“My hand shall ever abide with him, my arms also shall strengthen him” (Ps 89:21).

This is what the Lord means when he says: “I have found David, my servant; with my holy oil I have anointed him” (v. 20). It is also what our Father thinks whenever he “encounters” a priest. And he goes on to say: “My faithfulness and my steadfast love shall be with him… He shall cry to me, ‘You are my Father, my God and the rock of my salvation”’ (vv. 24, 26).

It is good to enter with the Psalmist into this monologue of our God. He is talking about us, his priests, his pastors. But it is not really a monologue, since he is not the only one speaking. The Father says to Jesus: “Your friends, those who love you, can say to me in a particular way: ‘You are my Father’” (cf. Jn 14:21). If the Lord is so concerned about helping us, it is because he knows that the task of anointing his faithful people is not easy, it is demanding; it can tire us. We experience this in so many ways: from the ordinary fatigue brought on by our daily apostolate to the weariness of sickness, death and even martyrdom.

The tiredness of priests! Do you know how often I think about this weariness which all of you experience? I think about it and I pray about it, often, especially when I am tired myself. I pray for you as you labour amid the people of God entrusted to your care, many of you in lonely and dangerous places. Our weariness, dear priests, is like incense which silently rises up to heaven (cf. Ps 141:2; Rev 8:3-4). Our weariness goes straight to the heart of the Father.

Know that the Blessed Virgin Mary is well aware of this tiredness and she brings it straight to the Lord. As our Mother, she knows when her children are weary, and this is her greatest concern. “Welcome! Rest, my child. We will speak afterwards…”. “Whenever we draw near to her, she says to us: “Am I not here with you, I who am your Mother?” (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 286). And to her Son she will say, as she did at Cana, “They have no wine” (Jn 2:3).

It can also happen that, whenever we feel weighed down by pastoral work, we can be tempted to rest however we please, as if rest were not itself a gift of God. We must not fall into this temptation. Our weariness is precious in the eyes of Jesus who embraces us and lifts us up. “Come to me, all who labour and are overburdened, and I will give you rest” (Mt 11:28). Whenever a priest feels dead tired, yet is able to bow down in adoration and say: “Enough for today Lord”, and entrust himself to the Father, he knows that he will not fall but be renewed. The one who anoints God’s faithful people with oil is also himself anointed by the Lord: “He gives you a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit” (cf. Is 61:3).

Let us never forget that a key to fruitful priestly ministry lies in how we rest and in how we look at the way the Lord deals with our weariness. How difficult it is to learn how to rest! This says much about our trust and our ability to realize that that we too are sheep: we need the help of the Shepherd. A few questions can help us in this regard.

Do I know how to rest by accepting the love, gratitude and affection which I receive from God’s faithful people? Or, once my pastoral work is done, do I seek more refined relaxations, not those of the poor but those provided by a consumerist society? Is the Holy Spirit truly “rest in times of weariness” for me, or is he just someone who keeps me busy? Do I know how to seek help from a wise priest? Do I know how to take a break from myself, from the demands I make on myself, from my self-seeking and from my self-absorption? Do I know how to spend time with Jesus, with the Father, with the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph, with my patron saints, and to find rest in their demands, which are easy and light, and in their pleasures, for they delight to be in my company, and in their concerns and standards, which have only to do with the greater glory of God? Do I know how to rest from my enemies under the Lord’s protection? Am I preoccupied with how I should speak and act, or do I entrust myself to the Holy Spirit, who will teach me what I need to say in every situation? Do I worry needlessly, or, like Paul, do I find repose by saying: “I know him in whom I have placed my trust” (2 Tim 1:12)?

Let us return for a moment to what today’s liturgy describes as the work of the priest: to bring good news to the poor, to proclaim freedom to prisoners and healing to the blind, to offer liberation to the downtrodden and to announce the year of the Lord’s favour. Isaiah also mentions consoling the broken-hearted and comforting the afflicted.

These are not easy or purely mechanical jobs, like running an office, building a parish hall or laying out a soccer field for the young of the parish… The tasks of which Jesus speaks call for the ability to show compassion; our hearts are to be “moved” and fully engaged in carrying them out. We are to rejoice with couples who marry; we are to laugh with the children brought to the baptismal font; we are to accompany young fiancés and families; we are to suffer with those who receive the anointing of the sick in their hospital beds; we are to mourn with those burying a loved one… All these emotions…if we do not have an open heart, can exhaust the heart of a shepherd. For us priests, what happens in the lives of our people is not like a news bulletin: we know our people, we sense what is going on in their hearts. Our own heart, sharing in their suffering, feels “com-passion”, is exhausted, broken into a thousand pieces, moved and even “consumed” by the people. Take this, eat this… These are the words the priest of Jesus whispers repeatedly while caring for his faithful people: Take this, eat this; take this, drink this… In this way our priestly life is given over in service, in closeness to the People of God… and this always leaves us weary.

I wish to share with you some forms of weariness on which I have meditated.

There is what we can call “the weariness of people, the weariness of the crowd”. For the Lord, and for us, this can be exhausting – so the Gospel tells us – yet it is a good weariness, a fruitful and joyful exhaustion. The people who followed Jesus, the families which brought their children to him to be blessed, those who had been cured, those who came with their friends, the young people who were so excited about the Master… they did not even leave him time to eat. But the Lord never tired of being with people. On the contrary, he seemed renewed by their presence (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 11). This weariness in the midst of activity is a grace on which all priests can draw (cf. ibid., 279). And how beautiful it is! People love their priests, they want and need their shepherds! The faithful never leave us without something to do, unless we hide in our offices or go out in our cars wearing sun glasses. There is a good and healthy tiredness. It is the exhaustion of the priest who wears the smell of the sheep… but also smiles the smile of a father rejoicing in his children or grandchildren. It has nothing to do with those who wear expensive cologne and who look at others from afar and from above (cf. ibid., 97). We are the friends of the Bridegroom: this is our joy. If Jesus is shepherding the flock in our midst, we cannot be shepherds who are glum, plaintive or, even worse, bored. The smell of the sheep and the smile of a father…. Weary, yes, but with the joy of those who hear the Lord saying: “Come, O blessed of my Father” (Mt 25:34).

There is also the kind of weariness which we can call “the weariness of enemies”. The devil and his minions never sleep and, since their ears cannot bear to hear the word of God, they work tirelessly to silence that word and to distort it. Confronting them is more wearying. It involves not only doing good, with all the exertion this entails, but also defending the flock and oneself from evil (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 83). The evil one is far more astute than we are, and he is able to demolish in a moment what it took us years of patience to build up. Here we need to implore the grace to learn how to “offset” (and it is an important habit to acquire): to thwart evil without pulling up the good wheat, or presuming to protect like supermen what the Lord alone can protect. All this helps us not to let our guard down before the depths of iniquity, before the mockery of the wicked. In these situations of weariness, the Lord says to us: “Have courage! I have overcome the world!” (Jn 16:33). The word of God gives us strength.

And finally – I say finally lest you be too wearied by this homily itself! – there is also “weariness of ourselves” (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 277). This may be the most dangerous weariness of all. That is because the other two kinds come from being exposed, from going out of ourselves to anoint and to do battle (for our job is to care for others). But this third kind of weariness is more “self-referential”: it is dissatisfaction with oneself, but not the dissatisfaction of someone who directly confronts himself and serenely acknowledges his sinfulness and his need for God’s mercy, his help; such people ask for help and then move forward. Here we are speaking of a weariness associated with “wanting yet not wanting”, having given up everything but continuing to yearn for the fleshpots of Egypt, toying with the illusion of being something different. I like to call this kind of weariness “flirting with spiritual worldliness”. When we are alone, we realize how many areas of our life are steeped in this worldliness, so much so that we may feel that it can never be completely washed away. This can be a dangerous kind of weariness. The Book of Revelation shows us the reason for this weariness: “You have borne up for my sake and you have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first” (Rev 2:3-4). Only love gives true rest. What is not loved becomes tiresome, and in time, brings about a harmful weariness.

