Homily for the First Sunday of Lent - B
Barcelona, Holy Family, February 18, 2024
Most Reverend Eminence,
Dear brothers and sisters,
May the Lord give you peace!
Thank you for inviting me to participate in this moment of solidarity, in prayer and listening, with the realities of conflict and division. And in this particular year, in solidarity with the Holy Land, which is being torn by one of the worst conflicts of recent decades, and marked by a hatred, which has never been seen in such hash forms.
We are at the beginning of Lent, and the Gospel presents us with the well-known passage of the temptations, in the short form of Mark's Gospel. This account takes place immediately after the Baptism of Jesus, a moment of the manifestation of the Trinity, during which Jesus is anointed by the Father.
After that glorious moment, the Holy Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness, into the place of trial and temptation. For the Word heard from the Father at the place of Baptism needed to descend into his flesh, into his life.
Mark's Gospel does not recount the events of the temptations but makes it clear that the whole period Jesus spent in the desert was a struggle, a continuous trial. A place where the Word, which was heard encounters real life, with weakness, with limitation. There we see if it 'holds', if it endures, if it is true, whether we really trust, whether we continue to listen and trust, or do we choose other paths; whether we prefer a shortcut, whether opt to do it alone in our own strength.
Understanding the theory of our faith and professing it, is one thing; Yet it’s a different thing when we must apply this faith in different life events, especially when the Word does not always or immediately seem to match what is happening to us. That’s why the wilderness is needed, for one to take the first steps towards an incarnate faith. It is the place, where you no longer know God by hearsay (cf. Job 42:5), but by personal experience.
The new life, which began in the wilderness, is given a glimpse by the evangelist Mark with an evocative image: for he says that in the wilderness Jesus was with wild beasts and that angels served him (Mark 1:13).
Wild beasts and angels represent the two most opposite extremes one can find in life: the lofty and the humble.
Well, these opposites can find peace and coexist together, with no more fear.
Yet the opposite is also possible: that we choose the short path, the shortcut suggested by the devil. Then, there can no longer be a peaceful co-existence between angels and wild beasts. Peace cannot be found.
In the Holy Land, the desert covers a large part of the Territory of the country. It is part of the life of all its inhabitants and offers wonderful vistas. However, it does not seem that we have learned to live the full meaning of the desert, as the Gospel offers us. It seems that in temptations, which are always the same - power and success in their various forms - we have chosen to come to terms with the Devil.
Indeed, from October 7th to the present day, we have been caught in a whirlwind of events and have seen death, destruction, wounds, violence, resentment, and a desire for revenge. The statistics are well known, and it is not the case here to go into the details of the number of victims and the massacres committed. I can only say that such a dramatic and serious situation has never been seen in recent decades.
This crisis spares no one. The small Christian community of the Holy Land is also affected, as are all other communities. I am thinking, in particular, of our parish in Gaza, where about a thousand people are assembled in the two Catholic and Orthodox parish complexes, deprived of everything: water, electricity, food, medicine. Supply is increasingly difficult and dangerous; 24 people have already died under bomb and sniper attacks. Like most of Gaza's inhabitants, they have lost everything. Their homes are destroyed, and they do not know what their future will be. This is just a small example of what the people in Gaza are experiencing. But in Israel, too, the pain is great, and the shock of what happened on October 7 is still not over.
The severe crisis underway in a short time has dismantled the illusion of easy prospects for peace. Everyone today is locked in his or her life context, within their respective communities, locked in his or her grief, often also angry, disappointed, and lacking confidence. Therefore, it is clear to everyone that we will have to start over, to rebuild with patience, considering the mistakes of the past, and the many wounds of the past and the present, which perhaps had not been sufficiently taken into account. We should be aware that the time for healing will be long, and will need complex paths, but will still be necessary.
This is perhaps one of the difficulties faced in our times, at least in the Holy Land: one's own heart is so full, invaded, torn by pain, that one cannot find room for the pain of the other. Each sees himself as the victim, the only victim, of this atrocious war. He wants and demands empathy for his situation, and often perceives expressing feelings of understanding toward others himself, as a betrayal or at least a failure to listen to his suffering. A situation in every sense lacerating. Perhaps silence would be best in the face of this.
