? Heaven and Earth [...] Whoever gives themselves to the Tao becomes one with the Tao’.

What is genuine arises and flourishes in a selfless and spontaneous way, without any effort or contrived purpose.

Here, man is a different, far richer Being – steadfast in himself, yet expanding into the divine and human ‘You’, even in its most destitute form.

‘In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus identifies not only with the shepherd-king, but also with the lost sheep. We might speak of a “dual identity”: the shepherd-king, Jesus, also identifies with the sheep, that is, with the least and most needy of his brothers and sisters. And in this way he points to the criterion of judgement: it will be based on the concrete love given or withheld from these people […] Therefore, at the end of the world, the Lord will review his flock, and he will do so not only from the shepherd’s perspective, but also from that of the sheep, with whom he has identified himself. And he will ask us: ‘Have you been a shepherd a little like me?’ […] And let us return home with just this one phrase: ‘I was there. Thank you!’ or: ‘You have forgotten me’.”

(Pope Francis)

What gives value to every moment

(John 6:35–40)

    Jesus’ words highlight the clear distinction between ordinary food and the Bread that does not perish.

This distinction is drawn from Deuteronomy 8:3 – in reference to the Manna, the Word of the Lord (wisdom-filled food that liberates and imparts life).

Wisdom 16:20–21, 26 acknowledges that the manna of the desert was food prepared by angels, but what truly sustains life is the Word.

Those heavenly fruits, whilst delicious and capable of satisfying every palate, do not satisfy – they do not nourish completely.

The symbolic language used by Christ also draws on cultural paradigms that identified manna with wisdom.

He thus reveals himself in this way in the discourse on the Bread of Life.

Coming to the Lord is not within our power. Fulfilling the works of the Law, perhaps yes – with effort – but carrying out the Work of God is not unnatural.

It does not depend on a thought, a choice or a disciplinary practice.

In short, the Subject of the journey in the Spirit is God Himself, who works within us. 

Human action is, in every instance, a response to His self-revelation and to His own action [cosmic and within the soul of each person; whether convergent or not].

The Coming from on high is crucial: it gives rise to the relationship of Faith. A personal relationship, which is not mere assent and fulfilment, but rather interpretation and vision.

Forward movement and the discovery of resurrection – in particular, of the shadowed aspects that become resources.

Thus Faith-love expands life, for it draws its impetus from divine generosity, from Grace.

In this way, it becomes a decision, a calling, a responsibility; an inescapable and decisive duty – yet, despite this, a personal one.

Christ is Food that must be eaten, broken down, through Faith.

This evocation becomes Eucharistic, the realisation of the ‘Life of the Eternal One’ (v. 40, Greek text), even if it differs from refined forms; here and now.

As he dies, without any delay, Jesus commends his Spirit (John 19:30), which suddenly gives rise to the sacramental experience (John 19:34).

The Life of the Eternal One is not a pious hope in the hereafter: the term denotes the very inner life of God, which unfolds and bursts into history [sometimes rather abruptly] in a multifaceted way.

Energy, Nourishment, New Clarity: it reaches out to women and men who see and believe in the Son.

It is a Faith-Vision that discerns meaning and enables direct appropriation: it soars over insurmountable obstacles.

A Faith-Gesture that gushes forth; a Faith-Action that becomes a leaven of expansion, for it has already stirred up insight, a holistic awareness, and an intimate assent.

It sharpens and expands the transformative resources of souls and of events themselves.

It bestows, in the first person, comprehensive generative abilities – both external and internal, indestructible; which lose nothing [no longer doomed to death: v.39].

The obtuse gaze surrounding the first communities already sealed the Mystery.

But contrary to the First Testament (Ex 33:22–23), through Faith one now sees God and lives, without fear (Ex 3:6).

Whoever ‘sees’ the Son ‘has’ the very Life of the Eternal One (v. 40).

The Vision of Faith, the Vision of the Son, the Vision of the glorious outcome of the One who was rejected by the religious authorities and deemed accursed by God, makes one become One with Him.

It is a present Resurrection, even amidst the fleeting and burdensome experience of a life scattered in many directions.

The image deemed impossible and untenable gives way to a process of interpretation, action and reorganisation that draws in the future.

It gives way to the wholeness of God’s humanising and distinct world.

This shift in perspective breaks through the web of appearances and of banal convictions, whether inherited or fashionable.

In short: grasping this becomes the driving force of salvation, a foundation that transcends the pre-human.

Perceiving it becomes an Encounter; in its own, enduring dimension. The principle of blessed eternity.

