Cardinal Pizzaballa: 'The pain belongs to everyone, but there are those who occupy and those who are occupied'

In the light of what is happening - and because of the weight that these events have had and will have on the life of our Church - I now feel the need to offer a more articulate word and a more complete reflection, and therefore, exceptionally, also a longer one. This Letter, therefore, is not meant for a quick or partial reading, nor to be used as a text of political analysis. It is to be read a little at a time, as a tool for discernment, and is also designed to promote dialogue and reflection within our ecclesial contexts, our communities, monasteries and families. Its purpose is not to offer immediate answers or technical solutions, but to help everyone question themselves on how to live the Christian faith in this land today in the light of the Gospel.

I find it difficult to limit myself to the usual declarations of circumstance, which often follow one another almost identically. I feel with even greater urgency the need for true and meaningful words for us. The suffering of this time, in fact, does not allow us to limit ourselves to sweetened and abstract - and therefore not credible - speeches, nor does it allow us to stop at the umpteenth analysis or denunciation.

We have already said enough about this on several occasions, in word and deed. Analyses and denunciations remain necessary - we cannot refrain from expressing them - but they will not open up horizons of trust for us. They will perhaps also find support outside our community in anyone who shares our assessments. They must, however, be accompanied by the question of what the Lord is asking of us at this time, and ask ourselves how we can give lived expression to our faith in this difficult context. It is the question that has accompanied my ministry as a pastor for some time: how to stand as Christians, as an ecclesial assembly, within this situation of conflict - political, military, spiritual - that we know will last for many years to come? It is now an integral part of church life, of the ordinary existence of each one of us. Unfortunately, it is now part of the culture of this earth. It is therefore not a moment to be overcome, but the place where our Church is called to implement its specific mission as a community of believers in Christ. In this land where the boundaries of identity are so strongly marked, our being Christians must become a witness to a particular way of living even within contention and must find visible and recognisable expression in what we say and do. We are called to offer an interpretation of the present time according to a Christian perspective that clearly and recognisably distinguishes us.

With this Letter, I wish to attempt to answer this question. It is the laboured and painful fruit - as is any attempt at spiritual synthesis - of my reflection and prayer, and of what I have matured over this time. It is obviously not a perfect synthesis. Rather, it must be understood as an initial proposal for reflection that will certainly have to mature, perfect itself and complete itself over time, especially through confrontation, even dialectical if necessary, with anyone who wishes to venture into this attempt at synthesis and this reading. Provided, however, that one is moved by the sincere desire to seek to understand God's will for each of us. I gather here in a more systematic and orderly manner what I have already presented in part on various occasions in recent years.

The biblical icon around which my reflection will revolve is the city, and in particular the city of Jerusalem. The image of the city is widespread and familiar to us. It indicates coexistence, relationship, civil and religious. But we will not dwell on the generic idea of the city, but rather on Jerusalem as an ideal reference model, recalling some passages from the Scriptures. We are the Church of Jerusalem, and the Holy City is not only the geographical, but also the spiritual heart of our ecclesial community. It is the Place that guards the heart of our faith - the Redemption - and it is therefore also the geographical and spiritual place that guards the identity of our Church, the centre to which we must return to find the inspiration we need in these times. Our Church has a multiform face, an expression of the richness of its rites and traditions. From its origins until today, it is, by its essence, plural, since Jerusalem is the mother of all peoples. On the other hand, for many centuries it has had a very clear configuration: it is a Church predominantly immersed in an Arab context. Our view of the events we are experiencing, therefore, starts from this Church, spread over its vast territory. It is a gaze that, precisely because it is rooted in this land, nevertheless aspires to embrace and include all its inhabitants.

In fact, in the Holy City every particular community can recognise itself: from the smallest parish in Jordan to the most populous, from the vibrant realities of Cyprus to the faithful of Jewish expression in Israel, from the parishes marked by trial in Palestine to those present and rooted in Israel, to migrants, asylum seekers and all the other diverse realities of our diocese. Jerusalem is the spiritual model that unifies our Church spread over such diverse territories and political situations.

The Letter is structured in three parts: the first begins with my assessment of the current state of disorder. Before speaking of ideals, it is necessary to anchor oneself firmly in reality as it is, while recognising in it the working presence of God.

In the second part, I would like to share a vision for our community, inspired and anchored in Scripture, with a clear connection to Jerusalem.

The third will seek to translate that same vision into pastoral implications for our church community, addressing the activities of our parishes, families, schools and institutions.

As I have already said, this is a Letter primarily of a pastoral nature: it does not contain considerations and analyses of a purely political nature. It is "political" only in a broader sense, insofar as it concerns our remaining, as Christians, in the polis, that is, in our real world and in our city of Jerusalem, although always oriented towards the true and final Polis, the heavenly Jerusalem.

Reading Reality: Considerations on the Present

Before asking ourselves about our mission as believers, we must look honestly at the context in which we are called to live it. We must, in fact, start from the reality in which we find ourselves, if we want to give a concrete answer to the question that will accompany us throughout the Letter: how do we stand as Christians within this situation of conflict?

In a reality as complex as ours, any attempt at synthesis is necessarily partial. I accept this risk.

It is not my intention to reconstruct the chronicle of events, but first to understand their epochal significance. 7 October 2023 and the war in Gaza meant something different and disruptive for each of the two peoples of this land. For the Palestinians, it represents the last, dramatic phase in a long history of humiliation and exodus. For the Israelis, however, something unprecedented: violence that revived the horrors that happened in Europe eighty years ago. Without entering into this discussion, which is outside our theme, we would like to point out that 7 October and the Gaza war are now universally considered watershed events that closed one era and opened another, and they did so in the worst possible way.

We are thus plunged into an 'after' that we struggle to understand, but whose contours we can already outline.

What we are experiencing is not just a local conflict. It is the symptom of a much deeper crisis, of a paradigm shift at the global level. For decades, the international community, and in particular the Western world, believed in an international order based on rules, treaties, multilateralism. Not without a veil of hypocrisy, it declared that international law, the Geneva Conventions, UN resolutions, were imperfect but necessary instruments to regulate coexistence between peoples and protect the weakest from the law of the strongest. Today, everyone seems to have opened their eyes to their weakness, evidenced by their inability to manage these conflicts. In Israel and Palestine, for different and opposite reasons, trust in that system had long since disappeared.

We are witnessing the return of the use of force as an instrument considered decisive in resolving disputes, where it is reduced almost exclusively to its violent and military form, to the detriment of any other possibility based on law, dialogue and responsibility towards civilians. War has become the object of an idolatrous cult: one no longer sits at the tables to avoid conflict altogether, but keeps it in mind as a possible or even inevitable scenario. Civilians are no longer regarded as collateral victims, but become damage to be blamed for the enemy's failure to surrender, or functional tools to achieve one's goal. War acts as an end in itself. Some world powers, who once presented themselves as guarantors of the international order, now reveal a different face: they choose sides not on the basis of justice, but on the basis of their own strategic and economic interests. A large part of the institutions - civil, political, religious - thus end up as silent and powerless spectators to the emergence of this new world disorder.

The logic of deterrence as a security tool, the use of weapons and force in conflict management, as well as the concept of defence itself, raise major ethical and political questions today: their legitimacy, the way they are used, their economic and social costs, the concrete consequences on the civilian population and much more.

Added to these issues today is an element that cannot be ignored: the civil conscience of peoples, matured over time and deeply marked by the assimilation of the values of the dignity of the human person, respect for life and fundamental rights. This moral heritage, now engraved in the heart of contemporary societies, challenges every political and military choice and places clear limits on the use of force.

Moreover, the history of this earth, marked by ancient and repeated conflicts, teaches us that it is illusory to think that force, even when it is deemed necessary in the short term, can alone offer a lasting solution. When it becomes ordinary language and the dominant criterion, it ends up fuelling a spiral of violence that is very difficult to break.

Such violence leaves behind deep wounds: material destruction and moral lacerations that weigh on future generations. This is why, without ignoring the complexity of the choices facing the authorities, we cannot stop reminding ourselves that force cannot be the ultimate horizon, nor the foundation on which to build a peaceful future.

The role of media and communications today is more central than ever. On the one hand, they are the window through which we receive information from otherwise unreachable places. On the other, they have become the privileged vector for the dissemination of narratives, often opposing, and increasingly difficult to verify. In a conflict like the current one, war is waged not only on the ground, but also with words and images: every photograph, every video, every headline can become a weapon. There is a real risk of getting lost, of no longer being able to distinguish the true from the false, the chronicle from propaganda.

Added to this is another element, perhaps even newer and more disturbing. The current war has raised other ethical questions for which we were not prepared. I am thinking, in particular, of the use of artificial intelligence in warfare. It is no longer just a question of increasingly sophisticated weapons or remote-controlled drones: we are entering a phase in which it is algorithms that select targets, that make choices that until yesterday remained exclusively human. What happens when it is a machine that decides who lives and who dies? What responsibility remains with man? These are new questions, to which we do not yet have answers, but which we can no longer afford to ignore.

I do not intend to go into such complex assessments, but only to point out that this new era also poses new questions, which we will have to consider seriously sooner or later. It must be said, however, that the crisis of multilateralism, of institutions, and these new questions are not intellectual abstractions far removed from our experience. Rather, they have a direct impact on the life of our community, they are the framework within which our everyday life has collided in recent years, causing profound suffering. I have asked myself several times, for example: how many people in these recent wars in our territory have died because of an 'algorithmic decision'? It is against this backdrop that we must question the experience of our diocese.

Without claiming to say everything, let us try to put things in order by grouping the consequences of this chaos on the lives of all of us around five fundamental nuclei.

1. The dissolution of the bond: grief, hatred and distrust 

The first tear is the tearing apart of the fabric of human relationships. Grief - which always deserves respect - is ingrained in the hearts of too many people.

