(Mt 9:32-38)

In the Gospels the recoveries from diseases describe and manifest an experience of Faith.

The first forms of community [here in Mt, of Galilee and Syria] have grown through tireless activity of redemption and people reintegration, even from the ideal point of view.

In a brutally competitive, ruthless and disheartening world, the life of communion in Christ enabled a recovery from any situation of personal debasement and social abandoning.

At the origin of the Mission there is both the Compassion of Jesus and the Prayer of the disciple (so that he overcomes disappointments, freely establishes himself on a good disposition, and does not look for anything else).

Prayer does not convince the Father, but transforms the believer. It awakens consciences to perceive, sense, listen, welcome, and move - in any external condition.

Prayer allows sons to be reborn from the heart - in the small, in the unsteady, in the child, in the adolescent, in the adult, in nature, in history, in themselves, and in God.

In a situation of social collapse and economic exploitation, even the official religion inculcated the idea that material blessings were a sign of spiritual rank, and vice versa.

People consciousness was also stifled by the feeling of exclusion (and punishment for guilt) that emphasized disdain.

The incredible Novelty of the first fraternal realities of Faith detached itself from every "competition": the ability to concretely re-establish discouraged people emerged, and weave both the quality of life and relationships.

The official guides, disinterested in the real life of the people, maliciously defended their positions and tried to exorcise the persons admiration towards the friends of Jesus - with the usual nonsense about evil.

Here the Prayer, which was addressed to the Father so that He would help all his sons in their radiating work, of support, for the birth of a new and urgent vital awareness, and of bonds - for goodness to the needy.

God’s pedagogy is transmitted in available listening, in contemplative Prayer, yet it is not abstract.

The idea and work of Faith are detached from the world of sophisticated, or empty, homologating spirituality.

It is that of leaven that ferments the mass: it saves men through men - starting from the gaze of the soul [shiny, which overcomes the breathlessness].

For a wise recomposition of being, the Master invites precisely to Prayer (v.38) - the first form of disciples commitment.

Access to different harmonies within the Spirit teaches us to cultivate our insightful eye, and to appreciate and understand everything and everyone.

We recognize ourselves and become aware of things through Prayer-presentiment, unitive.

Mission grows from a small but boundless dimension - that of intimate perception, which is aware of the needs and Mystery of a favourable Presence.

New configurations in spirit: fully discovered only in deep Prayer (v.38). Embodied.

[Tuesday 14th wk. in O.T.  July 7, 2026]

In favour of the oppressed

(Mt 9:32-38)

In the Gospels, recoveries from illness describe and manifest an experience of Faith.

The first community forms [here in Mt, of Galilee and Syria] did not grow out of miracles, but out of tireless activity to redeem and reintegrate people, even from an ideal point of view.

In a brutally competitive, ruthless and discouraging world, the life of fellowship in Christ allowed church members a recovery from any situation of personal despondency and social neglect.

At the origin of the Mission is both Jesus' Compassion and the disciple's Prayer (that he may overcome disappointments, freely establish himself on a good disposition, and seek nothing else).

Prayer does not convince the Father, but transforms the disciple. It stirs the conscience to perceive, realise, listen, welcome, and move - whatever the external conditions.

Prayer enables children to be reborn from the heart - in the small, in the shaky, in the child, in the adolescent, in the adult, in nature, in history, in themselves, and in God.

In a situation of social collapse and economic exploitation, even the official religion inculcated the idea that material blessings were a sign of spiritual rank, and vice versa.

People's consciences were also stifled by the feeling of exclusion (and punishment for guilt) that accentuated their disenchantment.

Relying on the sense of unworthiness of the voiceless, the masters of the spirit did not miss an opportunity to placate consciences, harass the weak, and profit from their vicissitudes, monetising them.

The incredible novelty of the first fraternal realities of Faith broke away from the 'race' of ancient religion: the ability to concretely re-establish discouraged people and re-weave both quality of life and relationships emerged.

The official leaders, irresponsible and totally disinterested in the real life of the people, maliciously defended their positions and tried to exorcise the people's admiration for the friends of Jesus - with the usual lies about evil.

Here came the Prayer of the Intimates, which was addressed to the Father to help all the children in their radiant, supportive work; for the birth of a new, urgent life-consciousness, and bonds - out of kindness to those in need.

In short, God's pedagogy is transmitted in willing listening, in contemplative prayer, yet it is not abstract.

The idea and work of Faith is detached from the world of sophisticated, or empty, homologising spirituality.

It is that of the leaven that ferments the masses: it saves men by means of men - starting with the gaze of the soul (lucid, overcoming the breathlessness).

To internalise and live the message:

In the face of human and social emergencies, what do you wait for and how do you refresh yourself from weariness and opposition? Does breathlessness or lucidity win?

"The Good Shepherd "seeing the crowds, felt compassion for them, because they were weary and exhausted like sheep that have no shepherd," and said, "The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few. Pray, therefore, to the Lord of the harvest to send labourers into his harvest!" (Mt 9:36-38).

The art of promoting and caring for vocations finds a shining point of reference in the pages of the Gospel where Jesus calls his disciples to follow him and educates them with love and care. The particular object of our attention is the way Jesus called his closest co-workers to proclaim the Kingdom of God (cf. Lk 10:9). First of all, it is clear that the first act was prayer for them: before calling them, Jesus spent the night alone, in prayer and listening to the Father's will (cf. Lk 6:12), in an inner ascent above everyday things. The vocation of the disciples is born precisely in Jesus' intimate conversation with the Father. Vocations to the priestly ministry and to the consecrated life are primarily the fruit of a constant contact with the living God and of an insistent prayer that is raised to the 'Lord of the harvest' whether in parish communities, in Christian families, or in vocational cenacles".

(Pope Benedict, from the Message for the 48th World Day of Prayer for Vocations, 15 May 2011)

Prayer-presentment, unitive. Not to lose the magic of the Mystery

Gratitude: the Kingdom at hand and Prayer Incarnate

(Mt 9,35-10,1.6-8)

Jesus differs from the Rabbis of his time because he does not wait for the exhausted and prostrate people (v.36) to come to him: he seeks them out.

And the group of his own must participate, both in works of healing and deliverance - fraternity motivated by luminous selflessness.

He enters prayer assemblies with pastoral anxiety: to teach, not to disquisition. He does not lecture in logical analysis, but lets the One who dwell in him emerge.He proclaims a Kingdom that is totally different from how it was inculcated by the manipulators of consciences (overflowing with detailed convictions) - who certainly did not exercise gratuitousness.

The ancient doctrines and its protagonists dampened any dissonance and produced the worst: intimate coercion, anonymity, loneliness, passivity.

They inculcated that it was decisive to acquire their flat security, certainly not to open up to the personal Mystery, to the innate character - fruitfully not conforming to the context.

In fact, they sought to disturb the journeys of the soul, which sometimes wanders to find itself, and which prefers new glimpses to the usual way of seeing - swampy, stagnant.

They did not admit that in each believer could dwell a fundamental option that did not conform to their ideology and way of seeing.

Everything about other people's lives had to work perfectly according to their goals. So they did not preach upheaval, but static.

Nothing new was to happen that would challenge the social balance, their authoritarian influence... and their income.

Nothing different was to be explored and found.

Yet, yesterday as today, within each woman and man resides a volcano of potential energies - which according to the dominant ideology only had to be stifled and aligned.

For all that still drags on, we conversely seek a God to be experienced, who is lovable, not 'artfully' constructed... nor invisible or far removed from our condition.

We want the One who gives breath, and understands us.

This is clearly understood: what we hatch is not a miserable illusion, to be extinguished in favour of external balances.

In fact, the Gospel (v.35) proclaims Grace: the face of the Father - who wants nothing for himself, but gives everything to transmit his own Life to us. And he does this not to deaden our inner energy.