The most profound and mysterious image of how the Lord deals with our pastoral tiredness is that, “having loved his own, he loved them to the end” (Jn 13:1): the scene of his washing the feet of his disciples. I like to think of this as the cleansing of discipleship. The Lord purifies the path of discipleship itself. He “gets involved” with us (Evangelii Gaudium, 24), becomes personally responsible for removing every stain, all that grimy, worldly smog which clings to us from the journey we make in his name.

From our feet, we can tell how the rest of our body is doing. The way we follow the Lord reveals how our heart is faring. The wounds on our feet, our sprains and our weariness, are signs of how we have followed him, of the paths we have taken in seeking the lost sheep and in leading the flock to green pastures and still waters (cf. ibid., 270). The Lord washes us and cleanses us of all the dirt our feet have accumulated in following him. This is something holy. Do not let your feet remain dirty. Like battle wounds, the Lord kisses them and washes away the grime of our labours.

Our discipleship itself is cleansed by Jesus, so that we can rightly feel “joyful”, “fulfilled”, “free of fear and guilt”, and impelled to go out “even to the ends of the earth, to every periphery”. In this way we can bring the good news to the most abandoned, knowing that “he is with us always, even to the end of the world”. And please, let us ask for the grace to learn how to be weary, but weary in the best of ways!

[Pope Francis, Chrism homily 2 April 2015]

Easter, Ascension. (There is evidence that He is Alive)

What is the fate, the trajectory of a life spent in faithfulness to a prophetic calling? The earthly outcome of Jesus - the faithful Son - would seem to be that of the failures of all times.

So is it worth being yourself? Would not it be more constructive to regulate oneself on the basis of personal convenience and group opportunism? 

In short, with the Easter and Ascension of Jesus, what has changed?

People continue as before to travel or stay still, to buy and sell, to work or party, to rejoice or weep...

But as in a landscape characterized by fog, suddenly the sun rises and we see clean profiles, enjoying the brilliance of colors, even shades.

A sharper Vision, in the experience of Faith.

Easter celebrates precisely a joy: it is the feast of those who realize that defeats do not remain dark sides. They hide disproportionate Gems.

A full flowering remains of our passage. And it is not true that a destroyed or harassed existence is wasted or ends badly, leaving us orphans.

Rather, it sharpens listening and all perception. Thus we learn to welcome the reality of others and their-our unrepeatability.

We learn to dialogue with the raw reality and first of all with ourselves; so finally to honor God by respecting us in an integral way.

In Eastern icons, Passover is depicted as Descent to the Underworld: victory of the common woman and man [brought back to life].

Again in the icons, the Mystery of the Ascension is represented with two angels in white robes pointing out to the apostles the glorious nimbus of the Lord, seated on a throne.

As if to say: let’s contemplate where a life wasted according to men, but fulfilled according to the Father, has come.

Obeying our vocation uncompromisingly and wholly may seem imprudent, reckless. Instead, it is full self-respect, and leads us to our Homeland.

The nature of our fibres animated by the Inner Friend appeals not to social goals to be achieved, but to who we really are - and our profound Name unfolded in the path of Faith unfailingly accompanies us to the Cradle.

To allow oneself to be influenced and become external is to miss oneself and lose the Guide, ruining the completeness of being.

In spite of the apparent failure and reproaches that the personal and social unprecedented arouses, by listening to that unquenchable Fire that dwells within us, we realize life in an integral way.

If our attention is not on the scenery of what is happening around us, we can wince at the new awareness of an ongoing genesis of our personality and mission: a prototype and mode of ourselves that is mysteriously blossoming, and has value.

Unless we allow ourselves to be conditioned and overwhelmed by external interferences or calculations and circumstances around us, we sense that there is already a characterising track calling from the inside.

We intuit that we can be with ourselves and grow without foreclosures of unexpected, nor already commonly paradigmatic codes, because God expresses himself by creating renewed heavens within us and on earth.

Heaven: taking off without leaving. We are not alone. And the best is yet to Come.

P.S. Today, more than ever before, we are in the era of social showcases, which expose every aspect of history and news, even private ones.

When we value the aspect of the soul that communicates with the rinds of the achievements, we cut our heart off, or unbalance the mind with dominant thoughts, letting they be plagiarised by manipulators - even spiritual ones.

But the person who misplaces the Whole no longer follows the path that his Seed sings. It claims to express itself. Otherwise, we would proceed haphazardly or resort to clichés.

In short, we are not a judgement, an opinion, a crisis, a memory, but rather inventors of roads that tap into an ever springing Water.

Not to a well, nor to a swamp, where everything has already happened, but to a Source.

[Ascension of the Lord]

(Mt 28:16–20)

    Matthew does not describe the Ascension, but conveys the same message as Acts 1:1–11 (using different imagery): the passing on of the mission.

Unlike Luke and John, Matthew places the encounter with the Risen Lord in Galilee – not in Jerusalem, the sacred centre. The setting carries theological significance.

He does not make himself present and visible in the holy city, but rather on the ‘periphery’, and the apostles are invited to follow in the Master’s footsteps, starting from where his mission began.

The members of the communities in Galilee and Syria to whom Matthew addresses himself came from Judaism, but were looked down upon by observant Jews, who considered them double traitors to their culture.

Due to invasions from the north and east, the population of those lands was diverse, and the orthodox viewed such a mix with suspicion.

Moreover, by adhering to Christ, they had called into question the customs and authority of traditional teachings.

It is precisely to these lowly esteemed people that the Gospel of the Lord addresses itself, beginning with the experience of ‘the Mount’ (v. 16).

In biblical and Semitic culture in general, the Mount is the place of the special experience of the Eternal One, of his manifestations.

In Matthew, the term alludes to the setting of the Beatitudes: the place of God’s new work of salvation that transcends the Law.

Jerusalem was no longer to be the centre of worship and religiosity. The veil of the Temple is torn (Mt 27:51): access to the Father is no longer confined to a single place.

Every believer in Christ, of whatever background, who chose to replace the principles of the ‘plain’ [a competitive and conventional way of thinking and acting] with those of ‘the Mountain’, was empowered to become a living sanctuary.

The evangelist places Jesus precisely on ‘the Mountain’ when he wishes to emphasise a call or a fundamental gesture – an alternative to the fideist imagination.

It is a ‘place’ in the sense of the powerful moments of the Spirit, of the convergence between the divine and human natures: where we experience Christ manifesting his existential ‘authority’ throughout the whole span of life.

A summit that makes the criteria of the Mission clear – through the symbolism of divine Revelation and alluding to his own post-Easter condition [a lofty, ‘heavenly’ state].

And only those who have assimilated the teaching of ‘the Mountain’ – solely those who have experienced the Risen One – can carry out this Mission.

Indeed, the commissioning and sending of the disciples is made decisive. It introduces a radical change in the relationship with the disciples, who discover the divine in Him (v.17a) whilst at the same time retaining their doubts (v.17b).

Matthew is aware of the doubts that are creeping in. Despite this, it is precisely the uncertainty and the scandalous behaviour of the first direct followers that allows him to encourage the brothers of the community [even if his account shows a tendency to present the apostles as rather upright models].

The “churches” are not made up of perfect children. Indeed, it recalls (in this way) an unprecedented aspect that Jesus had introduced into the criteria of discernment and real life: the coexistence of different faces.

Whilst religious existence was conceived in terms of procedures, the refinement of feelings, ‘evidence’ and upward progress, the Master had taught the integration of ethnicities, affections, emotional mixtures and even opposing sides.