By the end of the first century, the churches sensed the risk of collapse.

The gradual divergence from pagan religion in general, and Judaising devotion in particular, led to a wide-ranging debate with implications for customs, internal affairs, and even liturgy.

The battle against Pharisaic purism sparked controversies of every kind, including whether or not to segregate foreigners.

Differences of opinion arose even regarding the very canon of Scripture (which, for Christians, had long been in Hellenistic Greek).

According to believers in Jesus, the Source of full and indestructible life [‘Life of the Eternal One’: v.40 Greek text] is not material bread.

Even here on earth, the all-encompassing Nourishment lies in no trivial certainty.

Rather, one must ‘see the Son’ (v. 40).

This means recognising in the Master a story that does not end in failure, for despite the leaders’ rejection, the outcome of his—and our—story is the divine state. Indestructible glory.

And ‘Believing in Him’ (v.40) does not depend on cultural background or a shared social standing, but on a unique process of understanding.

To see and to have Faith is to entrust oneself to the luminous [it seems absurd] Vision that is communicated in the innermost fibres of our being and from the very first ‘Birth’. Certain of full harmony and fulfilment in that pre-eminent Figure.

We do not adhere out of enthusiasm or personal initiative [the ‘Church of events’, as Pope Francis puts it].

The life of the Eternal One within us begins in the eye of the soul; an echo of the primordial Dream.

It takes root in grasping the Father’s path. He desires for His least ones a fullness of character and disposition, free from conformism.

Only through the Gift in which we recognise ourselves from our very roots and in our very essence do we sense joyful harmonies that identify the desires, words, actions and path of the Risen One himself, who beats within us.

The Person of Christ is the only Food without standardisation.

Nourished by the Bread-Person, we can avoid both the search for false certainties and the craving for crutches—such as connections, financial backers, or prestigious institutions that guarantee privileges; and so on.

Preferring the Broken Bread.

The food of the earth sustains physical life, but it cannot bring us back to life through unique personal genesis, nor can it open a path for us beyond death.

This gives value to every moment.

To internalise and live out the message:

What does it mean for you to see the Son and believe in Him?

Do not project onto God the image of a master-servant relationship

The multiplication of the loaves and fishes is a sign of the great gift that the Father has given to humanity, which is Jesus Himself!

He, the true ‘bread of life’ (v. 35), wishes to satisfy not only bodies but also souls, by giving the spiritual food that can satisfy the deepest hunger. For this reason, he invites the crowd to seek not food that does not last, but that which endures for eternal life (cf. v. 27). This is the food that Jesus gives us every day: his Word, his Body, his Blood. The crowd hears the Lord’s invitation, but does not understand its meaning – as so often happens to us too – and asks him: ‘What must we do to carry out the works of God?’ (v. 28). Jesus’ listeners think that he is asking them to observe the commandments in order to obtain further miracles such as the multiplication of the loaves. This is a common temptation: to reduce religion solely to the observance of laws, projecting onto our relationship with God the image of the relationship between servants and their master: servants must carry out the tasks assigned by their master in order to gain his favour. We all know this. That is why the crowd wants to know from Jesus what actions they must perform to please God. But Jesus gives an unexpected answer: ‘This is the work of God: that you believe in the one whom he has sent’ (v. 29). These words are addressed to us today as well: the work of God does not consist so much in ‘doing’ things, but in ‘believing’ in the One whom He has sent. This means that faith in Jesus enables us to carry out the works of God. If we allow ourselves to be drawn into this relationship of love and trust with Jesus, we will be able to carry out good works that reflect the Gospel, for the good and the needs of our brothers and sisters.

The Lord invites us not to forget that, whilst it is necessary to concern ourselves with bread, it is even more important to nurture our relationship with Him, to strengthen our faith in Him who is the ‘bread of life’, who came to satisfy our hunger for truth, our hunger for justice, and our hunger for love.