In the face of the tragedies and injustices of this time, feeling victimised is a profoundly widespread reaction. Everyone tends to perceive their own tribulation as unique and absolute. This attitude makes it very difficult to recognise the experience of others, and profoundly marks the way people and communities live and interpret what is happening around them.

However, it must be recognised that the experience of being a victim can be different, depending on the circumstances one finds oneself in. There are those who lose their lives while resting within the walls of their homes, and those who die directly involved in the fighting. There are those who see their homes destroyed during a bombing raid, and those who witness, year after year, the loss of their land. Some have experienced conditions of siege, deprived of essential goods such as food and medicine, while others face the constant fear caused by terrorist attacks. Pain always remains pain, and it is not our intention to rank suffering. While respecting the various situations and recognising their complexity, however, we cannot regard them all as identical: there is a difference between those who wield power and those who are subjected to it, between those who govern and those who are governed, between those who possess weapons and those who are threatened by them, between those who occupy and those who are occupied. The responsibilities are different. Recognising this difference is an act of respect for justice and truth.

Hatred has dug deep furrows. We are witnessing a painful dehumanisation of the other: when he becomes only 'the enemy', everything becomes permissible. Violence has not only destroyed cities and homes, people and hopes: it has scarred consciences, poisoned public language, generated a sense of betrayal even in ideals that were believed to be shared. It has created a circle of victims against other victims that, over time, hardens souls and makes it increasingly difficult to open paths of reconciliation.

Political life and civil institutions seem incapable of a long view that offers prospects, exacerbating bewilderment and scepticism in a context dominated by mistrust. And this is why in many - especially among young people - suspicion is growing towards any possibility of coexistence and towards the belief that there is a credible alternative to the spiral of clashes and injustice.

Since the beginning of the war, the economic situation has worsened everywhere. The lack of pilgrims has left hundreds of families without work; the closure of the Palestinian territories has paralysed just as many. Communities are struggling to make plans. Young people do not get engaged, they marry less and less, they do not bring children into the world. The housing crisis for families is also increasingly acute. Many look abroad and dream of a future far from their homeland. Emigration, an ancient wound, is now reopening deeper than ever.

When the cry of those who suffer seems to find no hearing or response, it is tempting to lose faith in the communities of faith, which should be the voice of the weakest, and even in God.

It would be unfair, however, to stop at just this gloomy description of the problems that reality highlights. Because it is precisely in that ridge, in the vacuum left by politics and law, that associations, movements, grassroots realities have never ceased to operate. Not because of a naive vocation for dialogue, but because of a stubborn obstinacy in considering the other a human being. This is not the place for a list, and there is no need to make a hagiography. But it is from there, from these fragments of concrete humanity, that the project of a possible coexistence may emerge. If and when we emerge from the rubble, it is they - not the great international organisations in crisis - who will have to be the architects of reconstruction. The debacle of the international system, in this, at least has the merit of having restored visibility and dignity to those who had never stopped working in the field.

2. Fragmentation and fear: the temptation of enclaves

Adding to this dissolution of ties is a worrying phenomenon: growing polarisation. Not only between Israelis and Palestinians - which we know well - but within both social fabrics. More and more people are locking themselves into closed groups, into social enclaves where they only meet people who think alike, who speak the same language, who share the same fears. This trend is further reinforced by social media algorithms, which constantly feed users content that confirms their pre-existing beliefs, increasing the echo of their positions and widening the gaps of distrust, fear and suspicion between groups.

Fear and radicalisation generate fragmentation and closure. One withdraws into one's own group as if into a refuge. One stops associating with those who are different, who think differently, who belong to another community, another faith, another political faction. Parallel bubbles form that do not communicate with each other.

This polarisation is detrimental because it affects the very way in which each group constructs the foundations of its belonging, nationally, socially and personally. We define ourselves more and more by opposition: we are what the other is not. In this game of mirrors, identity becomes rigid, defensive, exclusionary. As if there were no longer an 'us' that includes everyone, but only many small 'us' that oppose each other. When the 'us' is reduced to opposing identities, it becomes easy to simplify the other and read it as a uniform block. In every society, on the other hand, there are different voices and positions, and resisting the temptation to view entire peoples as monolithic realities is a necessary first step in rebuilding the relationship.

The sense of community belonging, however, is not necessarily a negative element, because each community is characterised by its own physiognomy, specific mission and charisma. It is a richness in the unique mosaic of the Holy Land and should be preserved, but on condition that these qualities do not assert themselves to the detriment of others or become instruments of opposition.

In this perspective, Christian life, founded on solid roots, shows how belonging can be strong without becoming rigid or defensive, and how it is precisely the depth of identity that makes openness to the other possible. In this way, the 'we' can once again become inclusive, capable of holding together different memberships without reducing them to opposing identities.

3. The sense of loss: worn out words and tarnished common good

The third core is the deepest: the loss of the coordinates that allowed us to orient ourselves. We have lost faith in certain words. "Coexistence", "dialogue", "justice", "human rights", "two peoples and two states": these terms, which for years fed our discourse, now seem worn out and empty of meaning. When we use them in our communities, we sometimes encounter tired and disillusioned looks. Faced with the horror of the images that reach us every day, these expressions really seem to belong to another world. We then remain speechless, and in that silence, violence screams its brutal language.

Added to this is the loss of meaning of the concept of the 'common good'. We struggle to answer fundamental questions such as: which society do we want to build? What is the good we want to pursue together beyond partisan interests?

On this Earth, the common good is sacrificed by all, albeit in different ways, on the altar of special interests. It seems that everyone thinks only of himself, his own survival, his own security, in perpetual existential warfare, on increasingly distant fronts.

However, the strongest language remains that of reality. And reality, far beyond what we think, feel or believe, reminds us that we are destined to find possible forms of coexistence. There is no alternative. This Land - as contested as it is beloved - is home to everyone: Israeli Jews and Palestinian Arabs; Christians, Jews, Muslims, Druze, Samaritans, Bahai and of any other faith. It is God who put us here. It is we Christians, in particular, who have a specific mandate: to be salt and light where we are. And this means not giving up building opportunities for interaction between different national and religious communities, because when words are no longer enough, that is when concrete gestures are needed.

4. The specific challenge of the Holy Land: interreligious dialogue in difficulty

Another bitter aspect concerns the relationship with other faith communities. Interreligious dialogue - which has been central to our mission for years - is in trouble. Not because we have stopped meeting. But because the terrain of encounter has been affected by what we have described so far: suspicion, disillusionment, weariness.

We have had to come to terms with historical narratives that oppose each other in a way that seems irreconcilable, with each claiming for themselves a monopoly on the interpretation of events. We have not felt supported and listened to each other. It is a great bitterness, which questions us deeply.

Holy Places, which should be spaces for prayer, become identity battlegrounds. Sacred texts are invoked to justify violence, occupations, terrorism. This abuse of God's name I believe is the most serious sin of our time. Many religious institutions seem to endorse rather than curb and denounce these drifts, thus demonstrating their prophetic weakness.

Yet, for us Christians, dialogue is not an option, but a vital necessity. Our children - Christians and Muslims - go to school together, our sick are treated in the same hospitals, where no distinction is made between Christians, Jews, Muslims and other faiths. Our poor share the same needs. Without a relationship with other faiths, we have no future. But the problem goes deeper: dialogue is our vocation and our destiny. It is one of the ways in which our faith is manifested and nourished.

5. The varied face of our local Church in this mess

Our ecclesial community lives within this general disorientation. We are a Church spanning different territories - Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Cyprus - each with its own history and dynamics. There is no single political situation or pastoral context. There are many different situations and they all demand attention. This complexity constitutes our richness, but also our fatigue. It obliges us not to generalise, never to speak in the abstract, always to keep in mind the lived faces of communities living in different places. It commits us to articulate listening and pastoral action that knows how to adapt to the needs of each territory.

Let us now try to look at the tangible face of our Church in these difficult times.

In Gaza, our brothers are plunged into extreme tribulation. They have lived for years under the bombs, without water, without food, without medicine. And now they live in rubble. We have lost young people, old people, children. Yet the Holy Family Parish and Caritas have been and remain the Face of Christ in the midst of the horror. In churches turned into shelters, hundreds of displaced people have shared their lives in everything.

In Palestine, the situation is deteriorating by the day. We have already talked about this at length, but events do not seem to be calming down. It is there that the future of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is being silently and structurally decided. Aggression caused by the occupation and the total absence of the rule of law is on the rise, with a continuous increase of settlements. If this drift is not stopped, the risk is the crystallisation of a situation of permanent occupation that erodes any possibility of a just and shared solution. I fear that this will be a concern and a situation that will define the forms of our involvement for a long time to come.

In Israel, our brothers and sisters live in a different context, but one that is not without its problems: social discrimination, economic inequalities and growing insecurity. The increase in crime - which in certain areas controls the territory capillarily, with a daily toll of dead and wounded - is creating widespread fear that reinforces in many the temptation to leave. Israeli society has been traumatised since 7 October; this trauma has generated suspicion towards everything related to the Arab world, resulting in a growing mistrust between the two populations.

The Hebrew-speaking Catholic community, in this polarising contest, has not always felt heard by its own Church, and has expressed this clearly. Our Hebrew-speaking Catholic brothers and sisters experience a particular ecclesial loneliness. They are part of a Church that perhaps they do not feel is totally theirs. In the coming months, I will seek opportunities to personally meet this component of our diocese, to listen to them better.

Migrants and asylum seekers in our communities live in precarious existential conditions, in fear of deportation and facing discrimination and exploitation. They have also been caught up in the violence of the conflict and some have been killed in various attacks in recent years.

