FIRST MEDITATION

With increasing insistence one hears in our time about the death of God. For the first time, in Jean Paul, it is only a nightmarish dream: the dead Jesus announces to the dead, from the roof of the world, that on his journey into the afterlife he has found nothing, neither heaven nor merciful God, but only infinite nothingness, the silence of the gaping void. It is still a horrible dream that is put aside, groaning in awakening, like a dream, even though one will never be able to erase the anguish suffered, which was always lurking, gloomy, in the depths of the soul. A century later, in Nietzsche, it is a deadly seriousness that expresses itself in a shrill cry of terror: 'God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him!" Fifty years later, it is spoken of with academic detachment and preparations are made for a 'theology after the death of God', we look around to see how we can continue, and we encourage people to prepare to take God's place. The terrible mystery of Holy Saturday, its abyss of silence, has thus acquired an overwhelming reality in our time. For this is Holy Saturday: the day of God's concealment, the day of that unprecedented paradox that we express in the Creed with the words 'descended into hell', descended into the mystery of death. On Good Friday we could still look upon the pierced. Holy Saturday is empty, the heavy stone of the new tomb covers the deceased, all is past, faith seems to be definitively unmasked as fanaticism. No God saved this Jesus posing as his Son. One can be reassured: the cautious who had previously been a little hesitant in their hearts as to whether perhaps it might be different, were instead right.

Holy Saturday: day of God's burial; is not this in a striking way our day? Does not our century begin to be one big Holy Saturday, the day of God's absence, in which even the disciples have a chilling emptiness in their hearts that grows wider and wider, and therefore prepare themselves full of shame and anguish to return home and set off gloomy and broken in their despair towards Emmaus, not realising at all that he who was believed dead is in their midst?

God is dead and we have killed him: did we really realise that this phrase is taken almost literally by Christian tradition and that we often repeated something similar in our viae crucis without realising the tremendous gravity of what we were saying? We have killed him, enclosing him in the stale shell of habitual thoughts, exiling him in a form of piety without the content of reality and lost in the round of catchphrases or archaeological preciosities; we have killed him through the ambiguity of our lives, which has spread a veil of darkness over him as well: for what could have made God more problematic in this world if not the problematic nature of his believers' faith and love?

The divine darkness of this day, of this century that is increasingly becoming a Holy Saturday, speaks to our conscience. We too have to deal with it. But in spite of everything it has something consoling about it. The death of God in Jesus Christ is at the same time an expression of his radical solidarity with us. The darkest mystery of faith is at the same time the clearest sign of a hope that has no boundaries. And one more thing: only through the failure of Good Friday, only through the silence of death on Holy Saturday, could the disciples be brought to an understanding of what Jesus really was and what his message really meant. God had to die for them so that he could truly live in them. The image they had formed of God, in which they had tried to force him, had to be destroyed so that through the rubble of the ruined house they could see heaven, he himself, who always remains the infinitely greater. We need God's silence in order to experience anew the abyss of his greatness and the abyss of our nothingness that would open up if he were not there.

There is a scene in the Gospel that anticipates in an extraordinary way the silence of Holy Saturday and thus appears once again as the portrait of our historical moment. Christ sleeps in a boat that, battered by the storm, is about to sink. The prophet Elijah had once mocked the priests of Baal, who in vain cried out for their god to let fire descend on the sacrifice, urging them to cry out louder, just in case their god was asleep. But is God not really asleep? Does not the prophet's mockery ultimately also touch the believers of the God of Israel who travel with him in a sinking boat? God is sleeping while his things are about to sink, is this not the experience of our life? Does not the Church, the faith, resemble a small boat about to sink, struggling futilely against the waves and the wind, while God is absent? The disciples cry out in extreme despair and shake the Lord to wake him up, but he is astonished and rebukes their little faith. Is it any different for us? When the storm has passed, we will realise how much our little faith was laden with foolishness. And yet, O Lord, we cannot help but shake you, God who is silent and asleep, and cry out to you: wake up, do you not see that we are sinking? Awaken us, do not let the darkness of Holy Saturday last for ever, let a ray of Easter fall on our days too, accompany us as we set out in despair towards Emmaus so that our hearts may light up at your nearness. Thou who hast led in hidden ways the ways of Israel to be at last a man with men, do not leave us in the dark, do not let thy word be lost in the great waste of words of these times. Lord, give us your help, for without you we will sink.

Amen.

SECOND MEDITATION

God's hiding in this world constitutes the true mystery of Holy Saturday, a mystery already hinted at in the enigmatic words that Jesus "descended into hell". At the same time, the experience of our time has offered us a completely new approach to Holy Saturday, for the concealment of God in the world that belongs to him and that should with a thousand tongues proclaim his name, the experience of the powerlessness of God who is nevertheless the Almighty - this is the experience and misery of our time.

But even if Holy Saturday in this way has come closer to us, even if we understand the God of Holy Saturday more than the powerful manifestation of God amid thunder and lightning, of which the Old Testament speaks, the question of knowing what is really meant when it is said mysteriously that Jesus "descended into hell" remains unsolved. Let us say it with all clarity: no one can really explain it. Nor does it become any clearer by saying that here hell is a mistranslation of the Hebrew word shêol, which simply means the whole realm of the dead, and thus the formula would originally only mean that Jesus descended into the depths of death, really died and participated in the abyss of our destiny of death. For the question then arises: what really is death and what actually happens when we descend into the depths of death? We must pay attention here to the fact that death is no longer the same thing after Christ has undergone it, after he has accepted and penetrated it, just as life, the human being, are no longer the same thing after in Christ human nature was able to come into contact, and indeed did come into contact, with God's own being. Before, death was only death, separation from the land of the living and, albeit with different depths, something like 'hell', the nocturnal side of existence, impenetrable darkness. Now, however, death is also life, and when we cross the glacial solitude of death's threshold, we always meet again with the One who is life, who wanted to become the companion of our ultimate solitude and who, in the mortal loneliness of his anguish in the Garden of Olives and his cry on the cross "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?", became a sharer in our solitudes.

