Saturday, July 11, 2026

Limes Interview with Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa

 

Interview with Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa

Translated from the original Italian transcript

Interviewer: Your Eminence, allow me to begin with the title of Pope Leo's encyclical, Magnifica Umanitas. What strikes me most, more than anything else, about the war you have witnessed is the inability of the parties involved to recognize each other's humanity — and not just in a moment of fury. In public communication itself, there has been insistence, in particular, on legitimizing that especially fierce type of reprisal that followed October 7th on the Israeli side, presenting this war — I quote the former Defense Minister verbatim — against "human animals." I should add, for the sake of completeness, that similar epithets are used on the Palestinian side as well, even directed at other Palestinians — I am referring to the [Palestinian] National Authority and Hamas. How is it possible to reach this point of degradation?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: The facts show that it is possible, unfortunately. And — [clearing throat] — I believe it is true that what happened on October 7th was a deep trauma that is still very present within the Israeli soul, the Israeli Jewish soul. But it is also true that we come from years of very violent and very exclusionary language and narrative, and so, after October 7th, with the Gaza war, one might say that the last restraints fell away — restraints that had perhaps held things back until then. But it is a combination of things. One cannot generalize; it is certainly not the whole Israeli population that is like this. But it is also true that there has been, and still is, a deep trauma within the Israeli population, a sense of rejection of what happened, but there is also a narrative, a way of thinking that little by little was underestimated — I used to think, "they are extremists, they are exaggerated," and so on, that they don't count. Instead, little by little, that language has become — I won't say dominant, but in any case very present.

Interviewer: Your Eminence, you come from Gaza — I believe you have been there four times recently, since October 7th; we spoke about this a little this morning — but can you tell us what Gaza is, or what it is not, today?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Gaza. I have looked with great curiosity at the map of Gaza. I have travelled across the whole of it several times — before the war and also during the war. The last time was a week ago, exactly a week ago today. I went in — the last time I entered was from Kerem Shalom. Usually I enter from the north, so this time I had the chance to cross it from south to north. It is a disaster, it must be said. There are entire towns that no longer exist — literally levelled to the ground. Rafah is one of them: Rafah no longer exists, it does not exist; there used to be hundreds of thousands of people there. When you go in, two different things strike you, but what strikes me most, first of all, is that you have to walk, you have to travel along makeshift tracks in the middle of the tents. There are hardly any buildings left standing; here and there a few whole buildings remain, but almost all are either destroyed or damaged. People live in tents literally in the middle of sewage. The other thing that images cannot convey is the smell. And there is something that is spoken about little: one of the most present plagues at the moment is rats, which bite people — especially children. People live in tents, so amid all this there is also a very degraded sanitary situation, as you can imagine. And it is horrible to see dozens of kilometres — I don't know how many — all like that, all like that, where now a little food is getting in, mostly for commercial purposes, but everything else is still forbidden. Anything that could be considered dual-use — anything Hamas might use — is forbidden, even, I say from experience, when we wanted to reopen a school: school desks, exercise books, pencils — all of this is forbidden. So we said, let's take wood from pallets and make desks out of that — but then you need nails, so there are a great many people who go through the rubble to salvage a bit of metal, nails, these things, to fix them up a little and then resell them. To give you an idea of how far things go: many medicines are also missing — not everything, not everything, but certain medicines are lacking, hospitals badly need them — glass for windows and things of that kind. I was in an ophthalmic hospital that had been half destroyed, of course; they had to patch things up a bit — the wards and so on — with a bit of plastic in place of windows and things like that. They try to find whatever way they can to recover what can be recovered, and I must say — it is a great sorrow, something I find hard — perhaps too diplomatic a way to put it — I don't know, I honestly cannot understand it.

Interviewer: Your Eminence, as we all know, there is a visible Gaza and an invisible Gaza — that of the famous, infamous tunnels, where Hamas's men have entrenched themselves, and where I imagine quite a few of them still are. What is the relationship between these two Gazas?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Well, the relationship exists. Hamas still controls most of the Gaza Strip, I mean, in both senses. Hamas is a galaxy of organizations, of groups — it is not one group, it is a well-organized network, now certainly also weakened, but it still holds control. Moving around Gaza — the last time a little less so, but on previous occasions, at the road crossings there were always people with weapons, and they belonged to Hamas. Even today, wherever I went there was always someone — very courteous, very respectful — but there was always someone who, let's say, checked, accompanied, things of this kind. When you go into the Strip, a message always arrives, a call saying "welcome" — to show, let's say, that control is still quite evident. It is clear that the so-called headquarters are still there, and there is still a great deal underground. An anecdote: we had several schools in Gaza before the war; one of them was the Sisters of the Rosary school. I went to see a neighbourhood that had been completely razed to the ground, and I wanted to see what remained of the school — in the Rimal area — and it was striking to see the school largely destroyed, but there was one school building where a block had partly collapsed, caved in — you could see that underneath there were probably tunnels. When the tunnel was blown up, the school block collapsed — to show that the tunnels are indeed there.

Interviewer: Your Eminence, the local population that remains — I don't know how it is estimated today, out of an original roughly 2 million, 200,000 [sic], how many remain? It would be interesting to know, though I don't suppose this is the moment for a census. How have the local population, and children in particular, adapted to this reality — to some extent?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: [sighs] Yes and no. It is very difficult to get used to this situation. Let's say children remain children. What strikes you, first of all, is seeing so many children — so many, everywhere — living in the street, dirty, playing amid the sewage because there is nothing else, instead of being at school. So very few schools still manage to function. The vast majority of the schools that exist are organized by volunteers or by organizations, but they are not officially recognized, and the buildings too are either destroyed or used as shelters by the population — those that are not yet destroyed. But speaking with the teachers who are there — they spoke of our own [institutions] — but also speaking with healthcare workers, everywhere I went, I thought: we need to organize ourselves to bring in medical supplies, doctors too, for surgery, etc. They said, yes, certainly that is needed, but above all we need trained people to deal with children's trauma, the psychological support of children and of mothers.

Interviewer: We at Limes also published an exchange of letters between Israeli psychoanalysts and psychoanalysts from Gaza, precisely on this theme — on sharing the pain.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: And going there — it's a difficult subject, it seems very difficult — yes, but in the end it will be necessary.

Interviewer: Absolutely. But the Israeli soldiers in all of this — the ones you meet in Gaza or elsewhere — what kind of dialogue is there between you?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Well, there is a bit of everything, there is a bit of everything. There are — I must say, with sorrow — I am, in theory, supposed to be a religious man, I am a bit religious, let's say — the toughest ones are the religious ones.

Interviewer: That is what surprises me a little — religious soldiers.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Religious soldiers, yes. And there is a bit of everything. Is there anything resembling chaplains in this context? No, no, no — these are religious combatants. Combatants, yes. There are also chaplains, but that is a different thing. These are combatants themselves, and they are the toughest. There is a bit of everything. There are even members of my own diocese who do military service. During the war I had soldiers from my diocese in Gaza who were shooting, and others who were under their fire — to give you an idea, there's a bit of everything. And the last time I went in, a soldier stopped me at the crossing and wanted a photo. Well — I had to be careful, because if it gets published you never know how it will look. And he said to me: "I thank you, because you make the world a better place, but then there are others who do exactly the opposite, who shoot," and so on. There's a bit of everything. It's difficult to say, but in general I must say that it is very hard to have a free, calm, clear relationship. It too is a galaxy, but it is a moment in which clear points of reference are lacking, even in this context.

