"They returned to Jerusalem with great joy."
A Proposal for Living Out the Church’s Vocation in the Holy Land
Dear Friends,
May the Lord grant you peace,
During these years of ministry, I have addressed our beloved Church in Jerusalem in various ways: through homilies, a few brief letters, and, above all, during pastoral visits. It was these visits in particular—these moments of encounter and sharing with the community—that left a lasting mark on the life of the local Church, and on my own as well. This has allowed me to get to know our diocese more closely and to give concrete expression to that unity between the pastor and the community which lies at the heart of ecclesial life.
In recent years, however, yet another tragic war into which we have been drawn—and its impact on each of our lives—has forced us to rethink the nature and pace of our ministry, which I have tried to continue as much as possible. This dramatic period we are going through has led us all to commit ourselves to serving the poor, to denouncing injustices, to being present on the ground, and above all to praying, listening to the Word of God, and seeking unity and truth in our relationship with Him and with each of our brothers and sisters.
In light of current events—and given the impact these events have had and will continue to have on the life of our Church—I feel the need today to offer you a more structured message, a more elaborate reflection, and therefore, exceptionally, a longer one. This letter is therefore not intended for a quick or partial reading, nor is it meant to be used as a text for political analysis. It should be read gradually as a tool for discernment, and it is also intended to foster dialogue and reflection within our ecclesial communities, our local communities, in monasteries, and within families. Its purpose is not to offer immediate answers or technical solutions, but to help each person reflect on how to live the Christian faith today on this Earth in the light of the Gospel.
I find it difficult to limit myself to the usual statements, which often follow one after another in almost identical form. I feel even more strongly the need for words that are sincere and meaningful to us. The suffering of our time leaves no room for watered-down and abstract—and therefore unconvincing—discourse on coexistence, nor does it allow us to settle for yet another analysis or condemnation.
We have already done this on several occasions, and we have already made our position clear on this matter, both in words and in deeds. Analysis and condemnation remain necessary—we cannot do without them—but they are not what will open up new possibilities for us. These reflections may be shared beyond our community, with all those who identify with our thoughts. They must, however, be accompanied by a question: What is the Lord asking of us at this moment? And how can we give concrete expression to our faith in this difficult context? This is the question that has long accompanied my ministry as a priest: how, as Christians, as a church community, can we live within this situation of conflict—political, military, and spiritual—which we know will continue for many years to come? It has now become an integral part of church life, of the everyday existence of each one of us. Unfortunately, it has now become part of the culture of this land. It is therefore not a phase to be overcome, but the very place where our Church is called to carry out its specific mission as a community of believers in Christ. In this world where identity boundaries are so sharply drawn, our Christian life must become a witness to a particular way of living—even in the midst of conflict—and must find a visible and recognizable expression in what we say and do. We are called to offer an interpretation of the current period from a Christian perspective that sets us apart in a clear and recognizable way.
In this letter, I would therefore like to attempt to answer this question. It is the result of painstaking and arduous work—as is any attempt at spiritual synthesis—arising from my reflection and prayer, as well as from what I have come to understand during this period. This is obviously not a perfect synthesis. Rather, it should be seen as a preliminary line of thought that will certainly need to mature, be refined, and be supplemented over time—particularly through dialogue, even if it involves disagreement when necessary—with anyone who wishes to engage in this attempt at synthesis and in this reading. Provided, however, that they are motivated by a sincere desire to seek an understanding of God’s will for each of us. Here I bring together, in a more systematic and orderly manner, what I have already presented in part on several occasions over the past few years.
The biblical image around which my reflection revolves is that of the city, and in particular the city of Jerusalem. The image of the city is widespread and familiar. It refers to coexistence and to relationships, both civil and religious. But we will not dwell on the general idea of the city, but rather on Jerusalem as an ideal model, citing a few passages from Scripture. We are the Church of Jerusalem, and the Holy City is the heart—not only geographically but also spiritually—of our ecclesial community. It is the Place that holds the heart of our faith—Redemption—and it is also the geographical and spiritual place that preserves the identity of our Church, the center to which we turn to find the inspiration we need at this time. Our Church is multifaceted, reflecting the richness of our rites and traditions. From its origins to the present day, it has been, by its very nature, pluralistic, since Jerusalem is the mother of all peoples. On the other hand, for many centuries, it has had a very clear character: it is a Church immersed primarily in an Arab context.
Our perspective on the events we are experiencing today is therefore grounded in this Church, which is scattered throughout this vast territory. It is a vision that, precisely because it is rooted in this land, seeks to bring together and welcome all its inhabitants.
Indeed, every particular community can see itself reflected in the Holy City: from the smallest parish in Jordan to the most populous, from the vibrant communities in Cyprus to the Hebrew-speaking faithful in Israel, from the parishes facing hardship in Palestine to those that are present and deeply rooted in Israel, all the way to migrants, asylum seekers, and all the other groups within our diocese. Jerusalem is the spiritual model that unifies our Church, which is spread across such diverse territories and political situations.