(Pope Francis, Angelus, 5 August 2018)

12. I think that in this very precise and permanently valid way, Augustine is describing man's essential situation, the situation that gives rise to all his contradictions and hopes. In some way we want life itself, true life, untouched even by death; yet at the same time we do not know the thing towards which we feel driven. We cannot stop reaching out for it, and yet we know that all we can experience or accomplish is not what we yearn for. This unknown “thing” is the true “hope” which drives us, and at the same time the fact that it is unknown is the cause of all forms of despair and also of all efforts, whether positive or destructive, directed towards worldly authenticity and human authenticity. The term “eternal life” is intended to give a name to this known “unknown”. Inevitably it is an inadequate term that creates confusion. “Eternal”, in fact, suggests to us the idea of something interminable, and this frightens us; “life” makes us think of the life that we know and love and do not want to lose, even though very often it brings more toil than satisfaction, so that while on the one hand we desire it, on the other hand we do not want it. To imagine ourselves outside the temporality that imprisons us and in some way to sense that eternity is not an unending succession of days in the calendar, but something more like the supreme moment of satisfaction, in which totality embraces us and we embrace totality—this we can only attempt. It would be like plunging into the ocean of infinite love, a moment in which time—the before and after—no longer exists. We can only attempt to grasp the idea that such a moment is life in the full sense, a plunging ever anew into the vastness of being, in which we are simply overwhelmed with joy. This is how Jesus expresses it in Saint John's Gospel: “I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you” (16:22). We must think along these lines if we want to understand the object of Christian hope, to understand what it is that our faith, our being with Christ, leads us to expect.

[Pope Benedict, Spe salvi]

Dear Brothers and Sisters, 

1. After having celebrated yesterday the Solemnity of All Saints, today, 2 November, our prayerful gaze is directed toward those who have departed from this world and are awaiting arrival into the Heavenly City. The Church has always strongly advised that we pray for the dead. She invites believers to regard the mystery of death not as the "last word" of human destiny but rather as a passage to eternal life. As we read in the Preface of today's Mass:  "When the body of our earthly dwelling lies in death we gain an everlasting dwelling place in heaven". 

2. It is an important obligation to pray for the dead, because even if they have died in grace and in God's friendship, they may still need final purification in order to enter the joy of Heaven (cf. Catechism of the Catholic Church, n. 1030). Prayer for the dead is expressed in various ways, one of which is also visiting the cemeteries. Pausing in these sacred places becomes an ideal occasion to reflect on the meaning of earthly life and at the same time to nourish hope in the blessed eternity of Paradise. 

May Mary, Gate of Heaven, help us never to forget and never to lose sight of the Heavenly Homeland, the final destination of our pilgrimage here on earth.

[Pope John Paul II, Angelus 2 November 2003]

Job, defeated, or rather, at the end of his life due to illness, with his skin stripped away, nearly at the point of death, almost without flesh, Job has a certitude and he states it: “I know that my Redeemer lives, and at last he will stand upon the earth” (Jb 19:25). At the moment in which Job is at his very lowest, there is that embrace of light and warmth that reassures him: I will see the Redeemer. I will see him with these eyes. “I shall see God, whom I shall see on my side, and my eyes shall behold, and not another” (19:26-27).

This certainty, precisely at nearly the final moment of life, is Christian hope. It is a hope that is a dream: we cannot have it. It is a gift we must ask for: ‘Lord, give me hope’. There are many bad things that lead us to despair, to believe that all will be a definitive loss, that after death there will be nothing... And Job’s voice returns; it returns: “I know that my Redeemer lives, and at last he will stand upon the earth... I shall see God, whom I shall see on my side”, with these eyes.

“Hope does not disappoint” (Rom 5:5), Paul told us. Hope draws us and gives meaning to our life. I do not see the afterlife, but hope is God’s gift that draws us toward life, toward eternal joy. Hope is an anchor that we have from the other side, and we, grasping the rope, sustain ourselves (cf. Heb 6:18-19). ‘I know that my Redeemer lives, and I shall see him’. And repeat this in times of joy and in bad times, in times of death, let us say this.

This certitude is a gift of God, because we can never have hope by our own efforts. We must ask for it. Hope is a freely given gift that we never deserve: it is given; it is offered. It is grace.

And then, the Lord confirms this, this hope that does not disappoint. “All that the Father gives me will come to me” (Jn 6:37). This is the aim of hope: to go to Jesus. And “him who comes to me I will not cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me” (Jn 6:37-38). The Lord who welcomes us there, where the anchor lies. Life in hope is to live like this: grasping, with the rope in hand, strong, knowing that the anchor is below. And this anchor does not disappoint; it does not disappoint.

Today, in the thoughts of many brothers and sisters who have passed on, it will do us good to look at the cemeteries and to look heavenward. And to repeat, like Job: ‘I know that my Redeemer lives, and I myself will see him. My eyes shall behold him, and not another’. And this is the strength that hope gives us, this freely given gift that is the virtue of hope. May the Lord give it to all of us.

[Pope Francis, homily 2 November 2020]