Interviewer: Let us change geography, and then we will conclude with Jerusalem — let us move to the hills of the West Bank, or of Judea and Samaria, as that territory is called in Israel with biblical memory. We have seen that during the Gaza war, and still now, the so-called Jewish settlers have been pushing ever deeper and acquiring, with military support, tracts of territory, helped and encouraged by the government. I imagine you have had occasion to meet some of them. I was reading one of your interviews in Limes, I believe from 2010, in which you described two kinds of spitting — being spat on your cassock, and being spat on the ground — to indicate, let's say, the degree of sympathy you could enjoy in certain circles. So what is happening in the West Bank among the settlers — a kind of free-for-all, I don't know how to put it?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: It has become a territory where there is no law — and if there is, certainly not for the Palestinians — and where the settlers are permitted not everything, perhaps, but almost everything. Yes — gratuitous aggression, theft, destruction; they cut down trees or stop you from going to farm your own land, continually, daily, every day; new checkpoints that won't let you through; and the attacks — I repeat — are sometimes very violent, with people injured, and also with words of contempt, which are often what wound people most. This has become daily bread almost everywhere across the West Bank — not only in Christian villages, I would say above all in non-Christian villages — and there is no address to turn to, we don't know who to go to. And it isn't only Area C — they also enter Area B, they enter Area A, and then they go back. There are situations — they even have their own coordination among themselves — they come in, they attack, and we call the army, but when they know the army is coming, apparently they are tipped off, they disappear; the army arrives, finds no one, and gets angry with us for having called them. This happens daily, and people are truly very tired, and the Israeli-Palestinian question is being decided there. Perhaps it has already been decided, I don't know — perhaps so. But after October 7th, after the first weeks in which emotion over the massacre suffered by Israeli civilians and soldiers prevailed, we found ourselves focused — not by our own choice — on what became Israel's reprisal. Sometimes I have the impression this has had a kind of sanctifying effect on the Palestinians, as if there were simply good and evil. We know the matter is somewhat more complicated. In particular, speaking of the West Bank, this famous National Authority, entrenched in its offices in Ramallah, which a couple of years ago celebrated the Nakba with a fashion show in a luxury hotel — what is it? What does it represent?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: I must tell the truth, what I actually think — what else can I do, they'll tear me apart anyway, one more or one less makes no difference by now. Well, let's say the Palestinian Authority has lost credibility, first of all in the eyes of the Palestinians themselves, and it is anything but an authority. It has lost authority and standing, and it has certainly made a great many mistakes — the political errors have been very numerous indeed. Certainly, it is still the only element still internationally recognized as a legitimate representative of the Palestinian people, so one must also be careful about condemning it — and there are many reasons to do so — out of respect for the Palestinian population, who have the right to be recognized as a people and who must be able to live in their own land with dignity. It is sad to see how it is represented, and how, in fact, it is not that.

Interviewer: And the relationship between the Palestinian population in general and Hamas in the West Bank — what is it like?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: There is a bit of everything. Let's say that what has been seen in Gaza has frightened part of the Palestinian population somewhat, but not everyone. There is a part that says: Abu Mazen, with dialogue, has lost everything; the only way to deal with these people — meaning the Israelis, as they put it — is to use the same language they use. So even if there will be losses, it is still the only way to bring about a different policy for the future. So we are there, always in a very fluid situation — there is fear of ending up like Gaza, but there is also exhaustion from living that way. And perhaps what prevails above all is the drama of not having clear points of reference to rely on, that inspire confidence. It is also true, of course, that Israel has always sought to prevent there being an interlocutor. It is sometimes forgotten that until midnight on October 7th, Hamas was, in some ways, in very close relations with Israel — it was being financed. Before the war, Hamas was dominant in the territories, its support dipped somewhat, then rose again — it's also very hard to know exactly, because one has to see how reliable these surveys are — but let's say it is a solid presence in the territory.

Interviewer: Speaking of the ultra-religious Jewish figures, in particular the most extreme currents — Smotrich, Ben-Gvir, and company — with their reference to the Bible, as though by divine mandate they had a right, broadly speaking, to the territory stretching from the Nile to the Euphrates — is this, in your view, something that corresponds to a widespread, deep-rooted sentiment, or are these, let's say, rather particular fringe figures?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: They are not yet a majority, but they do have a growing following. It is a messianic movement, let's say, an inner-Israeli political messianism, and they do not represent the majority of Israel, but they are becoming — indeed already are — some of them are quite prominent ministers, and they enjoy ever greater participation and credibility within Israel. It is, from my point of view, a very problematic phenomenon, one that is also creating a deep division within Israeli society itself.

Interviewer: Yes — readers of Limes know how we keep insisting, not because we say so, but because Israelis themselves say so, on the Israeli tribes and on the profound divisions among them. Looking ahead to 2050, demographers indicate that by then roughly 30% of the population will be Haredi — ultra-Orthodox — who, by self-definition, do not recognize the State of Israel, do not take part in its defence, and live a separate life studying the Torah in their own schools. Add to that 30% around 21% who are Arab and other minorities, so probably by 2050 Zionist Jews would be a minority — not because some alternative idea like two states or a binational state had taken hold, but because [large parts of the population] want something very different, or want nothing at all.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Yes — 2050 is close, it isn't far off at all, and I believe there is an awareness of this within the Israeli population too, in the cultural world as well as the political and, let's say, military one. And this is perhaps one of the elements creating a sense of insecurity within the Israeli population — feeling surrounded by Arab countries and also undermined from within. And all of this creates this feeling of being encircled, which often — more often, perhaps, than we think — also shapes the choices that are made, choices of a political and also military character.

Interviewer: Your Eminence, Jerusalem. You have lived in Jerusalem for I don't know how many years now.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Thirty-six.

Interviewer: So you are more a Jerusalemite than anything else — the privilege of this view from the centre of the world, we might call it, if nothing else, from the centre of the world of the Abrahamic religions. What is Jerusalem today, and how is it changing compared with three years ago?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: It has changed, it is changing a great deal, and also very quickly. The demographics are changing, the boundaries are changing — to stick with internal boundaries, psychological more than physical ones, of course, along with property, with the way things work, the passages and so on. With the settlements — East Jerusalem, the sacred basin itself, is by now surrounded by Israeli settlements. The latest is [name unclear in source].