If a child were to venture alone into the dark night through a forest, he would be afraid even if he were shown hundreds of times that there is no danger. He is not afraid of something definite, to which a name can be given, but in the darkness he experiences insecurity, the orphan condition, the sinister character of existence itself. Only a human voice could console him; only the hand of a loved one could drive away the anguish like a bad dream. There is an anguish - the real anguish, lurking in the depths of our loneliness - that cannot be overcome through reason, but only through the presence of a person who loves us. For this anguish has no object to which we can give a name, but is only the terrible expression of our ultimate loneliness. Who has not felt the frightening sensation of this condition of abandonment? Who would not feel the holy and consoling miracle that a word of affection arouses in these circumstances? Where, however, there is such loneliness that can no longer be reached by the transforming word of love, then we speak of hell. And we know that not a few men of our time, apparently so optimistic, are of the opinion that every encounter remains on the surface, that no man has access to the ultimate and true depth of the other and that therefore in the ultimate depth of every existence lies despair, indeed hell. Jean-Paul Sartre expressed this poetically in one of his dramas and at the same time expounded the core of his doctrine on man. One thing is certain: there is a night in whose dark abandonment no word of comfort penetrates, a door that we must pass through in absolute solitude: the door of death. All the anguish of this world is ultimately the anguish caused by this loneliness. That is why in the Old Testament the term for the realm of the dead was identical to the term for hell: shêol. Death in fact is absolute solitude. But that solitude that can no longer be illuminated by love, that is so deep that love can no longer access it, is hell.

"Descended into hell": this Holy Saturday confession means that Christ has passed through the door of solitude, that he has descended into the unreachable and insuperable depths of our condition of loneliness. This means, however, that even in the extreme night in which no words penetrate, in which we are all like children cast out, weeping, there is a voice that calls to us, a hand that takes us and leads us. Man's insuperable loneliness was overcome from the moment he found himself in it. Hell has been conquered from the moment that love has also entered the region of death and the no-man's-land of solitude has been inhabited by him. In its depths man does not live by bread, but in the authenticity of his being he lives by the fact that he is loved and allowed to love. From the moment when the presence of love is given in the space of death, then life penetrates death: to your faithful, O Lord, life is not taken away, but transformed - the Church prays in the funeral liturgy.

No one can ultimately measure the extent of these words: 'descended into hell'. But if we are once given to approach the hour of our ultimate solitude, we will be allowed to understand something of the great clarity of this dark mystery. In the certain hope that in that hour of extreme loneliness we will not be alone, we can already now presage something of what is to come. And in the midst of our protest against the darkness of God's death we begin to become grateful for the light that comes to us from this very darkness.

THIRD MEDITATION

In the Roman breviary, the liturgy of the sacred triduum is structured with special care; the Church in its prayer wants, so to speak, to transfer us into the reality of the Lord's passion and, beyond words, into the spiritual centre of what happened. If one were to attempt to mark the prayerful liturgy of Holy Saturday in a few lines, then one would have to speak above all of the effect of profound peace that transpires from it. Christ has penetrated into concealment (Verborgenheit), but at the same time, in the very heart of impenetrable darkness, he has penetrated into security (Geborgenheit), indeed he has become the ultimate security. By now the psalmist's bold word has become true: and even if I wanted to hide in hell, you are there too. And the more one goes through this liturgy, the more one sees shining in it, like a morning dawn, the first lights of Easter. If Good Friday places before our eyes the disfigured figure of the pierced man, the liturgy of Holy Saturday draws rather on the image of the cross dear to the ancient Church: the cross surrounded by rays of light, a sign, in the same way, of death and resurrection.

Holy Saturday thus reminds us of an aspect of Christian piety that has perhaps been lost in the course of time. When we look at the cross in prayer, we often see in it only a sign of the Lord's historical passion on Golgotha. The origin of the devotion to the cross, however, is different: Christians prayed to the East to express their hope that Christ, the true sun, would rise over history, to express therefore their faith in the return of the Lord. The cross is at first closely linked with this orientation of prayer, it is represented as a banner, so to speak, that the king will raise in his coming; in the image of the cross, the advanced point of the procession has already arrived in the midst of those who pray. For early Christianity, the cross is thus above all a sign of hope. It implies not so much a reference to the Lord past, as to the Lord who is to come. Certainly it was impossible to escape the intrinsic necessity that, with the passage of time, our gaze should also turn to the event that took place: against every flight into the spiritual, against every misrecognition of the incarnation of God, it was necessary to defend the unimaginable prodigality of God's love who, out of love for the wretched human creature, became a man himself, and what a man! It was necessary to defend the holy foolishness of God's love, who chose not to utter a word of power, but to tread the path of powerlessness in order to pillory our dream of power and overcome it from within.

But then have we not forgotten a little too much about the connection between cross and hope, the unity between the East and the direction of the cross, between past and future that exists in Christianity? The spirit of hope that hovers over the prayers of Holy Saturday should once again penetrate our entire being as Christians. Christianity is not only a religion of the past, but, to no lesser extent, of the future; its faith is at the same time hope, since Christ is not only the dead and the risen, but also the one who is to come.

O Lord, enlighten our souls with this mystery of hope so that we may recognise the light that is radiated by your cross, grant us that as Christians we may go forward into the future, towards the day of your coming.

Amen.

PRAYER

Lord Jesus Christ, in the darkness of death Thou hast made light; in the abyss of deepest loneliness dwells now forever the mighty protection of Thy love; in the midst of Thy hiddenness we can now sing the hallelujah of the saved. Grant us the humble simplicity of faith, which does not allow itself to be misled when Thou callest us in the hours of darkness, of abandonment, when everything seems to appear problematic; grant us, in this time in which a mortal struggle is being fought around Thee, sufficient light so that we may not lose Thee; sufficient light so that we may give it to those who need it even more. Let the mystery of Thy paschal joy, as the dawn of the morning, shine in our days; grant that we may be truly paschal men in the midst of the Holy Saturday of history. Grant that through the bright and dark days of this time we may always with glad hearts find ourselves on the way to Thy future glory.

Amen.

[Pope Benedict, excerpt from "The Sabbath of History"; https://www.sabinopaciolla.com/benedetto-xvi-il-mistero-terribile-del-sabato-santo/]

Do you seek Jesus the Crucified? (Mt 28:5).

This is the question the women will hear when, "at dawn on the first day of the week" (Mt 28:1), they come to the tomb.

Crucified!

Before the Sabbath he was condemned to death and expired on the cross crying: "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit" (Lk 23:46).

So they laid Jesus in a tomb, in which no one had yet been laid, in a tomb lent by a friend, and they went away. They all departed, in haste, to fulfil the rule of the religious Law. For they were to begin the feast, the Passover of the Jews, the memory of the exodus from the slavery of Egypt: the night before the Sabbath.

Then the Easter Sabbath passed and the second night began.

2. And behold, we have all come to this temple, as have so many of our brothers and sisters in the faith to the various temples throughout the globe, that holy night may descend upon our souls and hearts: the night after the Sabbath.

You are here, sons and daughters of the Church that is in Rome, sons and daughters of the Church that is spread across countries and continents, guests and pilgrims. Together we experienced Good Friday: the Stations of the Cross among the remains of the Colosseum - and the adoration of the Cross until the moment when a large stone was rolled over the door of the tomb - and a seal was put on it.

