«Nisi pænitentiam egeritis...»

Lent is the period of final, more intense preparation of the catechumens for the Baptism they will receive during the Easter Vigil: on the first Sunday the “Rite of Election” is celebrated; and on these Mid Lent Sundays there are the so-called “Scrutinies,” to which the traditional gospels of the Samaritan woman, the man born blind and the raising of Lazarus are interlinked. We read these passages in Year A. But Lent is also the time that prepares for celebration of Easter all the faithful, who recall their own Baptism and do penance. For this reason, in this year, during which we read Luke’s Gospel, the liturgy offers three passages from this Gospel about conversion.

You have heard the first of these passages. It is a very strong text. We are no more accustomed to such a language, especially from Jesus. He is always so sweet, so kind, so understanding, so merciful, that we would not expect from him tough words. And yet his goodness—which is indisputable—does not prevent him from admonishing us severely. Why? Because he does not want to deceive us by a false compassion. Life is no joke; it is awfully serious: we are free, but we have to know that whatever we do has its consequences. And we are responsible for them. We cannot say: “Sorry, I was just joking.” Jesus confronts us with reality; hiding it from us would be deceptive. The first form of charity is to tell the truth.

Two news items are reported to Jesus. We are not informed about them by other sources. In the first case Pontius Pilate had caused a massacre; in the other one, a tower had collapsed; in both cases there had been several casualties. Well, according to the Jewish mentality, there was a close connection between evil and sin: every accident, in their opinion, was caused by the sin of the person involved. Do you remember what the disciples asked Jesus about the man born blind? “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents?” Jesus did not share this mentality: it is true that evil is a consequence of sin; but there is no one-to-one correspondence between a tragedy and the sinfulness of the victims. “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were greater sinners than all other Galileans? … Or those eighteen people who were killed when the tower at Siloam fell on them—do you think they were more guilty than everyone else who lived in Jerusalem? By no means!”

So far, we can easily agree with Jesus. If anything, in the first case, we would add a public condemnation of Pilate’s cruelty and of the Roman oppression, and, in the second case, we would blame God, because he lets innocent victims die, and we would probably wonder: “Where was God while the tower of Siloam was collapsing upon poor people?” This is the widespread mentality nowadays. Of course, Jesus cannot share this mentality, in the first case, because he is not a political revolutionary; in the second case, because certain reactions are simply blasphemous.

At least, we would expect Jesus somehow to reassure those present: “Don’t worry! It’s just an accident. You have nothing to fear. God is good: he will never allow something similar to happen to you.” Instead, Jesus says: “If you do not repent, you will all perish as they did!” Jesus takes his cue from two tragic events to invite us to repent. That terrible death is the end that awaits all of us, if we do not repent. We are all sinners; we are no better than those who fall victims of disasters; we would deserve the same punishment.

So, how come are we still here? How come do great sinners live at ease, careless of everything and of everybody? We find the answer to these questions in the small parable at the end of the gospel. The barren fig tree is not cut down because the gardener asks the owner to be patient: he will cultivate the ground and fertilize it, in the hope that the fig tree may bear fruit in the future. Our gardener is Jesus Christ, who never gives up hope of our conversion. God is patient and we have an advocate: let us not miss this opportunity!

Dubium

Visto lo zelo con cui i Vescovi filippini si sono affrettati a rilanciare le ambigue dichiarazioni di Papa Francesco a proposito della contraccezione, rilasciate durante la conferenza stampa sul volo di ritorno dal Messico (si veda il testo inglese della dichiarazione di Mons. Villegas nel sito della Conferenza episcopale filippina e la traduzione italiana sul sito www.chiesa), chiedo:

In quale tipo di magistero rientrano le conferenze stampa del Papa?

Nel magistero infallibile (solenne o ordinario), a cui è dovuto l’assenso di fede teologale (di cui al primo comma della formula conclusiva della Professione di fede e al can. 750 § 1)?

Oppure nel magistero definitivo, a cui è dovuto un assenso fermo e definitivo (di cui al secondo comma della formula conclusiva della Professione di fede e al can. 750 §2)?

Oppure negli insegnamenti veri e sicuri, ma non definitivi, a cui è dovuto l’ossequio religioso della volontà e dell’intelletto (di cui al terzo comma della formula conclusiva della Professione di fede e al can. 752)?