The Glad Tidings proclaim a Friend who comes, who does not force us to "ascend" [in the abstract] nor imprison us within guilt, exhausting the already subdued creatures - making them even more desolate than before.

Here is revealed a Heaven that makes one feel adequate, does not chastise or even impress, but promotes and puts everyone at ease; a Merciful One who is not only good: exclusively good.

The prodigal Father welcomes people as the Son does in the Gospels - just as they are; not inquiring. Rather by expanding.

His Word-event also does not only reactivate: it reintegrates imbalances and enhances them in the perspective of real-person paths - without judging or dispersing, or breaking anything.

For such a work of wise recomposition of being, the Master invites to Prayer (v.38) - the disciples' first form of commitment.

Access to different attunements in the Spirit teaches us to stimulate the soul's gaze, to value and understand everything and everyone.

So - after making them less ignorant - Jesus invites his disciples to involve themselves in missionary work; not to act like scholars or moral lecturers.

That would be careless posturing, which makes the hopeless feel even more lost.

The Mission grows from a small but boundless dimension - that of intimate perception, which becomes aware of the needs and mystery of a favourable Presence.

New configurations of understanding, in spirit: fully discovered only in deep prayer (v.38). Incarnate prayer.

It is not meant to distract us from inner realisation; on the contrary, it acts as a guide, and returns the soul, dispersed in the many common practices to be performed, to its own centre.

It makes us experience the yearning and understanding of the perfect condition: the Father does not intend to absorb our aptitudes, but to strengthen them. For everyone has an intimate project, a Calling by Name, their own place in the world.

It seems paradoxical, but the outgoing Church - the one that does not speculate, nor engage in mass proselytising to impress the mainstream - is first and foremost a matter of formation and internal awareness.

In short, one recognises oneself and becomes not unaware of things through prayer-presentment, unitive.

In Christ, it is not performance or devout expression, but rather understanding and first and foremost listening to the God who reveals and calls in a thousand subtle forms.

The commitment to heal the world is not won without an awareness of vocation, nor by allowing oneself to be plagiarised and going haphazardly.

Rather, by sharpening our gaze, and reinvesting virtue and character even in our own sides that are still in shadow.

Nor does it remain essential to always cross every boundary (Mt 10:5-6) with a logic of flight.

For not infrequently - unfortunately - only those who love strength start from the too far removed from themselves [from the far off and out of reach].

The 'sheep' lost and weary of trying and trying again - the excluded, the considered lost, the marginalised - are not lacking. They are close at hand, and there is no urgency to extricate oneself immediately. Almost as if to exempt oneself from those closest.

The horizon expands itself, if one is convinced and does not like masks or subterfuges.The sense of proximity to oneself, to others and to reality is an authentic bearer of the Kingdom that is revealed: the Near.

Understanding the nature of creatures and conforming to it in a growing way, all are inspired to change and complete themselves, enriching even cultural sclerosis, without alienating forcings.

Exercising a practice of goodness even with oneself.

Some of the most quoted aphorisms from the Tao culture read: "The way of doing is being"; "he who knows others is wise, he who knows himself is enlightened"; "a long journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step"; "the master observes the world, but trusts his inner vision"; "if you correct your mind, the rest of your life will fall into place"; "when you accept yourself, the whole world accepts you".

So in the battle against infirmity (Mt 9:35-10:1): we recover and overcome by sharpening our gaze and reinvesting the energy and character even of our own still-dulled sides.

All the gratuitousness (Mt 10:8) that may flow from this to build up life for the sake of our brothers and sisters, will burst forth not as puerile [hysterical] reciprocation or engagement.

It will be spontaneous, solid and cheering Love Dialogue, because it will be free of those imbalances that smoulder under the ashes of facade conditioning.

The sense of proximity (v.7) to oneself, to others, and to reality will be an authentic - not programmatic, nor alienated - port of the Reign that is revealed: Beside.

To internalise and live the message:

Does Prayer in Christ shake your conscience?

What consolation do you expect from the God Who Comes?

Perhaps a reward?

Or a gratuitousness that triggers - here and now - true Love-understanding, attentive to the calls of every subtle Voice?

The torch of mission: Proximity

Our God is the God of proximity, he is a God who is close, walking with his people. That image in the desert, in Exodus: the cloud and the pillar of fire to protect the people: he walks with his people. He is not a God who leaves the prescriptions written down and says, 'Go ahead'. He makes the prescriptions, he writes them with his own hand on stone, he gives them to Moses, he gives them to Moses, but he does not leave the prescriptions and go: he walks, he is near. "What nation has a God so near?" It is closeness. Ours is a God of closeness.

And man's first response, in the first pages of the Bible, are two attitudes of non-neighbourliness. Our response is always to turn away, we turn away from God. He comes near and we turn away. Those two first pages. Adam's first attitude with his wife is to hide: they hide from God's closeness, they are ashamed, because they have sinned, and sin leads us to hide, to not want closeness (cf. Gen 3:8-10). And many times, [it leads] to a theology designed only on a judge God; and for this I hide, I am afraid. The second attitude, human, before the proposal of this closeness of God is to kill. To kill one's brother. "I am not my brother's keeper" (cf. Gen 4:9).

Two attitudes that wipe out all closeness. Man refuses God's closeness, he wants to be master of relationships, and closeness always brings with it some weakness. The 'near God' becomes weak, and the closer he gets, the weaker he seems. When he comes to us, to dwell with us, he makes himself man, one of us: he makes himself weak and brings weakness to the point of death and the cruellest death, the death of murderers, the death of the greatest sinners. Proximity humbles God. He humbles himself to be with us, to walk with us, to help us.

The 'near God' speaks to us of humility. He is not a 'great God', no. He is near. He is at home. And we see this in Jesus, God made man, close even unto death. With his disciples: he accompanies them, he teaches them, he corrects them with love... Let us think, for example, of Jesus' closeness to the distressed disciples of Emmaus: they were distressed, they were defeated, and he slowly approached them, to make them understand the message of life, of resurrection (cf. Lk 24:13-32).

Our God is near and asks us to be close, to each other, not to turn away from each other. And in this moment of crisis due to the pandemic we are experiencing, this closeness asks us to manifest it more, to show it more. We cannot, perhaps, get physically close because of the fear of contagion, but we can awaken in us an attitude of closeness among ourselves: with prayer, with help, so many ways of closeness. And why should we be close to one another? Because our God is close, he wanted to accompany us in life. He is the God of proximity. That is why we are not isolated people: we are close, because the inheritance we have received from the Lord is proximity, that is, the gesture of closeness.

Let us ask the Lord for the grace to be close, one to another; not to hide from one another; not to wash our hands, as Cain did, of another's problem, no. Neighbours. Proximity. Proximity. "For what great nation has the gods so close to it, as the Lord, our God, is close to us whenever we call upon Him?"

(Pope Francis, St. Martha homily 18 March 2020)

The 48th World Day of Prayer for Vocations, to be celebrated on 15 May 2011, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, invites us to reflect on the theme: “Proposing Vocations in the Local Church”. Seventy years ago, Venerable Pius XII established the Pontifical Work of Priestly Vocations. Similar bodies, led by priests and members of the lay faithful, were subsequently established by Bishops in many dioceses as a response to the call of the Good Shepherd who, “when he saw the crowds, had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd”, and went on to say: “The harvest is plentiful but the labourers are few. Pray therefore the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest!” (Mt 9:36-38).

The work of carefully encouraging and supporting vocations finds a radiant source of inspiration in those places in the Gospel where Jesus calls his disciples to follow him and trains them with love and care. We should pay close attention to the way that Jesus called his closest associates to proclaim the Kingdom of God (cf. Lk 10:9). In the first place, it is clear that the first thing he did was to pray for them: before calling them, Jesus spent the night alone in prayer, listening to the will of the Father (cf. Lk 6:12) in a spirit of interior detachment from mundane concerns. It is Jesus’ intimate conversation with the Father which results in the calling of his disciples. Vocations to the ministerial priesthood and to the consecrated life are first and foremost the fruit of constant contact with the living God and insistent prayer lifted up to the “Lord of the harvest”, whether in parish communities, in Christian families or in groups specifically devoted to prayer for vocations.