Why have you come now?

Do you seek Jesus Crucified?

Yes. We seek Jesus Crucified. We look for him on this night after the Sabbath, which preceded the arrival of the women at the tomb, when they with great astonishment saw and heard: "He is not here..." (Mt 28:6).

We have therefore come early, already late in the evening, to keep vigil at his tomb. To celebrate the Easter Vigil.

And we proclaim our praise on this wonderful night, pronouncing with the deacon's lips the "Exsultet" of the vigil. And we listen to the sacred readings, which compare this one night to the day of Creation and especially to the night of the exodus, during which the blood of the lamb saved the first-born sons of Israel from death and brought them out of slavery in Egypt. And then in the moment of renewed threat the Lord led them out to dry in the midst of the sea.

Let us therefore keep vigil on this unique night at the sealed tomb of Jesus of Nazareth, knowing that all that has been foretold by the Word of God throughout the generations will be fulfilled on this night, and that the work of man's redemption will reach its zenith on this night.

Let us therefore keep vigil, and though the night is deep, and the tomb sealed, let us confess that the Light has already been kindled in it, and it walks through the darkness of the night and the darkness of death. It is the light of Christ: "Lumen Christi".

3. We have come to immerse ourselves in his death; both we who long ago received the Baptism that immerses in Christ, and also those who will receive Baptism on this night. They are our new brothers and sisters in the faith; hitherto they were catechumens, and this night we can welcome them into the community of the Church of Christ, which is one, holy, catholic and apostolic. They are our new brothers and sisters in the faith and in the community of the Church, and they come from different countries and continents: Korea, Japan, Italy, Nigeria, Holland, Rwanda, Senegal and Togo.

We greet them cordially and joyfully proclaim the "Exsultet" in honour of the Church, our Mother, which sees them gathered here in the full light of Christ: "Lumen Christi".

And let us proclaim with them the praise of the baptismal water, into which, through Christ's death, the power of the Holy Spirit has descended: the power of the new life that gushes forth for eternity, for eternal life (cf. Jn 4:14).

4. So even before dawn breaks and the women arrive at the tomb from Jerusalem, we have come here to seek Jesus Crucified,

for: "Our old man was crucified with him, so that... we would no longer be slaves to sin..." (Rom 6:6);

for: we do not consider ourselves "dead to sin, but living for God, in Christ Jesus" (Rom 6:11): "As for his death, he died to sin once for all; but now by the fact that he lives, he lives for God" (Rom 6:10);

for: "Through Baptism we ... have been buried together with him in death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too may walk in a new life (Rom 6:4);

for: "If we have been completely united with him by a death like his, we shall also be completely united with him by his resurrection" (Rom 6:5);

for we believe: that "if we have died with Christ... we shall also live with him" (Rom 6:8);

and because we believe that "Christ risen from the dead, he no longer dies; death no longer has power over him" (Rom 6:9).

5. That is precisely why we are here. That is why we keep vigil at his tomb.

Let the Church keep vigil. And watch over the world. The hour of Christ's victory over death is the greatest hour in history.

[Pope John Paul II, homily at the Easter Vigil 18 April 1981]

1. In the Gospel of this radiant night of the Easter Vigil, we first meet the women who go the tomb of Jesus with spices to anoint his body (cf. Lk 24:1-3). They go to perform an act of compassion, a traditional act of affection and love for a dear departed person, just as we would. They had followed Jesus, they had listened to his words, they had felt understood by him in their dignity and they had accompanied him to the very end, to Calvary and to the moment when he was taken down from the cross. We can imagine their feelings as they make their way to the tomb: a certain sadness, sorrow that Jesus had left them, he had died, his life had come to an end. Life would now go on as before. Yet the women continued to feel love, the love for Jesus which now led them to his tomb. But at this point, something completely new and unexpected happens, something which upsets their hearts and their plans, something which will upset their whole life: they see the stone removed from before the tomb, they draw near and they do not find the Lord’s body. It is an event which leaves them perplexed, hesitant, full of questions: “What happened?”, “What is the meaning of all this?” (cf. Lk 24:4). Doesn’t the same thing also happen to us when something completely new occurs in our everyday life? We stop short, we don’t understand, we don’t know what to do. Newness often makes us fearful, including the newness which God brings us, the newness which God asks of us. We are like the Apostles in the Gospel: often we would prefer to hold on to our own security, to stand in front of a tomb, to think about someone who has died, someone who ultimately lives on only as a memory, like the great historical figures from the past. We are afraid of God’s surprises. Dear brothers and sisters, we are afraid of God’s surprises! He always surprises us! The Lord is like that.

Dear brothers and sisters, let us not be closed to the newness that God wants to bring into our lives! Are we often weary, disheartened and sad? Do we feel weighed down by our sins? Do we think that we won’t be able to cope? Let us not close our hearts, let us not lose confidence, let us never give up: there are no situations which God cannot change, there is no sin which he cannot forgive if only we open ourselves to him.

[Pope Francis, homily at the Easter Vigil 30 March 2013]

(Jn 18:1-19,42)

The core of the Gospels do not dwell on the horror and sadism of torments, because they were not written for the purpose of impressing, but to introduce us into an understanding of the boundless intensity of divine Love.

In Jn there is no hint to the suffering mysticism and divine abandonment: the evangelist wants to accompany us on the same journey as the Son towards the Father's Glory.

Jesus is master of himself, does not allow events to overwhelmed him.

He comes forward, he is still able to protect the disciples, and protagonist of the conversation with Pilate, a figure of the power of this world - who seems to be the accused.

Christ is not killed by the soldiers.

He is Alive, despite the gendarmes placed to protect the ancient world which remains hostile to the Lord, in order to perpetuate itself.

The short passage in Jn 19:25-27 is perhaps the artistic apex of the Passion narrative.

In the fourth Gospel the Mother appears twice, at the wedding feast of Cana and at the foot of the Cross - episodes present only in Jn.

Both at Cana and beneath the Cross, the Mother is a figure of the «Remnant of Israel», that is, of the honestly sensitive and faithful people.

The 'bride-nation' of the First Testament is as if waiting for genuine Revelation: it perceives all the limitation of the ancient idea of God, which reduced the joy of the wedding feast between the Father and his sons.

Life that flows as an essential and vital lymph in the authentic Church depicted in Mary, adoring in every event; standing upright (19:25). Present to herself.

The Israel vibrant with truth originated the Passage from religiosity to spousal Faith, from ancient law to the New Testament.

In the presence of the Cross, an alternative Kingdom is generated.

Fathers and mothers of a different, non-belligerent humanity are being formed: proclaiming the Good News of God this time for the exclusive benefit of every woman and man - in whatever condition.