Our schools, a place of coexistence and a valuable component of the Church, also struggle to orient students. Teachers and pupils also carry the weight of what they see on television and social media in the classroom; today, even for them, dialogue on the most divisive topics has become tiring, to say the least.

Even within this desolation, our determination to build a fraternal society remains steadfast, and our Christian communities remain a tangible sign of hope. In Gaza, faith continues to brighten the lives of local Christians. The daily celebrations of Mass, the rosary, the charitable works of the parish and Caritas keep the Christian faith alive. There are thousands of families who, through the efforts of the parish and Caritas, have been able to receive help and support, even in the hardest moments of the war. In Palestine, our parish priests have organised and kept their communities together, creating initiatives of support and solidarity, especially in favour of the hardest hit families. Even in Israel, priests did not spare themselves during the most difficult period of the war. In Jordan, life flows quite normally and, despite the economic crisis, parishes have been busy organising collections, prayer vigils, rosaries in solidarity with the parishes of the diocese currently in difficulty. Cyprus has also recently been involved in this war, has committed itself to solidarity and is consolidating its pastoral activities.

An important fact is that the entire universal Church, from Pope Francis to Pope Leo XIV down to the smallest and poorest dioceses, has shown its closeness, offering prayer and material support to our Church in the Holy Land. It is our duty to thank all those who have worked - and are still working - to enable us to continue to face the many indigences of this moment; we wish to thank them above all for their affection and Christian closeness, which consoles and edifies us. The action of the entire Church has shown that hope is incarnate. Indeed, we cannot count the prayers organised, the solidarity collections, and so many other concrete expressions of communion.

In light of all this, we must also ask ourselves about another important aspect of our mission. True, during this time we have been present throughout the diocese with gestures of closeness and solidarity. Our Church has made its voice heard by trying to speak a word of truth - honest, clear, with parsimony - even within this mess, often at the cost of misunderstandings. But, I wonder, was it enough? Or have we at times, in these hard times, privileged prudence and sought institutional survival, sacrificing our prophetic witness? How to speak a word of truth without creating new barriers and new victims? It is a question that accompanies me every day, and one that is never easy to answer. We must ask ourselves this question sincerely, first of all before the Lord, knowing that discernment is listening to the voice of God, converting to the truth, seeking justice, choosing the good of our brothers and sisters.

This is it. This is the condition we inhabit: a desert of weeping, of resignation, of empty words, inhabited however by courageous experiences of vitality and fraternity. It is in this desert that we are invited to recognise once again the voice of God that challenges us.

Faced with this disorder, the decisive question is not how to get out of it or how to resolve it, but how to inhabit it as believers, without allowing ourselves to be absorbed by its logic and without renouncing the responsibility of an evangelical witness. This is why it is time to look up and ask ourselves what the Lord is saying to us in all this, letting ourselves be attracted by a light that comes from on high. We need to contemplate God's dream for His city.

The Vocation - God's dream called Jerusalem 

Having taken a general - and inevitably approximate - look at our experience, which is common but so diverse, let us return to the initial question: how to stand as Christians within this situation of conflict, which we can now also reformulate: what is God's will for Jerusalem? Let us therefore try to scrutinise together the image of the Holy City that He Himself offers us.

Scripture, from its very first pages in the book of Genesis, offers us the foundation of relationships as God intended them to be: between Him and mankind, between human beings, between man and creation. It is from this foundation that the whole of salvation history begins. However, it is above all the gaze of Revelation that will accompany us in the course of our reflection. A book that is often misunderstood, not least because of its symbolic language, which is not intended to fuel fears or fatalistic readings of history, but rather to help us recognise its ultimate meaning, in the light of God's faithfulness and Christian hope.

According to Scripture, the history of mankind begins in a garden, Eden. The garden is the symbol of a humanity that is still in a state of primordial innocence and all alone. In the end, however, with the book of Revelation, the story ends in a completely different and mirror-like setting, namely in a city. Not just any city: the new Jerusalem. This passage is by no means a narrative detail, but a profound revelation about the destiny of humanity. The work of salvation is not a return to an idyllic and isolated past, but the construction of a communitarian, complex and reconciled future. The end of the story tends towards a mature society, a 'city', in fact.

The first city mentioned in the Bible is built by Cain (Gen 4:17). After killing his brother, he builds a refuge: a place where to put a limit to violence, where to rebuild the lost brotherhood. In Scripture, the city thus arises as a human attempt to recreate coexistence where the relationship has been broken. The final city of the Bible is instead the New Jerusalem "coming down from heaven" (Rev 21-22).

Between these two poles - the city-refuge built by man out of fear, and the city-gift that descends from God out of love - the entire history of salvation is played out. The Bible never presents an ideal, static image of a city; the 'perfect' city does not exist. It is always a mirror of all human contradictions: of sin and greatness, of violence and trust. Every human context, every city reflects and lives this tension.

It is a tension that runs throughout Scripture and focuses uniquely on Jerusalem. No other city in the Bible receives so much love and so much rebuke, so much promise and so much condemnation. And this same tension, as we shall see, also inhabits the Church that was born in Jerusalem.

When we talk about Jerusalem today, we mainly focus on the political, historical and sociological aspects. But we must never forget the fact that what binds the whole world to this place goes beyond history, geography and stones. When we speak of the Holy City in this context, we mean it not only as a physical reality, but also and above all as a symbol of the People of God and the Church, born at Pentecost in the Upper Room. At that moment, the Holy Spirit had descended upon all Twelve, that is, upon the entire apostolic assembly gathered in the hall where Jesus had instituted the Eucharist. It was on that Pentecost morning that the prodigy described in the Acts of the Apostles occurred. The disciples, who had received the Spirit, went down to the square to announce what had happened, and "each one heard them speaking in his own language. They were amazed and, beside themselves with wonder, said, 'Are not all these who speak Galileans? And how is it that we hear them each in our native tongue?" (Acts 2:6-8)

All the people present at that time, belonging to different nations and languages, through the work of the Spirit were able to understand each other and build unity. From the beginning, the Church was universal, united and plural. From there the Twelve then set out to take the proclamation to the whole world.

Even today, the Christian community in Jerusalem retains this universal character that should not be confused with a simple "international" dimension, but refers to a deeper reality, which is described in an exemplary manner in the Acts of the Apostles. Even today, most Churches have their ecclesiastical centre elsewhere in the world, but each one keeps its heart and living presence in Jerusalem. In this city, the different Christian denominations share space and time, creating an imperfect but vital journey towards the unity of believers. Through different rites and different languages, celebrated in the same places, lived in and attended by our families, these churches offer us a living image of what happened in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost: different peoples gathered in the same Spirit. Just as then the Apostles set out to proclaim the Gospel to all nations, so today these communities, rooted in the same place and often among members of the same family, are called to rediscover full communion in faith and charity.

For believers, the bond with this land also implies a constitutive relationship, however complex, with Judaism and Islam. Here, interreligious dialogue, over the centuries, has become for us not only a condition of survival, but an element of fidelity to our universal identity. Indeed, it is here that the Mother Church is challenged to generate life and care, promoting understanding of the other, the demanding praxis of forgiveness, the effort of respectful understanding.

The universality of the Church is not opposed to the concreteness of places and local Churches. On the contrary, it is precisely in the local Church that it becomes visible and active. This is why St John Paul II spoke of a "mutual interiority"[1] between particular Churches and the universal Church

Not only the Church, but the Holy City itself has retained this universal character. Pope Benedict XVI described it with great clarity in a homily he delivered precisely in Jerusalem:

"Jerusalem in reality has always been a city in whose streets different languages resound, whose stones are trodden by peoples of every race and language, whose walls are a symbol of God's providential care for the entire human family. As a microcosm of our globalised world, this City, if it is to live out its universal mission, must be a place that teaches universality, respect for others, dialogue and mutual understanding; a place where prejudice, ignorance and the fear that feeds them are overcome by honesty, integrity and the pursuit of coexistence. There should be no place within these walls for closure, discrimination, violence and injustice. Believers in a God of mercy - be they Jews, Christians or Muslims - must be the first to promote this culture of reconciliation and coexistence, however arduous and slow the process may be and however heavy the burden of past memories"[2].

The mission of the earthly Jerusalem, in a sense, is to become the image and mirror of the heavenly Jerusalem, "prophecy and promise of that universal reconciliation and coexistence that God desires for the whole human family"[3]. This is the mission that we have lost in the violent whirlwind of events in recent years. And it is to this mission that we must return.

In a nutshell, we can say that at the crossroads of civilisations, religions and ethnicities, Jerusalem represents a symbolic microcosm. It is a paradigm of the world at large, and thus encapsulates all the contemporary issues we face globally. It lies at the centre of the Israeli-Palestinian dispute, certainly, but it also represents the complex interactions between different religions and nations. The one that tears this city apart alone is a dispute with significant regional and global repercussions. One only has to take a walk through the streets of Jerusalem to realise how much the city is really the focal point of numerous other clashes perceived on a global scale: the tension between modernity and tradition, liberal democracy and conservatism, universalism and particularism.

Jerusalem also gathers within itself the different souls of our Church and manifests its vocation in an exemplary manner. In this place, within a reality marked by strong contrasts, common to the path of human history, it is called to express itself.

The most powerful images in Scripture outlining the profound identity of Jerusalem and consequently of the identity and mission of our Church are contained in John's vision of the heavenly Jerusalem, described in the last two chapters of Revelation, from which we now draw our inspiration.

1. A New Sky for a New City 

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the former heaven and earth had passed away, and the sea was no more" (Rev 21:1).

The first thing John sees is not the city, but a "New Heaven". Jerusalem has a heaven. It may sound trite or obvious, but it is its most eloquent distinguishing feature. Even its antagonist, Babylon, is described in every detail in Revelation. Yet, of Babylon one never sees the sky. It is a city without heaven, and therefore without God - enclosed within a purely human and earthly horizon, and therefore doomed to ruin.