«Formidabili quegli anni»

Qualcuno potrebbe chiedersi se in questi anni di blackout informatico il sottoscritto sia diventato indifferente alle sorti della Chiesa. Ho piú volte citato su questo blog una delle Massime di perfezione cristiana del Beato Antonio Rosmini:

«TERZA MASSIMA: rimanere in perfetta tranquillità circa tutto ciò che avviene per disposizione di Dio riguardo alla Chiesa di Gesú Cristo, lavorando per essa secondo la chiamata di Dio».

Lo stesso Rosmini soleva ripetere due testi biblici: «In silentio et in spe erit fortitudo vestra» (Is 30:15); «Bonum est praestolari cum silentio salutare Domini» (Lam 3:26). Nei momenti di grave crisi, a nulla serve agitarsi e perdere la pace interiore: significherebbe dare la vittoria al nemico, che è all’origine della crisi. Meglio «aspettare in silenzio la salvezza del Signore», al quale la Chiesa solo appartiene.

Ciò non significa però che uno smetta di pensare, di interrogarsi sul senso di quanto sta accadendo: la ricerca della serenità dello spirito non comporta l’arresto dell’attività della mente; Dio ci ha dato la ragione perché la usiamo per conoscere la realtà. E la conoscenza della realtà — qualunque essa sia, fosse anche la piú tragica — non è mai stata e non sarà mai inconciliabile con il sereno abbandono alla volontà di Dio. Anzi.

Quest’oggi Sandro Magister ha pubblicato sul sito www.chiesa un articolo in cui espone la posizione, per altro già nota, del Vescovo Marcello Semeraro a proposito della possibilità di dare la comunione ai divorziati risposati. Ebbene, per sostenere questa possibilità, si fa riferimento a una supposta “probata Ecclesiae praxis in foro interno”, che sarebbe stata in vigore negli anni Settanta. Era un po’ di tempo che andavo riflettendo sulla tendenza, che si è diffusa in questi ultimi anni, a tornare a quelli che Magister chiama i “felici anni Settanta”. Non so perché, ma mi viene in mente il libro che Mario Capanna pubblicò una trentina d’anni fa: Formidabili quegli anni, con riferimento alla contestazione del Sessantotto. Ecco, mi sembra che nella Chiesa oggi ci sia una grande nostalgia di quegli anni immediatamente successivi alla conclusione del Concilio Vaticano II: quello sí che era un periodo di grandi attese e di grandi speranze; la primavera iniziata col Concilio cominciava a diffondere i suoi effluvi; le gemme iniziavano a sbocciare; i prati si ammantavano di fori… Tutto lasciava sperare che la Chiesa, finalmente, dopo secoli di oscurantismo, sarebbe ringiovanita, si sarebbe riconciliata con il mondo e sarebbe diventata la casa aperta a tutti gli uomini di buona volontà. Ma poi venne improvvisamente l’autunno, un lungo, interminabile autunno, sfociato infine in un gelido inverno. Grazie a Dio, tre anni fa l’inverno è terminato; è arrivata di nuovo la primavera; e quindi diventa inevitabile tornare a quegli anni “formidabili”, per riprendere il cammino dove era stato interrotto, mettendo fra parentesi il cinquantennio trascorso. Non c’è bisogno di abrogarlo; basta ignorarlo, tamquam non esset. 

È abbastanza comprensibile che coloro che, nella loro gioventú, erano stati “sconfitti” e che avevano trascorso tutta la loro vita nella nostalgia del bel tempo che fu, nel risentimento per la sconfitta subita e nell’attesa che arrivasse il giorno della “rivincita”, ora che quel giorno — anche se forse con un certo ritardo — è arrivato, non vedano l’ora di dare attuazione a quei progetti che erano rimasti in sospeso, per dimostrare che la loro ricetta era quella giusta. Ma chiedo: è ragionevole comportarsi in questo modo? Attenzione: non chiedo se sia legittimo. Sarebbe troppo impegnativo dare una risposta in proposito; e inoltre non ho alcuna autorità per farlo. Mi limito solo a chiedere se sia ragionevole. È ragionevole pensare che si possano spostare all’indietro le lancette dell’orologio e far finta che il tempo trascorso non sia mai esistito? 