According to the new Rabbi, life in the Spirit brings Joy because it uncovers hidden treasures precisely in the shadowed sides of faltering people and precarious situations.

Joseph’s own doubt proved more than fruitful (cf. Mt 1:18ff).

It is good to believe in Jesus and – at the same time – to have questions: this is the difference between Faith and common religiosity.

Only to Christ is every ‘Ex-ousìa’ (v.18) given: authority that is not imposed, which emanates from the Mystery without coercion, and is therefore freely accepted [that is, a sort of authority arising from being itself].

This is a decisive moment for outlining the criteria of ecclesial action that makes Jesus present.

He entrusts us with a task, confers his own ‘powers’, and brings us into the communion of life.

It seems paradoxical, but it is on a platform of mixtures [a solid yet fluctuating foundation] that the Church becomes capable of inexplicable recoveries – and that the apostles are sent forth (vv.19-20).

It is this backdrop of competitive and malleable energies, taken on and assimilated, that changes life and prepares God’s future – not mass castration or sterilisation.

Faith and religious evidence now clash, creating sparks.

For this reason – on uncertain ground – there is an openness to the whole world (v. 19), whereas in a previous passage Matthew had limited the mission to the lost sheep of the house of Israel (Mt 10:5–6).

The lived experience of coexistence and conviviality amidst differences has allowed us to grasp the vitality of chaos, which shifts our gaze and broadens it; it compels us to overcome one-sidedness.

Confusion and upheaval which – as missionaries well know – resolve the real problems, opening up unforeseen horizons of incalculable value.

Imperfection has borne fruit in unexpected ways and has ushered in a new era: the novelty of an expanded ecclesiology.

Now the Light kindled upon the people immersed in darkness when Jesus had settled from Nazareth in Capernaum (Mt 4:13-) must unfold everywhere, through a discipleship extended to the peoples [pagans: v.19 Greek text] ‘every day and until the end of the age’ (v.20).

The particularism previously recognised [perhaps out of respect for the communal dimension and spatial-temporal limits] gives way to the new Inauguration.

Now boundaries fall away, giving way to total universalism – without any borders.

Immersion [v.19: the Greek meaning of the term ‘Baptism’] in the wonder that envelops the Person of the Lord permeates the disciple of Christ to the very core – with no further need for binding procedures and rules, established yet external.

Light animated by the promise of the Risen One who, recalling Emmanuel, God-with-us, concludes the Gospel of Matthew just as it began and was announced by the Prophets (cf. Mt 1:22–23).

The Ascension is not a break, a separation or a departure, but rather Communion. Prophecy has become a permanent reality.

To internalise and live the message:

How do you enter into the New Covenant? Are you mindful of the dialectic between Faith and doubt?

Do you regard it as a driving force or not, both for a new contemplation and for the blossoming of new energies?

How does the self-revelation of Jesus unfold within you? What strength has it imparted to you? What significance do the experience and vigour of ‘the Mount’ hold for you?

Easter, Ascension. Taking flight without drifting away

There is proof that He Lives

    What is the fate of a life spent in fidelity to a prophetic vocation?

The earthly outcome of Jesus – the faithful Son – would seem to be that of the failures of every age and of any culture, philosophy or religion.

So is it worth being oneself?

Would it not be more constructive to act on the basis of personal convenience and group opportunism?

Easter celebrates a joy: it is the feast of those who realise that defeats do not remain dark sides. They conceal disproportionate gems.

A full blossoming remains of our passage. And it is not true that a destroyed life is wasted or ends badly.

In Eastern icons, Easter is depicted as the Descent into Hell: the victory of ordinary men and women.

Again in the icons, the Mystery of the Ascension is generally depicted with two angels in white robes pointing out to the Apostles the glorious halo of the Lord, seated on his throne.

As if to say: behold where a life wasted in the eyes of men but fulfilled in the eyes of the Father has arrived.

Obeying our Calling without compromise and in its entirety may seem imprudent and reckless. Instead, it is full self-respect, and it leads us to our Homeland.

The nature of our being, animated by the inner Friend, appeals not to social goals to be achieved, but to who we truly are.

And our deepest identity, unfolding on the path of Faith, leads infallibly to the Cradle of being.

To allow oneself to be influenced and become external is to lose one’s way, ruining the wholeness of one’s innate capacities.

Despite the apparent failure and the reproaches that personal and social novelty provokes, by listening to our Call by Name and that unquenchable Fire that dwells within us, we realise life.

Today more than ever we are in the age of social showcases, which reveal every aspect of history and current affairs, even personal ones.

But the trunk, the branches, the flowers, the shoots and the fruits spring from the roots. They live well hidden.

Our Heaven is intertwined with our earth and our dust: it lies within and below, not behind the clouds.

If there is no time for careful perception and intimate reflection, there is no way to be reborn into the Newness of God.

At every turn of our journey, even the spiritual one, we become increasingly sensitive to the comments and judgements that arrive in real time.

Having become full members of the ‘skin-deep’ society, we lose our moral compass, and often the ability to evolve and help others grow.

By failing to rediscover the secret side that dwells within us, we become disheartened.

By losing sight of ourselves in the maze of widespread and entirely external judgement, we lose the capacity to nurture our personal Jesus, and we no longer give birth to him.

At best, we will make him resemble a paradigmatic semblance of himself; perhaps convincing ourselves that he is indeed that, entirely external.

In this way, the Lord becomes a Jesus shaped by the opinions of others around us; of the group, of patronal banners; or that of the ‘live broadcast’ [the opinion of those who draw an audience].

If we emphasise the aspect of the soul that communicates with the superficial layers of our targets, we sever or unbalance it with dominant thoughts, allowing it to be swayed by manipulators – even spiritual ones.

But the heart that loses its wholeness no longer guides the soul in what characterises the Vocation and our Seed.

The inner self demands to express itself. Otherwise, we proceed haphazardly, or with clichés.

We are not a judgement, an opinion, a crisis, a memory, but rather inventors of paths that draw from ever-flowing water.

Not from a well, nor from a swamp, where everything has already happened – but from a Spring.

If our attention is not on the conformist backdrop of what once was or what is happening around us, we are startled by the new awareness of a genesis in progress.

A rebirth of our personality and mission: a prototype and mode of being that are mysteriously blossoming and hold value.

Unless we allow ourselves to be conditioned and overwhelmed by cultural interference or the calculation of circumstances, we sense that there is a defining path calling to us.

We realise that we can be at one with ourselves and grow without precluding the unexpected, or codes that are already commonly accepted paradigms.

For God does not express Himself by issuing all-encompassing regulations, but by creating renewed heavens within us and already upon the earth.

In short, with the Resurrection and Ascension of Jesus, what has changed?

Apparently nothing, because people carry on as before: travelling or staying put, buying and selling, working or celebrating, rejoicing or weeping...

And yet, as in a landscape shrouded in mist, suddenly the sun rises and we see clear outlines; we enjoy the brilliance of colours, even the nuances.

Our listening and our entire perception are heightened.

We learn to accept the objectivity of others and their—our—uniqueness.

We learn to engage with reality and, above all, with ourselves; thus, at last, to honour the Eternal One, respecting ourselves in every way.

Heaven: taking flight without moving away. We are not alone. And the best is yet to come.

Ascension of the Lord: We are not orphans

(Acts 1:1-11)

At the end of his Gospel, Lk places the Ascension of Jesus on the same day as Easter, in Bethany and in the perennial act of blessing (Lk 24:50-51) - with a form of presentation understandable according to the cosmological knowledge of the time.

The same is said in Acts 1, where the same editor situates the event after forty days [symbolising continuity with the teaching of Jesus: v.3] and on the Mount of Olives (cf. v.12).