The heaven of Jerusalem, moreover, is quite special: it is a 'new' heaven. This is not the first time John speaks of heaven. In Chapter 4 of Revelation, the visions open with a significant announcement: the seer sees "an open door in heaven" (Rev 4:1). Heaven is new, therefore, first of all because it is open. And it was opened because the Son of Man, who descended from Heaven, returned to Heaven after the Resurrection, taking humanity with him (cf. Jn 1:51). The new Heaven is a Heaven already inhabited by man.

In this passage we find an important indication: to build the city, to weave authentic relationships among ourselves and among our communities, we must start first of all from the awareness of God's presence, from the primacy of God, from faith. God must not be excluded. Jerusalem is not just a matter of political borders or technical agreements. Its main identity - the most important characteristic of the City and of the entire Holy Land - is that of being the place of God's revelation, the place where faiths are at home.

Even today, this dimension is tangible and visible, especially in what is considered the sacred basin, where almost all the main Holy Places are concentrated: the Old City and the Mount of Olives. The public celebrations of the different religious communities, marked by different and sometimes overlapping times, transform the city, especially at certain times of the year, creating an extraordinary symphony of different prayers, songs and liturgies.

It is also common, at the first light of dawn or in the silence of the night, to meet men and women of all ages - Jews, Christians and Muslims - walking along the city's paths, wrapped in their different cloaks and heading for their respective Holy Places, to join the religious who pray there day and night. The prayer of the different religious communities, in the end, beats the rhythm of the entire city: it is its breath and light. This is the city's most beautiful and compelling identity, its most precious characteristic, to be cherished and preserved.

Ignoring this 'vertical' dimension of our Land, this religious and spiritual sensitivity of the communities that belong to it - Jewish, Muslim and Christian - is the deepest reason for the failure of the coexistence agreements that have taken place in recent decades. And even future ones will be doomed to failure if the special, as prophetic, character of Jerusalem is not taken into account. It must be, first and foremost, a house of prayer for all peoples (cf. Is 56:7). We do not want to question, and indeed confirm the need for the various existing Status Quo, which are important for regulating relations between the various communities in the city. However, I believe there is also a need for the courage to take a new breath, to build new models of life and relationships where the common faith in God can become an opportunity for encounter and not exclusion. Faith that opens us to Heaven and the world, where all believers feel urged to bring humanity to God. No project of coexistence, in the Holy Land, can ignore the vertical dimension, the awareness that this land is, first of all, the place of Revelation.

2. A city descending from Heaven 

"And I saw also the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, from God, ready as a bride adorned for her husband.... The angel carried me away in spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me the holy city, Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, from God, resplendent with the glory of God" (Rev 21:2, 10).

The Holy City does not rise proudly to heaven on its own strength. John sees her "descending from heaven, from God", and he sees her descending twice (three times if one also considers the text of Rev 3:12). This descending movement is not something that happened once and for all, but its perennial mode of being. The new Jerusalem is a city that continuously receives from God itself and its own life. Its existence is not a conquest, but a gift.

She descends 'prepared as a bride adorned for her bridegroom'. It is an image of intimacy and relationship. John also uses the biblical image of the tent, where God chooses to dwell in the midst of humanity, a place of encounter between God and mankind (cf. John 1:14). It is therefore a city whose most original nature is to live a deep intimacy with the Lord, but also to be like the tent, a place of welcome. This dual movement - intimacy and welcome - defines the life of the Church. In God's dwelling among his own, fulfilment happens, victory over evil and death: not only is evil vanquished, but man is consoled by God himself, who wipes away the tears from his faces (cf. Rev 21:4).

This passage offers us another significant indication. It is a crucial warning especially for the religious institutions of the Holy City: without a continuous "coming down from heaven", without humbly and constantly drawing on their relationship with God, letting Him illuminate their way of thinking, without continually nourishing themselves with the Word of God, our institutions risk atrophying. They risk becoming impregnable fortresses closed to the world, instead of being open cities and sources of new life. One does not receive from God the strength and the possibility of a different outlook once and for all: these gifts require continual tension of soul and heart.

In concrete terms, listening to Scripture means for Churches and religious communities to first of all listen to the cry of those who do not know Christ, do not know him sufficiently or have drifted away from him, as well as the cry of the poor, the marginalised, those who suffer because of conflicts. It is there, as an occasion of active acceptance in the scarred flesh of humanity, that we can verify the authenticity of our relationship with God. If our gaze on God does not open us to a gaze on the other who suffers, then we have not truly encountered the God who comes down into the city. It is a call for religious authorities to hold together the closeness to God and to their own people.

3. The Temple and the Lamb 

"In it I saw no temple: the Lord God, the Almighty, and the Lamb are his temple" (Rev 21:22).

Scripture presents God as the One who desires to dwell among men. In the Old Testament, this presence was linked to the temple, the place of encounter between God and his people. The prophet Ezekiel also imagines a renewed city around the temple, heart of the divine presence and sign of his holiness.

In the vision of the new Jerusalem, Revelation adopts a different language. John states: "I saw no temple". Not because the Presence of God is missing, but because it is no longer concentrated in a separate space. God Himself and the Lamb dwell in the midst of their people and constitute their living centre. In this perspective, there is no longer a separation between sacred and profane places: God does not dwell in a building, but in relationship, not in a place to be conquered and possessed, but in history.

Consequently, there are no spaces in which God is present and others in which He is not. There are no places where He listens and others where He does not. Any distinction between included and excluded based on criteria of purity also disappears. If in Ezekiel's vision access to the temple was regulated by strict distinctions, in the new Jerusalem all are welcomed: men and women, children and the elderly, healthy and sick, free and slaves.

This passage from Revelation offers a powerful lesson to the earthly Jerusalem, torn apart by conflicts related to the possession of places and the definition of exclusive boundaries. The obsession with the occupation of spaces and ownership has become one of the main criteria for interpreting relations between communities, often generating division and violence. It almost seems as if, in order to build relationships and to have the right to speak, it is necessary to own, occupy, justify one's presence through a territory.

We must not be naïve. There are spaces that must be preserved, places that are necessary for each community to live and bear witness to its faith. We must not forget that the Holy Land is also a land of Holy Places, which guard the memory and historical identity of peoples. But borders serve to preserve freedom, not stifle it. They must not become impassable barriers or grounds for exclusion. It is possible to coexist while respecting the spaces of others, in consideration of everyone's history and different sensibilities.

In the New Jerusalem, then, there are no places to own, but relationships to build. If the God of the Holy City does not occupy spaces or erect barriers, then no one should feel excluded. God cannot therefore be used to justify choices of closure or exclusion.

This passage from the Book of Revelation, while inviting us to look up to the heavens, actually brings us back down to earth: a city is alive to the extent that it recognises that the true temple to be guarded - its vital centre - is human relations and the relationship with God. Instead, it is destined to wither and die when it allows itself to be dominated by the logic of possession, by the devaluation of the other and by self-referential narratives, instead of by the light of the Lamb, which is the logic of gift.

4. The Lamp of the Lamb: a new way of seeing 

"The city has no need of the light of the sun, nor of the light of the moon: the glory of God illuminates it, and its lamp is the Lamb" (Rev 21:23). "There shall be no more night; they shall not need the light of a lamp, nor the light of the sun: for the Lord God shall enlighten them" (Rev 22:5).

We have seen that in the new Jerusalem there is no temple. But then where is God, how does he dwell in Jerusalem? Where does one encounter him? God's presence in the city is not cumbersome, voluminous, it does not impose itself. God is present as a lamp that illuminates. He is present as the One who gives the possibility of a different perspective, and therefore a new way of living; he illuminates relationships, life, all things.

If the lamp is the Lamb, it means that it is an 'Easter' light: it is the light of the One who gave his life out of love, freely and unconditionally. Easter inaugurates a new way of seeing reality. It is the Easter experience that allows us to see life even where our carnal eyes see only death, defeat or devastation.

This passage from Revelation takes us a step further, beyond the criterion of possession, asphyxiated spaces, closed boundaries and idolised property that we have seen so far. Light is not possessed: it is welcomed and spread. It thus becomes the criterion with which to read reality and orientate choices. With what eyes, with what spirit do we look at others, especially those who are not 'of our own'? With trust or with fear or, worse, contempt?

To train one's eyes to this light - which is life - becomes the first task of those who wish to belong to this city. It means recognising each person - the poor, the stranger, and even the enemy - as a creature made in the image and likeness of God, looking at them as one looks at God. It is the same style of the Lamb that illuminates the city: an authority that expresses itself in self-giving and that transforms power into service, not possession and domination.

5. The lifestyle of the city: reception and memory 

"It is enclosed by great and high walls with twelve gates: above these gates stand twelve angels and names written, the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel.... The walls of the city stand on twelve foundations, upon which are the twelve names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb" (Rev 21:12-14).

Striking in this description is an apparent inconsistency. The twelve apostles are placed as the foundation of the building, while the twelve tribes of Israel appear on the doors. From a chronological point of view, one would expect the opposite: Israel comes before the apostles. Yet, in the vision of Revelation, the old and the new are neither opposed nor superimposed, but recomposed in a redeemed unity. God does not erase history, but recreates it by laying new foundations, in which nothing is lost and everything finds its proper place. Jerusalem thus becomes the fulfilment for both the twelve tribes and the twelve apostles. Only within this city can each one find the meaning of his own history and mission.

