I was rereading an article published in Ombre e Luci about the presence of non-believers at Fede e Luce. Someone had argued that their participation made no sense.
Really?
That article challenged me, Jesus. My faith and spirituality are deeply rooted in the experience of Fede e Luce, where, always, many come—and I hope they continue to come—even if only for the light.
You, Jesus, push us into crisis: you demand clarity and loyalty toward you, on one hand, and openness and genuine availability toward others, on the other.
You said: "I am the way, the truth, and the life" (John 14:6). "Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven" (Matthew 10:32).
And we also know that "this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins" (1 John 4:10).
The prophets already described God's tireless desire to meet humanity, regardless of whether they answer: "I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me; I was found by those who did not seek me. To a nation that did not call on my name, I said, 'Here am I, here am I.' All day long I have held out my hands to an obstinate people" (Isaiah 65:1-2).
Jesus, when asked which is the greatest commandment, you did not hesitate: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind" (Matthew 22:37).
But you immediately clarified: "This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself" (Matthew 22:38-39). And to those who tried to trap you—"who is my neighbor?" (Luke 10:29)—you told the story of the Good Samaritan, who, unlike two other passersby who were particularly religious (a priest and a Levite), showed himself to be a neighbor: he had compassion on a stranger beaten by robbers, tended his wounds, and spent his effort, time, and money on him. You closed with a concrete command: "Go and do likewise" (Luke 10:37).
Jesus, I think of a series of people who encountered you. They were not Jewish and we do not know how religious they were, yet in their humility they spoke words so extraordinary that we remember them still.
Among them, I think of that Roman officer at Capernaum who came to you asking for help: "Lord, my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly" (Matthew 8:6). And you answered, "I will go and heal him." But the officer replied, "Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed." And you yourself, Jesus, were amazed at his words: "I tell you, I have not found anyone in Israel with such great faith" (Matthew 8:10).
I think too of another Roman soldier, who had just carried out your unjust death sentence. "And when the centurion, who stood there in front of Jesus, saw how he had died, he said, 'Surely this man was the Son of God!'" (Mark 15:39).
And if faith is your gift, O Lord, which only you know and can measure, how can we presume to classify those who come to Fede e Luce by some scale of faith?
"What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead" (James 2:14-17).
Christmas draws near. The first who came to find you, Jesus, were not high priests. They were shepherds who stayed out in the open night, watching over their flocks (Luke 2:8). And others—"pagans," "Magi from the east" (Matthew 2:1)—undertook a long journey to honor you: "On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him" (Matthew 2:10-11).
And, I believe, at Fede e Luce, as in a great nativity scene, everyone has their place: the figures fresh and brightly painted, and those worn and faded from time, their edges dulled by many falls; some, in the light of the stable, already kneel among the sheep and chickens, gathered around the manger to adore the Christ Child; others stand farther off, still traveling the same path or among the hills, in the same night, their eyes on the star.
— Nanni, 2003