To those who already wanted to disregard the teaching of the ancient “fathers”, Jesus proposes to make past and newness walk together.

And the beloved disciple is icon of the authentic son of God, Word-event spread, and New Pact.

The son himself must receive the Mother [the presence and culture of the covenant people] at his Home: in the nascent Community.

Thus new family relationships flourish: then the Church is born.

«I thirst»: quotes Psalm 69 - «They put poison in my food and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar».

It is the disappointment and giddy sense of emptiness for a humanity that is still in dire need of being torn from the wild condition…

And the intense desire to make, of that pre-human abyss, people who tend to recover divine Gold within themselves.

Therefore Jesus pours out his Spirit without any delay (v.30).

And as from the side of the man God drew the woman, so from the side of the pierced Son comes forth the ‘community-spouse’, related to the two signs of the first sacraments.

It is our essential and vital lymph: because immersed and assimilated in such familiar gestures, we overcome the discomfort of feeling like objects, things.

We become Sons.

[Good Friday, April 3, 2026]

(Jn 18:1-19:42)

The core of the Gospels do not dwell on the horror and sadism of the torments, because they were not written with the aim of impressing, but to introduce us into an understanding of the boundless intensity of divine Love.

The Father does not neglect or retreat, for there is no inclusive purpose in making us suffer; rather, in welcoming and sharing. Neither are we in the world for scars, but for fulfilment.

In Jn there is no hint of the mysticism of suffering and abandonment: the evangelist wants to accompany us on the same journey as the Son towards the Father's Glory.

And the Eternal One does not delay in incorporating him into Himself: it is the Crucified One who delivers the Spirit (19:30).

Jesus, master of himself, does not allow himself to be overwhelmed by events.

He steps forward; he is still able to protect his own and is the protagonist of the conversation with Pilate, a figure of the power of this world [who seems to be the accused].

Neither is he finished by soldiers.

He is Alive, despite the gendarmes placed to protect the ancient world that remains hostile to the Lord, in order to perpetuate itself. Twilight zone - still and where you do not expect it.

The beloved disciple [each of us, genuine in Christ] is present to his own fate as a complete Gift: he reflects a single indestructible life, albeit humiliated.

It flows as essential and vital lymph into the authentic Church portrayed in Mary adoring in every event; standing upright (19:25) and well present to herself.

Able to unfold the meaning of Jesus' proposal through brand new rays of light - in a spirit of condescension and tenderness, but subversive.

Arrest (vv.1-19). In the Passion according to John, the voluntary offering of life by the Lord Jesus stands for the divine condition and the authentic prospect - of freedom and success - for us: the vocation, the call of the Father.

Judas' kiss is missing, for the Master presents himself directly, identifying himself in the revelation 'I Am'.

By coming forward, she asks that the disciples be left at liberty. It means: He does not lose any of us; he does not leave us as hostages.

But his arrest is attended by the leaders of official religion - and he is immediately seized at the home of the occult leader, Ananus [Hannas], although already deposed, but still the political puppeteer of the situation. 

Renegade, together with Peter.

The memory of the prophecy of the high priest who acts as his screen (v.14) projects us into the drama of the Passion of love of the Forsaken One. 

Rejected by the religious people. Betrayed, disowned, killed by all.

Peter's triple "I am not" contrasts with the dignity of Christ, who calls the 'head' of the church to another kind of testimony than the one he had in mind, desired, dreamed of.

While in the Synoptics He is shown as the Lamb led to slaughter without opening His mouth, the Fourth Gospel emphasises His Kingship.

Before Pilate, it becomes clear that Jesus' solemnity has no political character, so his disciples could not be considered disloyal citizens.

Facing Rome, Jn highlights the innocence of Jesus and of the Christians accused in the courts of the Empire.

The figure of the Roman governor is interesting, caught between instances of conscience and external pressures - while repeatedly seeking intermediate positions.

The Fourth Gospel frees 'diplomats' from direct responsibility, but admonishes them about respecting the Truth.

Those who do not accept him as he is and do not declare themselves in his favour by exposing themselves, remain caught in his own trap.

The 'Judge' looks like Jesus.

And its paradoxes question: who is the king of the Jews? Caesar or Christ?

The Jews deny themselves by claiming they have no king but the emperor; the officials acclaim him as king.

Third section (19:17-42). The executed had to be seen by as many people as possible, so they were displayed in a place near the city. 

But here and in the episode of the inscription [in the three ecumenical languages of the time, like the one on the first inner wall of the Temple, which forbade on pain of death further entry to the pagans] the theological theme of kingship comes in again: the result was a reminder to the Jews that they had a defeated king.

Jn distinguishes between the partitioning of the clothes and the drawing of the robe, because he understands the latter as the sacred robe of the true high priest, whose mantle could not be torn (Lev 21:10).

Without dwelling on the two condemned men at the side of the Crucified One, the evangelist notes that Jesus' legs were not broken.

This alludes to the Paschal Lamb, whose bones were not to be broken.

The short passage in Joh 19:25-27 is perhaps the artistic apex of the Passion narrative.

In the fourth Gospel the Mother appears twice, at the wedding feast of Cana and at the foot of the Cross - both episodes present only in Jn.Both at Cana and beneath the Cross, the Mother is a figure of the 'Remnant of Israel', that is, of the authentically sensitive and faithful people.

The 'bride-nation' of the First Testament is as if waiting for the genuine Revelation: it perceives all the limitation of the ancient idea of God, which has reduced the joy of the wedding feast between the Father and his children.

The Israel vibrant with truth originated the Passage from religiosity to spousal Faith, from the Old Law to the New Testament.

In the presence of the Cross, an alternative kingdom is generated.

The fathers and mothers of a different, non-belligerent humanity are formed; they proclaim the Good News of God this time in favour exclusively of every man - in whatever condition he finds himself.

In the theological intentions of John, the Words of Jesus "Woman, behold your son" and "Behold, your mother" were intended to help settle and harmonise the strong tensions that at the end of the first century were already opposing the different currents of thought on Christ [Judaizers; supporters of the primacy of faith over works; laxists who now considered Jesus anathema - intending to supplant him with a generic freedom of spirit without history].

At the beginning of the second century (e.g.) Marcion rejected the entire First Testament and seems to have appreciated only part of the New.

To those who wanted to disregard the teaching of the "fathers", Jesus proposes to make the past and the new walk together.

The beloved disciple is the icon of the authentic son of God, the Word-event spread, and the New Covenant.

The son himself must receive the Mother - the presence and culture of the covenant people - at home, i.e. in the nascent Community.