This is also a decisive point for us today. Violence often stems from the inability to re-read one's own history in a redeeming way. It happens when memory becomes a closed narrative, constructed against the other and defended as an exclusive possession. The preoccupation with ownership taken as a criterion for defining relationships, which emerged earlier, is also reflected in the relationship with historical memory. There is a tendency to want to possess the narrative of events, as a territory to be defended, constantly questioning the historical narrative of the other. In this way, it is no longer a memory that helps to improve relationships, but on the contrary becomes a 'toxic memory', which pollutes relationships. Denying the historical memory of the other is a subtle but powerful form of exclusion.

What is needed, however, is a rethinking of the very concepts of 'history' and 'memory' and - consequently - also of the categories of 'guilt', 'justice' and 'forgiveness'. It is these that put the religious sphere in direct contact with the moral, social and political spheres. It is not a matter of denying the facts of the past, but of verifying their interpretations, so that they do not violently determine today's choices. Only through this honest re-examination can one redeem one's historical reading for the benefit of all humanity. Schools, universities, cultural centres and movements, and the media are primarily responsible for this mission of rethinking and healing our collective memory. They are the ones who can help build a different and positive non-exclusive historical narrative.

This purification is not a diplomatic operation, nor a political compromise: it is a deeply spiritual act, because it touches the roots of identity and pain. It requires us to allow ourselves to be redeemed by God so that we, in turn, can become instruments and channels of healing for others. Only a redeemed memory can generate a different future. The mission of the Church is then to promote a true 'purification of historical memory'. St John Paul II forcefully recalled this during the Jubilee of 2000, when he spoke of the need to purify memory as a profoundly spiritual act, capable of touching the roots of identity and pain.

I am well aware that this is an unacceptable topic for many. Perhaps for some it is a subject 'too Christian', for others it may seem utopian, or even to be rejected. But it does not matter. This is the contribution, the mission, that the Lamb leaves us with. The witness to which we are destined, the "promise and prophecy" that must sustain our pilgrimage in the Holy City, in our Church: to dare a vision that is not born of possession, fear or vindication, but of the redemption of history. What kind of Church would we be if we did not have the courage to point to a world that does not yet exist, but which God promises us and which we already glimpse on the horizon?

6. Open doors 

"His gates will never close during the day, for there will be no more night" (Rev 21:25).

The walls of a city are always built for defence. Here, however, they are not built to defend the city from a threatening outside, as if what is outside were dangerous. They serve to define a way of life, a belonging, but they are constantly open. There is nothing to defend, only a style to propose. Open in all four directions, so that anyone, at any time, can enter and become part of this new humanity. "My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples" (Is 56:7).

What in the Old Covenant was the privilege of only one people - although, from the beginning, intended for all the peoples of the earth (cf. Gen 12:3) - is now prophesied for all. Everyone can be part of God's holy people. The Church today lives it and proclaims it by carrying this prophetic treasure in earthen vessels. This is another clear indication that Revelation offers us. In the city that comes down from heaven there can be no monopoly exercised by anyone, because the Holy City, by its very nature, is incompatible with any form of closure, exclusivity or mono-coloured identity. It does not belong to anyone against anyone else, nor can it be reduced to the possession of one party. Its doors are always open: they are not an architectural detail, but the expression of an identity that is defined only in welcome and relationship. Coexistence is the result of sharing a common project, of which everyone is an integral part.

It is also about keeping the doors open between the different communities that make up our society. Not just 'touching' each other, but 'keeping the doors open', getting to know each other and supporting each other.

7. The shared heart of humanity 

"The nations shall walk in her light, and the kings of the earth shall bring their splendour to her.... And they shall bring to her the glory and honour of the nations" (Rev 21:24, 26).

The gates of the City are not only open. John specifies and adds that peoples, nations, otherness, are not only not a threat, but on the contrary are considered an asset. It is the gold and incense of the peoples that beautify the city. This is another of the great novelties described by the Apostle. The canons of beauty, holiness, purity are completely inverted: it is not what is pristine, solitary, isolated that is beautiful, but what is open to the other. Jerusalem is enriched to the extent that it welcomes.

In the beginning we saw that Jerusalem builds itself up to the extent that it receives itself from God. Now the vision is completed, and we can also see that Jerusalem is enriched to the extent that it receives itself from others. The two go together. It looks like the fulfilment of Isaiah's prophecy: "To it shall flow all nations. Many peoples shall come and say, 'Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the temple of the God of Jacob, that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths'" (Is 2:2-3).

The heart of the world is in Jerusalem, as witnessed by the millions of pilgrims who come from all over to the Holy City. Pilgrims are part of the life of the city. Without them, without this link to the world, the city is incomplete: we unfortunately see this very well in these months, marked by their absence. This means that local rulers must always take into account that what is experienced in Jerusalem involves the lives of billions of believers around the world. It is not just the private affair of those who have the grace to live there. Jerusalem does not belong to anyone exclusively, but belongs to everyone because it is not spoils, but a gift, a common reference point, a heritage of humanity.

The world has the right and the responsibility to take an interest in Jerusalem. Not to impose solutions from on high, disrespecting the sovereignty and self-determination of the peoples living there, but to exert constant and discreet pressure - diplomatic, cultural and spiritual - so that no logic of exclusion, oppression or exclusive possession can prevail. The international community should guarantee the universal mission of Jerusalem, reminding everyone that what happens within its walls concerns the hearts of billions of believers and the entire human family.

8. Vocation: to heal the world 

The city is not an end in itself. Its mission is universal and its vocation is therapeutic.

"And he then showed me a river of living water, clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the middle of the city square, and on either side of the river, is a tree of life that bears fruit twelve times a year, bearing fruit every month; the leaves of the tree are for healing the nations" (Rev 22:1-2).

From the throne of God and the Lamb flows a river of living water, and on its banks grows the tree of life, whose leaves "serve to heal the nations". This is the ultimate and sublime task of Jerusalem. The tree of life, which in Eden was precluded to man, is now in the heart of the city, accessible to all. And its leaves are not for a chosen few, but for the healing of the "nations", a term that in Revelation often indicates the unbelieving world, those who are outside, who do not yet know God. Divine mercy is not a privilege for a few, but a destiny offered to all.

The mission of Jerusalem is not exhausted within its walls, it is not closed within its gates. The spring of living water flowing from the heart of the Lamb irrigates the whole world. Jerusalem is an 'outgoing' city, called to bear fruit for humanity. What it has received from on High is to be shared with all. It has a specific mission, which is uniquely its own, that of "healing the nations". Heal from what? The text does not say, because it does not point to a wound alone, but to the very root of wounded life. It does say, however, that what heals is her being alive, her sharing in the life of God.

The Holy Land will need healing. It will need long paths of recovery from the many painful lacerations that this conflict produces in the lives of all communities, it will need comfort for the tribulations caused by hatred, by 'toxic memory'. The mission of the Church is not to draw narrower borders, but to keep the doors open, bearing witness to a love that never gives up and that reaches even those who are distant, doubtful or resistant. The responsibility of human freedom is affirmed, but so is the limitlessness of divine Grace.

The Holy Land, and the small and vulnerable Christian community living there, has much to share. It does not possess military or economic power, but draws from the Lamb the meekness of one who, according to the Gospel beatitude, will inherit the earth. It has the power of self-giving love, the only power that evil cannot defeat.

To redeem the consequences of conflict - hatred, fear, 'toxic memory' - is the specific and sublime task of the Church of Jerusalem for the whole world. Its roots lie in the geography of salvation, but its gaze is universal: to be for the world not a utopia, but the seed of a real city, the city set on the mountain (cf. Mt 5:14), which radiates the light of Christ to all nations, where people learn the art of forgiveness, the power of equality and the joy of service. It is above all the courage of forgiveness that is the most powerful medicine, capable of bringing healing, and it is also the most authentic witness that our community can offer to the peoples of this Earth.

It is not a question of acting as a bridge between two conflicting parties, as if Christians were called upon to mediate from the outside. This is not their role. Christians in the Holy Land are not a third party, nor a neutral buffer between Israelis and Palestinians, or a separate body from their non-Christian brethren. Rather, they are salt, light and leaven within the societies to which they rightfully belong. Predominantly Palestinian or Jordanian citizens, Christian Arabs, but also Cypriots and Israelis, they share the history, language, wounds and aspirations of their peoples. They are not called to enclose themselves in a protected enclave, nor to flee, but to live their vocation to the full: to be inside society, sharing its fate, to ferment it from within with a vision of man - and of social living - rooted in the Gospel

They do not offer the world an abstract utopia, but the seed - fragile, concrete, sometimes almost invisible - of a possible city. A city that leavens from below, in the dough of daily life shared with their Muslim and Jewish fellow citizens, and that shows how coexistence, forgiveness and reconciliation are possible. For everyone.

9. Rejection 

These two chapters of Revelation that have accompanied us are not divorced from reality. John is well aware that besides the fascination and beauty contained in the passages we have presented, there is also the possibility of rejection. There are several passages to this effect (21:8.27; 22:11.15). Let us take just one as an example: "Out with the dogs, the magicians, the immoral, the murderers, the idolaters and anyone who loves and practices lies!" (22.15).

It is a strong language, to which perhaps we are no longer accustomed. It indicates an important element: living in the Holy City represents a choice and a responsibility. The walls of the city - we have said - do not defend, but define the existential posture of those who have decided to live enlightened by the Lamb. If one decides to live in the city full of splendour and with its doors always open, eager to welcome and heal, one also assumes the responsibility of rejecting everything that does not belong to that style.

There is a choice to be made, a style to be assumed. Whoever rejects it cannot stay within the walls, cannot be part of the life of the City. Moreover, it is not only a matter of choosing to live in the light of the Lamb, but also of working to ensure that darkness and all that belongs to the world of death does not dwell in the city.