At the beginning of his public life, the Lord called some fishermen on the shore of the Sea of Galilee: “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men” (Mt 4:19). He revealed his messianic mission to them by the many “signs” which showed his love for humanity and the gift of the Father’s mercy. Through his words and his way of life he prepared them to carry on his saving work. Finally, knowing “that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father” (Jn 13:1), he entrusted to them the memorial of his death and resurrection, and before ascending into heaven he sent them out to the whole world with the command: “Go, therefore, make disciples of all nations” (Mt 28:19).

It is a challenging and uplifting invitation that Jesus addresses to those to whom he says: “Follow me!”. He invites them to become his friends, to listen attentively to his word and to live with him. He teaches them complete commitment to God and to the extension of his kingdom in accordance with the law of the Gospel: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit ” (Jn 12:24). He invites them to leave behind their own narrow agenda and their notions of self-fulfilment in order to immerse themselves in another will, the will of God, and to be guided by it. He gives them an experience of fraternity, one born of that total openness to God (cf. Mt 12:49-50) which becomes the hallmark of the community of Jesus: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (Jn 13:35).

It is no less challenging to follow Christ today. It means learning to keep our gaze fixed on Jesus, growing close to him, listening to his word and encountering him in the sacraments; it means learning to conform our will to his. This requires a genuine school of formation for all those who would prepare themselves for the ministerial priesthood or the consecrated life under the guidance of the competent ecclesial authorities. The Lord does not fail to call people at every stage of life to share in his mission and to serve the Church in the ordained ministry and in the consecrated life. The Church is “called to safeguard this gift, to esteem it and love it. She is responsible for the birth and development of priestly vocations” (John Paul II, Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation Pastores Dabo Vobis, 41). Particularly in these times, when the voice of the Lord seems to be drowned out by “other voices” and his invitation to follow him by the gift of one’s own life may seem too difficult, every Christian community, every member of the Church, needs consciously to feel responsibility for promoting vocations. It is important to encourage and support those who show clear signs of a call to priestly life and religious consecration, and to enable hem to feel the warmth of the whole community as they respond “yes” to God and the Church. I encourage them, in the same words which I addressed to those who have already chosen to enter the seminary: “You have done a good thing. Because people will always have need of God, even in an age marked by technical mastery of the world and globalization: they will always need the God who has revealed himself in Jesus Christ, the God who gathers us together in the universal Church in order to learn with him and through him life’s true meaning and in order to uphold and apply the standards of true humanity” (Letter to Seminarians, 18 October 2010).

It is essential that every local Church become more sensitive and attentive to the pastoral care of vocations, helping children and young people in particular at every level of family, parish and associations – as Jesus did with his disciples - to grow into a genuine and affectionate friendship with the Lord, cultivated through personal and liturgical prayer; to grow in familiarity with the sacred Scriptures and thus to listen attentively and fruitfully to the word of God; to understand that entering into God’s will does not crush or destroy a person, but instead leads to the discovery of the deepest truth about ourselves; and finally to be generous and fraternal in relationships with others, since it is only in being open to the love of God that we discover true joy and the fulfilment of our aspirations. “Proposing Vocations in the Local Church” means having the courage, through an attentive and suitable concern for vocations, to point out this challenging way of following Christ which, because it is so rich in meaning, is capable of engaging the whole of one’s life.

I address a particular word to you, my dear brother Bishops. To ensure the continuity and growth of your saving mission in Christ, you should “foster priestly and religious vocations as much as possible, and should take a special interest in missionary vocations” (Christus Dominus, 15). The Lord needs you to cooperate with him in ensuring that his call reaches the hearts of those whom he has chosen. Choose carefully those who work in the Diocesan Vocations Office, that valuable means for the promotion and organization of the pastoral care of vocations and the prayer which sustains it and guarantees its effectiveness. I would also remind you, dear brother Bishops, of the concern of the universal Church for an equitable distribution of priests in the world. Your openness to the needs of dioceses experiencing a dearth of vocations will become a blessing from God for your communities and a sign to the faithful of a priestly service that generously considers the needs of the entire Church.

The Second Vatican Council explicitly reminded us that “the duty of fostering vocations pertains to the whole Christian community, which should exercise it above all by a fully Christian life” (Optatam Totius, 2). I wish, then, to say a special word of acknowledgment and encouragement to those who work closely in various ways with the priests in their parishes. In particular, I turn to those who can offer a specific contribution to the pastoral care of vocations: to priests, families, catechists and leaders of parish groups. I ask priests to testify to their communion with their bishop and their fellow priests, and thus to provide a rich soil for the seeds of a priestly vocation. May families be “animated by the spirit of faith and love and by the sense of duty” (Optatam Totius, 2) which is capable of helping children to welcome generously the call to priesthood and to religious life. May catechists and leaders of Catholic groups and ecclesial movements, convinced of their educational mission, seek to “guide the young people entrusted to them so that these will recognize and freely accept a divine vocation” (ibid.).

Dear brothers and sisters, your commitment to the promotion and care of vocations becomes most significant and pastorally effective when carried out in the unity of the Church and in the service of communion. For this reason, every moment in the life of the Church community – catechesis, formation meetings, liturgical prayer, pilgrimages – can be a precious opportunity for awakening in the People of God, and in particular in children and young people, a sense of belonging to the Church and of responsibility for answering the call to priesthood and to religious life by a free and informed decision.

The ability to foster vocations is a hallmark of the vitality of a local Church. With trust and perseverance let us invoke the aid of the Virgin Mary, that by the example of her own acceptance of God’s saving plan and her powerful intercession, every community will be more and more open to saying “yes” to the Lord who is constantly calling new labourers to his harvest. With this hope, I cordially impart to all my Apostolic Blessing.

From the Vatican, 15 November 2010

[Pope Benedict, from the Message for the 48th World Day of Prayer for Vocations, 15 May 2011]

This is the first time that the new Pope is speaking to you on the occasion of the World Day of Prayer for Vocations.

In the first place, let my and your affectionate and grateful remembrance go to the late Pope Paul VI. We are grateful, because during the Council he established this Day of prayer for all vocations to special consecration to God and the Church. We are grateful, because every year, for fifteen years, he highlighted this Day with his words as a Teacher, and encouraged us with his Pastor's heart.

Following his example, I now turn to you on this sixteenth World Day, to confide to you a number of things that I have very much at heart, almost like three passwords: pray, call, respond.

1. First of all, Pray. The reason why we must pray is certainly a big one, if Christ himself commanded us to do it: "Pray therefore the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest" (Mt 9: 38). Let this Day be a public witness of faith and obedience to the Lord's command. So celebrate it in your Cathedrals: the Bishops together with the clergy, the men and women religious, the missionaries, those aspiring to the priesthood and the consecrated life, the people, the young people, many young people. Celebrate it in the parishes, communities, shrines, colleges and the places where there are people who are suffering. From every part of the world let this insistent prayer rise to heaven, to ask the Father what Christ wanted us to ask.

Let it be a Day full of hope. May it find us gathered together, as though in a worldwide Upper Room, "in continuous prayer, together with... Mary the Mother of Jesus (Acts 1:14), confidently awaiting the gifts of the Holy Spirit. In fact, on the altar of the Eucharistic Sacrifice, round which we gather in prayer, it is the same Christ who prays with us and for us, and assures us that we shall obtain what we ask for: "If two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them" (Mt 18: 19 f). There are many of us gathered in his name, and we ask only for what he wants. In view of his solemn promise, how can we fail to pray with minds full of hope?