Certainly, on Calvary Jesus had promised the unfortunate man who calls him by name: "Today with me you will be in Paradise" (Lk 23:43).

The evangelist and author of the Acts of the Apostles does not want to convey information, but rather a teaching in favour of the missionary fortunes of his churches - physically deprived of the Master.

Luke wishes to shake up and dissolve the doubts that had arisen in the communities, first of all about the meaning of the handover to the disciples, then about his Presence operating in the Spirit (vv.8.16).

He enlightens the third-generation followers about the mystery of the Lord's Passover, using images and a literary genre understandable to his contemporaries, mostly from the pagan world.

In a climate of living expectation, the apocalyptic writers announced the imminent coming of the Kingdom of God. And in the common mindset, the outpouring of the Spirit brought with it the inauguration of the last time.

From this conviction arose the hope of an immediate Manifestation (limited to Israel).

The Coming One and his new order of things would come amid cosmic upheavals: floods, earthquakes, purifying fire from heaven, the resurrection of the just and the beginning of a finally fulfilling world.

A climate of exaltation was also being created among some of the faithful, which, however, conflicted with the death of the Master and the delay of his expected glorious appearance.

Any speculation on the proximity of the end of the ancient world resulted in a fiasco.

This went so far as to expose itself to easy ironies [2 Peter 3:4: "They will say: Where is his coming, which he promised? From the day our fathers closed their eyes, all things remain as at the beginning of creation"].

But in the meantime, "Come Lord!" (Marana tha) was repeated in all the communities. But the years passed and events flowed on as before.

Daily life - like that of the empire - did not seem to change much.

In this disappointing situation, which questioned the members of the community about the depth of the Faith, Lk realised the misunderstanding: the Resurrection marked the beginning of the Kingdom, not the conclusion of history.

The new world is not built through shortcuts, sudden events, immediate situations, or by proxy - nor does it arise by imagining particularisms, which on the contrary had to be crumbled.

The times were and are always long, and the endeavour starts from scratch every day: no easy golden age; no definitively resolving character, guarantor of order and well-being - like the expected Messiah.

To correct false expectations (the colourful accounts of the apocrypha are decidedly fanciful) At describes the event of royal enthronement [Eph 1:20-22; Eph 4:8-10; Heb 9:24-28.10:19-21; cf. Ps 110, messianic par excellence] in a sober manner, and introduces it with the dialogue between the Risen Jesus and the Apostles.

Their question was the one that resounded on the lips of the disciples at the turn of the first century: "When?" (v.6).

The meaning of the text: this is not important, we just need not lose sight of the divine condition of the one judged by men but taken up to himself by the Father.

God is not interested in debates and curiosities: all that matters is the universal mission entrusted (vv.7-8).

The exact opposite of what was happening in some Christian realities, where some had even begun to neglect their daily duties.

Note that the Risen One addresses His own during the breaking of the Bread (cf. v.4) - while the Ascension scene moves to the Mount of Olives (vv.9-11.12).

Luke uses the biblical icon of Elijah's rapture (2 Kings 2:9-15) as a narrative backdrop to indicate that Christ pours out his Spirit and empowers his brethren to continue his mission in the world.

In fact, the book of Kings narrates of the works of the pupil Elisha: they were modelled on those of the master, Elijah.

The grandiose scenography used by the author of Acts should not be confusing: it is to clarify the meaning of the handover and the sending forth.

The victory of the Risen One is his people coming forth: such remains the access to the glory of the Father.

In the First Testament, the Cloud (v.9) indicated the divine presence in a certain place.

Luke employs such an image to indicate that Jesus' life was not a failure, but was accepted by God.

God's world [the two in white robes, the same ones at the tomb on Easter Day: Lk 24:4-6] proclaims him in truth Lord - although condemned by the authorities as an evildoer, a sinner, a curse.The "two men" (Lk 24:4) are probably Moses and Elijah - as in the Transfiguration (Lk 9:30) - i.e. the Law and the Prophets, fundamental witnesses that Christ is the Messenger from God.

The gaze turned towards heaven (vv.10-11) is instead that of the disciples who are still perhaps hoping for a "return" [a term never used in the Gospels] of Jesus, so that he may resume his work violently interrupted.

But the message "from heaven" (v.11) makes it clear that it will not be He who will bring His own Dream to fulfilment.

After the forty days [v.3: in the language of Judaism, a symbolic time necessary for the disciple's preparation] the followers have received the Spirit, the inner strength enriched by discernment.

This is on one condition, well understood by the Eastern icons, which in the mystery of the Ascension depict precisely two white-clothed angels pointing to the apostles the glorious nimbus of the Lord.

As in the story of Elijah's rapture, it is necessary for the disciples to "see" where a life given - even despised by men, yet blessed by the Father - has ended.

So it is worth it.

In this way, it is necessary for everyone to stop turning their little nose upwards, alienating themselves from the world: whatever it takes.

Indeed, possible only... "If you see me" (2 Kings 2:10).

In the Spirit, Vision-Faith fills our eyes with Heaven: it detaches us from the judgments of banal religiosity; it gives the intelligence of the folds of history, the impulse to face life face to face, the understanding of the astonishing fruitfulness of the Cross; the ability to grasp, activate and anticipate the future.

Hence the "great joy" (Lk 24:52) of the apostles, otherwise incomprehensible after a farewell.

«Dear brothers and sisters, the Lord, by opening the way to Heaven, gives us a foretaste of divine life already on this earth. A 20th century Russian author wrote in his spiritual testament: 'Look at the stars more often. When you have a burden on your soul, look at the stars or the blue of the sky. When you feel sad, when you are offended, ... entertain yourself ... with the sky. Then your soul will find stillness' (N. Valentini - L. Žák [ed.], Pavel A. Florensky. Do not forget me. Le lettere dal gulag del grande matematico, filosofo e sacerdote russo, Milano 2000, p. 418)».

[Pope Benedict, Regina Coeli 16 May 2010]

Today, when I can sit for the first time on the Chair of the Bishop of Rome as Successor of Peter, is the day on which the Church in Italy celebrates the Feast of the Ascension of the Lord. At the centre of this day we find Christ. And it is also only thanks to him, thanks to the mystery of his Ascension, that we can understand the significance of the Chair, which in turn is the symbol of the Bishop's power and responsibility. 

So what does the Feast of the Ascension of the Lord mean for us? It does not mean that the Lord has departed to some place far from people and from the world. Christ's Ascension is not a journey into space toward the most remote stars; for basically, the planets, like the earth, are also made of physical elements. 

Christ's Ascension means that he no longer belongs to the world of corruption and death that conditions our life. It means that he belongs entirely to God. He, the Eternal Son, led our human existence into God's presence, taking with him flesh and blood in a transfigured form. 

The human being finds room in God; through Christ, the human being was introduced into the very life of God. And since God embraces and sustains the entire cosmos, the Ascension of the Lord means that Christ has not departed from us, but that he is now, thanks to his being with the Father, close to each one of us for ever. Each one of us can be on intimate terms with him; each can call upon him. The Lord is always within hearing. We can inwardly draw away from him. We can live turning our backs on him. But he always waits for us and is always close to us. 

From the readings of today's liturgy we also learn something more about the concrete way the Lord makes himself close to us. The Lord promises the disciples his Holy Spirit. The first reading that we heard tells us that the Holy Spirit will give "power" to the disciples; the Gospel adds that he will guide them to the whole truth. As the living Word of God, Jesus told his disciples everything, and God can give no more than himself. In Jesus, God gave us his whole self, that is, he gave us everything. As well as or together with this, there can be no other revelation which can communicate more or in some way complete the Revelation of Christ. In him, in the Son, all has been said to us, all has been given. 