It is important to understand the nature of this rejection. It is not judging our humanity - which is always marked by imperfection - nor our being sinners in need of forgiveness, on the contrary: this is precisely why the Lamb is an inexhaustible source of mercy. The rejection of which the Scriptures speak constitutes something more radical: it is the adherence - deliberate, obstinate and closed to repentance - to a lifestyle that becomes the very negation of the logic of the Lamb. It is the conscious choice of lying as a system, of violence as a method. It manifests itself in the pretence of possessing not only the space, but the truth. It is the building of one's own life and one's own city on that Babel project that claims to rise to the heavens by one's own strength alone, to the exclusion of God and, consequently, to the exclusion of one's brother.

The city with open doors does not expel, but clearly defines what is incompatible with its very existence. The choice is ours: to live by the light we receive, or to claim to be light ourselves. To those who make this choice, the city of open doors can only appear as a condemning judgement. But to those who accept the Lamb's style, it is, and remains forever, a home.

It is important to emphasise, however, that we cannot delude ourselves that this choice is made once and for all, nor that the heavenly Jerusalem coincides perfectly with any earthly community - not even our Church. As long as we are pilgrims in history, the Holy City will remain before us as a gift and as a promise, not as a possession. Even our communities, our religious institutions, our hearts still bear the scars of sin and division. The temptation to enclose ourselves in an 'ideal city' built with our own hands is always lurking. That is why the Jerusalem that descends from heaven never ceases: we always need to receive it again, because we never possess it.

10. A city for all: inhabiting history with the eyes of the Lamb 

Ultimately, the vision of the new Jerusalem is not an invitation to escape from history, but an indication to walk within history. It is a model, a style, a real reference for the Christian community and for all those who care about the earthly city.

The principles that have emerged - rootedness in reality, custody of the sacred, the universality of welcome, the power of meekness, the primacy of relationship over possession, the need for a redemption of memory, openness to all nations - have immediate political, social and interreligious implications. They tell us that:

The historical character of Jerusalem makes us realise that the city is the homeland of both Israelis and Palestinians, and is claimed by both as their capital. However, exclusive claims are at odds with Jerusalem's vocation. It is rather a city to be shared, a meeting place.

The religious character of Jerusalem cannot be ignored in any political agreement. Past failures prove this. It must be realised that the main characteristic of the Holy City is that it is the place of God's revelation.

Harmony between communities (Jews, Christians and Muslims) remains an earthly reflection of intimacy with God. Divisions are a negation of this.

Religious institutions are called to continuous spiritual renewal in order not to become obstacles to the knowledge of God and the encounter with the world.

Possession of the land and the Holy Places cannot turn into an ideological absolute. New balances are needed that take into account the vital needs of all, overcoming the logic of exclusion. It is possible to find forms of coexistence, respecting each other's places.

The international community has the duty and the right to take an interest in Jerusalem, because it belongs to everyone. The heart of the world is in Jerusalem and what happens there affects billions of believers.

The Church of Jerusalem, small and resilient, finds itself living here and now the style of the heavenly Jerusalem: to be a welcoming place, an Easter light that illuminates the darkness of rancour; to be a home with open doors, an instrument of healing in the world. This is its dream, its mission, its gift to humanity.

Pastoral implications 

Having recognised the reality and contemplated the future entrusted to us, we now ask ourselves: how can we, as a community, live the style of the Jerusalem that descends from heaven here and now? It is not a matter of applying an abstract plan, but of allowing ourselves to be enlightened in our daily lives, in the parish, in the family, in the institutions. It is a long and arduous path, but the only one that can give us confidence.

We do not think we can do nothing because of the conflict. Difficulties must not be an excuse to stop charity or justify omissions. On the contrary, it is precisely in these cases that our pastoral action must become more incisive: not to play heroes, but to leave room for God's work.

Taking up the contents presented so far, I will now try to outline some pastoral areas, where it is clear that the mission of our Church is to be a concrete expression of this vision that God has revealed to us.

1. The primacy of liturgy and prayer

We have seen that the first element of the City descending from heaven is to continually receive itself from God, keeping alive the consciousness of His presence. And it is the sacramental life of the Church - the liturgy and prayer - that keeps and revives this consciousness. It is an essential part of the Church's mission

There is a subtle temptation that we must recognise: that of reducing liturgy and prayer to a means, to something that serves to achieve something else - be it peace, an end to war, a solution to problems. Prayer is not a means. It is a time of love and encounter with God, in which we seek to see Him and to be seen by Him, just as we do when we visit people we love. It is the heart, the breath. It is what keeps our community alive when everything else falters. Those who pray find confidence, even when it seems impossible, because prayer may not change everything or bring immediate, tangible results, but it transforms the way we see things.

We must then keep liturgy and prayer at the centre of the life of our communities. Not just prayers for peace - which should also be promoted - but prayer as the stable atmosphere of our lives, as what shapes our days, our weeks, our communities.

I am thinking in particular of the communal Liturgy of the Hours, lectio divina, Eucharistic adoration: not practices for specialists, but simple and profound expressions of the Church's prayer, capable of immersing our daily life - with its fears and expectations - in a living relationship with God.

The communitarian and healing dimension of the Sacrament of Reconciliation should also be promoted. Too often experienced privately and in isolation, it is actually an ecclesial sacrament, which heals not only the individual but the entire community, restoring wounded communion. Well-prepared community penitential celebrations can restore to this encounter with God's mercy all its rebirthing power.

Special attention must also be paid to the Sacrament of Marriage and the care of families. In a time that finds it hard to believe in fidelity and durability, accompanying married couples means helping them to found their home not on the fragility of emotions, but on the rock of Christ's love.

In summary, the point is this: the liturgy is not a set of practices, but the very action of Christ who continues to shape, heal and sustain his Church. Let us make prayer the beating heart of our parishes, our families, our schools. A community that prays does not evade reality, but learns to live it with God's gaze, in the Easter light that shines even when all around is night. Parishes are undoubtedly the beating heart of our community life; it is there that the sacraments are administered and liturgies celebrated

2. Families: domestic churches

If parishes are the beating heart of our community life, families are the daily breath. It is there that faith is learned, transmitted, incarnated. It is there that children have their first experiences of love, forgiveness, trust. It is there that everyone forms the gaze with which they will look at the world throughout their lives.

In this time of scepticism and fear, our families have an extra mission: to become workshops of reconciliation, schools of humanity, domestic churches.

Let's think about the 'purification of memory' we talked about. Where can it begin if not in the family? Parents are the first storytellers. The way they recount the past - with venom or with honesty, with resentment or with trust - marks their children forever. Educating to live together also means this: telling the truth, even the painful truth, without transmitting hatred. It means teaching that one can remember a history of suffering without wanting revenge, that one can mourn one's own dead without wishing for the death of others.

Our families are the first place where the encounter with the other is concretely learnt: the neighbour, the schoolmate of another faith, the work colleague. If parents experience relationships of respect and openness, children learn that such relationships are possible. If parents speak with contempt of those who are different, children absorb that poison and inject it into their view of the world.

And then prayer. The family that prays together, says an old adage, stays together. No complicated formulas are needed. The sign of the cross and prayer before the meal, a short prayer in the evening, the Gospel opened and read together on Sunday. Small gestures that create an atmosphere, that remind everyone - children and adults - that God is at home within those walls.

I am thinking in particular of intra-Christian mixed families, those where different traditions coexist. In a context that pushes for separation, they stand out as a prophetic sign: they testify that love is stronger than barriers, that encounter is possible, that unity can be built in diversity. To them goes our support and admiration.

I know that families today are under pressure: the economic crisis, the fear of the future, the temptation to emigrate, the daily difficulties. So many families are tried, tired, weary. Our greatest sympathy goes out to them. The Church wishes to stand by them, to support them and help them rediscover the beauty of their journey.

To you families I say: do not feel alone. The Church is with you. The parish is your home. Of course we cannot reach everything and everyone, but do not be afraid to share the struggles, to seek guidance when everything seems dark. And never forget your mission: you are the first witnesses of the faith for your children. More than words, gestures count. More than speeches, lived love counts.

May Mary, Mother of Nazareth, who in a small house kept and pondered in her heart the wonders of God, accompany every family in our diocese. May she teach us all the art of guarding and putting together, of waiting with patience, trusting in expectation.

3. Schools: laboratories of the future

Our schools are perhaps among the greatest gifts the Church gives to this land. Generations of men and women - Christians, Muslims and Jews - have passed through the desks of our institutions. This is not a detail: it is a true mission.

Today our schools are called upon to do something more. They are not just places of education, but true workshops of new humanity. They are spaces where people learn to live together, where difference does not frighten but enriches, and where the encounter with the other becomes an opportunity for growth and not for confrontation. Pope Leo XIV, recently, recalling the 60th anniversary of the Council document Gravissimum Educationis, said: "Educating is an act of hope and a passion that is renewed because it manifests the promise we see in the future of humanity"[4].

At the same time, they remain essential places of transmission of Christian awareness. Our children must know who they are, what history they belong to, what treasure they carry in their hearts. A faith that one does not know cannot be witnessed. A fragile conscience closes out of fear, while a solid and mature conscience opens up to encounter.

We imagine schools where not only notions are transmitted, but where it is educated to reread history with eyes free of rancour; where conflict is not removed, but addressed with the tools of knowledge of the other, of dialogue and respect; where the quality of teaching goes hand in hand with the quality of relationships. Schools where prayer, silence and listening help young people to read reality without fear, and where teachers and educators are not just transmitters of content, but witnesses of a way of life.

Our schools must become the place where the vision we have outlined in this Letter - the Jerusalem of open doors, the redemption of memory, the rejection of violence - takes concrete form in our educational method and daily style. It is here that a decisive part of the future of this land is at stake.

