(Jn 18:1-19:42)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither is he finished by soldiers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Renegade, together with Peter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The 'Judge' looks like Jesus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We become Sons.

Sons, not things

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

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

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

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Brief pause for silence]

Let us pray.

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

R. Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

Palm Sunday and the Passion of the Lord [29 March 2026]

May God bless us and may the Virgin Mary protect us! We enter Holy Week, of which Palm Sunday already gives us a foretaste of the joy and sorrow, the mystery of love and hatred that leads to death: the whole Passion, death and resurrection of Christ. To relive is not merely to remember, but also to open our hearts ever more to this mystery of salvation.

*First Reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah (50:4–7)

Isaiah was certainly not thinking of Jesus Christ when he wrote this text, probably in the 6th century BC, during the exile in Babylon. Let me explain: since his people were in exile, in very harsh conditions, and could easily have succumbed to discouragement, Isaiah reminds them that they are always God’s servants. And that God is counting on them, his servants (that is, his people), to bring his plan of salvation for humanity to fulfilment. The people of Israel are therefore this Servant of God, nourished every morning by the Word, yet also persecuted precisely because of their faith and capable, despite everything, of withstanding all trials. In this text, Isaiah clearly describes the extraordinary relationship that unites the Servant (Israel) with his God. Its main characteristic is listening to the Word of God, ‘the open ear’, as Isaiah puts it. ‘Listening’ is a word that has a very particular meaning in the Bible: it means to trust. We usually contrast these two fundamental attitudes between which our lives constantly oscillate: trust in God, a serene surrender to his will because we know from experience that his will is always good; or mistrust, suspicion of God’s intentions, and rebellion in the face of trials—a rebellion that can lead us to believe that God has abandoned us or, worse still, that He might take some satisfaction in our sufferings.

The prophets repeat: “Listen, Israel” or: “Will you listen to the Word of God today?” And on their lips, the exhortation “listen” always means: trust in God, whatever happens. And Saint Paul explains why: We know that all things work together for good for those who love God (Rom 8:28).

From every evil, from every difficulty, from every trial, God brings forth good; to every hatred he opposes an even stronger love; in every persecution, he grants the strength of forgiveness; and from every death, he brings forth life, the resurrection. It is a story of mutual trust. God trusts his Servant and entrusts him with a mission; in turn, the Servant accepts the mission with trust. And it is precisely this trust that gives him the strength needed to remain steadfast even in the opposition he will inevitably encounter. Here the mission is that of a witness: “So that I may sustain with my words those who are weary,” says the Servant. In entrusting him with this mission, the Lord also grants the necessary strength and the appropriate language: “The Lord God has given me the tongue of a disciple.” And even more: he himself nourishes this trust, which is the source of all boldness in the service of others: “The Lord God makes my ear attentive”, which means that listening (in the biblical sense, that is, trust) is itself a gift from God. Everything is a gift: the mission, the strength, and even the trust that makes one unshakeable. This is precisely the hallmark of the believer: to recognise everything as a gift from God. He who lives in this permanent gift of God’s strength can face anything: “I did not resist, I did not turn back.” Faithfulness to the mission received inevitably entails persecution. True prophets, those who truly speak in the name of God, are rarely appreciated during their lifetime. In concrete terms, Isaiah says to his contemporaries: hold fast. The Lord has not abandoned you; on the contrary, you are on a mission for him. Do not be surprised, then, if you are mistreated. Why? Because the Servant who truly listens to the Word of God—that is, who puts it into practice—soon becomes a thorn in the side. His very conversion calls others to conversion. Some heed this call… others reject it and, convinced of their own righteousness, persecute the Servant. And every morning the Servant must return to the source, to the One who enables him to face everything. Isaiah uses a somewhat strange expression: “I set my face like flint” to express resolve and courage. Isaiah was speaking to his people, persecuted and humiliated during the exile in Babylon; but, naturally, when one re-reads the Passion of Christ, this text stands out in all its clarity: Christ corresponds perfectly to this portrait of the Servant of God. Listening to the Word, unshakeable trust and thus the certainty of victory even in the midst of persecution: all this characterised Jesus precisely at the moment when the acclamations of the crowd on Palm Sunday marked and hastened his condemnation.