Let this Day be a centre of spiritual radiation. Let our prayer spread out and continue in the churches, communities, families, the hearts of the faithful, as though in an invisible monastery from which an unbroken invocation rises to the Lord.

[Pope John Paul II, Message for the 16th World Day for Vocations, 6 January 1979]

Our God is the God of proximity, he is a God who is close, who walks with his people. That image in the desert, in Exodus: the cloud and the pillar of fire to protect the people: he walks with his people. He is not a God who leaves the prescriptions written down and says, 'Go ahead'. He makes the prescriptions, he writes them with his own hand on stone, he gives them to Moses, he gives them to Moses, but he does not leave the prescriptions and go: he walks, he is near. "What nation has a God so near?" It is closeness. Ours is a God of closeness.

And man's first response, in the first pages of the Bible, are two attitudes of non-neighbourliness. Our response is always to turn away, we turn away from God. He comes near and we turn away. Those two first pages. Adam's first attitude with his wife is to hide: they hide from God's closeness, they are ashamed, because they have sinned, and sin leads us to hide, to not want closeness (cf. Gen 3:8-10). And many times, [it leads] to a theology designed only on a judge God; and for this I hide, I am afraid. The second attitude, human, before the proposal of this closeness of God is to kill. To kill one's brother. "I am not my brother's keeper" (cf. Gen 4:9).

Two attitudes that wipe out all closeness. Man refuses God's closeness, he wants to be master of relationships, and closeness always brings with it some weakness. The 'near God' becomes weak, and the closer he gets, the weaker he seems. When he comes to us, to dwell with us, he makes himself man, one of us: he makes himself weak and brings weakness to the point of death and the cruellest death, the death of murderers, the death of the greatest sinners. Proximity humbles God. He humbles himself to be with us, to walk with us, to help us.

The 'near God' speaks to us of humility. He is not a 'great God', no. He is near. He is at home. And we see this in Jesus, God made man, close even unto death. With his disciples: he accompanies them, he teaches them, he corrects them with love... Let us think, for example, of Jesus' closeness to the distressed disciples of Emmaus: they were distressed, they were defeated, and he slowly approached them, to make them understand the message of life, of resurrection (cf. Lk 24:13-32).

Our God is near and asks us to be close, to each other, not to turn away from each other. And in this moment of crisis due to the pandemic we are experiencing, this closeness asks us to manifest it more, to show it more. We cannot, perhaps, get physically close because of the fear of contagion, but we can awaken in us an attitude of closeness among ourselves: with prayer, with help, so many ways of closeness. And why must we be close to one another? Because our God is close, he wanted to accompany us in life. He is the God of proximity. That is why we are not isolated people: we are close, because the inheritance we have received from the Lord is proximity, that is, the gesture of closeness.

Let us ask the Lord for the grace to be close, one to another; not to hide from one another; not to wash our hands, as Cain did, of another's problem, no. Neighbours. Proximity. Proximity. "For what great nation has the gods so close to it, as the Lord, our God, is close to us whenever we call upon Him?"

[Pope Francis, St Marta homily 18 March 2020]

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [5 July 2026]

First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Zechariah (9:9–10)

This text could be summarised as follows: for the prophet Zechariah, the Messiah is a King of peace, not of war, and humble like the Servant. ‘Rejoice, O Daughter of Zion’ is a message of consolation in times of war. For thus says the Lord: Rejoice, shout for joy, O Daughter of Jerusalem! ‘Daughter of Zion/Jerusalem’ is not a young woman, but the city itself: it is as if to say ‘Jerusalem, rejoice’. The paradox is that whilst the tone is triumphant, in reality it is a time of war because the prophet Zechariah carried out his mission at the beginning of Greek rule (c. 330 BC), following Alexander’s conquests, and it is an ‘oracle of consolation’. This helps us to understand certain expressions such as ‘He will remove the war chariots from Ephraim and the war horses from Jerusalem; he will break the bow of war and proclaim peace to the nations’. At a time when all seems lost, Zechariah leads Israel to hope in God’s intervention. And when Zechariah speaks of the Messiah, he uses the classic terms of the expected Messiah: a king who brings justice and peace: ‘O God, entrust your judgement to the king… May he rule from sea to sea, from the River to the ends of the earth’ (Ps 71/72).  The boldness lies in proclaiming this hope precisely when all human hope has collapsed. Here are three statements by Zechariah, the last of which is decisive. First: “He will proclaim peace to the nations”: it was only after the exile to Babylon that Israel realised that God’s plan encompasses all humanity.  Second: “He will remove… from Ephraim… from Jerusalem”: mentioning Ephraim (the North) and Jerusalem (the South) together is a subtle way of announcing the restoration and reunification of the ancient kingdom of David. By the time Zechariah was writing, the North and South had long since lost their unity and sovereignty. Third: The real novelty: “poor and riding on a donkey, a colt, the foal of a donkey”. The donkey is a humble mount. Alexander’s conquerors rode on quite different steeds. In Jerusalem, Solomon had introduced the warhorse and the parade horse, and was reproached for his taste for grandeur. A king on a donkey had never been seen before.  Jesus presents himself as the Messiah ‘in the manner of Zechariah’. Isaiah had already glimpsed a humble Messiah (Isaiah 50:6; 53:7). The Servant does not bear the title of ‘king’, but carries out the work of the Messiah and is filled with the Spirit of God.  Zechariah, on the other hand, immediately presents the Messiah as King: he takes up the traditional expectation of the Messiah-King. The novelty lies in combining this royal expectation with the humility of Isaiah’s Servant. For his king is humble: the dreams of grandeur, war and power come to an end. Only one thing matters: establishing peace for his people. The four Gospels describe Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem precisely as the coming of this King riding on a donkey. Matthew (Mt 21:5) and John (12:15) quote Zechariah. Perhaps Jesus himself quoted it to the disciples on the road to Emmaus, whilst ‘explaining to them what was written about himself in the Scriptures’ (Lk 24:27). 

Responsorial Psalm (144/145)

In this psalm, it is clear that God’s kingship is mercy towards all. Moreover, Psalm 144/145 is the only one entitled ‘Praise’. Whilst it is true that the entire Hebrew Psalter is called ‘praises’, this is the only psalm actually titled ‘praise’. The tone is one of wonder; the theme is the kingship of the God of the Covenant. In a celebration of the renewal of the Covenant, Israel contemplates the King who protects them freely, without merit. Hence the royal language: “I will exalt you, my God, my King… your faithful ones will proclaim the glory of your kingdom; they will speak of your mighty deeds”. We can discern in this psalm an “alphabet” of tenderness because it is an “alphabetical” psalm, and from Aleph to Tav—that is, “all of life, from A to Z, is immersed in the Covenant, in God’s tenderness”. The verse-by-verse parallelism is very marked: it should be read by two alternating choirs. And it is precisely this parallelism that is instructive, because in the liturgy two pairs of verses are joined which, at first glance, are surprising: “The Lord is faithful in all his words and good in all his deeds; the Lord upholds those who falter and lifts up all who have fallen”.  “The Lord is faithful in all his words and good in all his deeds / He is close to those who call upon him, to those who call upon him in sincerity.” This means that God’s justice, truth and faithfulness are nothing other than his mercy. The greatest justice in the world is not that of the scales, but that of love. If we live “according to the Spirit of God”, as Paul urges the Romans – Sunday’s second reading – we set out precisely on this path: a justice that is synonymous with mercy. The King spoken of in the psalm is not like the kings of the earth; he is almighty and good: he desires only our happiness. When Israel speaks of the power of this King ‘not like the others’, it knows that his power is nothing but love: ‘The Lord is good; he is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger and abounding in love.’ This is the finest summary of the entire biblical revelation. Israel speaks from experience: how many times, especially during the exile in Babylon, did it call upon God and plead for forgiveness and a return… Now the people gathered in the rebuilt Temple sing: ‘The Lord is merciful and compassionate.’ ‘May all your works praise you, O Lord, and may your faithful bless you’—may they bless you!... O God, my King, I will exalt you and bless your name for ever and ever.’ The task is to sing it loud enough for everyone to know: the abundance of the Lord’s forgiveness, tenderness and compassion is for everyone, for God loves humanity and his ‘merciful plan’ encompasses all humanity and the whole of creation. It is easy to see why Psalm 144/145 has become the morning prayer of the people who were the first to learn to speak to God as to a father. For the Jewish believer, the morning – the dawn of a new day – irresistibly evokes the dawn of the final Day, of the world to come, of the renewed creation. The rabbinic tradition of the Talmud states that whoever recites this psalm three times a day ‘can be sure of being a child of the world to come’.  