Even if it is in the Christian assembly that the full meaning of the whole of Scripture is discovered, the Person, the story and the Word itself cannot be grasped nor will it bear fruit with forward dreams alone, without the ancient root that generated it.

Thus new family relationships flourish: then the Church is born.

"I thirst": he quotes Psalm 69 - "They put poison in my food and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar".

It is the disappointment and the giddy sense of emptiness for a humanity still in dire need of being wrenched out of the wilderness...

And the intense desire to make, of that pre-human abyss, people who tend to recover the divine Gold in themselves.

But disciples, crowd, soldiers, still do not understand.

It is clarified with recourse to the other psalm [63: "O God, you are my God, from dawn I seek you, my soul thirsts for you"] which in Hebrew begins with the invocation "Elohim, Eli [...]".

So Jesus pours out his Spirit without any delay (v.30).

And just as from the side of the man God drew forth the woman, so from the side of the pierced Son comes forth the 'community-bride', related to the two signs of the first Sacraments.

Precisely, our essential and vital lymph: because immersed and assimilated in such familiar gestures, we overcome the discomfort of feeling like objects, things.

We become Sons.

Sons, not things

God placed on the Cross of Jesus all the weight of our sins, all the injustice perpetrated by every Cain against his brother, all the bitterness of the betrayal of Judas and Peter, all the vanity of bullies, all the arrogance of false friends. It was a heavy Cross, like the night of the abandoned, heavy like the death of loved ones, heavy because it sums up all the ugliness of evil. However, it is also a glorious Cross like the dawn of a long night, because it depicts in all things the love of God that is greater than our iniquities and betrayals. In the Cross we see the monstrosity of man, when he allows himself to be led by evil; but we also see the immensity of God's mercy, who does not treat us according to our sins, but according to his mercy.

In front of the Cross of Jesus, we see almost to the point of touching with our hands how much we are eternally loved; in front of the Cross, we feel like "children" and not "things" or "objects", as St Gregory of Nazianzus said when addressing Christ with this prayer: "If I were not You, O my Christ, I would feel like a finite creature. I am born and I am dissolved. I eat, I sleep, I rest and walk, I fall ill and heal. Cravings and torments assail me without number, I enjoy the sun and all that the earth bears fruit. Then, I die and the flesh becomes dust like that of animals, which have no sins. But I, what more do I have than they? Nothing but God. If I were not You, O my Christ, I would feel like a finite creature. O our Jesus, lead us from the cross to the resurrection and teach us that evil will not have the last word, but love, mercy and forgiveness. O Christ, help us to exclaim again: "Yesterday I was crucified with Christ; today I am glorified with Him. Yesterday I was dead with Him, today I am alive with Him. Yesterday I was buried with Him, today I am risen with Him'".Finally, all together, let us remember the sick, let us remember all those abandoned under the weight of the Cross, that they may find in the trial of the Cross the strength of hope, of the hope of the resurrection and of God's love.

[Pope Francis, Way of the Cross at the Colosseum 18 April 2014].

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

This evening, in faith, we have accompanied Jesus as he takes the final steps of his earthly journey, the most painful steps, the steps that lead to Calvary. We have heard the cries of the crowd, the words of condemnation, the insults of the soldiers, the lamentation of the Virgin Mary and of the women. Now we are immersed in the silence of this night, in the silence of the cross, the silence of death. It is a silence pregnant with the burden of pain borne by a man rejected, oppressed, downtrodden, the burden of sin which mars his face, the burden of evil. Tonight we have re-lived, deep within our hearts, the drama of Jesus, weighed down by pain, by evil, by human sin.

What remains now before our eyes? It is a crucified man, a cross raised on Golgotha, a cross which seems a sign of the final defeat of the One who brought light to those immersed in darkness, the One who spoke of the power of forgiveness and of mercy, the One who asked us to believe in God’s infinite love for each human person. Despised and rejected by men, there stands before us “a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity, one from whom others hide their faces” (Is 53:3).

But let us look more closely at that man crucified between earth and heaven. Let us contemplate him more intently, and we will realize that the cross is not the banner of the victory of death, sin and evil, but rather the luminous sign of love, of God’s immense love, of something that we could never have asked, imagined or expected: God bent down over us, he lowered himself, even to the darkest corner of our lives, in order to stretch out his hand and draw us to himself, to bring us all the way to himself. The cross speaks to us of the supreme love of God and invites, today, to renew our faith in the power of that love, and to believe that in every situation of our lives, our history and our world, God is able to vanquish death, sin and evil, and to give us new, risen life. In the Son of God’s death on the cross, we find the seed of new hope for life, like the seed which dies within the earth.

This night full of silence, full of hope, echoes God’s call to us as found in the words of Saint Augustine: “Have faith! You will come to me and you will taste the good things of my table, even as I did not disdain to taste the evil things of your table... I have promised you my own life. As a pledge of this, I have given you my death, as if to say: Look! I am inviting you to share in my life. It is a life where no one dies, a life which is truly blessed, which offers an incorruptible food, the food which refreshes and never fails. The goal to which I invite you … is friendship with the Father and the Holy Spirit, it is the eternal supper, it is communion with me … It is a share in my own life (cf. Sermo 231, 5).

Let us gaze on the crucified Jesus, and let us ask in prayer: Enlighten our hearts, Lord, that we may follow you along the way of the cross. Put to death in us the “old man” bound by selfishness, evil and sin. Make us “new men”, men and women of holiness, transformed and enlivened by your love.

[Pope Benedict, Way of the Cross at the Colosseum 22 April 2011]

“If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Mt 16:24).

Good Friday evening.
For twenty centuries
the Church has gathered on this evening
to remember and to re-live
the events of the final stage
of the earthly journey of the Son of God.
Once again this year,
the Church in Rome
meets at the Colosseum,
to follow the footsteps of Jesus,
who “went out, carrying his cross,
to the place called the place of the skull,
which is called in Hebrew Golgotha” (Jn 19:17).

We are here
because we are convinced that the Way of the Cross of the Son of God
was not simply a journey
to the place of execution.
We believe that every step of the Condemned Christ,
every action and every word,
as well as everything felt and done
by those who took part in this tragic drama,
continues to speak to us.
In his suffering and death too,
Christ reveals to us the truth about God and man.

In this Jubilee Year
we want to concentrate
on the full meaning of that event,
so that what happened may speak with new power
to our minds and hearts,
and become the source of the grace
of a real sharing in it.
To share means to have a part.

What does it mean to have a part
in the Cross of Christ?
It means to experience, in the Holy Spirit,
the love hidden within the Cross of Christ.
It means to recognize, in the light of this love,
our own cross.
It means to take up that cross once more and,
strengthened by this love, to continue our journey...
To journey through life, in imitation of the one who “endured the cross,
despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God” (Heb 12:2).