But our understanding is limited: thus, the Spirit's mission is to introduce the Church, in an ever new way from generation to generation, into the greatness of Christ's mystery. The Spirit places nothing different or new beside Christ; no pneumatic revelation comes with the revelation of Christ - as some say -, no second level of Revelation. 

No: "He will have received from me...", Christ says in the Gospel (Jn 16: 14). And as Christ says only what he hears and receives from the Father, thus the Holy Spirit is the interpreter of Christ. "He will have received from me". He does not lead us to other places, far from Christ, but takes us further and further into Christ's light. Consequently, Christian Revelation is both ever old and new. Thus, all things are and always have been given to us. At the same time, every generation, in the inexhaustible encounter with the Lord - an encounter mediated by the Holy Spirit - always learns something new. 

The Holy Spirit, therefore, is the power through which Christ causes us to experience his closeness. But the first reading also has something else to say: you will be my witnesses. The Risen Christ needs witnesses who have met him, people who have known him intimately through the power of the Holy Spirit; those who have, so to speak, actually touched him, can witness to him. 

It is in this way that the Church, the family of Christ, "beginning at Jerusa-lem"..., as the Reading says, spread to the very ends of the earth. It is through witnesses that the Church was built - starting with Peter and Paul and the Twelve, to the point of including all who, filled with Christ, have rekindled down the centuries and will rekindle the flame of faith in a way that is ever new. All Christians in their own way can and must be witnesses of the Risen Lord. 

When we read the saints' names we can see how often they have been - and continue to be - first and foremost simple people from whom shone - and shines - a radiant light that can lead others to Christ. 

But this chorus of witnesses is also endowed with a clearly defined structure: the successors of the Apostles, the Bishops, who are publicly responsible for ensuring that the network of these witnesses survives. The power and grace required for this service are conferred upon Bishops through the sacrament of Episcopal Ordination. In this network of witnesses, the Successor of Peter has a special task. It was Peter who, on the Apostles' behalf, made the first profession of faith: "You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God" (Mt 16: 16). 

This is the task of all Peter's Successors: to be the guide in the profession of faith in Christ, Son of the living God. The Chair of Rome is above all the Seat of this belief. From high up on this Chair the Bishop of Rome is constantly bound to repeat: Dominus Iesus - "Jesus is Lord", as Paul wrote in his Letters to the Romans (10: 9) and to the Corin-thians (I Cor 12: 3). To the Corinthians he stressed: "Even though there are so-called gods in the heavens and on the earth... for us there is one God, the Father... and one Lord Jesus Christ, through whom everything was made and through whom we live" (I Cor 8: 5). 

The Chair of Peter obliges all who hold it to say, as Peter said during a crisis time among the disciples when so many wanted to leave him: "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe; we are convinced that you are God's holy one" (Jn 6: 68 ff.).
The One who sits on the Chair of Peter must remember the Lord's words to Simon Peter at the Last Supper: "...You in turn must strengthen your brothers" (Lk 22: 32). The one who holds the office of the Petrine ministry must be aware that he is a frail and weak human being - just as his own powers are frail and weak - and is constantly in need of purification and conversion. 

But he can also be aware that the power to strengthen his brethren in the faith and keep them united in the confession of the Crucified and Risen Christ comes from the Lord. In St Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians, we find the oldest account we have of the Resurrection. Paul faithfully received it from the witnesses. This account first speaks of Christ's death for our sins, of his burial and of his Resurrection which took place the third day, and then says: "[Christ] was seen by Cephas, then by the Twelve..." (I Cor 15: 4). Thus, the importance of the mandate conferred upon Peter to the end of time is summed up: being a witness of the Risen Christ. 

The Bishop of Rome sits upon the Chair to bear witness to Christ. Thus, the Chair is the symbol of the potestas docendi, the power to teach that is an essential part of the mandate of binding and loosing which the Lord conferred on Peter, and after him, on the Twelve. In the Church, Sacred Scripture, the understanding of which increases under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, and the ministry of its authentic interpretation that was conferred upon the Apostles, are indissolubly bound. Whenever Sacred Scripture is separated from the living voice of the Church, it falls prey to disputes among experts. 

Of course, all they have to tell us is important and invaluable; the work of scholars is a considerable help in understanding the living process in which the Scriptures developed, hence, also in grasping their historical richness. 

Yet science alone cannot provide us with a definitive and binding interpretation; it is unable to offer us, in its interpretation, that certainty with which we can live and for which we can even die. A greater mandate is necessary for this, which cannot derive from human abilities alone. The voice of the living Church is essential for this, of the Church entrusted until the end of time to Peter and to the College of the Apostles. 

This power of teaching frightens many people in and outside the Church. They wonder whether freedom of conscience is threatened or whether it is a presumption opposed to freedom of thought. It is not like this. The power that Christ conferred upon Peter and his Successors is, in an absolute sense, a mandate to serve. The power of teaching in the Church involves a commitment to the service of obedience to the faith. The Pope is not an absolute monarch whose thoughts and desires are law. On the contrary: the Pope's ministry is a guarantee of obedience to Christ and to his Word. He must not proclaim his own ideas, but rather constantly bind himself and the Church to obedience to God's Word, in the face of every attempt to adapt it or water it down, and every form of opportunism. 

Pope John Paul II did this when, in front of all attempts, apparently benevolent to the human person, and in the face of erroneous interpretations of freedom, he unequivocally stressed the inviolability of the human being and of human life from the moment of conception until natural death. The freedom to kill is not true freedom, but a tyranny that reduces the human being to slavery. 

The Pope knows that in his important decisions, he is bound to the great community of faith of all times, to the binding interpretations that have developed throughout the Church's pilgrimage. Thus, his power is not being above, but at the service of, the Word of God. It is incumbent upon him to ensure that this Word continues to be present in its greatness and to resound in its purity, so that it is not torn to pieces by continuous changes in usage. 

The Chair is - let us say it again - a symbol of the power of teaching, which is a power of obedience and service, so that the Word of God- the truth! - may shine out among us and show us the way of life. 

But in speaking of the Chair of the Bishop of Rome, how can we forget St Ignatius of Antioch's words addressed to the Romans? Peter came from Antioch, his first See, to Rome, his permanent See. His martyrdom decreed that he stay here definitively and bound his succession to Rome for ever. 

Ignatius, for his part, while remaining Bishop of Antioch, was also heading for the martyrdom that he was to suffer in Rome. In his Letter to the Romans, he refers to the Church of Rome as "She who presides in love", a deeply meaningful phrase. We do not know with any certainty what Ignatius may have had in mind when he used these words. But for the ancient Church, the word love, agape, referred to the mystery of the Eucharist. In this mystery, Christ's love becomes permanently tangible among us. Here, again and again he gives himself. Here, again and again his heart is pierced; here he keeps his promise, the promise which, from the Cross, was to attract all things to himself. 

In the Eucharist, we ourselves learn Christ's love. It was thanks to this centre and heart, thanks to the Eucharist, that the saints lived, bringing to the world God's love in ever new ways and forms. Thanks to the Eucharist, the Church is reborn ever anew! The Church is none other than that network - the Eucharistic community! - within which all of us, receiving the same Lord, become one body and embrace all the world. 

Presiding in doctrine and presiding in love must in the end be one and the same: the whole of the Church's teaching leads ultimately to love. And the Eucharist, as the love of Jesus Christ present, is the criterion for all teaching. On love the whole law is based, and the prophets as well, the Lord says (cf. Mt 22: 40). Love is the fulfilment of the law, St Paul wrote to the Romans (cf. 13: 10)  […]

[Pope Benedict, Inaugural Homily, 7 May 2005]

1. In many countries, including Italy, the Solemnity of Christ's Ascension has been moved back to Sunday. With this feast we remember that after his Resurrection, Jesus presented himself alive to the disciples for 40 days (Acts 1,3), at the end of which, having led them to the Mount of Olives, "he was lifted up before their eyes and a cloud took him from their sight" (Acts 1,9). Risen and ascended into heaven, our Redeemer is the anchor of salvation and support for believers in their daily dedication to serve truth, peace, justice and freedom. In ascending to heaven, he reopens for us the way to our blessed homeland, not to alienate us from history but to give the greatest hope to our journey.