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (8:9, 11–13)

For Saint Paul, living according to the Spirit means allowing God’s Love to dwell within us. 

The difficulty with this text lies in the word ‘flesh’. For Paul, it does not have the same meaning as it does in our 21st-century English. We contrast ‘body’ and ‘soul’ and risk a huge misunderstanding. When Paul says ‘flesh’, he does not mean the body; when he says ‘Spirit’, he does not mean the soul. Nor does he set two words—‘flesh’ against ‘Spirit’—but rather two expressions: ‘living according to the flesh’ and ‘living according to the Spirit’. For him, it is a matter of choosing between two ways of life, two masters, two courses of action. For Paul, to live ‘according to the flesh’ is to live without God, relying solely on our own strength, confined within the limits of human intelligence and strength. Obviously, that doesn’t get us very far! Or rather, it can take us very far, but in the wrong direction. This is the theme of the ‘two paths’ that recurs constantly in Paul’s writing. Living without God always ends up meaning living far from God, in a state of estrangement that can only get worse. He described this in the opening chapters of the Letter to the Romans, using images from Genesis: to live according to the flesh is to live like Adam – he wants to become like God, but without God’s help. He is mistaken. We, too, sometimes seek happiness on our own, without Him or in opposition to Him, without realising that this is the best way to harm ourselves. ‘Living according to the Spirit’ is the great news  

because living ‘according to the Spirit’ means allowing oneself to be guided by Him, and thus living by the power of God: it changes everything!  The great news of the text is: ‘The Spirit of God dwells in you’, so ‘you are not under the dominion of the flesh, but under the dominion of the Spirit’.  The verb ‘to dwell’ appears three times today: whoever dwells in a house is the master; it is he who is in charge. We have literally become the Spirit’s dwelling places: it is He who is now in command. Our freedom lies in opening the door to Him. We must, however, consider what place we leave for Him in our home, for we are free to open the door to a greater or lesser extent. In many passages, Paul emphasises our freedom: ‘you are not under the dominion of the flesh’ means that we are no longer slaves to the forces of evil; we now have the strength to ensure that true values triumph: love, peace, truth and justice. We have the strength, but we are not obliged: the choice must be made anew at every moment. The more space we make for the Holy Spirit in our home – that is, the more we do what he suggests on the path of love, kindness and forgiveness – the more truly alive we will be. Before his conversion, Paul faithfully observed many moral and religious rules, but the Spirit of Christ did not dwell within him; he still lived ‘under the dominion of the flesh’. And this could have led him to violence and murder, in perfect good faith. Now his whole life is inspired by the Spirit of Christ, to the point of saying: ‘It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me’ (Gal 2:20). Two consequences can be drawn for us who are baptised: 1) We shall rise with Christ: a promise for the future. ‘The Spirit will exercise his power in us and bring to fulfilment in us what he brought to fulfilment in Jesus’ (Rom 8:11).  2) Even now, our lives are transformed just as Paul’s was, because we are now ‘under the rule of the Spirit’. ‘I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live,’ proclaimed Ezekiel (37:14). Paul often speaks of the new spiritual life that springs from Baptism: whilst remaining in our mortal bodies, we can already live by the Spirit of Christ. This is what John calls ‘eternal life’. In practical terms: the Spirit is Love. Simply replace ‘Spirit’ with ‘Love’, and to live according to the Spirit is to allow Him to inspire our words and deeds of love.  A few chapters earlier, Paul wrote to the Romans: ‘God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us’ (Rom 5:5). And to the Galatians he explains the fruits of the Spirit: ‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control’ (Gal 5:22): in a word, it is love expressed in all the concrete circumstances of life.  Paul is the heir to the prophets: they all affirm that our relationship with God is reflected in the quality of our relationship with others. In the Servant Songs, Isaiah affirms that to live according to the Spirit of God is to love and serve one’s brothers and sisters. As John says: ‘Whoever does not love remains in death… We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love our brothers and sisters’ (1 John 3:14). 

From the Gospel according to Matthew (11:25–30)

In this text, we find the central theme in Jesus’ ‘gentle yoke and light burden’, which is, in fact, the Law of love that brings rest: ‘ ‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.’ What is the ‘yoke’?  The yoke is a heavy, solid piece of wood that joins two oxen for ploughing. They join forces, and the stronger one sets the pace. Figuratively speaking, ‘taking up the yoke’ means binding oneself to someone to walk at the same pace, yoked to the same task. In the Old Testament and in Judaism, the expression was commonly used to refer to the Covenant: ‘to take up the yoke of the Torah’, that is, to commit oneself to following God’s Law, knowing that all the strength of the ‘team’ comes from God himself. For a Jew, the service of the Torah is not an unbearable burden; it is the path to true happiness. Ben Sirach said: “You will find your rest in it, and it will become your joy” (Sir 6:28). Jesus takes up this image, linking it to the yoke of the Torah and to rest: “Take my yoke upon you, become my disciples, practise my commandments, and you will find rest for your souls”.  And he adds: “Yes, my yoke is easy to bear and my burden is light.” One senses a criticism of certain Pharisees who had turned the Law into a litany of meticulous obligations. Of them, Jesus says: “They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people’s shoulders; but they themselves are not willing to move them even with a finger” (Mt 23:4). Meanwhile, the majority of the people struggled to observe all the commandments imposed by the religious authorities and felt the contempt directed at them. Jesus invites his disciples to lay aside these burdens that are too heavy: ‘Take my yoke upon you… my yoke is easy and my burden is light’. His yoke is simply the law of love, and it is He who gives us the strength to bear it. ‘Rest’ was also a familiar word. The Old Testament presented the Promised Land as the place of rest given by God to his people. Conversely, when the people were unfaithful, Psalm 94/95 expressed God’s sorrow: ‘This people’s heart is led astray… they shall not enter my rest’. Taking up that psalm, the Letter to the Hebrews announces a new day when, with Christ, we shall enter God’s rest with confidence: ‘Let us therefore strive to enter that rest’ (Heb 4:11). The absolute novelty is that Jesus identifies himself with God, and he alone can say, ‘I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you… my yoke is easy…’. The religious leaders were annoyed by this, whilst those who were weary under the weight of their burdens were drawn to the respect and care he showed to each one.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

13th Sunday in Ordinary Time (year A)  [28 June 2026]

First Reading from the Second Book of Kings (4:8–11, 14–16a)