Interviewer: And where do you live?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: I live in the Old City, in the heart of the so-called sacred basin, not far from the Holy Sepulchre — the area, let's say, with the highest concentration of holy sites in the world. Until fairly recently it was a predominantly Arab area; that is no longer the case. There is constant change, and it used to be very rare to see Jews, even religious Jews, passing through our streets, because they are all narrow little alleys. This is now normal — it has become increasingly normal, which is not a problem in itself, of course — but it shows how the way the city is experienced is also changing for everyone, and it is one of the reasons there are also more clashes, more frictions between Christians and Jews — that is also due to this, the fact that people encounter one another more often than before, and so the attacks on Christians that have been discussed are linked to this too.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: The demographics are changing: the Arab population is not growing as it once did, Christians are fewer and fewer, while the Jewish population is growing much more, especially the religious and religious-nationalist segment. I was struck — though perhaps this is due to misinformation — by how little solidarity the Israeli Arab population has shown toward Gazans since October 7th, since the Israeli reprisals. We are, by now, living enclosed in separate bubbles, increasingly separate from one another. And in these recent years, Arab Jerusalem, East Jerusalem, has taken little part in the political developments in the West Bank and in Gaza. There have certainly been demonstrations, but very lukewarm ones, very lukewarm. There is also very tight control — for example, during difficult periods, only people aged 47 and above could go to the mosques, not young people. And entry into Jerusalem has also become more difficult, and the inhabitants of Jerusalem — Jerusalemite Arab Muslims and Jerusalemite Christians — have preferred to keep, let's say, the status quo of Jerusalem firmly in place, not out of a lack of solidarity, but above all to protect what little remains of Jerusalem's character, because everyone is aware that the heart of everything is there.

Interviewer: Perhaps it is not widely known that most Zionists are not Jewish but Christian — in particular American evangelicals, who are a real power, as we know. The American ambassador Huckabee is one of the most vociferous supporters of the most extreme versions of Israeli expansion. There is also a portion of Catholics involved.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Yes. What does this — strange, or not so strange — connection between Zionism and Christianity, and even in part Catholicism, mean to you? It connects a little to what you were saying about political-nationalist Jewish messianism. I find that these evangelical movements have no dialogue with us. I believe we should perhaps begin to have one, especially about the way they interpret Scripture. They are very powerful — economically very powerful, very influential within — a bit less so now, they too are somewhat divided after the Gaza war, but they remain very influential in the United States, especially over the American administration, and they are, let's say, one of the principal concerns of the Arab Islamic population, of the Jordanian Royal Court, for instance. And they are also a problem for us, for us Catholics — not only Catholics, let's say, of the traditional churches, the Orthodox churches too and so on — because a large part of the Islamic world cannot tell evangelicals apart from other Christians. They think all Christians are the same, which creates problems for our communities too. And this alignment of the evangelical movements with part of the American administration, and also the Israeli administration, is, for us, a big question mark — something of a gap we need to close. We have always refused to talk with them, precisely to avoid being seen as aligned with them, or in any way complicit.

Interviewer: And have they ever sought you out, I imagine?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Mm, perhaps someone has, recently, a little — but one has to be careful not to be used by them either, because a photo with them can become a real problem. So we have to find a way to manage that kind of contact, but certainly we must find a way to talk and try to understand — we spoke of understanding the other's pain, but one must also understand how the other thinks, and why they think that way, in order to try to see whether different paths can be found.

[applause]

Interviewer: To close, Your Eminence, sketch out for us, in your own words — perhaps we can map it afterward — your diocese.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: I have one of the most complicated dioceses in the world, perhaps the most complicated: it covers four different countries — Jordan, Israel, Palestine (Palestine meaning the West Bank and Gaza), and Cyprus, both parts of Cyprus, the Greek part and the Turkish-occupied part. The only country whose borders are settled is Jordan; all the other countries still have borders to be resolved — Cyprus as well as Israel and Palestine. And I have six vicariates. Six vicariates means — a vicariate is a pastoral region, let's say — Jordan, Israel, Palestine, Cyprus. I have one vicariate for foreign workers, something few people talk about: there are more than 100,000 foreign workers in Israel doing the jobs Palestinians used to do — Israel no longer wants Palestinians among them. Filipinos work as caregivers, Chinese and Thai workers work in construction and agriculture, and a large part of them are Catholic. And then I have the Hebrew-speaking Catholic vicariate — Catholics of Jewish, Hebrew-speaking expression, Israeli in every respect — with whom, recently, we have had a bit of tension. This is my diocese. No meeting in my diocese can be conducted in a single language. Mine is the Diocese of Jerusalem, where 90% of the population of my diocese cannot go to Jerusalem.

Interviewer: What languages do you use?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: What languages do we use? Well, it depends on the context: Arabic-English, Hebrew-English, always English, and then either Arabic-Hebrew or Greek-English.

Interviewer: I think we should map your diocese, with your help. Practically speaking, what can we do now, here?

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Well, Limes does a great deal — you talk about it, you inform people, because for such a complex reality, information is important — information that tries to help people understand, and then everyone draws their own conclusions; that is certainly important. I think it is also important for everyone to keep talking about it and not simply follow trends — the newspapers cover it for a while, then stop. Keep talking about it, and talk about it with genuine interest; you can disagree, you can like it or not like it, it doesn't matter, but don't stop talking about it, because I am convinced that this territory belongs to us — not politically, or else I will be misunderstood — I mean that we belong to that territory culturally, historically; it is part of us. Very often Islamic voices say, "Why don't you talk about the problems of South Sudan, and so on?" But our relationship with Sudan is not what we have with Jerusalem. Here, in this library, there is a whole room full of texts about Jerusalem Delivered, written in the 1500s — they did not write about South Sudan. So I believe talking about it is very important, and it is important to express something everyone needs — Palestinians, first of all, but Israelis too. We must not isolate — we must not isolate a country that already feels isolated, that would be wrong — but there is a need for empathy: empathy, and trying to understand, listening, engaging in dialogue — and dialogue does not necessarily mean agreeing, but affirming, even with conviction, one's own opinions, without building new barriers.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: You know, there is empathy around, but only for those who think as you do. If that is what you do, you are doing exactly what we are already doing ourselves — we don't need that. You must help us climb out of the well we have fallen into, not leave us down there.

[applause]

Interviewer: Your Eminence, what can I say — this applause confirms how right our choice was, for me, for all of us. Though, of course, I'm playing at home here.

Cardinal Pizzaballa: Well, all right, agreed.

Interviewer: And so I am truly very grateful to you for having accepted this award, which will now be presented to you in the appropriate ceremony.

Wednesday, June 17, 2026

Kenya: common ground, common word, common mission

We become human by participating in a beloved community,

a common experience and common effort on a common ground

to which one willingly belongs.

                                                                                    Wendall Berry

 

I’ll begin this writing from a tidy hermitage on the sumptuous campus of Subiaco Retreat Center in Karen, just outside of Nairobi, Kenya, which is run by the Benedictine Missionary Sisters of Tutzing. I am here to take part in a series of events with our Shi’a partners from Qom, Iran led by Professor Mohammad Shomali, with whom DIMMID has had a relationship for many years now. I arrived for the tail end of one event, was able to participate in a second one, and will attend the first day of the third. I only had a brief window in my calendar when I was asked to come, but I am very glad to have this experience.