I am clearly aware of the chronic problems - not only financial - that plague most of our educational and academic institutions. Lately, the problem of permits for teachers from Bethlehem has emerged in Jerusalem, which seriously jeopardises the possibility of maintaining the Christian identity of our schools. Here too, the political conflict has direct consequences on the life of the Church, and we will have to do all we can to help and support our teachers, but we should not be under any illusions. Tough times lie ahead in the coming years. Nevertheless, one thing is certain: with meekness and determination we will continue to defend the Christian character of our institutions.

To the principals, teachers and all the staff in our schools goes my sincerest thanks. Your work, often laborious and barely visible, is an investment in the future. Day after day, you are building the possible city we dream of: a city where coexistence is not a utopia, but an experience that is learned from a young age.

4. Hospitals and social work: the leaves that heal

There is one place where welcome, dialogue and healing are already a lived reality: our social works. Our hospitals, outpatient clinics, Caritas centres, soup kitchens, hostels. The Apocalypse speaks of a tree of life whose leaves "serve to heal the nations": our works are like those leaves, silent and discreet, but capable of bringing relief to anyone in need, without asking for an identity card or religious belief.

In our hospitals, Jews, Christians and Muslims are born, treated, suffer and sometimes die together. Doctors and nurses of the different faiths work side by side. In these daily gestures, God's love becomes present and redeems divisions that words often fail to heal.

This is where dialogue becomes flesh. No great speeches are needed. All that is needed is the gesture of one who takes charge of a tribulation, of one who offers a glass of water, of one who stands beside a dying person. In those gestures, God's love becomes present and heals.

Our pastoral task is twofold. First of all, we must support these works with generosity, so that they can continue their mission. It is becoming more and more difficult to ensure their maintenance and development, while at the same time preserving their spirit of openness and welcome, along with the professionalism of their commitment. This will be another test that awaits us in the coming years.

Secondly, we need to make these realities known to show that another way is possible. Too often we only listen to the voices of hatred. Too little do we know about these silent gestures that keep the fabric of our coexistence alive.

To all those who work in our health and social facilities - doctors, nurses, volunteers, operators - goes my deepest thanks. You are those leaves of the Apocalypse that are already silently redeeming the consequences of our time. In a land where everything divides, you build unity. In a time when hatred cries out, you love in silence. Your work is precious in the eyes of God and the community.

5. Our elders: living memory

Then there is a treasure in our communities that we risk never seeing enough of: our elderly. In an ageing land, like ours, they too are a precious presence that deserves attention and gratitude.

Our grandparents, our elderly people, are the living memory of the Church. They have been through wars, experienced disappointed expectations, suffered exodus, worked reconstruction. They have seen borders, flags, powers change. Yet, they have remained, guarded the faith and passed it on. Often in silence, with that discretion that belongs to those who have truly learnt that words weigh and must be used with care. Today, many of them live alone. Their children have left here, looking for a future elsewhere. Families are more scattered. The loneliness of the elderly is a concern that we must look at with new eyes.

In the new Jerusalem, as we have seen, everyone has a place. Even those who no longer produce, even those who are no longer fast, even those who need help with simple everyday things. In a society that measures value on productivity and efficiency, they remind us that dignity is not lost with age and that life is worthwhile not for what you do, but for who you are. Wisdom is born out of time and the trials one goes through. Even when loneliness sets in - because children are far away or families have fragmented - the elderly remain a precious treasure to be cherished. "The elderly help perceive the continuity of generations, with the charisma of mending the rifts"[5].

Our parishes distinguish themselves as places where the elderly feel at home. Where they are not just cared for, but listened to; not just cared for, but loved. Let us create opportunities to be with them, to gather their stories, to learn from their experience. Young people, families, the Church need them.

To all the elderly of our diocese I say: thank you. Thank you for your silent fidelity. Thank you for the prayers you offer day and night. Thank you for the patience with which you carry the weight of years and loneliness. You are like deep roots, which cannot be seen, but hold the tree up. Without you, our Church would be more fragile.

Mary, in her old age, kept the wonders of God in her heart. Let us learn from her, and from our elders, the art of guarding and confidently awaiting a better future.

6. Young people: courage and prophecy

If the elderly are the memory, the young are the prophecy. In them are concentrated the expectations, the fears, but also the liveliest energies of our communities. They show that this community still has a future.

Young people today are the first to suffer the job that is not there, the house that cannot be bought, the future that looks like a wall. Their questions about their belonging to this land and its future grow thicker. But young people are also those who know how to dare, who do not give up asking questions, without taking anything for granted.

To young people, therefore, I say: do not believe those who tell you that there is no future here. You will build the future with your own hands, with your intelligence, with your faith. The Church wants to be beside you. We do not have ready-made recipes, but one certainty: without you, our house becomes poorer. I ask you to be bold. Not to close yourselves up in fear, but to commit yourselves with confidence to building our city.

Our parishes are places where young people feel at home. Not just as recipients of activities, but as protagonists. Where they can express their talents, where their questions are not judged but welcomed, where they can fall in love with Christ and his Church.

May the Blessed Virgin, who was little more than a girl when she said her 'yes', walk with you and teach you the courage to answer 'here I am'.

7. Our priests: point of reference for the community

I think, now, with gratitude, of our priests. They are the ones who, day after day, stand in the midst of the people, to share the struggles and hopes of our communities, to break the Word and the Bread of Life.

Our parish priests are on the front line. In this complex time, marked by bewilderment and mistrust, their task is more delicate and precious than ever. They carry the weight of pastoral care on their shoulders, trying to hold together different sensitivities, to listen to the pain of each one without fuelling divisions, to become a sign of unity in often fragmented contexts.

I ask our priests to be a firm and positive point of reference for the communities. Not simply those who administer the sacraments - which is an essential task - but men capable of listening, of encouraging, of mending. May your word, in a time of worn and often poisonous words, take on the tone of a word of trust and hope. May your presence be a presence that unites and welcomes.

I am well aware that loneliness, weariness and sometimes misunderstanding are real burdens. Yet so many of you continue to spend yourselves unsparingly, with patience and generosity. To all of you goes my sincerest thanks and those of the entire diocese: for the fidelity with which you accompany the communities, for the courage with which, even in the most difficult situations, you continue to be a presence of the Church.

8. Religious life: sentinels of the dawn

There is another silent presence that runs throughout our diocese, often hidden but essential: that of the men and women religious. They are the sentinels of dawn and night (cf. Is 21:11-12).

With their life of prayer and consecration, they remind us every day that there is a 'new heaven'. At a time when everything seems to be reduced to the closed horizon of politics, survival and fear, they look up and remind us that without God every human construction sooner or later collapses. As St John Paul II reminded us, theirs is a prophetic witness to the primacy of God and future goods, which comes from following Christ and loving their brothers and sisters6.

I am thinking in particular of our monasteries and cloistered communities, of those who live and work on the outskirts of cities, and of those who serve in schools, hospitals, parishes and homes. Often their presence is discreet and barely visible, but it is essential. In the silence of prayer and the fidelity of daily service, they testify that Christian life is not measured by efficiency or visibility, but by fidelity and love. In a land marked by divisions, by their presence they build models of possible coexistence, beyond membership.

I think with particular gratitude of those who, in these months of war, shared the fate of the people to the full. Religious men and women who lived with the population through hunger, fear, the bombings. When everything seemed to collapse, their presence became a powerful sign: God does not abandon his people. When death seemed to prevail, they continued to pray, to serve, to stand by everyone.

A word of thanks also goes to the Christian volunteers who, despite the war, continue to come to the Holy Land to serve in schools, parishes and situations of poverty. To all the men and women religious of our diocese goes my most sincere thanks: with your silent fidelity you are experts in communion and builders of unity. You do not make noise, but you build; you do not seek visibility, but you sow good. Your presence is a living prophecy in the Holy Land.

9. Ecumenical Dialogue

In our diocese, Christian families are now almost all mixed. Our children go to school together, study in the same books, share the same future. Everyday life transcends rigid confessional distinctions in a very natural way, showing a capacity for interdenominational fraternity that we are called to cherish. In the Holy Land, ecumenical dialogue - or rather, the concrete relationship between the different Christian Churches - is neither an option nor an exercise reserved for specialists: it is a daily pastoral reality and a constitutive dimension of the life of our Church.

No parish priest can accompany his own community without taking into account the other Christian communities living in the same area. Our mission inevitably takes place within a web of relationships, which requires respect, coordination and a sincere desire for communion.

One of the most widely felt difficulties concerns the difference in liturgical calendars, particularly for Easter. In some areas of the diocese it can happen that, at the same time, one community celebrates the Resurrection while another begins Lent. This is a painful situation, especially for families, which has long questioned the conscience of the Church. There has been much discussion as to how to resolve this situation, and sometimes there is an oscillation in either all assuming the Gregorian calendar or the Julian calendar, depending on the period. The truth is that a solution does not yet exist. Whatever choice is made, it will not be able to respond to all the diverse and varied needs of our Church. This is why we are called to live this effort with a spirit of patience, fostering mutual participation and fraternal sharing, continuing to pray and hope for a path that will not be born from abstract decisions, but from a shared maturity.

In Jerusalem, the weight of the divisions between the Churches in the world is manifested in a particularly concrete way, in the very flesh of our communities. Our vocation is not only to be an instrument of healing for the city and the peoples, but also to carry in our daily lives this cross of the universal Church, which has its heart here. It is not out of the question that, if one day we manage to take significant steps in this area, the entire universal Church could also benefit.

Relations between the Churches are ordinarily lived under the banner of fairness and mutual respect, both at the level of authority and in parish life. This is a sign of maturity that must be cherished. However, we must recognise that, in recent times, some positions have hardened and that misunderstandings and tensions, sometimes painful, are emerging in some areas. In these situations, the temptation is to respond by raising new barriers and adopting the same language as the other. Without naivety, we are called to remain faithful to the style of welcome and meekness, keeping an open and willing gaze, without losing our identity, our history and remaining faithful to our vocation.