*Responsorial Psalm (21/22)

Psalm 21 (22) begins with the famous cry: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”. This phrase has often been taken out of context and interpreted as a cry of despair, whereas in reality the psalm must be read in its entirety. Indeed, after describing suffering and anguish, it ends with a great song of thanksgiving: “You have answered me! I will proclaim your name to my brothers and sisters’. The one who at first feels forsaken ultimately recognises that God has saved him and has not left him alone. Some images in the psalm seem to describe the crucifixion: ‘They have pierced my hands and my feet’, ‘they divide my garments’, ‘a band of evildoers surrounds me’. This is why the New Testament applies this psalm to the Passion of Jesus. However, the text originated in a specific historical context: the return of the people of Israel from the Babylonian exile. The exile had been like a death sentence for the people, who had risked disappearing; the return to their own land is therefore likened to the liberation of a condemned man who had narrowly escaped death. The image of the crucifixion serves to express the humiliation, violence and sense of abandonment experienced by the people, but the focus of the psalm is not suffering but rather the salvation received. The cry “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is therefore not a cry of despair or doubt, but the prayer of one who suffers and continues to turn to God with trust. Even in the midst of trial, Israel does not cease to pray and to remember the covenant and the blessings received from the Lord. For this reason, the psalm can be likened to a votive offering: in times of danger, God’s help is invoked, and once saved, thanks are given publicly. The psalm recalls the tragedy endured, but above all proclaims gratitude towards God who has delivered his people. The final verses thus become a great hymn of praise: the poor shall be satisfied, those who seek the Lord shall praise him, and all nations shall acknowledge his lordship. God’s salvation will also be proclaimed to future generations. For this reason, in Christian tradition, this psalm has been recognised as a prophecy of Christ’s Passion: on the cross, Jesus echoes the first verse of the psalm, but just as for Israel, so too for him the final word is not suffering, but salvation and life.

*Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Philippians (2:6–11)

During the exile in Babylon, in the 6th century BC, the prophet Isaiah had bestowed upon the people of Israel the title of Servant of God. Their mission, amidst the trials of exile, was to remain faithful to the faith of their fathers and to bear witness to it among the pagans, even at the cost of humiliation and persecution. Only God could give them the strength to fulfil this mission. When the early Christians were confronted with the scandal of the cross, they sought to understand Jesus’ destiny and found the explanation in the words of St Paul: Jesus ‘emptied himself, taking the form of a servant’. He too faced opposition, humiliation and persecution, drawing his strength from the Father and living in total trust in Him. Although he was of divine nature, Jesus did not seek glory and honours. As Paul says, “though he was in the form of God, he did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited”. Precisely because he is God, he claims nothing for himself, but lives in gratuitous love and becomes man to show mankind the way to salvation. His exaltation is not a deserved reward, but a free gift from God. God’s logic is not that of merit or calculation, but that of grace, which is always a free gift. According to Paul, God’s plan is a plan of love: to bring humanity into his life, into his joy and into his communion. This gift is not earned, but received with gratitude. When man demands or claims, he closes himself off from grace, as happened symbolically with the sin in the Garden of Eden. Jesus, on the other hand, lives in the opposite attitude: the total acceptance of the Father’s will, what Paul calls obedience. For this reason, God exalted him and gave him the Name that is above every name: the name of Lord, a title which in the Old Testament belonged only to God. Before him “every knee shall bow”, to quote the words of the prophet Isaiah (Is 45:23). Jesus lived his entire life in humility and trust, even in the face of human violence and death. His obedience – which literally means “to place one’s ear before the word” – expresses a total and trusting listening to the Father’s will. For this reason, Paul’s hymn concludes with the Church’s profession of faith: “Every tongue shall confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father”. In Christ, the glory of God is fully manifested, that is, the revelation of his infinite love. Seeing Jesus love to the very end and give his life, one can recognise, like the centurion beneath the cross, that he is truly the Son of God.