 

I heard Dr. Shomali give the most substantive version of his history of dialogue with Christianity the other day. When he was doing his doctorate at the University of Manchester in the UK in the 1990s, he had the desire to learn more about Christianity. He first got himself involved with the Focolare Movement, with whom he still has strong ties, and visited Mariapolis in the UK several times. Along the way he met a monk-priest from Ampleforth Abbey, Fr. Jonathan. When he expressed his desire to visit a Catholic seminary, this Fr. Jonathan invited him instead to visit the abbey where he consequently met the abbot, the late Timothy Wright. Mohammad spent two days there and says that he simply loved the atmosphere of the place. In 2001 Abbot Timothy invited him to come back and give a talk on Islam to the monks. The abbot himself pointed out, in a filmed interview, how notable this was for their community in Yorkshire which had very little reference to anything outside of Yorkshire let alone the Islamic world. But the talk went very well and was very much appreciated. The following year Professor Shomali invited Fr. Jonathan to come to his home in Qom, Iran, the largest center for Shi’a scholarship in the world where Mohammad was and still is a distinguished teacher, but the abbot insisted on coming along too. Thus was born a friendship that has lasting repercussions.

 

What followed on that was the first of a series of Catholic-Shi’a dialogues that took place between Ampleforth Abbey and the now defunct Jesuit Heythrop College in 2003, then again in 2005 and 2007. In between there was another visit to Iran. After a little break in time, then-Abbot Primate Notker Wolf got wind of all this and asked that there be something specifically for Benedictines and at that point Abbot Timothy introduced Professor Shomali to Fr. William Skudlarek who was then Secretary General of DIMMID, and another series of meetings began, first at Sant’Anselmo, followed by encounters in Qom, Assisi, Mashhad (Iran), Kenya, South Africa, and Senegal.

 

Along the way Professor Shomali also started a program called Wings of Unity in conjunction with the Focolari and Sophia University in Loppano, Italy, and his relationship with the movement continues. His International Institute of Islamic Studies has also developed a close collaboration here in Nairobi with Tangaza University. For the past nine years it has been a regular part of his Iranian seminarians’ training, both women and men, to spend several weeks here in dialogue with their Christian counterparts, always under the theme “Unity of God, Unity in God.” In addition, there is a Christian-Shi’a summer school program here as well which is going on its seventh year.

 

Of course, what makes this all the more poignant, especially for me as an American, is that the majority of the participants are Iranians. I myself had a hard time getting here because of cancelled and delayed flights, mainly due to the rerouting because of the war, I was told during my long layover in Doha, Qatar. For them it was worse. Mohammad told me that there was a brief window when the airport was open between bombings but that they were prepared to cross the border into Turkey by car and fly from there if they had to. Luckily the window opened again just in time for them to fly out. I had expected there to be drawn faces and stories of terror, but I was surprised at how light-hearted they were about it all, even making jokes. They told me this kind of dark humor is “the Iranian way.” There were many comments like, “Well, we will see what President Trump has to say tomorrow…” At one point I was trying to slip between two chairs in the eating hall and someone commented, “It’s like the Strait of Hormuz!” ––and everyone laughed. Mohammad has been very careful not to talk about politics and only gave the briefest mention of it once when somebody asked him a general question about war. His summation was, “Well, we didn’t start this war. America attacked us. Of course we are going to defend ourselves.”

 

I have been gently trying to learn more about their relationship to the Supreme Leader, both Ayatollah Ali Khamenei who was killed in a US-Israeli air strike in February, and his son and successor Mojtaba Khamenei. About that there was no joking; they saw the Ayatollah’s “murder” as nothing less than a great tragedy, outside of any comment about their policies or those of the government. What I heard in Senegal I heard again here with even greater emphasis after these months of active war; they say that the West does not see how many people take to the streets in support of the government, and that support has increased due to national pride in the face of threats of being “blown back into the Stone Age,” the opposite of what the American administration was counting on.

 

I, along with another gentleman from Canada and his son, have been staying with the women at this Benedictine spiritual center and convent, Subiaco, in a luscious part of Nairobi called Karen. (The other men have been housed across town.) This area is verdant and well-cared for, full of large gated compounds. No trees are allowed to be cut here, and because of the thick growth it also stays cooler in the hot months. I am told that the area is actually named Karen after a British woman of the same name who claimed it for the British during colonial times, as a matter of fact the famous Karen Blixen of “Out of Africa” fame. Now it is inhabited by other wealthy folks, government officials and foreign businesspeople.

 

I was supposed to be a part of the end of their period at Tangaza but I didn’t arrive until Thursday morning instead of Tuesday evening. I had prepared about six pages of notes on the theme of justice in Islam and Christianity, as had been requested of me, and I was sorry not to get to use the whole thing. My second event was to speak at a one-day conference at St Paul’s University the day I finally arrived, and so after a shower, a shave and a brief nap, myself and another recently arrived guest were ushered across town to that. Whereas Tangaza is a consortium of Catholic religious congregations, St. Paul’s is run by the Anglican Church of Kenya and hosts students from various Protestant denominations. The theme there was also “Justice and Dignity from Islamic and Christian Perspectives” but Professor Shomali wanted me to speak about Monastic Interreligious Dialogue, and specifically our relationship with Islam. I had missed my speaking spot, but they squeezed me in after lunch, limiting my time to 15 minutes. As I got up to speak I suddenly had the inspiration to sing, a cappella, the refrain of “The Ground We Share”––“The holy ground is the ground that we share \ like the holy city Jerusalem, \ the prophets’ land and my parents’ land, \ the land of peace and the ground that we share”––and based my remarks on that. I explained that the Catholic Church’s approach to interreligious dialogue always starts with our common humanity. I love the way Nostra Aetate begins by recognizing that “One is the community of all peoples, one their origin, for God made the whole human race to live over the face of the earth. One also is their final goal, God.” For us that means that every person possesses an inherent dignity and therefore deserves fair treatment regardless of race or social standing. The Holy Father has been re-echoing this repeatedly, even in his powerful remarks addressed to migrants the other day in Spain. Then I slip in that the guiding documents out of the Dicastery speak about the four different kinds of dialogue. The first two, before we do any kind of active evangelization or theological exchange, are the dialogue of life and the dialogue of action, a call to cooperate with people of other faiths in projects of mutual interest. This, again, is because we always begin with that common humanity. Pope St. John Paul II in Fides et Ratio said, concerning discernment in interreligious dialogue, that the first criteria must always be “the universality of the human spirit, whose basic needs are the same in the most disparate cultures.” That is “the ground we share”: the universality of the human spirit.

 

The men and women participants were altogether on the long bus ride home from St. Paul’s back to Subiaco. The men were a great bunch, more like a football team on holiday than staid seminarians. They were very affable and immediately wanted to get to know me. I had a marvelous conversation with the gentleman I sat next to about the spiritual life, him asking me lots of penetrating questions about monasticism and the priesthood, comparing it to the householder life of a husband and father. It reminded me of my friend Hassan, another Iranian who I met in 2024 at a conference in Kerala during another long bus ride.