[Brief pause for silence]

Let us pray.

Lord Jesus Christ,
fill our hearts with the light of your Spirit,
so that by following you on your final journey
we may come to know the price of our Redemption
and become worthy of a share
in the fruits of your Passion, Death and Resurrection.
You who live and reign for ever and ever.

R. Amen.

[Pope John Paul II, Way of the Cross at the Colosseum 21 April 2000]

I do not wish to add too many words. One word should suffice this evening, that is the Cross itself. The Cross is the word through which God has responded to evil in the world. Sometimes it may seem as though God does not react to evil, as if he is silent. And yet, God has spoken, he has replied, and his answer is the Cross of Christ: a word which is love, mercy, forgiveness. It is also reveals a judgment, namely that God, in judging us, loves us. Let us remember this: God judges us by loving us. If I embrace his love then I am saved, if I refuse it, then I am condemned, not by him, but my own self, because God never condemns, he only loves and saves.

Dear brothers and sisters, the word of the Cross is also the answer which Christians offer in the face of evil, the evil that continues to work in us and around us. Christians must respond to evil with good, taking the Cross upon themselves as Jesus did. This evening we have heard the witness given by our Lebanese brothers and sisters: they composed these beautiful prayers and meditations. We extend our heartfelt gratitude to them for this work and for the witness they offer. We were able to see this when Pope Benedict visited Lebanon: we saw the beauty and the strong bond of communion joining Christians together in that land and the friendship of our Muslim brothers and sisters and so many others. That occasion was a sign to the Middle East and to the whole world: a sign of hope.

We now continue this Via Crucis in our daily lives. Let us walk together along the Way of the Cross and let us do so carrying in our hearts this word of love and forgiveness. Let us go forward waiting for the Resurrection of Jesus, who loves us so much. He is all love!

[Pope Francis, Way of the Cross at the Colosseum 29 March 2013]

Integral Trust: emblematic Action, which generates uncontaminated persons

(Jn 13:1-15)

According to a felicitous expression of Origen, Eucharist is the wound in Christ's side that is always open; but Vatican II did not spend a single word on the many Eucharistic devotions.

In order for us to fully understand his Person, the Council fathers were well aware that Jesus did not leave a statue or a relic. He preferred to express Himself in a ‘gesture’, which challenges us.

God does not identify persons in a standard way, nor does He superimpose His thoughts on people's history and sensibilities.

By bending over us, He himself transcends roles, the club’ spirit, the very ideas, and the certificates. Action - this one yes - “exemplary”.

In the supreme freedom of service, «washing» is a Baptismal figure: of the Son’s Person-Mission on behalf of mankind, all now ‘enabled’.

The Master unites to Himself a group of even unconvinced disciples, but ‘made pure’ - not because He aims to form a school distinct from others, or even unilateral one.

He calls by Name and creates assembly to introduce us into Love, through the passage from slavery to the freedom of the Gratis (descending).

Peter craves to command: he does not want to introduce himself into a logic that manifests God servant of all, independent of their past.

Lowering Himself to the level of the slave who puts down his clothes, Jesus wants to humanize us by recovering instead the opposites, rooted in each one... even admitting the contestation.

And He does not take off his apron: it is the only uniform that belongs to Him. That kind of clothing stays on Him - He wears it in Heaven too.

He did not play the role of the servant, to return to Heaven to be the master. He does not condition anyone.

The Life of the Father pursues us on every path, to make us feel adequate: One-Body with the Son.

This is the «service» of the disciples, to be carried out with life and the announcement of the «good news»: to make known that the Father is the unconditional Lover of woman and man.

Uniquely the esteem in which we hold His sons and their stories - without prejudice - leads to acts of conviviality and inexplicable recoveries.

Jesus washing ‘feet’ depicts the secret of the blissful life that expands the way of the I into the way of the Thou: in being genuine and free even to descend, to the point of bending down to serve.

Without labyrinths of norms or lofty cries of principle; without compromising the most genuine spontaneity and streamlining - without giving in to mistrust of the others’ imperfection.

In the Baptismal attitude... celebrating existence in all its forms, beyond boundaries; trusting in life, in its natural and opposite polarities.

By allowing for other developments and expansions.

Opening our eyes to the world - cornerstone of new relationships, replacing one-sided customs, or external fashions.

Embracing a richer destiny.

By loving contradictions.

A ban to perfection’s models and to the exasperation of "skills". Rather, the search for solutions that rely on, without interfering.

Rediscovering one's humanizing nature.

Recognizing diversity.

By approving, redeeming and evaluating ‘pure’ each particular path [the 'washed' feet of each one].

[Holy Thursday in Coena Domini, April 2, 2026]

Integral Trust: the emblematic Action, generating the undefiled

Jn 13:1-15 (.16-20)

Let us introduce the meaning of the Lord's washing of the feet, an emblematic gesture that the Synoptics evoke in the Breaking of Bread.

In ancient Israel, the patriarchal family, clan and community were the basis of social coexistence.

They guaranteed the transmission of the identity of the people, and provided protection for the afflicted.

Defending the clan was also a concrete way of confirming the First Covenant.

But at the time of Jesus, Galilee suffered both the segregation dictated by Herod Antipas' policy and the oppression of official religiosity.

The wimpy collaborationism of the ruler had accentuated the number of homeless and unemployed.

The political and economic conjuncture forced people to retreat into material and individual problems, or those of a small family.

At one time, the identity bond of clan and community guaranteed an internal character of a solidary nation, expressed in the defence and relief given to the less fortunate of the people.

Now, this fraternal bond was weakened, plastered over, almost contradicted - also because of the strict attitude of the religious authorities, fundamentalist and lovers of a saccharine purism, opposed to mixing with the less affluent classes.

The written and oral Law ended up being used not to favour the welcoming of the marginalised and needy, but to accentuate detachment and ghettoisation.

A situation that was leading the least protected sections of the population to collapse.

In short, the alliance-loving devotion between throne and altar - instead of strengthening the sense of community, was used to accentuate hierarchies; as a weapon that legitimised a whole mentality of exclusions (and confirmed the imperial logic of divide and rule).

Jesus, on the other hand, wants to return to the Father's Dream: the ineliminable one of fraternity, the only seal to salvation history.

According to a felicitous expression of Origen, the Eucharist is the wound in Christ's side that is always open; but Vatican II did not spend a single word on the multiple Eucharistic devotions.

In order for us to fully understand his Person, the Council fathers were well aware that Jesus did not leave a statue or a relic. He preferred to express himself in a gesture, which challenges us.

In the Jewish world, in the evening each family gathered around the table, and breaking bread was the most significant moment of their experience of conviviality - and memory of the handing over of self to others.