2. Indeed, every day we have to deal with the realities of this world. The World Day of Social Communications that we celebrate today reminds us of this fact.

The most recent breakthroughs in communications and information have placed the Church before unheard-of possibilities for evangelization. Keeping this fact in mind, I thought this year the relevant theme to propose should be: "Internet:  a New Forum for Proposing the Gospel".

With realism and confidence we must deal with this modern and ever denser network of communcations, convinced that if used competently and with a sense of responsibility, it can offer valid opportunities for the spread of the Gospel message.

So do not be afraid to "put out into the deep" into the vast ocean of information technology. By using it we can make the Good News reach the hearts of the men and women of the new millennium.

3. We must never forget that the secret of every apostolic action is above all prayer. Indeed, given to intense prayer after the Ascension, the disciples lived in the Upper Room as they awaited the Holy Spirit promised by Christ. In their midst was Mary, the Mother of Jesus (Acts 1,14). As we prepare to celebrate the solemn Feast of Pentecost next Sunday, with Mary let us call upon the Holy Spirit promised by Christ so that he may imbue Christians with fresh missionary zeal and guide humanity's steps on the paths of solidarity and peace.

[Pope John Paul II, Angelus 12 May 2002]

Today, in Italy and in other countries, the Solemnity of the Ascension of the Lord is being celebrated. The Gospel reading (cf. Mt 28:16-20) shows us the Apostles who gather in Galilee, at “the mountain to which Jesus had directed them” (v. 16). The Lord’s final encounter with his followers takes place here, on the mountain. The “mountain” has a strong symbolic and evocative charge. Jesus proclaimed the Beatitudes on the Mount (cf. Mt 5:1-12); He withdrew to the mountains to pray (cf. Mt 14:23). He welcomed the crowds there and healed the sick (cf. Mt 15:29). However this time on the mountain, he is no longer the Master who acts and teaches, but rather the Risen One who asks the disciples to take action and to proclaim, entrusting to them the mandate to continue his work. 

He assigns to them the mission to all the peoples. He says: “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you” (vv. 19-20). The contents of the mission entrusted to the Apostles are the following: to proclaim, baptize, teach and walk the path traced by the Master, that is, the living Gospel. This message of salvation first of all implies the duty of witness — one cannot proclaim without witness — to which we too, today’s disciples, are called to explain our faith. Faced with such a demanding task, and thinking of our weaknesses, we feel inadequate, as the Apostles themselves surely felt. But we must not be discouraged, remembering the words Jesus addressed to them before ascending to Heaven: “I am with you always, to the close of the age” (v. 20).

This promise ensures the constant and consoling presence of Jesus among us. But how is this presence realised? Through His Spirit, who leads the Church to walk through history as the companion of every person. That Spirit sent by Christ and the Father, who works the remission of sins and sanctifies all those who are repentant and open themselves with confidence to his gift. With the promise to remain with us until the end of time, Jesus inaugurates the style of his presence in the world as the Risen One. Jesus is present in the world but with another style, the style of the Risen One, that is a presence that is revealed in the Word, in the Sacraments and in the constant and interior action of the Holy Spirit. The Feast of the Ascension tells us that although Jesus ascended to Heaven to dwell gloriously at the right hand of the Father, he is still and always among us: this is the source of our strength, our perseverance and our joy, from the very presence of Jesus among us with the strength of the Holy Spirit.

May the Virgin Mary accompany our journey with her maternal protection. May may we learn from her the gentleness and courage to be witnesses in the world of the Risen Lord.

[Pope Francis, Regina Coeli, 24 May 2020]

(Jn 16:23-28)

In ancient religions, prayer is performance of the believer, an act owed by creature to divine majesty.

But also a member of an assembly, in the Faith any son of God has full access to the Father in a personal way, like Jesus.

And Dialogue that arises has the character of spontaneity. The language: unrepeatable for each one [as in a love story].

Christ in us is the authentic protagonist of prayer 'in his Name'. But He does not replace the faithful - nor does he assume them, as an intermediary or external intercessor would.

The Lord unites us to Himself, in flesh and blood.

Contact with the Father is «in Jesus of Nazareth»: in the brought, sense and scope of His own desires, words, actions, disappointments, joys, even activities of denouncing false beliefs.

We are connected to His very Person - not to another, more scintillating or tranquil, harmonious and quiet historical occurrence: in the Spirit of Incarnation, totally.

Then the Father has respect for our identity-character in Christ. He grasps the traits and incorporates them, to suggest to us the Way of special fulfilment.

In the richness of the Mystery, the events of the Son and the sons are intertwined. His Name merges with our ‘name’.

In short, His story of persecution and mockery is all about us all. One recognizes it, already at first sight.

Therefore, in the prayers, the Risen One does not act as a "mediator".

He is the inside groove, the intimate track, the path completely our own, not to be lost sight of and to be listened to attentively, both in order to scrutinize the global option of life and to learn from time to time.

We are hearers of the Word, of the signs of the times, of personal events, encounters, experience, heart or advice, character and inclinations - starting from our creaturely Seed.

Just like Jesus with the Father: we remain with Him inside, and (united with Him) in His mystical and everlasting Dialogue with the meaning of events.

In them the Father, the true Subject who expresses Himself, is revealed. And the Eternal shines through in the facts that He offers us in His wise Providence.

So the praying person is the one Listening - in the same way as Jesus related to the Father, to understand his own affairs.

In order to encounter ourselves, our brothers, the world, and insight into meaning of the episodes and our mission, we remain in the Name of Jesus.

The story of the carpenter's son concerns us: so all the more do we demand to be introduced into the adventure and life-wave of Faith.

In this way, the exodus in the Spirit from our deepest strata is not the same as a devout and whatever, ordinary spiritual life.

Thus the prayer that belongs to our Calling has nothing to do with mediocre, subordinate attitudes - not correlative in the first place to a historical fact: the life of the Master.

In the soul of His intimates, He Himself listens, interprets, assimilates. And He turns «with-us» to the Father.

Such friendship and attunement [sometimes crude] allows us to assimilate His authentic Person; not contrived, not sweetened, not smuggled.

Prayer in the Name of Christ contains His radical power, makes sense of hostilities and wounds.

In Him they become ground for sharing and deep correspondence.

Here the Lord dwells us and continues His creative Action.

Prayer in the Name transforms our dust into living awe and splendour of concrete relationship, as equals.

[Saturday 6th wk. in Easter, May 16, 2026]

«If you ask anything of the Father, he will give it to you in my Name»

(Jn 16:23-28)

In ancient religions, prayer is the performance of the believer, an act owed by the creature to the divine majesty.

For St Thomas, too, the virtue of Religion is an aspect of the cardinal virtue of Justice: the inferior being is bound to the praise and duty of worship.

But also a member of an assembly, in Faith the child of God has full access to the Father in a personal way, like Jesus.

And the Dialogue that arises has the character of spontaneity. The language: unrepeatable for each one [as in a love story].

Christ in us is the authentic protagonist of prayer 'in his Name'. But it does not replace the faithful - nor does it assume them, as an intermediary or external intercessor would.

The Lord unites us to Himself, in flesh and blood.

The contact with the Father is 'in Jesus of Nazareth': in the bearer of his own desires, words, actions, disappointments, joys, even the denunciation of false beliefs.

They deceive and extinguish the real genesis, which lurks in the specifics of the prayer of the children. Not the expression and fruit of an empty spirituality.