*The Passion of Jesus Christ according to Saint Matthew (26:14–27:66)

Every year, on Palm Sunday, the liturgy reads the account of the Passion from one of the three Synoptic Gospels; this year it is that of Matthew. The four accounts of the Passion are similar in broad outline, but each evangelist highlights certain particular aspects. Matthew, in particular, recounts certain episodes and details that the others do not mention. First of all, Matthew is the only one to specify the exact sum for which Judas betrays Jesus: thirty pieces of silver, which according to the Law was the price of a slave. This detail shows the contempt with which men treated the Lord. Later, Judas himself, overcome with remorse, returns the money to the chief priests, saying that he has handed over an innocent man to his death. They, however, do not wish to take responsibility for it. Judas throws the coins into the temple and hangs himself; the priests use that money to purchase the potter’s field, intended for the burial of foreigners, later called the ‘Field of Blood’, thus fulfilling a prophetic word. During the trial before Pilate, Matthew recounts a unique episode: the intervention of Pilate’s wife, who sends word to her husband not to have anything to do with ‘that righteous man’, for she has suffered greatly in a dream because of him. Pilate himself appears unsettled and, seeing that the crowd is growing ever more agitated, performs the symbolic gesture of washing his hands, declaring himself innocent of that man’s blood. The crowd replies: ‘Let his blood be on us and on our children.’ Pilate then releases Barabbas and hands Jesus over to be crucified. At the moment of Jesus’ death, Matthew also recounts that the veil of the temple is torn, but adds extraordinary details: the earth trembles, the rocks split, the tombs open, and many righteous people rise and appear in the holy city after Jesus’ resurrection. Finally, Matthew highlights the authorities’ concern to guard the tomb, fearing that the disciples might steal the body and claim that Jesus has risen; this very message is what they will spread after Easter. The account highlights a great paradox: the blindness of the religious authorities, who persecute Jesus, whilst some pagans, almost unwittingly, bestow upon him the highest titles. Pilate’s wife calls him ‘righteous’, Pilate has ‘King of the Jews’ written on the cross, and even the title ‘Son of God’, initially used to mock him, ultimately becomes a true profession of faith when the Roman centurion exclaims: ‘Truly this man was the Son of God’. This confession already foreshadows the opening of salvation to the pagans and shows that Christ’s death is not a defeat, but a victory. Matthew highlights the contrast between the weakness of the condemned man and his true greatness: it is precisely in his apparent powerlessness that Jesus manifests the greatness of God, who is infinite love. And in this light, we come to understand ever more deeply the significance of Christ’s Passion, which we shall relive visually this week and in particular during the Holy Triduum: Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday, and above all in the outpouring of Easter joy at Christ’s Resurrection.

+Giovanni D’Ercole

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

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

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

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

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

*Responsorial Psalm (129/130) 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+Giovanni D’Ercole

4th Lent Sunday   [15 March 2026]  Laetare

May God bless us and the Virgin protect us! This Sunday is a pause of light in the penitential journey. In the Gospel, Jesus gives sight to the blind man. Laetare means this: light is already overcoming the shadows. Even though we are still in Lent, Easter is near. The blind man's joy is achieved through questioning, rejection and loneliness. Laetare is not an escape from pain, but joy that arises from trial. Laetare is the smile of the Church in the middle of the desert: if I allow myself to be enlightened by Christ, my night is not definitive. The man born blind thus becomes an icon of the catechumen, but also of every believer who, in the heart of Lent, discovers that the light is already present and that Christian joy is born from the encounter with Him.

*First Reading from the First Book of Samuel (16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a)

 Reading this biblical text, we understand that the great prophet Samuel had to learn to change his perspective. Sent by God to designate the future king from among the sons of Jesse in Bethlehem, he apparently had only the embarrassment of choice. Jesse first brought his eldest son, named Eliab: tall, handsome, with the appearance worthy of succeeding the current king, Saul. But no: God let Samuel know that his choice did not fall on him: Do not look at his appearance or his tall stature... God does not look as man looks: man looks at the appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart (cf. 1 Sam 16:7).