That is why it is important to foster concrete opportunities for mutual acquaintance: exchanges between parishes of different denominations, meetings between priests and between youth ministry leaders. Only by really getting to know each other can prejudices and ignorance be overcome.

Secondly, reality asks us to speak with one voice. Not only on social and political issues, which we already do. But also on fundamental ethical issues, such as the defence of life, equality between peoples, respect for human dignity, social inequalities and the rights of the poor, and the various other issues that affect the life of every man and woman.

In our hearts, our intent must remain open to universality, welcoming and striving for unity. Without naivety, but also without being renouncers. For the first effort of our ministry, and the first witness, is unity among us.

10. Interreligious dialogue: not an island but a city

We have recognised it: interreligious dialogue is in trouble today. Christians, Jews and Muslims struggle to meet. Mistrust has dug deep furrows and many wonder whether there is still any point in insisting on this path.

Yet, precisely in these difficult times, dialogue is not a whim of a few, nor one option among others: it is a vital necessity. Our destinies are intertwined. We cannot build the future on our own, nor can we imagine a coexistence that prescinds from the other. For us Christians, as we have seen, dialogue is not a mere pastoral strategy, but an integral part of our vocation and destiny, the very form of our being Church.

However, a transition is necessary: from the dialogue of elites to the dialogue of life. Meetings between specialists and official statements are important, but not sufficient. Dialogue must come down to our parishes, to our neighbourhoods, to our daily relationships. We must learn to talk to the other, not just about the other; to really listen to his story, his suffering, his fears. This is the only way to get out of the logic that recognises value only in one's own tribulation.

Schools are a privileged place for this lived dialogue. Our classrooms are already, in fact, laboratories of coexistence. Here it is possible to educate young people not only in the knowledge of religions, but in the art of encounter, helping them to develop a critical gaze capable of resisting the single narrative of hatred.

Social works - hospitals, Caritas, listening centres - are also places where dialogue takes place daily, often in silence, through common service to the poor and the sick. It is here that the 'healing of the nations', of which the Apocalypse speaks, is already taking place, without clamour and without conditions.

And then forgiveness. I know, it is a difficult word right now. But we are Christians, and Jesus is the undisputed master of forgiveness. Forgiveness does not mean forgetting, nor does it mean justifying evil. It means breaking the chain of hatred, and bearing witness to this possibility, even when it seems impossible. I know that all this may sound naive. But it is our mission. The path is uphill, I am aware of that. But let us not close ourselves off. Our task remains to be salt and light, to build opportunities for trust, even when words seem insufficient.

11. Against the culture of violence

We have seen that those who love and practice lies and violence do not enter the new Jerusalem. Our rejection of violence must become total and visible. We have said this many times, but it is not enough: we must live it, not only in deeds, but also in words. We live as if immersed in a sea of violent words, which have become common language. And we Christians too are in danger of falling into this trap.

What to do? First, let us make an examination of conscience on our language. In homilies, in catechesis, in the family: let us learn to call things by their name without ever reducing the other to an enemy. Whatever the circumstances, the other is always a person to be respected.

In families, we educate our children not to use hate speech, not to share fake news, to distinguish between legitimate criticism and insult. In our media, we are exemplary: we offer information that seeks truth and promotes understanding, not confrontation.

We feel powerless before the law of the strongest. But Revelation reminds us that God's strength is that of the Lamb: meekness that does not yield, love that does not bend to hatred, forgiveness that disarms the enemy. Let this be our 'politics'. Pope Leo XIV reminds us very well, in his first message of peace: "The world is not saved by sharpening swords, judging, oppressing, or eliminating brothers and sisters, but rather by striving tirelessly to understand, forgive, liberate and welcome all, without calculation and without fear" [7].

We reject all complicity with the culture of violence. Our allegiance is to the Lamb, not to logics of power. Whatever side it comes from, whatever face it takes: never violence is the way of the Gospel.

12. Trust: against the tide but necessary

In the first part of this Letter we spoke of scepticism. It is a widespread feeling in our communities: scepticism towards institutions, politics, words, and sometimes even towards the future. However, we must recognise that scepticism, when it becomes a permanent attitude, ends up paralysing. To this scepticism we are called to respond with trust.

This is not naive optimism or an attitude that ignores the harshness of reality. Christian trust is born of faith and is a choice against the tide. It is the certainty that God has not abandoned history to chaos and remains close to those who suffer, those who are persecuted, those who are discarded. It is the conviction that a life spent and given out of love is never lost.

Think of Abraham and Sarah. Humanly, there was no prospect for them. Yet God visited them and entrusted them with a promise. Trust always stems from a visit from God. That is why we must pray that the Lord will still visit our communities, our families, our hearts. Only in this way can a hope be born that does not disappoint.

In concrete terms, this trust drives us to support and make visible all the initiatives, people and realities that, in our territory, continue to believe in the other and promote the art of encounter. But it is not enough to adhere to what others are doing: we are called to become promoters of this style of presence ourselves, taking on the courage of unity.

Some might think that these are insignificant gestures, because 'nothing will ever change here'. But even if that were the case, we cannot give up on making a difference. We want to be that small, sometimes uncomfortable, presence that does not allow itself to be led by hate narratives, but with meekness and determination affirms its own: Christians do not hate. This is our testimony, and it is already a prophecy.

13. Welcoming: the breath of love

We must reckon with the latent danger that runs through every community, especially when it is small like ours: that of closing in, of becoming a stronghold. The temptation is to protect what remains, to defend boundaries, to preserve identity - an understandable attitude, certainly, but one that is not Christian. The love that Jesus teaches us knows no boundaries. When asked which was the greatest commandment, He inextricably united love of God and love of neighbour. And the neighbour, in his parable, is a Samaritan - a stranger, someone different, someone with whom one did not speak. Jerusalem - we have seen - always has its doors open and subsists to the extent that it knows how to welcome.

Welcoming does not only mean opening the doors to those who come from outside - migrants, refugees, pilgrims, the poor of other faiths - but also welcoming one another, beyond the affiliations that divide us. In our own diocese we have Catholics of Latin and Eastern rite, of Arab and Jewish expression, from different cultures and nations: Filipinos, Indians, Asians from various other nations, Latin Americans, Africans, Europeans. We are all one family, not an archipelago of islands.

Welcoming means looking at the other - any other - not as a stranger to be tolerated, but as a gift. It means letting oneself be questioned by its diversity, letting oneself be enriched. It means leaving behind the logic of 'us' and 'them' to enter into that of the one 'us' that includes.

I know that this, in the situation we are in, is not easy. The fear is great. Identity seems fragile. But the Christian conscience is not a fortress to be defended, it is a spring that flows. A closed spring gets bogged down. Only water that flows remains alive and brings life, like the river flowing from the heart of the Lamb.

Let our communities be places where anyone - of whatever origin, language, culture, faith - can feel welcome, listened to, loved. Not to lose our identity, but to live it in its truest form: that of love that does not exclude.

We have come to the end of this long Letter. Perhaps some of you, having reached this point, will feel tired or perplexed: so many topics, so many trials, so many directions. The risk is to feel overwhelmed, to think: "how can we do all this?"

The answer is simple: we cannot. Alone we cannot. But we are not alone.

Indeed, Jesus Christ said: 'Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them' (Mt 18:20). It is true, we are witnesses of this: even in this time we have experienced it. That is why we invite you "not to desert your meetings" (cf. Heb 10:25). Jesus is waiting for us in our parishes, in our communities of faith, in our church groups and movements. The inspiration of the Holy Spirit is accessible in our daily lives, through the Scriptures, personal prayer, meeting with others, serving the poor. Even if we are tempted to shy away from the suffering and wickedness that surrounds us, it is by reaching out to others that we find Christ and his consolation.

We spoke of ecumenical and inter-religious dialogue, rejection of violence, prayer, schools, families, social works, religious life, the elderly, trust, welcoming. We outlined a vision: that of the heavenly Jerusalem, a city with its doors always open, illuminated by the splendour of the Lamb, whose leaves redeem the nations.

Now all this must continue to take shape. Not all at once, nor with impossible heroics, but one step at a time: in our parishes, in our families, in our workplaces and meeting places, and with our friends. By rereading these pages calmly, sharing them and discussing them in different ecclesial and pastoral contexts, unhurriedly and a little at a time, they can become a concrete help to better understand our mission in the Holy Land.

Because in the end, what sustains us is not our strength, but the joy of the Gospel. A joy that does not depend on circumstances, that does not fail even when everything seems shrouded in darkness. A joy that comes from the certainty that the Lord is with us, that he does not abandon us, that he walks beside us even in the darkest nights, because he is Risen. And he is alive among us.

Luke's Gospel closes with a beautiful image: after Jesus' ascension, the disciples "returned to Jerusalem with great joy" (Lk 24:52). They had been shocked, they had been afraid, they had doubted. Yet, in the end, they returned full of joy.

We, too, wish to return to our daily Jerusalem - our homes, our parishes, our communities, our daily commitment - with that same joy. Not a naive joy, which ignores the hardships. But an Easter joy, that knows that light conquers darkness, that life defeats death, that love disarms hate.

We return to Jerusalem with joy. Let us return to our lives with passion. Let us carry God's dream for his city in our hearts, and let that dream become, step by step, day by day, our very lives.

May Mary, Mother of God and of the Church, Queen of Palestine and of the entire Holy Land, Patroness of our diocese, accompany us on this journey.

May the blessing of Almighty God and Father of mercy descend upon each of you.

Jerusalem, 25 April 2026

S. Marco Evangelista

+ Pierbattista Card. Pizzaballa

Patriarch of Jerusalem of the Latins