The one bread was divided and shared among all the family members - but even a poor hungry person could come to the door, which did not have to be locked.

Bread and wine, products that had assimilated the energies of heaven and earth, were recognised with spiritual sensitivity - gifts from the Creator for the life and joy of humanity.

In that culture, bread is basic food. But our life is only complete if there is also the element of celebration: there is wine.

Even today, bread is not cut with a knife, to respect its sacredness: only broken. It contains concrete existence.

That is why Jesus chose the banquet as a sign of his Person - life, word, risky business and new happiness, given in food.

At family dinners, bread and wine were not perceived in the same way as manna, that is, as raw, natural products. Nor was it nourishment to regain strength, and that's all.

In the wheat and grapes, all the varied contributions of the domestic hearth were also gathered.

Around the table, each man saw in the bread and wine the fruit of his labour: cleaning the soil, ploughing, sowing, sowing, reaping, pruning, harvesting and pressing.

The woman captured in the bread her labour: grinding, kneading, baking. Even minors could remember something of their own, because little boys would lend themselves (e.g. draw water).

Dinner was a celebration of harmony. The table was precisely a place where young people were educated in the perception of existing in unity, rather than in disinterest.

This was done with gratitude towards God's gifts and perception of one's own contribution, which had (really) reached its goal, in the spirit of synergy and singular commitment to communion.

Contributions, resources and skills agreed to put themselves in service, for the life of all.

In the Eucharistic gesture, Jesus says: new heavens and new earth do not correspond to the world in which each one hastens to reap for himself or his circle, in order to grab the maximum of resources.

His Kingdom? All invited and brothers in agreement, none master or ruler - destined to be in front or above [though quicker than the others] even in heaven.

Even the Apostles - called by Jesus with Himself but still remaining at a safe distance from Him (cf. e.g. Lk 9:10, 12) - are not the owners of the Bread, but those who are to give it to all (vv.13.16), to create abundance where there is none.

To animate the meetings on the theme of the Eucharist as a non-misleading icon, and to internalise how in the Catholic Church itself there has been a decisive evolution towards understanding the efficacy of the Sign, I use to compare two great works of art.

Raphael in the so-called Dispute of the Sacrament depicts a sacred and static world. Today we would say at a glance, almost plasticised.

An environment that seems all predictable and in any case characterised by a situated social, cultural and spiritual pattern; where everyone is placed according to origin, position, status, and rank.

Arcabas - a recently deceased French artist - paints a picture that seems devoid of exclusive, distinct and titled protagonists: as if cut above, or (better) focused on the simple gesture.

To put it eloquently: the garnish of lavish decorations or prominent roles is not about this life proposal!

In the contemporary painter's work, we grasp the sobriety of a Person and of a well-centred mission [which scratches, but makes one lose one's head far more than beautiful scripts].

For in the world of Love, the best is yet to come. In this way, we are relentlessly questioned.

Arcabas illustrates a simply laid table: a plate, certainly not from the best collection, a glass of wine with no frills; a tablecloth simply laid on the table and marked by its perfunctory folds, not even ironed, reminiscent of real everyday life.

And above all, the normal gesture of breaking bread, that of the step by step, with its crumbs that are neither fluffy nor white. To say: the Eucharistic Banquet is not for the hereafter - who knows when.

[For almost a thousand years, the Catholic Church celebrated with daily bread as the Orthodox Church still does, for example. As testimony, there are still very large dinner trays, today reduced to a saucer].

In short, here comes the 'Hour'... and the emblematic Action - in Jn, which does not formally recount the institution of the Eucharist.

Here is the meaning of breaking bread: what it entails to enter into co-existence, for the apostle overturns hierarchies and subverts the criteria of purity, uniformity, compactness, and glory.

In the Fourth Gospel, Christ proclaims only two Beatitudes:

"Verily, verily, I say unto you, there is no greater servant than his lord, nor greater sent than he that sent him. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them" (Jn 13:16-17).

And to Thomas: "Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed" (Jn 20:29b) - this, not because effort is a means to accumulate sorrows and merits, and so please God.

The two Beatitudes of Jn guarantee the tracks on which the believer finds his full realisation and the wonder of happiness: the practice of charity that recovers all the being dispersed, including others, in the adventure of Faith.

Before and during ritual meals, the pious of Israel performed ablutions with water, to celebrate the separation between the sacred and the profane, between the pure and the impure.

At the head of the table, hands were washed by a servant or the youngest of the guests.

With Jesus, tradition is shattered from within - to the amazed. 

For a Jew, washing others was something he had to refuse to do, even if enslaved, lest he dishonour the people. 

Instead, the Messiah prostrates himself and has the freedom to wash [not even his hands, but] his feet.

An absurd revelation of the Face of God, which crumbles countless mannerisms, hopes of artificial prestige; and acts of submission, grotesque acknowledgements - advanced by church princes.

Here is not only an invitation to serve one's neighbour... a gesture to imitate that proclaims the humble service character of the ministry.

It is also a sign of the purification of his own - like a new baptism that makes one immediately part of God's world.

This 'washing' is a figure of the Person and Mission of the Son on behalf of mankind, all of whom are now enabled to pass from this set-up to the Father's Kingdom.

And in the same way to pass the neighbour, the multitudes.

The Master unites a group of even unconvinced disciples to himself, but made pure - not because he aims to form a school distinct from others, or even one-sided.

He calls by Name and creates Assembly to introduce us into Love, into the passage from slavery to the freedom of the Free, which descends.

God does not identify people, nor does He superimpose His own thoughts on people's history and sensibilities.

By stooping, he crosses roles, club spirit, ideas themselves, and certificates. An initiative - this one - exemplary.

Indeed, in his Exodus, he traces the new path of the people, even of those who are against - and this baffles, it seems unacceptable. 

Peter is eager to command: he is not up to introducing himself into a logic that manifests even in community leaders a God who is a servant of men, independent of their origins, or their backgrounds.By lowering himself to the level of the slave who lays down his garments, the Lord wants to humanise us, recovering instead the opposites, rooted in a particular way and in each person.

He even admits contestation - highlighting it and healing it.

That is, unless one remains like Judas stubbornly attached to external seductions and false spiritual guides: to the clichés of social belonging-approval, and self-interest.

Finally, Jesus does not take off his apron, before putting his clothes back on: it is the only uniform that belongs to him.

That kind of dress stays with him: he wears it even in Paradise.

He does not play the part of the caretaker, to return to heaven to lord it over us. He does not condition anyone.

The Life of the Father pursues us on every path, to make us feel adequate: One-Body-Only with the Son, to whom he has delivered everything into his hands (v.3).