È un’illusione ricorrente nella storia. Pensate al Rinascimento: ci si illudeva di poter tornare all’antichità classica mettendo fra parentesi i mille (diconsi: mille!) anni dell’“oscuro” Medioevo. In quello stesso periodo il Protestantesimo (ma l’Umanesimo cristiano non fu da meno) pensava di poter tornare al Vangelo nella sua purezza originale. È l’illusione oggi nutrita da alcune frange tradizionaliste, le quali pensano che, per salvare la Chiesa, si debba tornare a prima del Concilio. Ma, a quanto pare, è anche l’illusione di quanti, pur considerandosi “progressisti”, identificano il “progresso” con ciò che si pensava e si faceva cinquant’anni fa. 

La storia non si ferma, né, tanto meno, torna indietro. La Chiesa in questi cinquant’anni (dal Vaticano II a oggi) ha fatto un cammino: sarebbe sciocco ignorarlo. Questo non significa che tutto ciò che è avvenuto sia giusto: possono esserci stati degli errori, ai quali si dovrà rimediare; ma ci sono state anche tante acquisizioni, che non potranno piú essere messe in discussione. In questi cinquant’anni i Papi che si sono avvicendati (diversi fra loro, ma con una sostanziale continuità) hanno approfondito col loro magistero la dottrina cattolica (si può ancora usare questo linguaggio?): mi sembra piuttosto arduo far finta che si possa tornare al periodo immediatamente postconciliare, quando sembrava lecito mettere tutto in discussione, come se ancora oggi si dovessero decidere questioni che sono state ormai da tempo definitivamente chiarite.

Oltre tutto, riproporre oggi le stesse ricette di cinquant’anni fa, come se non fossero mai state applicate, dimostra o malafede o scarsa capacità di giudizio. Mettendo da parte la malafede, che non sta a noi giudicare, rimane l’incapacità di guardarsi attorno e di “leggere” la storia. Se è vero che i vertici della Chiesa misero da parte le ricette che venivano proposte in quegli anni, preferendo percorrere, pur fra mille contraddizioni, l’accidentato sentiero della tradizione; è altrettanto vero che quelle ricette sono state attuate su base locale. Per cui abbiamo visto quali risultati abbiano dato: pensiamo all’Olanda (quest’anno ricorre il cinquantenario del Nuovo catechismo), al Belgio, alla Francia, alla Germania… ci si aspetterebbe di trovare in questi paesi una Chiesa rigogliosa; e invece non si vede altro che… deserto.

Ma c’è un altro aspetto che gli innovatori — che, dopo tanti anni, sono riusciti a conquistare il potere nella Chiesa — sono portati a trascurare. I Papi che si sono succeduti in questi cinquant’anni, oltre a lasciare un imponente corpus dottrinale, hanno anche lasciato il segno nel corpo vivente della Chiesa: hanno plasmato generazioni di fedeli, che si sentono a loro legati in maniera irreversibile e che li considerano in qualche modo loro “padri”. I preti piú giovani della Chiesa d’oggi, quando hanno percepito e abbracciato la vocazione al sacerdozio? I laici del Family Day in quale Chiesa sono cresciuti e si sono formati? Voi pensate che sia cosí facile cancellare da queste generazioni di cattolici l’impronta che i vari Paolo VI, Giovanni Paolo II e Benedetto XVI hanno lasciato nella loro carne?

Un’accusa ricorrente sulle labbra dei novatores è che la “vecchia” Chiesa sarebbe “ideologica”. Non si rendono conto che, se c’è un’ideologia, sono proprio le loro formule e i loro schemi mentali, gli stessi di cinquant’anni fa.

«Ipsum audite»

Just as the first Sunday of Lent is dedicated to the temptation of Jesus in the desert, the second Sunday is traditionally marked out by the reading of the transfiguration’s gospel. This should help us to realize that Lent is not only a time of penance, but also a time of contemplation: we not only are called to follow Jesus into the desert, to fast and to be put to the test with him; we are also invited to follow him upon the mountain, to gaze at his glory.

This year we read the account of this event according to Luke. As we have already noticed, Luke’s gospel is one of the three synoptic gospels, and so it is very similar to the other two, Mark and Matthew. But Luke has often some peculiarities that distinguish his gospel from others. First of all, he never uses the verb transfigure, in Greek metamorphóo, that is, “to transform”, “to change in form or figure.” Why? Because that verb was used by pagans, and so Luke does not want his readers to think that a metamorphosis is happening, like in the world of pagan deities. He simply says: “His face changed in appearance.” But what was that change? What did the disciples see? Luke tells us soon after: “They saw his glory.” In this short sentence, used only by Luke, there is the essence of the transfiguration: Jesus manifested his glory, that is, his real identity, his divine nature. 