So Jesse had his sons pass before the prophet one by one, in order of age. But God's choice did not fall on any of them. In the end, he had to call the last one, the one no one had thought of: David, whose only occupation was to tend the sheep. Well, it was he whom God had chosen to guard his people! The biblical account emphasises once again that God's choice falls on the smallest: "God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong," St Paul will say (1 Cor 1:27), because "my power is made perfect in weakness" (2 Cor 12:9). Here is a good reason to change our way of looking at people! From this text we draw at least three lessons about kingship in Israel:

First: the king is God's chosen one, but the election is for a mission. Just as Israel is chosen for the service of humanity, so the king is chosen for the service of the people. This also entails the possibility of being deposed, as happened to Saul: if the chosen one no longer fulfils his mission, he is replaced. Second: the king receives anointing with oil; he is literally the 'messiah', that is, 'the anointed one'. God says to Samuel: 'Fill your horn with oil and set out! I am sending you to Jesse the Bethlehemite, for I have chosen a king among his sons' (1 Sam 16:1). Third: anointing confers the Spirit of God. ' Samuel took the horn full of oil and anointed him in the midst of his brothers, and the Spirit of the Lord came upon David from that day forward' (1 Sam 16:13). The king thus becomes God's representative on earth, called to rule according to God's will and not according to that of the world. There is also another great lesson: men judge by appearances, God looks at the heart.  Many biblical stories insist on this mystery: God often chooses the least. David was the youngest of Jesse's sons; no one thought he had a great future. Moses declared himself slow of speech (Ex 4:10). Jeremiah considered himself too young (Jer 1:6). Samuel himself was inexperienced when he was called. Timothy was in poor health. And the people of Israel were small among the nations. These choices cannot be explained by human criteria. As Isaiah says: "My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways" (Is 55:8-9). The text summarises it thus: "What man sees does not count: for man sees the appearance, but the Lord sees the heart" (1 Sam 16:7). This truth protects us from two dangers: presumption and discouragement. It is not a question of merit, but of availability. No one possesses the necessary strength within themselves: God will give it at the right moment.

*Responsorial Psalm (22/23) 

We have just heard this psalm in its entirety: it is one of the shortest in the psalter, but it is so dense that the early Christians chose it as the privileged psalm for Easter night. On that night, the newly baptised, rising from the baptismal font, sang Psalm 22/23 as they made their way to the place of their Confirmation and First Eucharist. For this reason, it was called the 'psalm of Christian initiation'. If Christians were able to read the mystery of baptismal life in it, it is because this psalm already expressed in a privileged way the mystery of life in the Covenant, of life in intimacy with God for Israel. It is the mystery of God's choice, who elected this particular people for no apparent reason other than his sovereign freedom. Every generation marvels at this election and this Covenant offered: 'Ask the former generations that preceded you, from the day God created man on earth... has anything so great ever happened?' (Deut 4:32-35). This people, freely chosen by God, was given the privilege of being the first to enter into his intimacy, not to enjoy it selfishly, but to open the door to others. To express the happiness of the believer, Psalm 22/23 refers to two experiences: that of a Levite (a priest) and that of a pilgrim. We are familiar with the institution of the Levites: according to Genesis, Levi was one of the twelve sons of Jacob, from whom the twelve tribes of Israel took their name. But the tribe of Levi had a special place from the beginning: at the time of the division of the Promised Land, it did not receive any territory because it was consecrated to the service of worship. It is said that God himself is their inheritance; an image also taken up in another psalm: "Lord, my portion of inheritance and my cup... for me, the lot has fallen on delightful places" (Ps 15/16:5). The Levites lived scattered among the cities of the other tribes and lived on tithes; in Jerusalem, they were dedicated to the service of the Temple. The Levite in our psalm sings with all his heart: "Goodness and faithfulness shall follow me all the days of my life; I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for long days." His experience is an image of Israel's election: just as the Levite is happy to be consecrated to the service of God, so Israel is aware of its special vocation among humanity. Furthermore, Israel presents itself as a pilgrim going up to the Temple to offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving. On the way, it is like a sheep: its shepherd is God. In the culture of the ancient Near East, kings were called "shepherds of the people," and Israel also uses this language. The ideal king is a good shepherd, attentive and strong to protect the flock. But in Israel it was strongly affirmed that the only true king is God; the kings of the earth are only his representatives. Thus, the true shepherd of Israel is God himself: 'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want; he makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul'. The prophet Ezekiel developed this image at length. Similarly, the Old Testament often presents Israel as God's flock: "He is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock he leads" (Ps 94/95:7). This recalls the experience of the Exodus: it was there that Israel experienced God's care, who guided them and enabled them to survive amid a thousand obstacles. For this reason, when Jesus said, "I am the Good Shepherd" (Jn 10), his words had a shocking effect: they meant "I am the King-Messiah, the true king of Israel." Returning to the psalm: pilgrimage can be dangerous. The pilgrim may encounter enemies ("You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies"), he may pass through "the dark valley" of death; but he does not fear, because God is with him: "I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff give me security". Once he reaches the Temple, he offers a sacrifice of thanksgiving and participates in the ritual banquet that follows: a joyful feast, with an overflowing cup and the anointing of oil on his head. We can understand why the early Christians saw in this psalm the expression of their experience: Christ is the true Shepherd (Jn 10); in baptism he leads us out of the valley of death to the waters of life; the table and the cup evoke the Eucharist; the perfumed oil recalls Confirmation. Once again, Christians discover with amazement that Jesus does not abolish the faith experience of his people, but brings it to fulfilment, giving it fullness.

*Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul the Apostle to the Ephesians (5:8-14) 

Often in Scripture, it is the end of the text that provides the key. Let us start with the last sentence: 'For this reason it is said: "Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light."' The phrase "This is why it is said..." clearly shows that the author did not invent this song, but quoted it. It must have been a well-known baptismal hymn in the early Christian communities. Awake... rise... and Christ will give you light was therefore a song of our first brothers and sisters in faith: and this cannot leave us indifferent. Thus, we better understand the beginning of the text: it simply serves to explain the words of that hymn. It is as if, after a baptismal celebration, someone had asked the theologian on duty — Paul, or one of his disciples (since it is not entirely certain that the Letter to the Ephesians was written by him personally) —: "What do the words we sang during baptism mean?" And the answer is this: thanks to baptism, a new life has begun, a radically new life. So much so that the newly baptised were called neophytes, meaning 'new plants'. The author explains the song in this way: the new plant that you have become is profoundly different. When a graft is made, the fruit of the grafted tree is different from the original one; and that is precisely why the graft is made. The colour makes it easy to distinguish what belongs to the new plant and what is a remnant of the past. It is the same with baptism: the fruits of the new man are works of light; before the grafting, you were darkness, and your fruits were works of darkness. But old habits may resurface: this is why it is important to recognise them. For the author, the distinction is simple: the fruits of the new man are goodness, justice and charity. Anything that is not goodness, justice and charity is a sprout from the old tree. Who can make you bear fruits of light? Jesus Christ. He is all goodness, all justice, all charity. Just as a plant needs the sun to bloom, so we must expose ourselves to his light. The song expresses both the work of Christ and the freedom of man: 'Awake, arise' — it is freedom that is called into question. 'Christ will enlighten you' — only he can do this. For St Paul, as for the prophets of the Old Testament, light is an attribute of God. To say 'Christ will enlighten you' means two things: first of all, Christ is God. The only way to live in harmony with God is to remain united to Christ, that is, to live concretely in justice, goodness and charity. The text of Isaiah (Is 58) comes to mind: share your bread with the hungry, welcome the poor, clothe the naked... Then your light will rise like the dawn. This is the glory of the Lord, his light that we are called to reflect. As Paul says in his second letter to the Corinthians (2 Cor 3:18): we reflect the glory of the Lord and are transformed into his image. To reflect means that Christ is the light; we are its reflection. This is the vocation of the baptised: to reflect the light of Christ. For this reason, at baptism, a candle lit from the Paschal candle is given. Secondly, a light does not shine for itself: it illuminates what surrounds it. In his letter to the Philippians, Paul writes: 'You shine like stars in the world' (Phil 2:14-16). This is his way of translating the words of Jesus Christ: 'You are the light of the world'. The Letter to the Ephesians, written directly by Paul or by one of his disciples (according to the then common practice of "pseudepigraphy"), remains for the Church a fundamental testimony of the baptismal vocation, called to pass from darkness to light.