Here is a brief overview of this Sunday’s biblical readings, beginning with this story of a beautiful human friendship. In Shunem, a village in the Northern Kingdom around 850 BC, Elisha, at the start of his ministry, forms a strong and lasting friendship with a wealthy family. The biblical authors do not recount this story merely as an anecdote: they have a theological purpose and show that the covenant between Elisha and the Shunammites is a reflection of the Covenant between God and Israel. This story unfolds in four acts: 1. The promise of a son: Elisha announces to the barren woman: ‘Next year, at this very time, you will be holding a son in your arms.’ She does not believe him and replies: ‘No, my lord, man of God, do not lie to your servant.’ Like Sarah at Mamre, she doubts. But the following year the child is born. 2. The resurrection: Years later, the child dies in the fields, struck down by heatstroke. Without losing faith, the mother lays the body on Elisha’s bed, in the room on the terrace, and runs to find him. She reminds him: ‘I had not asked you for anything; do not take this son from me.’ Elisha prays and raises the child from the dead. 3. The warning of famine: True to this friendship, Elisha warns the Shunammite woman of seven years of famine and advises her to leave for the land of the Philistines. She obeys and goes into exile. 4. The restoration of her property. On her return, her house and fields had been confiscated by the king’s officials. Elisha intervenes once more and restores her lands to her. But what theological lesson does this text offer us? This friendship illustrates five aspects of the Covenant between God and Israel: 1. A permanent covenant and faithfulness: God remains faithful even in the face of unbelief.  2. Constant care: Just as Elisha did for his hostess, God watches over his people without ceasing.  3. God dwells with us: Elisha accepts the room on the terrace: God wishes to dwell amongst his people, as in Solomon’s Temple.  4. God restores: Elisha restores the land; God promises to restore the land to Israel – a key message written during the Babylonian Exile.  5. God is the God of life: A promise of the child’s birth and resurrection, for God gives life. The Shunammite woman becomes a model of faith for us: she welcomes the prophet ‘as a prophet’, as Jesus will say in the Gospel of Matthew (10:41). Her trust is complete: she dares to tell God her needs and even her anger. She recognises Elisha as a ‘holy man of God’. Here is a practical application: God dwells in the heart of every person, and it is important to recognise this. 

Responsorial Psalm (88/89)

Here is a clear message: we must never doubt. The first reading recounts the long friendship between a family from Shunem and the prophet Elisha, the ‘man of God’. Through this human relationship, we reflect on the eternal Covenant between God and his people, and with all humanity. Psalm 88/89, which is proclaimed today, seems to be a song written in the midst of trial.  Although the few verses of the responsorial psalm seem full of joy, the complete psalm, comprising no fewer than 53 verses, was probably composed during the Babylonian Exile. It is a synthesis of the entire history of Israel: the beginning of the Covenant, the promises to David, the expectation of the Messiah… and then the collapse: no more kings in Jerusalem, no heir, and therefore no Messiah. Hence the anguished question in verse 50: ‘Where, O Lord, is your first love, the one you swore to David concerning your faithfulness?’. What is asserted with such force is, in reality, what one fears to have lost. The psalm is, moreover, the last in the third book of the Psalms and concludes with: ‘Blessed be the Lord for ever! Amen! Amen!’. It therefore has the character of a conclusion. On closer inspection, this psalm presents itself as a skilful composition. The first stanza is very carefully crafted, with parallel structures: I will sing of the Lord’s love without end; I will proclaim your faithfulness from age to age. Love/faithfulness, song/proclamation, without end/from age to age, established/stable, for ever/the heavens: a marvellous parallelism between time and space that invites us to cherish the singing of the Psalms.  The heart of the message is Love and faithfulness. In the complete psalm, the pairing ‘love and faithfulness’ occurs seven times, a symbolic number. It is the translation of the revelation to Moses on Mount Sinai: ‘A God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in love and faithfulness’ (Ex 34:6) .   In Hebrew, ‘love’—that is, ‘God’s acts of love’—indicates that God does not love merely in words, but ‘in deed and in truth’, as St John will say in the New Testament.  It is precisely during the exile that Israel remembers, more than ever, ‘God’s acts of love’ so as not to fall into the temptation of thinking that God has forgotten them. In short, the psalm presents a group of believers composing hymns to commemorate the faithfulness of God, who has never ceased to be the King of Israel. The phrase “for the Lord is our shield, our King, the Holy One of Israel” is sung precisely at a time when there is no longer a human king. And it is interesting that the psalm uses royal and martial vocabulary: ‘shout of triumph/terouah, power, strength, vigour, shield’ – because the king led the army. These are victorious expressions spoken in a time of defeat. And the psalm concludes by recalling the insults suffered by the Messiah: ‘ Remember, Lord, your servants who have been humiliated… your enemies have humiliated, Lord, your Messiah”.   Moral: it is precisely in the night, in the darkness of exile and trial, that we must believe in the light and in the reaffirmation of God’s promises.

Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Romans (6:3… 11)

St Paul points to a new way of life and responds to the objection  of those who reproach him, saying that by placing too much emphasis on the free gift of salvation, he is encouraging sin. He retorts: grace does not render sin irrelevant, but it no longer has power over the believer because, from Baptism, the believer is a ‘new creation’: ‘If anyone is in Christ, they are a new creation’ (2 Cor 5:17). Paul explains the meaning of the key word ‘death’, which is not biological, and uses this word in a theological sense: all of us who have been baptised into Christ Jesus have been baptised into his death… we have therefore died to sin, and now we live for God in Christ Jesus. It is a radical break with the past, one that no longer fears physical death. Paul speaks from experience: on the road to Damascus, he ‘died’ to the old self, to his former way of seeing, acting and believing. The ‘baptism’ of Israel thus serves as a key for Paul to explain Christian Baptism, as he clearly recalls in his First Letter to the Corinthians (cf. 1 Cor 10:1–2) . Israel, ‘baptised’ by Moses in the cloud and the sea during the crossing of the Red Sea, experienced the death of Egyptian slavery: forced labour, massacres, the Pharaoh’s bad faith – and thus a clean break with the machinery of oppression.  In this way, Christ brings about the decisive break: the person enslaved by sin, by doubts, by violence, is set free. Jesus, ‘obedient unto death, even death on a cross’ (Phil 2:8), breaks the vicious circle. His death is a triumph: ‘dead to sin once and for all, alive to God’. To live in the manner of Christ is therefore ‘to die to sin’—that is, to die to the old way of life: hatred, violence, the thirst for power and money—in order to ‘live for and in God’, that is, to choose Christ as the one Lord and to enter into a new life made up of love and service to one’s brothers and sisters. Baptism marks the beginning of this radical change: it is true liberation. Paul says to the baptised: “Consider yourselves dead to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus”. The gift has already been granted, but it remains to be put into practice every day. And here lies the challenge that arises from it: whilst entering into salvation is simple—for it is enough simply to believe—living it out becomes extremely demanding, as it requires us to model our daily lives on the Spirit of Christ. He repeats this in his letter to the Ephesians: ‘Put off the old self… be renewed in the spirit of your mind, and put on the new self, created according to God in righteousness and true holiness’ (Eph 4:22–24). There is but one secret: to keep our eyes fixed on the cross of Christ. Only his obedience and gentleness break the chain of violence. As Jesus says: ‘Abide in me, and I in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, neither can you unless you remain in me’ (Jn 15:4).

From the Gospel according to Matthew (10:37–42)