But there is another small detail, that the other evangelists do not emphasize. The transfiguration happened “while he was praying.” This is a peculiarity of Luke’s gospel: in all important moments of his life, we always find Jesus praying. It had happened at the baptism and before the choosing of the twelve apostles; it will happen before his passion, in Gethsemane. Prayer is for Jesus the moment of his encounter with God, the mysterious talk between the Son and the Father. It is during this conversation that Jesus’ face changes in appearance, since it reflects the divine brightness.

All the evangelists say that Moses and Elijah appeared and that they were conversing with Jesus. But only Luke tells us what was the topic of that conversation: they “spoke of his exodus that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.” The transfiguration takes place shortly after Peter had recognized Jesus as the Messiah and Jesus had announced for the first time his passion. The transfiguration is a confirmation for both these events. Jesus is really the Messiah; indeed, he is the Son of God. But, at the same time, against the common idea of the Jews, he is a suffering Messiah: “The Son of Man must suffer greatly and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed and on the third day be raised.” To speak of what is going to happen in Jerusalem, Luke uses a significant term, exodus, which literally means “way out.” It is the phrase we use to refer to the deliverance of the Israelites from Egypt and their journey to the promised land. This means that Jesus’ death and resurrection will be a “new exodus,” that is, the rescue of humankind from sin and the gift of the true promised land, the kingdom of heaven.

By his transfiguration Jesus wants to prepare his disciples to face his imminent passion, so difficult for them to accept. He shows them his glory, to assure them of his identity; but, at the same time, he wants them to understand that only through passion it is possible to attain the glory of the resurrection. For them to accept this hard truth, Jesus calls some privileged witnesses: Moses and Elijah, two of the most significant figures of the Old Testament, representative of the law and the prophets respectively. Moses and Elijah vouch for Jesus: what Jesus had said about his future passion and resurrection is true. You can trust him. 

But, at a certain point, Moses and Elijah disappear; all those present are plunged into a cloud and from the cloud comes a voice: “This is my chosen Son; listen to him.” It is the voice of God; there is no need any more of a human testimony; it is God himself that testifies for Jesus. Just as in the baptism, God confirms the divine nature of Jesus; but now he adds an invitation for us: “Listen to him.” If he is my Son, you must trust him. You have just seen his glory; now please listen to his word.

«Non in solo pane vivit homo»

The first Sunday of Lent, by an ancient tradition, is dedicated to the temptation of Jesus in the desert. The preface of today’s Mass explains why: “By abstaining forty long days from earthly food, he consecrated through his fast the pattern of our Lenten observance.” Lent was not invented by the Church; it was Jesus himself to institute it. 

The event we commemorate today happens at the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry, soon after his baptism: “Jesus returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the desert for forty days, to be tempted by the devil.” Apparently, it is necessary for Jesus to undergo this test before starting his mission: it is the Spirit that leads him into the desert to be tempted. But it is not just an isolated experience in Jesus’ life; it should rather be considered a programmatic story as it describes the entire mission of Jesus: during his public ministry and his whole earthly life, Jesus always fought against the devil; he came into the world exactly for this, to conquer him.

Now Jesus is ready to start his fight; the baptism equipped him for that purpose. Luke points out that Jesus was “filled with the Holy Spirit”: it is a kind of armor to confront the enemy. Please notice: the devil also, in order to test Jesus, begins from what has been revealed in his baptism; no less than twice he says to him: “If you are the Son of God...” It is true: Jesus is the Son of God; but the devil would like Jesus to rebel against God. It is not impossible for a son to revolt against his own father. Indeed, sometimes it could seem that, for a son to become adult, it is necessary to get rid of dependence from his father. But Jesus knows that he can be Son only remaining united and submitted to God. 

The main weapon Jesus uses to drive back the assaults of the enemy is the word of God: Jesus repeats “It is written...” At a certain point, the devil himself starts to use the same weapon; he also begins quoting Scripture: it becomes a duel fought with equal arms. But Jesus is stronger than the devil. The devil exploits the word of God to put Jesus to the test: those quotations are real word of God, but used by the devil for his own interests. Even the word of God can be manipulated.