 

The next day we were all guests at a day-long conference at Tangaza sponsored by the African Academy of Religions. As a Westerner I have grown to be very careful about generically referring to people as being from “Africa” as opposed to their own country in Africa and also slow to call something an “African proverb.” So it was interesting to be at a conference that was dealing with “The Ambivalence of Faith in Africa: Power, Knowledge and Gender Dynamics” and to get a glimpse of progressive post-colonialist African theology. I heard some of the same issues that were and are at play in India, the tension between inculturation and syncretism for instance, as well as the delicate work of sifting through what is authentic Christian Catholicism and what a Western European import. There were very scholarly presentations by various African theologians and scholars as well as two Italians dealing with questions such as “Could faith and spirituality be the panacea to the contemporary societal reality to the realization of personhood?” and a de-colonized approach to religion and academic structures, shifting from Eurocentric scholarship to collaborative learning. I have grown to suspect that the concept of Ubuntu, so often quoted by Western progressives, ––“I am because we are; and since we are I am”–– was far overused and perhaps misused, and so it was interesting to hear it employed several times in reference to the “bottom up” approach and “the collective finger theory,” both of which focus more on communities than on institutions. I particularly loved what was introduced to us simply as “an African proverb”: “Until the lion learns to write, his story is always told by the hunter.”

 

That afternoon we began the women’s meeting, mainly with introductions, and then me giving a report on my work with DIMMID and Professor Shomali giving an opening address. Parallel to the other encounters here in Kenya, it was Fr. William who instigated this now regular meeting of Benedictine and Shi’a Sisters here at Subiaco because, as Sr. Lusina told me, “the women are closer to the children.” This was their fourth encounter, and I was told there were more new faces than old, and less Muslim women from Kenya in attendance this time, for whatever reason. To see the friendship and ease between these women is truly inspiring. The Muslim women are so fascinated by Benedictine monastic life, and the nuns are obviously so fond of their Muslim sisters. The Iranian women, as far as I could tell, were all dressed in the full-length chador that only reveals the face, and about half of the women who come from far-flung lands were dressed in long beautiful hijabs and the traditional robe-like abaya, sometimes with beautiful woven shawls. Listening to them and interacting with them would surely dismantle the stereotype that many Westerners have about women in Islam. They were confident, proud, and articulate, and as they introduced themselves and their backgrounds, I was impressed to find out that many of them were seminary students and several of them already held doctorates––one woman had three doctorates, one was a medical doctor and another was a pediatric neurologist. As a matter of fact, two women publicly praised the deceased Imam Khamenei for bringing greater respect to women and boasted that 60% of Iranian women have degrees of higher learning.

 

The men dropped in briefly for our session on Saturday morning, which of course brought a whole new wave of energy. I was dressed in full white habit by then and to my surprise several of the men were really impressed by that. That led to several lively quick conversations over tea about the meaning of the habit and monastic life in general. There was also one genial chap who put his arm around me and, as Hassan did on the bus trip in Kerala, started singing to me, in Farsi, poems of the great Sufi mystic Hafez who was from this man’s hometown, Shiraz. A very solid pleasant image of Iranians is starting to congeal in my mind. The men were on their way to the Focolare center at Mariapolis to begin a Week of Unity there. The women joined them there on Sunday after their encounter was over and Sr. Lusina and I were to go as well just for the day on Monday.

 

I was very impressed by the credentials of the men as well as I learned more about them. Some of them are studying Swahili and Italian so they can deepen their relationship with their partners in Kenya and Italy. (They most of them already spoke English at least as well as I speak Italian.) One was telling me about his specialty in Islamic psychology, for another instance, really applying faith in every aspect of life. The presenter who gave the introduction to Islam a few days later at Mariapolis strongly affirmed that if there is a doubt between faith and reason, the Shi’a tradition always sides with reason. I was very impressed by that, and my young Cameroonian friend from Focolare who was sitting next to me and I had a quick whispered conversation about John Paul II’s Fides et ratio as well as, of course, Anselm’s fides quaerens intellectum. In spiritual direction or counseling (of which I do little) have always operated out of the conviction that if you feel like you have to choose between good mental health and what you think the Gospel teaches, choose mental health and you will actually find that the Gospel is actually not far behind. This seems to be like very strong faith not the lack of it.

 

I have heard Professor Shomali speak several times now, particularly back in Senegal, but the two talks he gave on Saturday were the best things I have heard him deliver thus far. To our small group of the women plus me he laid out his vision for what he calls the School of God. His underlying approach is relatively straightforward: he does not speak of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam as three different religions, but one religion, which in and of itself could be a controversial position to take in some circles. He stated that God has always revealed only one message, but through many messengers, each one speaking through the language and the culture of their particular community. I assume he did not mean simply Hebrew, Greek or Arabic, but ‘language’ in the broadest sense of the word. He cited Surah 16:36 of the Qur’an (Surah An-Nahl): We surely sent a messenger to every community, saying, “Worship Allah and shun false gods” and Surah 14:4 (Surah Ibrahim): We have not sent a messenger except in the language of his people to clarify the message for them. So Mohammad would like to found this School of God which he says would have as its theme “One School, One Curriculum, Many Teachers,” where students of the various traditions could come and learn from teachers from any of the traditions the common wisdom that we share. In another place he described it as “One authority (God), one wisdom (divine justice), but many teachers.” He did not lay out a practical curriculum but obviously some of this is already taking place as he sends his seminarians to Kenya to learn from their Christian counterparts. And I saw firsthand how eager they sincerely are to learn from us and about us. Then later that same afternoon the talk he gave on human dignity for the sisters of Sacred Heart Priory on human dignity and justice was simply excellent, and I caught a glimpse of why this man is such a respected and popular teacher. I won’t even begin to summarize it here, but I was glad to find out it was filmed and published on YouTube.[1]

 

Besides all of this, there was also the interaction with the Benedictine sisters there at Sacred Heart Priory. Friday was the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which is their titular feast. Sr. Lusina, in her understated way, warned me that 7 AM Mass “might take a little longer than usual.” The music was joyous from the first moment, with eight sisters dancing up the aisle leading the procession to a song in Swahili accompanied by the choir in three-part harmony, organ and drums and other percussion, punctuated by the most jubilant ululation I have ever heard. All the while the other sisters and the rest of us who were not timid were pretty much dancing in our pews as well, at least making synchronized full body gestures. That carried on into the other acclamations. I had to leave for the conference at Tangaza with the women at 8 AM, by which point we had just reached the offertory procession, which was again accompanied by dancing up the aisle with the gifts. I was sorry to have to leave.

 

That same evening Sr. Lusina invited me to join the sisters in their refectory for dinner and asked if I would please sing a few songs for the community as well––an invitation I am always hoping for, to be perfectly honest, though I am always nervous about how a borrowed guitar will do for me. This one worked out fine. I sang two songs, “Behind and Before Me,” a ballad version of Psalm 139, and then taught them the ostinato for my “Streams of Living Water,” which they not only learned almost immediately after one listen but spontaneously added a perfect alto harmony by the second iteration in typical African choral style. I of course, buoyed up by that strong bed of vocals, was free to improvise pretty freely on the obligato verses over the top. It may be the most memorable performance of that piece ever after probably thousands of times singing it. When we finished singing, Sr Rosa, the prioress, asked me to say a few words about DIMMID and as she came up to thank me the sisters spontaneously broke out singing it again, this time very rhythmically with handclaps, which totally changed the character of the song, and ululating at the end. The music for Sunday Mass, was almost as jubilant and many of the Muslim sisters were in the back row for the entire celebration, commenting afterward how moving an experience it was for them.