This text helps us to learn how to accept the necessary sacrifices. At first glance, Matthew 10:37–42 seems like a list of unrelated maxims. In reality, it is a single invitation: these are the detachments required by fidelity to the Gospel. After the Sermon on the Mount on love, Jesus speaks here of other demands. We must learn to love God in times of persecution of the Church: ‘Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me’. Loving God does not mean ceasing to love one’s family, even though he had warned shortly before: ‘Brother will turn against brother and father against son, and children will rise up against their parents and put them to death’ (cf. Mt 10:21). ‘I have not come to bring peace, but a sword… I will set a man against his father’ (Mt 10:34–35; cf. Micah 7:6). How can this be explained?  Every persecution gives rise to personal tragedies because one is forced to choose between faithfulness and death. Even without violence, it is within the family and amongst friends that bearing witness is most difficult and can lead to heart-wrenching conflict. To learn to love is therefore to take up one’s cross: “Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds their life will lose it; whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.”  For Jesus and his listeners, crucifixion was a humiliating form of mass execution carried out along Roman roads, as it exposed the condemned to horror, disgrace and derision. In Deuteronomy we read that the crucified person is ‘cursed by God’ (Deut 21:22–23). And in Psalm 21/22, Jesus proclaims: ‘I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men, rejected by the people’, although the interpretation of this passage helps us to better understand what Jesus meant (in the footnote, I have taken the liberty of including a text I came across). Jesus knows that he and his disciples will be persecuted, despised and humiliated. “A servant is not greater than his master. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you” (John 15:20). “Taking up the cross” means accepting being marginalised, losing one’s reputation for the sake of faithfulness to Christ. Finally, here is the only reward that answers all our objections: “ Whoever welcomes you welcomes me; whoever welcomes me welcomes the One who sent me… Whoever welcomes a prophet because he is a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; whoever welcomes a righteous person because he is righteous will receive a righteous person’s reward. And whoever gives even a single glass of cool water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple will not lose his reward”.  It sounds like a ‘give-and-take’, but it is not. We are not in the realm of ‘having’, but of ‘being’. God does not give quantities of goods, but eternal life: life in his very presence. All the saints bear witness to a quality of happiness, not a quantity.  Jesus himself promises: “ ‘Whoever has left houses, brothers, sisters, father, mother, children or fields for my sake will receive a hundredfold and will inherit eternal life’ (Mt 19:29).  Paul lived this out: ‘Whatever gains I once had, I have come to regard as a loss for the sake of Christ… so that I may know Christ, share in his sufferings, and become like him in his death’ (Phil 3:7–10). ‘Being seized by Christ’ is what is at stake. If one seeks a common thread running through this text, it can easily be found in the link between all these phrases, precisely in this verb; ‘being seized by Christ’ as an inner fire that makes possible all acts of renunciation out of fidelity to the Gospel: renunciation of affection, of esteem, of possessions, of life itself. The Beatitudes resound powerfully within our hearts: ‘Blessed are you when they revile you… Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great! ” (Mt 5:11–12).

Note: Jesus, the “worm” on the cross. On the cross, JESUS COMPARED HIMSELF TO AN INSECT TO REVEAL THE SECRET OF HIS DEATH. THIS IS THE MYSTERY OF PSALM 22… As he was dying on the cross, Jesus recited Psalm 22. It is the quintessential prophetic psalm of the crucifixion. But in verse 6 there is a humiliating and bewildering phrase: ‘Yet I am a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people’ . Why does the King of the universe, at the most glorious moment of redemption, describe himself as a ‘worm’?  Middle Eastern zoology reveals one of nature’s most moving portraits of love. The TOLA’ATH SHANI תּוֹלַעַת שָׁנִי, the Hebrew word used by David, is not the common term for ‘earthworm’. He used Tola’ath Shani, meaning ‘crimson worm’, from which a red dye was extracted. When the female of this crimson worm is ready to give birth, she performs an instinctive and radical act: she seeks out a tree trunk and attaches herself to it forever. It clings to it with such force that, if anyone tries to pry it loose, its body is torn apart.  There, still attached to the wood, it gives birth to its young. To protect them from predators, the mother secretes a crimson-red fluid that covers her entire body, stains the wood red and completely envelops her young. In this act of giving life and protection, the mother dies.  

Here is the extraordinary phenomenon: three days later, the mother’s lifeless body, still attached to the tree, loses its red colour, turns as white as snow and falls gently to the ground (Isaiah 1:18). JESUS NAILED HIMSELF TO THE TREE TO GIVE YOU LIFE: Jesus was not using a metaphor of humiliation, but was proclaiming his mission, and this is a message for us.  Jesus was saying to you from the cross: ‘I am the Tola’ath Shani’. He chose to go to the tree of his own free will. He allowed himself to be nailed to the cross, knowing that if he had come down from it, his ‘children’ – us – would have died at the hands of the predator. He shed his crimson fluid – his blood – to cover you, protect you and give you life, by offering up his own.  When you feel worthless, when you think that nobody cares about you or that the enemy will devour you, look at the wood of the cross. You have a Saviour who chose to die nailed to a tree rather than lose you. His blood has covered you entirely and, three days later, He rose again to make you as white as snow. You are the fruit of His perfect sacrifice!

+Giovanni D’Ercole

Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul  [29 June 2026]

First Reading from the Acts of the Apostles (12:1–11)

The central theme of this text is: ‘God always delivers for the sake of the mission’. At that time, the young Church was under pressure, and the miracle of Peter’s deliverance must not make us forget the atmosphere of the early Church. Jesus died around AD 30, and at the beginning the disciples were few in number and harmless. The problems began with ‘too spectacular’ healings, which led to Peter being imprisoned twice by the religious authorities: the first time alongside John, involving a trial and threats, whilst the second time alongside other apostles, who were freed at night by an angel: ‘Go, stand in the Temple and proclaim to the people all these words of life’ (Acts 5:17–20).  Then came the execution of Stephen and the persecution that drove the ‘Hellenists’ to flee from Jerusalem towards Samaria and the coast. James, Peter and John remained. In the episode in Acts 12, it is the political authorities who take action. We are under Herod Agrippa I, grandson of Herod the Great, who reigned alone from 41 to 44 AD. This is why we can date the episode precisely.  Agrippa, ‘a Roman in Caesarea, a Jew in Jerusalem’, sought to curry favour with both Rome and the Jews. In both cases, the Christians were enemies to be eliminated. To please the Jews, he has James, son of Zebedee, put to death and imprisons Peter during the Jewish Passover, the Week of Unleavened Bread. What interests Luke is the mission, not just Peter, who once again escapes miraculously, because for Luke the central point is evangelisation. The angel does not set them free to save them, but because ‘the world needs them’. God does not abandon the apostles: no blind tyranny can halt the proclamation of the Word of life. There is a parallel between Easter, the Exodus and the Passion. In a sense, the story of the Jewish Passover is repeated: Israel, enslaved and threatened with genocide, is miraculously freed by God. From century to century, the people remember that liberation is God’s work. And what of this paradox: can those called to proclaim and carry out God’s liberating work become complicit in a new form of domination? No Church is immune. Jesus died precisely because of the perversion of the religious power of his time: during Easter, the memorial of the liberating God, the Son of God is killed by the ‘defenders of God’. Yet it is the love and forgiveness of the ‘meek and humble of heart’ God that triumphs: Jesus rises from the dead. Now it is the young Church that faces religious and political power, just as Jesus did 10–15 years earlier, again during Passover in Jerusalem.  The angel says to Peter: ‘Get up quickly! Put on your belt, fasten your sandals…’. These are the very same words given to Israel on the night of the Exodus: ‘Gird your loins, put sandals on your feet, and take your staff in your hand. You shall eat it in haste’ (Ex 12:11). Luke is saying: God continues the work of liberation.  The entire narrative is structured on the model of Christ’s Passion and Resurrection: night, prison, soldiers, the ‘steamroller’ of domination. Peter sleeps passively, like Jesus in the sleep of death. For both of them, light dawns in the night: God is at work. And here is the conclusion: Jesus had said to Peter: ‘The forces of death—that is, of hatred—will not prevail’, and this teaches us that the miraculous is not an end in itself. God sets us free so that the mission may continue through the ages. The deliverance from Egypt, Christ’s Passover, Peter’s imprisonment: it is a single plan of God who saves in order to send us forth to proclaim the life that no one can destroy.