The devil tests Jesus in three different ways. First of all, he advises him to use his divine powers to satisfy his human needs: “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become bread.” Secondly, he offers him earthly power and glory, on one condition: “All this will be yours, if you worship me.” Finally, he urges him to put God his Father to the test: “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself from here,” angels “will support you.” These are three aspects of the same temptation: to become an earthly Messiah, regardless of God’s mission; to be the Son of God, without obeying him; to take advantage of divine privileges to carry out a human plan.

Jesus’ temptation is our temptation. We too are children of God and the devil tries to convince us to go our own way, irrespective of what is the plan of God upon us. He seduces us with his promises, proposing to us wealth, success, pleasure. But on one condition: “All this will be yours, if you worship me.” How can we resist his enticement? Using the same weapons Jesus used: prayer, fasting, word of God. But, before everything else, we should be convinced that “one does not live on bread alone.” In life, material things are not everything: of course, we need food, health, money to live, but there are other things more important than these, which only God can give. The most important thing is faith: Saint Paul, in the second reading, reminds us of the Scripture teaching: “No one who believes in him will be put to shame.” If we believe, we should also try to discover and fulfill the will of God upon us, because we know that only in it is our salvation. Above all, we should remember that, in our fight against the devil, we are not alone, because Jesus fought against him before us and for us. And he won, not for himself, but for us.

«Duc in altum!»

All the gospels narrate, at the beginning of Jesus’ public life, the call of his first disciples. Each gospel reports this event in its own way: for instance, Mark and Matthew put it immediately after Jesus started his preaching. Luke instead tells us that Jesus began his ministry at Nazareth, where he was rejected; and then he went to Capernaum, where, on the contrary, he was welcomed, his preaching was followed by the crowds, and he was able to perform several miracles. It is exactly after one of these that the call of the first disciples took place. In this way it appears more credible: Simon, James and John left everything and followed Jesus because they had already listened to his preaching and witnessed his miracles. 

Let us take Simon: he had already received Jesus into his house; and Jesus had healed his mother-in-law; but he had continued his life and his job. He had certainly heard Jesus preach; otherwise we could not understand his answer when Jesus says to him: “Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch.” How could he obey Jesus after a night of fruitless work? And yet he replies: “At your command I will lower the nets.” Evidently, he had experienced the authority and power of Jesus’ word; by then, he knew he could rely on him.

But he would have never expected a so fruitful catch: after a night without a fish, now their nets were tearing. He realized that that catch was not the result of his work, but just the consequence of the presence of Jesus in his boat. He understood that his personal efforts were totally vain without Jesus. He perceived that from that time onwards his life would have made no sense without him. But, at the same time, he felt a sense of unworthiness: “He fell at the knees of Jesus and said, ‘Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.’” When we find ourselves in front of greatness, we feel little; when we are in front of God, inevitably we feel sinners, because that is our condition. We have found the same reaction in the other readings. When Isaiah witnesses the manifestation of God’s glory in the temple, he says: “Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips.” When Paul sees the risen Lord, he is perfectly aware of his unworthiness: he considers himself as “one born abnormally” (literally, “an abortion”), “the least of the apostles, not fit to be called an apostle, because [he] persecuted the church of God.”

And yet this unworthiness does not prevent God’s choice: he is perfectly aware that his instruments are imperfect, but he knows how to use them. He makes them fit for the mission he entrusts to them. Were Isaiah’s lips unclean? Well, one of the Seraphim touches his lips with an ember: “See, now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged.” And so, when the Lord asks “Who shall I send? Who will go for us?” he can respond: “Here I am; send me!” 

Was Paul not fit to be called an apostle? Yes, but he became an apostle all the same, maybe the least of the apostles, but anyway he was an apostle not inferior to others. How come? “By the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me has not been ineffective. Indeed, I have toiled harder then all of them; not I, however, but the grace of God that is with me.”

Likewise, Peter, after acknowledging his sinfulness, is not rejected by Jesus. Jesus does not say to him: “I’m sorry; I was mistaken; I thought you were better. Never mind, I’ll look for someone holier than you.” No, Jesus says: “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men.” Apparently, Peter’s sin is not an impediment, but a requirement for becoming a fisher of men: Are you a sinner? Well, you are in a position to be chosen. Why? Because, in this way, you are aware that, if you catch people, you are without merit; I am the only one responsible for that. Just like the catch of fish you have just made: it did not depend on you, but only on me. So, do not worry, follow me; I will make of you a fisher of men. Trust me! You just put out into deep water and lower your nets. As for the rest, I’ll see to it!