 

The Week of Unity is an outgrowth of Shomali’s work with Wings of Unity, an academic initiative that advocates for profound dialogue between Christianity and Islam. In it, “students and academics come together to build bridges in a global effort to ease cultural tensions,” as their own website describes it. “In a world fraught with cultural and religious tensions, initiatives that are capable of building bridges become particularly valuable. Since 2016 Wings of Unity has provided a space for academic gatherings and profound dialogue between different religions.” It also is a fruit of Mohammad’s long relationship with the Focolare Movement and the Sophia University Institute in Loppano, Italy. This Week of Unity took place at Focolare’s Mariapolis Piero about an hour outside of Nairobi. They were to be together for five days, but I had to leave for Rome on Tuesday, and so Sr. Lusina and I decided to stay on at Subiaco and just go on Monday, so to be able to be there at least for the opening day.

 

After a traffic bound drive across Nairobi, we arrived just in time for breakfast. Seeing and being welcomed by all of our sister and brother Muslim friends there in a new context was a particular delight. (Though I did get greeted by a slightly reproving tone of voice from one who said, “You are not wearing your beautiful white robes.”) Along with them of course were many others, perhaps 100 persons in all, from all over Africa; I know for sure Cameroon, Tanzania, and Uganda were all represented. I had told Mohammad that if he wanted me to do anything I would be available just that day. We had the borrowed guitar, and I brought along my notes from the talk that I did not get to give the week before.

 

The program was supposed to start at 9 AM. We had a running joke about whether that was Kenya time or American time because I kept showing up for everything as punctual as the trains in Switzerland only to be left with lots of time on my hands. But this time the wait was really extending. Suddenly someone came up behind me and said, Fr. Joseph, who was to speak first, “wants you to give your talk at 12:00.” What talk?! Okay, not a problem. And then Mohammad came up behind me at about 9:30 and said, “Our first presentation is delayed and everyone is here. Can you do some music to fill in time for a half an hour?” I had told him about a song I had written two years back called “People of the Book” for which I chant the verse of the Qur’an in Arabic on which the song is based, Surah 3:64: “People of the Book, let us come to a common word between you and us, that we will worship none but Allah alone…” So he said, “Sing the one where you chant from the Qur’an.” If I was every going to sing it in front of everyone, it was going to be with fear and trembling––meaning with deep respect and care not to offend anyone’s sensibilities by daring to chant their sacred words, especially in Arabic in front of people who know the Qur’an in Arabic. I begged out at that moment but promised I would sing it later, giving myself some time to relax and practice it again. But I did do two other songs. First of all the full version of “The Ground We Share” again, which incidentally also quotes Surah 17 of the Quran about the Prophet’s night flight, al-Isra’ and ascension, al-mi’raj in Jerusalem (though in English) along with quotes from the psalms of ascents and the Book of Revelation. The explanation of that one is a long teaching in and of itself. And then I sang “Compassionate and Wise,” which combines a Hindu mantra (the mahamytrumjaya, “the great mantra for overcoming death”) with the Buddhist dedication of merit, the explanation of and story behind which again takes a little bit of time. They were both warmly received.

 

Then, as promised, after two other presentations, an introduction to Christianity and an introduction to Islam––imagine trying to do either one of those in 30 minutes!–– I finally got to give my presentation on justice in Islam and Christianity. I spent a little time going over generalities about our common ground and “the common word,” beginning by telling the story of Pope Benedict’s famous misstep in 2006 when in his Regensburg Address he accidentally offended Muslims worldwide. Of course what came out of that was this beautiful document in 2007, “A Common Word,” in which 138 Muslims scholars wrote an open letter to the Holy Father, basically quoting Jesus in the Gospel of Mark 12:30 (repeated in Matthew and Luke) teaching that the greatest commandment is ‘you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ … And the second, like it, is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these. These Muslim scholars then say that this is a common word between you and us, because this is also taught in the Qur’an and in the hadith of the Prophet (PBUH). My whole talk then is based on the premise that we should always start there, as all of our Church’s documents on interreligious dialogue do, on our common humanity, “the universality of the human spirit, whose basic needs are the same in the most disparate cultures,” as Pope John Paul II wrote in Fides et Ratio, before any theological arguments. I also add that even if we never get beyond that, that would be fine too. I also ended by quoting Pope Leo in this marvelous paragraph. After common ground and a common word, we also have a common mission:

 

… Christians and Muslims, drawing from the richness of our respective traditions, are called to a common mission: to revive humanity where it has grown cold, to give voice to those who suffer and to transform indifference into solidarity. Compassion and empathy can be our instruments as they have the power to restore the dignity of the other.[2]

 

And then finally I stepped out and performed “People of the Book.” And I must say, there are few more satisfying feelings than singing someone else’s sacred words for them, and for them to be so appreciative and moved by it. For this of course I thank my background in liturgical music that taught me how to approach a sacred text with dignity and respect. They truly loved it and watching the filmed version of it later, from someone’s iPhone, it was a good performance as well, for which I was grateful. That led to a flurry of short conversations before, during and after lunch. I also was lucky enough to share a little song fest with a young Cameroonian guitarist who was also in attendance, swapping songs in the company of several other newfound brothers from Tanzania and Canada (by way of Iran and Iraq). As we drove away, I told Sr. Lusina that I was just exhausted, but it was the best kind of exhaustion––to be so overwhelmed by the success of an encounter that you are left speechless.

 

All in all, simply a very fruitful stay with marvelous people in Kenya. My driver from the airport when I arrived was named John, and he also brought me back to the airport through the misty darkness early morning Tuesday. He had taught me a few Swahili words on Thursday––asante-“thank you”, habari yako-“how are you?”, rafiki-“friend”, and a word I heard and saw over and over again during my short stay in Kenya, karibu-“welcome.” As we were pulling into Jomo Kenyatta International Airport at 5 AM, I was surprised to see the words karibu tena on the sign for departures. When I asked young John about why you would say “welcome” to someone as they were leaving, he explained that it meant “You are welcome again.” In other words, “Come back!” Which I must admit still brings tears to my eyes when I think of all the beautiful souls I encountered in my brief stay.

 

May it be so.



[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdML5KvLVuI.

[2] https://www.vatican.va/content/leo-xiv/en/speeches/2026/may/documents/20260511-colloquio-ddi-riifs.html.

Tuesday, June 9, 2026

The Peace Council

 

When I first took on the role of Secretary General for DIM·MID, I had a vague idea of forming an advisory board for my own benefit—one composed of leaders from various religious traditions who could keep me informed about developments in their communities and guide me in approaching sensitive topics with care. I kept this idea in mind during my first months in Rome as I worked through the list of contacts my predecessor Father William Skudlarek had left me—individuals involved in interreligious dialogue who could serve as valuable resources.

One of those meetings was with Professor Gianni La Bella of the Sant’Egidio Community. Our conversation was particularly illuminating and later became the basis of the regular conference I now give around the world to describe the work of Monastic Interreligious Dialogue. At the end of our visit, I asked Professor La Bella what he thought I should do with the organization. Without hesitation, he suggested that we organize an annual international interreligious gathering to pray for and reflect on “peace as a universal patrimony.” I must admit that my heart sank; organizing an annual international gathering was the last thing I wanted to take on. Yet as I walked away from our meeting in Trastevere that morning, it began to feel like both a worthy challenge and a noble endeavor. Soon after, it occurred to me that this gathering could become the very purpose of the advisory board—a steering committee to guide such an initiative.