We are connected to His own Person - not to another, more glittering or tranquil, harmonious and quiet historical event: in the Spirit of incarnation, totally.

Then the Father has respect for our identity-character in Christ. He grasps the traits and incorporates them, to suggest to us the Way of particular fulfilment.

All according to age, Calling and deep personality, genius of time, world of relationships and unrepeatable sensitivity.

In the richness of the Mystery, the vicissitudes of the Son and the sons are intertwined. His Name merges with our name.

In short, His story of persecution and mockery is all of us. One recognises it, already at first sight.

The usual forgers of mannerist religion [archaic or fashionable] are always at work, but they have nothing special, wise, celestial.

Therefore in the prayers the Risen One does not act as "mediator".

He is the groove, the track, the path completely our own, not to be lost sight of and to be listened to attentively; both to scrutinise the global option of life and to adjust from time to time.

A special character of Christian prayer is listening, perception, acceptance; not performance.

Otherwise everything would remain in abeyance: one would not enter into the critical and fruitful depths of Love, of its development. Nor of reciprocity in Christ - in the true Lord.

We are hearers of the Word, the signs of the times, personal events, encounters, experience, heart or advice, character and inclinations - from our creaturely Seed.

Just like Jesus with the Father: we remain with Him within, and (united with Him) in His mystical and perennial Dialogue with the meaning of events.

In them, the Father is revealed, the true Subject who expresses Himself. And the Eternal One shines through in the events He brings to us in His wise Providence.

So the praying person is the one in Listening - in the same way as Jesus related to the Father, in order to understand his own affairs.

The praying person - although a hermit - is not an isolated man, alone like a dog, or worse, bent and plagiarised.

Nor do we resemble an intimidated person who recommends himself to some 'protector', or makes lists of requests as if Heaven had not noticed.

In order to encounter ourselves, our brothers, the world, and grasp the meaning of events and our mission, we remain in the Name of Jesus.

The story of the carpenter's son concerns us: so all the more do we demand to be introduced into the adventure and life-wave of Faith.

In this way, the exodus in the Spirit from our deepest strata is not the same as a devout and ordinary spiritual life.

Thus the prayer that belongs to our Calling has nothing to do with mediocre, subordinate attitudes - not primarily correlative to a historical fact: the Master's life.

In the souls of His intimates, He Himself listens, interprets, assimilates. And he turns 'with-us' to the Father.

Such friendship and attunement [sometimes crude] enables us to assimilate his authentic Person; not contrived, not sweetened, not smuggled.

Prayer in the Name of Christ contains its radical power, makes sense of hostilities and wounds.

In Him they become ground for sharing and profound correspondence.

Here the Lord dwells and continues His creative action.

Prayer in the Name transforms our dust into living awe and splendour of concrete relationship, as equals.

To internalise and live the message:

What space does Jesus' thoughts, His actions, His dreams, His Words have in your prayer?

What about His denunciation?

What about His reproaches (and that kind of vindication, as recorded in the Gospels - not others juxtaposed)?

Two Outcomes, in the Name

Jesus' wounds are still present on earth. To recognise them, it is necessary to get out of ourselves and go out to meet our brothers and sisters in need, the sick, the ignorant, the poor, the exploited. It is the 'exodus' that Pope Francis pointed out to Christians in the homily of the Mass celebrated on Saturday morning, 11 May, in the chapel of the Domus Sanctae Marthae.

It is a matter - the Pontiff explained - of 'an exit from ourselves' made possible by prayer 'towards the Father in the name of Jesus'. The prayer that "bores us", on the other hand, is "always within ourselves, like a thought that comes and goes. But true prayer is to go out from ourselves to the Father in the name of Jesus, it is an exodus from ourselves" that is accomplished "with the intercession of Jesus himself, who before the Father makes him see his wounds".

But how can we recognise these wounds of Jesus? How is it possible to trust in these plagues if one does not know them? And what is "the school where one learns to know the wounds of Jesus, these priestly wounds, these wounds of intercession?" The Pope's response was explicit: "If we do not succeed in making this exit from ourselves towards those wounds, we will never learn the freedom that leads us to the other exit from ourselves, towards the wounds of Jesus".

Hence the image of the two "exits from ourselves" indicated by the Holy Father: the first is "towards the wounds of Jesus, the other towards the wounds of our brothers and sisters. And this is the way Jesus wants in our prayer'. Words that find confirmation in the Gospel of John (16:23-28) in the liturgy of the day. A passage in which Jesus is of a disarming clarity: "Truly, truly, I say to you, if you ask anything of the Father in my name, he will give it to you". In these words," the Pontiff noted, "there is a novelty in prayer: 'In my name'. The Father therefore "will give us everything, but always in the name of Jesus".

What does this asking in the name of Jesus mean? It is a novelty that Jesus reveals precisely "at the moment when he leaves the earth and returns to the Father". On the Solemnity of the Ascension [...] the Pope recalled - a passage from the Letter to the Hebrews was read, where it says among other things: "For we have the freedom to go to the Father". It is "a new freedom. The doors are open: Jesus, in going to the Father, left the door open". Not because "he forgot to close it", but because "he himself is the door". He is "our intercessor, and that is why he says: 'In my name'". In our prayer, characterised by "that courage which Jesus himself gives us", we then ask the Father in the name of Jesus: "Look at your Son and do this to me!".

The Holy Father then recalled the image of Jesus who "enters the sanctuary of Heaven, as a priest. And Jesus, until the end of the world, is as priest, he makes intercession for us". And when we "ask the Father by saying 'Jesus', we are signalling, we are saying, we are referring to the intercessor. He prays for us before the Father".

Referring then to the wounds of Jesus, the Pontiff noted that Christ "in his resurrection, had a beautiful body: the wounds of the scourging, of the thorns, have disappeared, all of them. The bruises of the blows have disappeared". But he, he added, "always wanted to have the wounds, and the wounds are precisely his prayer of intercession to the Father". This is "the novelty that Jesus tells us", inviting us to "trust in his passion, trust in his victory over death, trust in his wounds". He is, in fact, the "priest and this is the sacrifice: his wounds". All this "gives us confidence, gives us the courage to pray", because, as the Apostle Peter wrote, "by his wounds you have been healed".

In conclusion, the Holy Father recalled another passage from John's Gospel: 'Hitherto you have asked nothing in my name: ask and you shall obtain, that your joy may be full'. The reference, he explained, is to the 'joy of Jesus', to the 'joy that comes'. This is "the new way of praying: with trust", with that "courage that lets us know that Jesus is before the Father" and shows him his wounds; but also with the humility to recognise and find Jesus' wounds in his needy brothers and sisters. This is our prayer in charity.

"May the Lord," the Pontiff hoped, "give us this freedom to enter that sanctuary where He is priest and intercedes for us and whatever we ask the Father in His name, He will give it to us. But also give us the courage to go to that other "sanctuary" which are the wounds of our brothers and sisters in need, who suffer, who still bear the Cross and still have not won, as Jesus won".