According to the Gospel, the desert is the place where one is free from the provocations and uproar of the world, where it is easier to come to terms with oneself, and where one is in a way forced to put one's heart and relationships in order. In short, the desert is the physical and spiritual place where in silence it is easier for us to hear God's voice.
That is not what we are experiencing in the Holy Land. We have the physical desert, the Judean desert, which is beautiful these days because after the rains it is green and blooming with wonderful colors. But we are not experiencing the spiritual desert. The noise of guns and bombs overlaps with the many voices of hatred and resentment, which continually rise in the media and on the streets throughout the country, creating in everyone a sense of disorientation and great distrust.
Above all, I am struck by the tsunami of hatred that transpires in speeches, even of public figures, in expressions that deny the humanity of the other in a cruel way.
Instead, it is necessary to preserve a sense of humanity. First and foremost, in one's language, in private and in public, and in the use of social media, which have a disruptive effect on public opinion, and at the same time do not allow for depth and perspective to be given to situations as complex as the one we are experiencing. Language creates opinion and thought, which can fuel hope but also hate. Humanity, that is, the need to remain human, to retain a sense of respect for the dignity of the person, and his or her right to life and justice, begins with language. Language that is violent, aggressive, laden with hatred and contempt, rejection, and exclusion, in short, is not incidental to this war but rather is one of the main tools of this and too many other wars. Calling the other an "animal," or otherwise using expressions that deny the humanity of the other, wherever they come from, is also a form of violence that opens or perhaps even can justify choices of violence in many other contexts and forms. These are expressions that perhaps hurt even more than massacres and bombs. God created the world with the Word ("let it be done'). We, too, create our world with our words. We have seen this in these months in a decidedly sensitive and harsh way.
What is needed, therefore, is the courage of a non-exclusive language. Even in the harshest of conflicts and oppositions, it still maintains a firm and clear sense of humanity, because no matter how much we may disfigure it by our evil conduct, we all remain people created in the image of God, always. Is this not ultimately the Church's greatest contribution in our situation, that is, to provide a language that can create a new world not yet visible, but manifesting on the horizon?
This war is also a watershed in interreligious dialogue, which cannot be the same as before, at least between Christians, Muslims, and Jews, who are experiencing moments of mutual incomprehension now. We will have to start again, aware that religions also have a central role in orienting, and that the dialogue between us will perhaps have to make an important step, and start from the current misunderstandings, from our differences, from our wounds. It will have to be done, not out of need or necessity, but out of love. Because, despite our differences, we love each other, and we want this good to find concrete expression in the lives not only of ourselves but also of our respective communities. To love each other does not necessarily mean having the same opinions, but knowing how to express and appreciate them, respecting and welcoming each other.
I am convinced that it is on such a path that we must direct our steps. For the prophecy of peace to become a reality, we want to educate ourselves in respect, encounter, dialogue, and forgiveness. All of us, Jews, Muslims, and Christians, must first and foremost be credible witnesses of hope because we are convinced of God's goodness to all people. Without hope, one does not live. Today there is more fear than hope. Fear is faced with the weapons of faith and prayer, like Jesus in the desert. Precisely in this time of war and deep divisions, we want to believe that this is also the time of hope. I believe that the antidote to violence and despair, wherever it comes from, is to create hope, to inject hope, to generate hope, to educate for hope and peace. The Church, schools, and universities have a key role in this: this is where we must begin to re-educate people in peace and non-violence. Being prophets of peace means focusing our attention on the drama of both peoples, Israeli and Palestinian. We must learn to love both, to feel them as neighbors and friends. Only in this way will walls collapse and new bridges arise, capable of "a love that goes beyond the barriers of geography and space" (Francis, Brothers All, no. 1).
Right now, this all seems like just a dream that can never come true. Instead, in the faith that sustains us, we believe it is the responsibility to which God calls us and for which we will never cease to strive.
+Pierbattista