Total bloom for us too; indestructible, eminent, in itself devoid of occult deadly germs.

His Trust is passed on in salvation history; it is unfolded to the undecided and imperfect, his kinsmen in the Son.

Ready to lift us up to an existence that no longer extinguishes being - and us eager to make it flourish, instead of boycotting or borrowing it.

Adopted sons: not a diminution, but the distinguished recognition of an equality that does not jar.

In ancient times, when a ruler designated a successor to the throne, he not infrequently appointed as dignitary a valiant more trustworthy than his kinsman in the natural line (often scheming, spoilt, fed up with his own prosperity).

God does not force us together. By bending, it overrides the spirit of marginalisation, parties, characters; all salvation.

This is the 'service' of the disciples, to be performed with life and the proclamation of the good news: to make known that the Father is not the selective God of religion, but the unconditional lover of woman and man.

Love is communicated from peer to peer and has the same pace as life: it cannot be bridled by inherited opinions or fixed conventions, nor subjected to casuistic narratives.

Only the awareness of a freedom that remains will lead to gestures of clear-cut completeness.

Not for opportunist and individual advantage: for the sake of Joy in fullness of being and intensity of relationship.

In any external circumstance, only the esteem that the Father accords to each one leads the children and their stories towards acts of conviviality and inexplicable recoveries.

Jesus washing feet depicts the secret of the blissful life that expands the way of the I into that of the Thou: in being genuine and free even to descend, even to bend down to serve.

Without labyrinths of norms or lofty cries of principle; without compromising the most genuine spontaneity and slenderness - without yielding to mistrust of the imperfection of others.

Overriding the typical interdiction respectability, therefore without the usual rigmarole - so beloved of the owners, always distanced and apprehensive, on any front.

Herein arises frankness in the baptismal attitude... celebrating existence in all its forms, beyond boundaries; trusting in life, in its natural and opposite polarities.

Allowing for other developments and expansions. Opening one's eyes to the world - the cornerstone of new relationships, replacing one-sided customs, or external fashions.

Embracing a richer destiny; loving contradictions.

A ban on models and the exaggeration of 'capabilities'.

Rather, the search for solutions that trust, without interfering. By rediscovering its humanising nature.

Recognising diversity.

Approving, redeeming and evaluating 'pure' each particular path [the 'washed' feet of each].

To internalise and live the message:

How do you live your responsibility and personality in Christ according to vv.3-4?

After the Eucharist, do you do as Jesus did, or do you immediately lay down your apron?

Communion:

Root of being, dreaming energy that reinterprets history

Jn 13:16-20 (.21-38)

An 'envoy' is no more than the one who sends him (v.16). The new CEI translation specifies that Jesus does not elect Twelve Apostles as if they were leaders and phenomena destined to have fabulous positions.

His own are quite ordinary people, sent to proclaim; not directors provided with office, but with a humble charge: to be themselves and wash the feet of others. This is their fabric.

The ministerial Church is not that of characters with titles and roles, but of authentic service, not of manner: resigned and non-conformist.

We can only become a continuation of the Mystery that envelops the Person of Christ if we are aware that we are not dual photocopies, nor 'more' than others - let alone the Master.

In I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed), Manzoni narrates that the marquis who succeeds Don Rodrigo ('a good man, not an original') serves the guests at Renzo and Lucia's wedding table.Then, however, he withdraws to dine aloof with Don Abbondio: 'he had as much humility as it took to put himself below those good people, but not to be their equal'.

It used to be done this way: social etiquette dictated it.

A mannered style, whereby, in order to please, one accepted to adapt to (extemporary) gestures of alms and benevolence, among very good people - obviously safeguarding the protagonism of positions.

But aligning ourselves with the models does not bring us out of the usual cages; on the contrary, it hides us in the illusion of a change that in reality is not taking place, because the bogus order remains, despite the altruism of appearances - worn for the sake of good intentions.

The portent to which we are called and sent is not to make room for convenient sentiments, but to move from our external summit to the level of others and to stand elbow to elbow, to give everyone the emotion of feeling adequate.

From service to Communion: a unique climate of energy [not always 'according to etiquette' but authentically ours and dreaming] that develops flourishes, triggering impossible recoveries.

From here, we read history anew.

Yet we wonder with what energies to implement it, if at times we ourselves feel incomplete, uncertain in operating; not up to the mark.

In the context of the washing of the feet, Jesus reminds us that the disciple should have no illusions: he will not have a splendid career, worldly recognition, or less persecution from the Master as a dowry.

According to an ancient mentality, to mistreat an ambassador or messenger was to offend those he represented; to accept him was to honour him.

Here we come to the root of the unveiling mission: welcoming the sent one honours Christ, and in him God himself (v.20).

The apostles are "sent" in this sense, like the Son by the Father. Within this flow, we become a revealing light, fully, without closures.

In short, one of the ways of washing one another's feet (v.14) is precisely to come and feel properly 'sent' - picturing Jesus, and God himself, passing through us.

It is the way of blessedness (v.17) - that of the living Lord - that is the core of the "outgoing Church": adding to beautiful and practical teachings the essential dimension.

Such is the plausible and amiable path, evangelising our Roots. Who does not ask for "resilience" in relationships, only from the "inferiors" of the world.

Salvation in a divine dimension, which takes on value; operated from within the conscience which finds esteem and face, and free ferment that opens hope, orienting.

The deep being of the Friend who has the freedom to come down is expressed in the action. He reveals himself to be the promoter of the unfortunate, not the subtle prevaricator.

Making each exodus, our vocational trait carries within it a precious treasure chest, the awareness of the intimate Source of the apostolate, and its precious concatenation that transforms the past into the future.

The resulting sense of completeness and radical meaning is effective. 

It is for those who discover, encounter, feel alive, their own missionary Source - and bear witness to it.

By simply and naturally expressing himself - without forcing or artificiality - he is at the same time for the brothers to be recognised.

In short, the service of the ministerial community is not in the dimension of servitude, but of a flow of primal energies, of fabric; wave upon genuine wave.

In all of this, development after development, we re-actualise the epiphany of the Logos in Christ, in the today of being people (shaky yet convinced, tenacious) bound by a fraternal figure of weight.

"I Am" of Ex 3:14 becomes - effortlessly - the communal and welcoming People of the servants filled with self-given dignity.

The eternal element of the Word is preserved and developed by his envoys and by the ministerial, "apostolic" church: both in its original and founding character, and in its connection to the history of each individual.

To internalise and live the message:

What does it mean for you to move from serving to communion? Do you consider this an annoying excess?

Is it enough for you to make others feel good at times, as a protagonist and in a complacent manner, or do you strive to make them feel adequate?