I began recruiting members, starting with my dear Muslim friend Aaron Maniam, now a professor at Oxford. When we first met, Aaron was working for the government of Singapore and was already deeply engaged in interreligious initiatives. I then invited Rabbi Paula Marcus of California, who is deeply involved in social justice work and in issues concerning the Holy Land, and my brother and fellow guitarist, Rev. Heng Sure, a Buddhist monk and longtime friend of DIM·MID. Next came Arzoo Ahmed, a perceptive young Muslim professional from England who works for one of Europe’s largest medical research agencies, and Lucas Tse, a Chinese scholar and historian currently at Oxford, whom I first met in California and who was working on his own translation of the Tao Te Ching—an area I have long hoped to bring more fully into our work.

I also invited Siddhartha Krishna, a remarkable Hindu pandit from northern India who I met in Rishikesh through a mutual friend. He speaks several languages, including fluent Sanskrit, having been was raised by a father who was a noted Gandhian scholar and a Swiss mother who is a respected yoga teacher in the lineage of B.K.S. Iyengar. I met Weh’na Ka’mu Kwasset Sherri Mitchell during a webinar on which we were both panelists. She is a member of the Penobscot Nation in the northeastern United States and works as a lawyer advocating for Indigenous land rights globally, including with the United Nations. (I have written elsewhere about the need for humanity to recover three essential dimensions—the body, the earth, and the feminine—and how traditional religions hold particular wisdom in these areas.)

To complement this group, I recruited several Christian theologians: Debora Tonelli, who works at Georgetown’s Rome campus and specializes in violence in scripture; Rev. Adam Bucko, an Episcopal priest and author from New York known for his leadership in the new monasticism; and Piotr Zygulski, a young Italian-Polish theologian whose doctoral work at Sophia University (Firenze) focused on Muslim-Christian dialogue had greatly impressed me. Finally, I included my trusted advisor Mark Hansen, an American who has lived for many years in Singapore. Mark brings deep expertise in international affairs and serves on advisory boards for both the American Camaldolese and the World Community for Christian Meditation.

Since a central theme had been suggested by Professor La Bella, we adopted the name “The Peace Council.” (This was before the formation of Mr. Trump’s “Board of Peace,” which unfortunately translates into Italian in the same way as our group, Consiglio di Pace.) We met monthly online for the following year. At each session, I would introduce a topic or text and then open the floor for discussion. More than once, I remarked that a transcript of those conversations would make a fascinating book. The depth of insight and the breadth of common ground we discovered were both striking and deeply gratifying.

As we began discussing how to organize the larger gathering that had originally inspired the group, I found myself growing uneasy. I shared this concern, explaining that I did not think we were ready to launch something so ambitious yet without first meeting in person. I suggested that we gather as a small group before moving forward. To my relief, the response was overwhelmingly positive, and we arranged to meet during the last weekend of May here in Rome, at the Monastery of San Gregorio where I live.

I took a firm hand in organizing this first gathering, explaining that I wanted it to function as a retreat, with myself serving as retreat master. We held six sessions of lectio divina together. I used a method of group lectio that I learned years ago and have since adapted and shared worldwide, though this was my first time applying it in an interreligious context. I asked participants from each scripture-based tradition to select a text on peace that they felt represented their tradition. We then followed a consistent structure: multiple readings of the text, followed by the sharing of a word, then a phrase, then a teaching, and finally an open discussion, concluding with silent meditation for the contemplatio phase. Music accompanied our sessions, and texts were often chanted or recited in their original languages—Hebrew, Arabic, and Chinese among them. I am happy to report that the experience was both profound and deeply successful for all involved.

We concluded with a beautiful outdoor ritual led by Sherri, including a blessing of the directions and prayers for the sick and the dead. Originally, I had hoped to meet at our motherhouse in Camaldoli, surrounded by the silence of its ash forests, but that was not possible. Instead, we gathered in a small, quiet park nearby, which proved to be a fitting and grounding conclusion to our time together and helped solidify our bonds of friendship.

We also shared an early morning meditation each day and participated in the monastic prayers—both here with the brothers and once at Sant’Anselmo for solemn second Vespers for the Solemnity of the Holy Trinity, which the group found very moving. In between were lively conversations over meals and evening walks through Rome. On the final day, we visited the Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue, where we met Cardinal George Jacob Koovakad, prefect, Monsignor Indunil Janakaratne Kodithuwakku Kankanamalage, secretary, and  Father Paulin Batairwa Kubuya, undersecretary. Father Bonaventure Mwenda also joined us later. They seemed genuinely impressed by the group’s reflections, and it was heartening to see smaller conversations emerge organically—Fr. Paulin speaking Mandarin with Heng Sure, and Father Bonaventure discussing African traditional religions with Sherri.

One participant described the entire experience as nothing less than ecstatic.

We will now begin planning an expanded gathering for next year, with carefully chosen additional participants. I am confident that we have made a strong beginning. From the outset, I have understood that among the four forms of dialogue encouraged by the church, our particular mandate is the dialogue of religious experience. I believe we have found a meaningful way to embody that calling—remaining rooted in our own traditions while remaining open to truth as it is revealed through others. For my part, what moved me most deeply was witnessing the love each participant holds for their own tradition and sacred texts. More than ever, I am convinced of the importance of learning what lies at the heart of each tradition and, as Nostra aetate teaches, of striving to “recognize, preserve, and promote” these treasures.

 


 

Saturday, May 9, 2026

What Would Love (Jesus) Do?/Cosa farebbe l'amore (Gesù)?


A few years ago, there was a phrase that was very popular among some American Christians:

“What would Jesus do?”[i]

Actually it was usually written using only the initials of each word: W-W-J-D.

You’d often see it on rings or T-shirts.

I remember thinking at the time that it was a bit silly, a passing fad.

But it suddenly came back to me one day

and it struck me as a brilliant summary of the Christian life:

we should always strive to emulate Jesus’ love, compassion, and ethical actions in our daily lives,

with a special emphasis on forgiveness, mercy, and service.

It’s a good idea to ask ourselves day after day, minute after minute:

“What would Jesus do in this situation?”

“What would Jesus say,” or perhaps, “How would Jesus say it?”

(As a matter of fact, last time I was in the States I was tempted to buy one of those rings!)

 

I say this because a few days ago I came across a poem titled

“What would love do?”

And it occurred to me that in a certain sense, it’s the same question:

“What would Jesus do?” and “What would love do?”.

Maybe it was a secular way of saying the same thing.

I don’t mind; it could be a step toward God.

It reminded me of St. Augustine’s saying:

Dilige, et quod vis fac – “Love—and do what you will.”

That is taken from his homilies on the First Letter of John[ii]

where Augustine was trying to show that if we are truly rooted in love––

and that is a big “if”!––, our actions will be good.

If we are truly rooted in love, we will be able to act freely.

 

Then I did a little research and discovered that this phrase, “What would love do?”,

is actually very popular!

There are songs titled “What Would Love Do.”

And there are several poems and self-help posts written by therapists.

There’s even a perfume called “What Would Love Do”!