Responsorial Psalm (33/34)

In this psalm, we are guided by this central theme: God hears the cry of the poor and responds with the Spirit and with brothers and sisters.  After Peter’s deliverance, the psalm reminds us: ‘The angel of the Lord encamps round those who fear him, to deliver them’. And we realise that, whilst the whole Church was praying fervently for Peter in prison, the Lord set him free: ‘The poor cry out,’ says the psalm, ‘and the Lord hears…’. This is what faith is: daring to cry out to God, knowing that, in every circumstance, He hears our cry. The community cried out, and Peter was set free. Yet one question always remains: what if deliverance does not come? Jesus on the cross did not escape death. Peter himself, years later, would be imprisoned in Rome and executed. So was God no longer listening then? It is the question we keep asking ourselves: where is God when we suffer? What is the point of praying, and if we are not answered as we would like, does that mean we have prayed badly? Too many people say, ‘If you pray properly, everything will work out’, but we know that is not always the case. How many have prayed, made novenas and gone on pilgrimages for a healing that never came? This psalm offers us three answers. 1. God hears our cry. As at the burning bush: ‘I have seen the misery of my people in Egypt; I have heard their cry under their oppressors. I know their sufferings’ (Ex 3:7). The believer knows that the Lord is near in suffering, ‘on our side’. Psalm 33/34 says: ‘I sought the Lord, and he answered me… he delivered me. He listens, he saves; his angel encamps round us, he is a refuge’. 2. God responds by giving us his Spirit. “Ask, and it will be given to you… Which father… would give a snake to a son who asks for a fish?” (Luke 11:9–13). Jesus does not promise that everything will be resolved “as if by magic”. When we pray, God does not remove the problem, but fills us with his Spirit. With the Spirit, we can face our trials. Every prayer offered in faith opens us up to the transforming action of the Spirit. The answer to the desperate cry is therefore the inner strength of the Spirit to change the situation, to overcome the trial. “The poor man cries out; the Lord hears him: he saves him from all his troubles… I sought the Lord, and he answered me: he delivered me from all my fears.” Whatever blow may come, the believer knows they are heard, and their anguish can subside. 3. God raises up brothers and sisters around us.  Here is the second lesson from the burning bush: as soon as God says to Moses, ‘I have seen… I have heard the cry… I know their sufferings’, he stirs within Moses the impulse to free the people: “Go, I am sending you to Pharaoh; bring my people out of Egypt” (Ex 3:9–10).  Israel has experienced this pattern many times: suffering, a cry, prayer, and God raising up prophets and leaders to take their destiny back into their own hands. This is precisely the historical experience of Israel. 4. Faith is like a double word, a double cry: man cries out his misery to God, like Job. God listens and frees him from his anguish. And man speaks again to give thanks.  Israel’s vocation throughout the centuries has been to give voice to this polyphony of suffering, praise and hope, and throughout the course of its history nothing has been able to extinguish Israel’s hope. This is what characterises the believer:  ‘I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall ever be on my lips. I take pride in the Lord: let the poor hear and rejoice!’

Second Reading from the Second Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to Timothy (4:6–8, 17–18)

Not everyone agrees that the Letters to Timothy were written by Paul, but these lines are certainly his: indeed, they are his testament, his final farewell as a prisoner in Rome. He knows that he will be released only to be put to death. The ‘time of departure’ has come: he uses the Greek term anàlysis, ‘to cast off the moorings, to weigh anchor’.  Viewing life as a marathon, Paul takes stock using the sporting image dear to him: the long-distance runner crossing the finish line. The time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now all that remains is for me to receive the crown of righteousness.  In Rome, the victor did not receive a cup, but a laurel wreath. There is a crown for everyone, so Paul does not boast: he knows that the Lord, the righteous judge, will award it on that day; not only to me, but also to all those who have lovingly awaited his glorious appearing. God, the impartial judge, sees the intentions of the heart, and all the apostles, all the believers who have longed with love for the coming of Christ, will receive the crown. It is therefore not presumption, but unshakeable trust in God’s goodness. For the very strength to run comes from Him: ‘The Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that I might fulfil the proclamation of the Gospel and all the nations might hear it’. We must learn to expect everything from God: it is He who gives the strength to run, and it is He who gives the reward to all who run, for life is not a competitive race. Each in their own place, at their own pace; it is enough to ‘long with love for the coming of Christ’. Is this not the ‘blessed hope’ we profess at Mass: ‘We await your coming in glory’? For Paul, the definitive ‘manifestation’ of Christ has always been the horizon towards which to run, and he acknowledges that he has been forsaken by men, yet always sustained by the Lord. Like Christ on the cross and later Stephen, Paul forgives because it was precisely in his abandonment by men that he experienced the presence and strength of the Lord.  The final sentences are striking: he knows he will die, yet he says, ‘The Lord will deliver me from every evil and bring me safely into his heavenly kingdom’. He is not, therefore, speaking of physical death, which he expects from one day to the next; he is speaking of the worst danger: giving up, abandoning the race, losing faithfulness. The Lord has preserved him from this ‘lion’. His faithfulness is not his own doing, but a strength he has received; and for him, death is merely biological, rather than the passage into glory, for which he is already singing the hymn of joy: ‘To him be glory for ever and ever. Amen’.

From the Gospel according to Matthew (16:13–19)

At Caesarea, a turning point is reached; an important shift takes place in the vision of Christ: from the powerful Jesus to Jesus, the Son of God, crucified.  For Matthew, the episode at Caesarea Philippi is a decisive stage: immediately afterwards, Jesus began to explain to the disciples that he had to go to Jerusalem, suffer greatly at the hands of the elders, the chief priests and the scribes, be killed and rise again on the third day. ‘From this moment on’: thus a phase comes to an end, and what is surprising is that nothing new occurs in the titles, but everything is placed in a new light. Nothing unprecedented is said: Jesus gives himself the title ‘Son of Man’, which he has already used nine times in Matthew. Peter proclaims him ‘Son of God’, a title already used before. What is new is the leap in understanding: the ‘Son of Man’ in the Bible is the leader of God’s people, a title taken from the Book of Daniel: ‘Behold, one like a Son of Man was coming with the clouds of heaven… power, glory and a kingdom were given to him; all peoples, nations and languages served him. His power is eternal; his kingdom will never be destroyed’ (Dan 7:13–14). Daniel makes it clear that the ‘Son of Man’ is not merely an individual, but a people: ‘The saints of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess it for ever… the kingdom, the power and the greatness of the kingdoms under the whole heaven shall be given to the people of the saints of the Most High’ (Dan 7:18, 27) .  When Jesus applies this title to himself, he presents himself as the one who stands at the head of God’s people. ‘Son of God’, on the other hand, is a title that expresses trust, not power.  This title has already been used: in chapter 4, when the devil tempts Jesus: ‘If you are the Son of God’. He is right about the title, but wrong about its meaning: he imagines a powerful and invulnerable Son who uses his power for himself. For Jesus, ‘being the Son of God’ means trusting the Father completely and drawing strength from his Word.  After Jesus walks on the water, the disciples say to him: ‘Truly, you are the Son of God’. They were struck by his power over the sea. They were still one step away from understanding who Jesus truly is. What is new at Caesarea is that Peter proclaims, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’, not in response to a miracle; thus the ambiguity is dispelled and the journey towards true faith begins. “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah: it was not flesh and blood that revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.”  The novelty lies in the combination of the two titles: “Who is the Son of Man?” asks Jesus, and Peter replies, “He is the Son of God.” Jesus will make the same connection before the high priest: “You have said so. But I tell you: from now on you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power and coming on the clouds of heaven” (Mt 26:63). Here there is no longer any room for error: God reveals himself not as power and majesty, but as Love entrusted into the hands of humankind. As soon as Peter discovers who Jesus is,  Jesus entrusts him with a mission  for the Church: ‘You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church’. The Son of Man is a people, not an isolated individual.  On what does Christ—God made man—build his Church? On Peter, a fragile person whose only virtue is having listened to what the Father revealed to him. The sole pillar of the Church is faith in Jesus Christ.  ‘I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven: whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven’. This does not mean that Peter and his successors are omnipotent. It means that God is committed to them. If we remain in communion with the Church, we are in communion with God. The final reassurance is that Christ builds the Church, and herein lies the ultimate reason for our trust: Jesus says, ‘I will build my Church’. It is not our task to build it, but only to listen to what the living God wishes to reveal to us. And because it is the risen Christ, the Son of the living God, who builds it, we can be certain: “The gates of hell shall not prevail against it”.

+Giovanni D’Ercole