*From the Gospel according to John (9:1-41)

The worst blindness is not what one thinks. Here we hear an illustration of what St John writes at the beginning of his Gospel, in the so-called Prologue:

"The Word was the true light, the light that enlightens every man... He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not recognise him" (Jn 1:9-10). This is what we might call the drama of the Gospels. But John continues: 'Yet to all who did receive him, he gave them the right to become children of God'. This is exactly what happens here: the drama of those who oppose Jesus and stubbornly refuse to recognise him as the One sent by God; but also, fortunately, the salvation of those who have the grace to open their eyes, like the man born blind.

John insists on making us understand that there are two kinds of blindness: physical blindness, which this man had from birth, and, much more serious, blindness of the heart.

Jesus meets the blind man for the first time and heals him of his natural blindness. He then meets him a second time and opens his heart to another light, the true light. It is no coincidence that John takes care to explain the meaning of the name 'Siloam', which means 'Sent'. In other cases, he does not translate the terms: here he does so because it is important. Jesus is truly the One sent by the Father to enlighten the world. Yet we return to the same question: why was the one who was sent to bring God's light rejected by those who awaited him most fervently? The episode of the man born blind takes place immediately after the Feast of Tabernacles, a great solemnity in Jerusalem, during which the coming of the Messiah was ardently invoked. And the danger of certainties can be great. At the time of Jesus Christ, the expectation of the Messiah was very intense. There was only one question: is he truly the Father's Envoy or is he an impostor? Is he the Messiah, yes or no? His actions were paradoxical: he performed the works expected of the Messiah — he restored sight to the blind and speech to the mute — but he did not seem to respect the Sabbath. And it was precisely on the Sabbath that he healed the blind man. Now, if he were truly sent by God, many thought, he should observe the Sabbath. It was 'obvious'. But it is precisely this 'obviousness' that is the problem. Many had too rigid ideas about what the Messiah should be like and were not ready for God's surprise. The blind man, on the other hand, is not a prisoner of preconceptions. To the Pharisees who ask him for explanations, he simply replies: "The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes... I washed and gained my sight." The Pharisees are divided: He is not from God, because he does not observe the Sabbath. How can a sinner perform such signs? The blind man reasons with simplicity and freedom: If this man were not from God, he could do nothing (cf. Jn 9:31-33). It is always the same story: those who close themselves off in their own certainties end up seeing nothing; those who take a step in faith are ready to receive grace. And then they can receive true light from Jesus. This episode takes place in a context of controversy between Jesus and the Pharisees. Twice Jesus had rebuked them for  "judging by appearances" (Jn 7:24; 8:15). It is natural to recall the episode of David's choice: "Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart" (1 Sam 16:7). The worst blindness, therefore, is not that of the eyes, but that of a heart that does not want to be enlightened. The man born blind does not only receive sight: he receives a new way of seeing. At first he sees Jesus as "a man"; then as a "prophet"; finally he recognises him as "Lord" and prostrates himself before him. The real miracle is not only the opening of the eyes, but the opening of the heart. Here we also find the wisdom of The Little Prince (novel by A.M. de Saint-Exupéry): "What is essential is invisible to the eye." The Pharisees see with their eyes, but remain blind inside; the beggar, on the other hand, passing through rejection and trial, comes to see the Invisible. The conclusion is this: faith is a journey from external light to inner light. One can have healthy eyes and remain in darkness; or one can have been blind and become a witness to the light. The man born blind teaches us that true sight is recognising Christ as the Light of the world and allowing our hearts to be illuminated.

+Giovanni D'Ercole