(Pope Francis, S. Marta homily, in L'Osservatore Romano 12/05/2013)

1. Faith as a response to the love of God

In my first Encyclical, I offered some thoughts on the close relationship between the theological virtues of faith and charity. Setting out from Saint John’s fundamental assertion: “We have come to know and to believe in the love God has for us” (1 Jn 4:16), I observed that “being Christian is not the result of an ethical choice or a lofty idea, but the encounter with an event, a person, which gives life a new horizon and a decisive direction … Since God has first loved us (cf. 1 Jn 4:10), love is now no longer a mere ‘command’; it is the response to the gift of love with which God draws near to us” (Deus Caritas Est, 1). Faith is this personal adherence – which involves all our faculties – to the revelation of God’s gratuitous and “passionate” love for us, fully revealed in Jesus Christ. The encounter with God who is Love engages not only the heart but also the intellect: “Acknowledgement of the living God is one path towards love, and the ‘yes’ of our will to his will unites our intellect, will and sentiments in the all-embracing act of love. But this process is always open-ended; love is never ‘finished’ and complete” (ibid., 17). Hence, for all Christians, and especially for “charity workers”, there is a need for faith, for “that encounter with God in Christ which awakens their love and opens their spirits to others. As a result, love of neighbour will no longer be for them a commandment imposed, so to speak, from without, but a consequence deriving from their faith, a faith which becomes active through love” (ibid., 31a). Christians are people who have been conquered by Christ’s love and accordingly, under the influence of that love – “C aritas Christi urget nos” (2 Cor 5:14) – they are profoundly open to loving their neighbour in concrete ways (cf. ibid., 33). This attitude arises primarily from the consciousness of being loved, forgiven, and even served by the Lord, who bends down to wash the feet of the Apostles and offers himself on the Cross to draw humanity into God’s love.

“Faith tells us that God has given his Son for our sakes and gives us the victorious certainty that it is really true: God is love! … Faith, which sees the love of God revealed in the pierced heart of Jesus on the Cross, gives rise to love. Love is the light – and in the end, the only light – that can always illuminate a world grown dim and give us the courage needed to keep living and working” (ibid., 39). All this helps us to understand that the principal distinguishing mark of Christians is precisely “love grounded in and shaped by faith” (ibid., 7).

2. Charity as life in faith

The entire Christian life is a response to God’s love. The first response is precisely faith as the acceptance, filled with wonder and gratitude, of the unprecedented divine initiative that precedes us and summons us. And the “yes” of faith marks the beginning of a radiant story of friendship with the Lord, which fills and gives full meaning to our whole life. But it is not enough for God that we simply accept his gratuitous love. Not only does he love us, but he wants to draw us to himself, to transform us in such a profound way as to bring us to say with Saint Paul: “it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” (cf. Gal 2:20).

When we make room for the love of God, then we become like him, sharing in his own charity. If we open ourselves to his love, we allow him to live in us and to bring us to love with him, in him and like him; only then does our faith become truly “active through love” (Gal 5:6); only then does he abide in us (cf. 1 Jn 4:12).

Faith is knowing the truth and adhering to it (cf. 1 Tim 2:4); charity is “walking” in the truth (cf. Eph 4:15). Through faith we enter into friendship with the Lord, through charity this friendship is lived and cultivated (cf. Jn 15:14ff). Faith causes us to embrace the commandment of our Lord and Master; charity gives us the happiness of putting it into practice (cf. Jn 13:13-17). In faith we are begotten as children of God (cf. Jn 1:12ff); charity causes us to persevere concretely in our divine sonship, bearing the fruit of the Holy Spirit (cf. Gal 5:22). Faith enables us to recognize the gifts that the good and generous God has entrusted to us; charity makes them fruitful (cf. Mt 25:14-30).

3. The indissoluble interrelation of faith and charity

In light of the above, it is clear that we can never separate, let alone oppose, faith and charity. These two theological virtues are intimately linked, and it is misleading to posit a contrast or “dialectic” between them. On the one hand, it would be too one-sided to place a strong emphasis on the priority and decisiveness of faith and to undervalue and almost despise concrete works of charity, reducing them to a vague humanitarianism. On the other hand, though, it is equally unhelpful to overstate the primacy of charity and the activity it generates, as if works could take the place of faith. For a healthy spiritual life, it is necessary to avoid both fideism and moral activism.

The Christian life consists in continuously scaling the mountain to meet God and then coming back down, bearing the love and strength drawn from him, so as to serve our brothers and sisters with God’s own love. In sacred Scripture, we see how the zeal of the Apostles to proclaim the Gospel and awaken people’s faith is closely related to their charitable concern to be of service to the poor (cf. Acts 6:1-4). In the Church, contemplation and action, symbolized in some way by the Gospel figures of Mary and Martha, have to coexist and complement each other (cf. Lk 10:38-42). The relationship with God must always be the priority, and any true sharing of goods, in the spirit of the Gospel, must be rooted in faith (cf. General Audience, 25 April 2012). Sometimes we tend, in fact, to reduce the term “charity” to solidarity or simply humanitarian aid. It is important, however, to remember that the greatest work of charity is evangelization, which is the “ministry of the word”. There is no action more beneficial – and therefore more charitable – towards one’s neighbour than to break the bread of the word of God, to share with him the Good News of the Gospel, to introduce him to a relationship with God: evangelization is the highest and the most integral promotion of the human person. As the Servant of God Pope Paul VI wrote in the Encyclical Populorum Progressio, the proclamation of Christ is the first and principal contributor to development (cf. n. 16). It is the primordial truth of the love of God for us, lived and proclaimed, that opens our lives to receive this love and makes possible the integral development of humanity and of every man (cf. Caritas in Veritate, 8).

Essentially, everything proceeds from Love and tends towards Love. God’s gratuitous love is made known to us through the proclamation of the Gospel. If we welcome it with faith, we receive the first and indispensable contact with the Divine, capable of making us “fall in love with Love”, and then we dwell within this Love, we grow in it and we joyfully communicate it to others.

Concerning the relationship between faith and works of charity, there is a passage in the Letter to the Ephesians which provides perhaps the best account of the link between the two: “For by grace you have been saved through faith; and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God; not because of works, lest anyone should boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” (2:8-10). It can be seen here that the entire redemptive initiative comes from God, from his grace, from his forgiveness received in faith; but this initiative, far from limiting our freedom and our responsibility, is actually what makes them authentic and directs them towards works of charity. These are not primarily the result of human effort, in which to take pride, but they are born of faith and they flow from the grace that God gives in abundance. Faith without works is like a tree without fruit: the two virtues imply one another. Lent invites us, through the traditional practices of the Christian life, to nourish our faith by careful and extended listening to the word of God and by receiving the sacraments, and at the same time to grow in charity and in love for God and neighbour, not least through the specific practices of fasting, penance and almsgiving.

4. Priority of faith, primacy of charity

Like any gift of God, faith and charity have their origin in the action of one and the same Holy Spirit (cf. 1 Cor 13), the Spirit within us that cries out “Abba, Father” (Gal 4:6), and makes us say: “Jesus is Lord!” (1 Cor 12:3) and “Maranatha!” (1 Cor 16:22; Rev 22:20).

Faith, as gift and response, causes us to know the truth of Christ as Love incarnate and crucified, as full and perfect obedience to the Father’s will and infinite divine mercy towards neighbour; faith implants in hearts and minds the firm conviction that only this Love is able to conquer evil and death. Faith invites us to look towards the future with the virtue of hope, in the confident expectation that the victory of Christ’s love will come to its fullness. For its part, charity ushers us into the love of God manifested in Christ and joins us in a personal and existential way to the total and unconditional self-giving of Jesus to the Father and to his brothers and sisters. By filling our hearts with his love, the Holy Spirit makes us sharers in Jesus’ filial devotion to God and fraternal devotion to every man (cf. Rom 5:5).

The relationship between these two virtues resembles that between the two fundamental sacraments of the Church: Baptism and Eucharist. Baptism (sacramentum fidei) precedes the Eucharist (sacramentum caritatis), but is ordered to it, the Eucharist being the fullness of the Christian journey. In a similar way, faith precedes charity, but faith is genuine only if crowned by charity. Everything begins from the humble acceptance of faith (“knowing that one is loved by God”), but has to arrive at the truth of charity (“knowing how to love God and neighbour”), which remains for ever, as the fulfilment of all the virtues (cf. 1 Cor 13:13).

[Pope Benedict, Message for Lent 2013]