 

I was giving this secular version of concept the benefit of the doubt

until I read some of the song lyrics and the words of the poems.

For the most part, they weren’t enough for me.

 

Some of them were just about self-care. One therapist wrote, for example:

 

“By love, I mean that kind of loving care that has my best interests at heart, along with those of everyone else. An unconditional love—sometimes fierce, sometimes tender—that many of us never experienced as children, and perhaps not even as adults.”

 

Okay, but…

 

Others were full of reassuring images and platitudes.

The perfume ad was particularly amusing; it read:

 

Love would lift you up with mandarin oil when you need a boost.

Love would calm you with lavender when worries weigh on your mind.

 

I’m not sure that’s what Jesus had in mind when he said:

‘Love one another as I have loved you.’

 

We know what love would do, because we have seen what Jesus did:

love is crucified love.

The greatest love—let’s not misunderstand—is to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,

as we heard in today’s Gospel.[iii]

It is not a feeling; it is an action.

 

St. Benedict tells his monks that love is mutual obedience.

He titles Chapter 71 Ut oboedientes sibi sunt invicem

“So that they may obey one another”!

And then, in the following chapter, he quotes Romans 12:10:

Strive to show respect for one another, and

no one should seek what is best for themselves,

 but rather what they consider best for someone else.

 

This is what love would do; this is what true love would do; this is what mature love could do.

 

This is the hallmark of a Christian community, whether monastic or not:

that each of us be a servant to the other.

As we remember Easter, we look back and remember Jesus at the Last Supper,

washing his disciples’ feet.

 

‘This is my commandment,’ says Jesus, very directly.

Love one another as I have loved you.

As one of my yoga teachers used to say: “It’s simple, but it’s not easy!”

 

Let us pray that, at this banquet of love,

at the table of the Word and the Sacrament,

we may be inspired and given the strength to love as Jesus loved

 

And then we can as we will.



[i] The phrase actually comes from a novel published in the early twentieth century titled *In His Steps*.

[ii] 1 Jn 4:4–12.

[iii] Jn 15:12–17.

______________________________________________ 

(italiano)

Qualche anno fa, tra alcuni cristiani americani, era molto diffusa una frase: “What would Jesus do?” ovvero, “Cosa farebbe Gesù?”[i]

In realtà, di solito veniva scritta solo con le iniziali di ogni parola, ovvero W-W-J-D.

La si vedeva spesso su anelli o magliette.

Ricordo di aver pensato all’epoca che fosse un po’ sciocco, un tipo fad.

Ma mi è tornata in mente all’improvviso un giorno

e mi è sembrata una brillante sintesi della vita cristiana:

dovremmo cercare sempre di emulare l’amore, la compassione, le azioni etiche e di Gesù nella nostra vita quotidiana,

con un’enfasi particolare sul perdono, sulla misericordia e il servizio.

È una buona cosa chiederci giorno dopo giorno, minuto dopo minuto:

“Cosa farebbe Gesù in questa situazione?”

“Cosa direbbe Gesù”, o forse, “Come lo direbbe Gesù?”.

 

Lo dico perché qualche giorno fa mi sono imbattuto in una poesia intitolata

“What would love do?”––“Cosa farebbe l’amore?”

E mi è venuto in mente che in un certo senso è la stessa domanda:

“Cosa farebbe Gesù?” e “Cosa farebbe l’amore?”.

Forse era un modo laico di dire la stessa cosa.

Non mi dispiace; potrebbe essere un passo verso Dio.

Mi ha ricordato la frase di Sant’Agostino:

Dilige, et quod vis fac – “Ama – e fa’ ciò che vuoi”.

Era tratta dalle sue omelie sulla prima lettera di Giovanni[ii] dove Agostino cercava di mostrare che se siamo veramente radicati nell’amore––

ed è questo un grande “se”!––,

le nostre azioni saranno buone.

Se siamo veramente radicati nell’amore potremo agire liberamente.

 

Poi ho fatto una piccola ricerca e ho scoperto che questa frase, “Cosa farebbe l’amore?”––

“What would love do?”, è in realtà molto popolare!

Ci sono canzoni intitolate “What Would Love Do”.

C’è persino un profumo chiamato “What Would Love Do”!

E ci sono diverse poesie e diversi post di auto-aiuto (self-help) scritti da terapeuti.

 

Stavo dando a questo uso secolare del concetto il beneficio del dubbio

finché non ho letto alcuni testi delle canzoni e le parole delle poesie.

Per lo più per me non bastavano.

 

Alcuni di essi parlavano solo di cura di sé. Un terapeuta ha scritto per esempio:

“Per amore intendo quel tipo di attenzione amorevole che ha a cuore il mio interesse insieme a quello di tutti gli altri. Un amore incondizionato, a volte feroce, a volte tenero, che molti di noi non hanno sperimentato da bambini e forse nemmeno nella vita adulta”.

 

Okay, ma…

 

Altri erano pieni di immagini rassicuranti e di banalità.

La pubblicità del profumo era particolarmente divertente, recitava:

 

L’amore ti solleverebbe con l’olio di mandarino quando hai bisogno di una spinta. L’amore ti calmerebbe con la lavanda quando le preoccupazioni pesano sulla tua mente.

 

Non sono sicuro che fosse questo ciò che Gesù aveva in mente quando dice:

‘Che vi amiate gli uni gli altri come io vi ho amato.’

 

Sappiamo cosa farebbe l’amore, perché abbiamo visto cosa ha fatto Gesù:

l’amore è amore crocifisso.

Il più grande amore – non fraintendiamo – è dare la vita per i propri amici,

come abbiamo sentito nel vangelo di oggi.[iii]

Non è un sentimento; è un’azione.

San Benedetto ci dice che l’amore è obbedienza reciproca.

Intitola il capitolo 71 Ut oboedientes sibi sunt invicem

“Affinché si obbediscano l’un l’altro”!

E poi, nel capitolo successivo, cita Romani 12,10:

Cercate di avere rispetto gli uni per gli altri e

Nessuno deve perseguire ciò che ritiene meglio per sé stesso,

 ma piuttosto ciò che ritiene meglio per qualcun altro.

 

È cosa farebbe l’amore, è cosa farebbe un amore vero, è cosa potrebbe fare un amore maturo.

 

Questo è il segno distintivo di una comunità cristiana,

sia monastica che non-:

che ciascuno di noi sia servitore dell’altro.

Mentre ricordiamo la Pasqua, guardiamo indietro e ricordiamo Gesù durante l’Ultima Cena,

lavando i piedi ai suoi discepoli.

 

Questo è il mio comandamento, dice Gesù, in modo molto diretto.

Amatevi gli uni gli altri come io ho amato voi.

Come diceva un mio insegnante di yoga: “È semplice, ma non è facile!”

 

Preghiamo affinché, in questo banchetto d’amore,

alla tavola della Parola e del Sacramento,

ci venga ispirata e data la forza di amare come Gesù ha amato

– e poi possiamo fare come vogliamo. 


[i] La frase deriva in realtà da un romanzo pubblicato all’inizio del ventesimo secolo intitolato «In His Steps»–– Nei suoi passi.

[ii] 1 Gv 4,4-12.

[iii] Gv 15, 12-17.