The Letter is divided into three parts: the first part begins with my analysis of the current chaotic situation. Before speaking of ideals, we must firmly ground ourselves in reality as it is, while recognizing God’s presence and action within it.
In the second part, I would like to share a vision for our community—one that is inspired by and grounded in Scripture, with specific reference to Jerusalem.
The third will seek to translate this 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 first and foremost a pastoral letter: it will not contain any purely political considerations or analyses. It is “political” only in a broader sense, insofar as it concerns our presence, as Christians, in the polis—that is, in our real world and in our city of Jerusalem—while always remaining oriented toward the true and definitive Polis, the heavenly Jerusalem.
PART ONE – Reading Reality: Reflecting on the Present
Before we reflect on our mission as believers, we must take an honest look at the context in which we are called to live. But we must start from the reality in which we find ourselves if we are to give a concrete answer to the question that accompanies us throughout this Letter: How can we live as Christians in this situation of conflict?
In a reality as complex as ours, any attempt at a synthesis is necessarily incomplete. I accept that risk.
It is not my intention, therefore, to recount the events but rather to grasp their historical significance. October 7, 2023, and the war in Gaza represented something different and deeply unsettling for both peoples of this land. For the Palestinians, it represents the final, dramatic chapter in a long history of humiliation and exodus. For the Israelis, on the other hand, it was something unprecedented: violence that brought back memories of the horrors that occurred in Europe eighty years ago. Without delving into these discussions, which are beyond the scope of our remarks, we nevertheless wish to emphasize that this moment is now universally regarded as one of those decisive events that mark the end of one era and usher in another—and that it unfolded in the worst possible way.
We have been thrust into a “post-pandemic” era that we are struggling to understand, but whose outlines we can already begin to sketch.
What we are experiencing is not just a local conflict. It is a symptom of a much deeper crisis, of a paradigm shift on a global scale. For decades, the international community—and the Western world in particular—believed in an international order based on rules, treaties, and multilateralism. Not without a touch of hypocrisy, it asserted that international law, the Geneva Conventions, and UN resolutions were imperfect but necessary instruments for regulating coexistence among peoples and protecting the weakest from the law of the jungle. Today, everyone seems to have realized its weakness, highlighted by its inability to manage these conflicts. In Israel and Palestine, for different and opposing reasons, confidence in this system has long since vanished.
We are witnessing a return to the use of force as a tool deemed decisive for conflict resolution, with this approach being reduced almost exclusively to its violent and military form, to the detriment of any other possibility based on law, dialogue, and responsibility toward civilians. War has become the object of idolatrous worship: we no longer sit down at the negotiating table to avoid conflict at all costs, but rather keep it firmly in mind as a possible—or even inevitable—scenario. Civilians are no longer collateral damage, but rather casualties attributable to the enemy’s refusal to surrender or tools useful for achieving one’s own objectives. War is an end in itself. Certain world powers, which once presented themselves as the guarantors of the international order, are revealing a different face: they choose sides not on the basis of justice, but on the basis of their own strategic and economic interests. As a result, a large number of institutions—civil, political, and religious—are reduced to remaining silent and powerless spectators in the face of the emergence of this new global disorder.
The logic of deterrence as a security tool, the use of weapons and force in conflict resolution, and the very concept of defense raise ethical and political questions of great importance today: their legitimacy, the conditions under which they are used, their economic and social costs, their concrete consequences for the civilian population, and many others.
Added to these questions today is an element that cannot be ignored: the civic consciousness of peoples, which has matured over time and has been deeply shaped by the internalization of the values of human dignity, respect for life, and fundamental rights. This moral heritage, now deeply rooted in contemporary societies, shapes every political and military decision and imposes clear limits on the use of force.
The history of this Earth, marked by ancient and repeated conflicts, also teaches us that it is illusory to think that force—even when deemed necessary in the short term—can, on its own, offer a lasting solution. When force becomes the norm and the dominant criterion, it ultimately fuels a spiral of violence that is truly difficult to break.
This violence leaves deep wounds in its wake: physical destruction and emotional scars that weigh heavily on future generations. That is why, while acknowledging the complexity of the choices facing the authorities, we must continue to emphasize that force can be neither the ultimate goal nor the foundation upon which to build a peaceful future.
The role of the media and communication is more central today than ever before. On the one hand, they serve as a window through which we receive information from places that would otherwise be inaccessible. On the other hand, they have become the primary vehicle for disseminating multiple, often contradictory narratives that are increasingly difficult to verify. In a conflict like the one we are currently experiencing, the war is not only fought on the ground but also through words and images: every photograph, every video, every headline can become a weapon. And the risk of losing our way—of no longer being able to distinguish truth from falsehood, news from propaganda—is very real.
Added to this is another factor, one that may be even newer and more troubling. The ongoing war has raised ethical questions for which we are unprepared. I am thinking, in particular, of the use of artificial intelligence in military operations. It is no longer just a matter of increasingly precise weapons or remote-controlled drones: we are entering a phase where algorithms select targets and make decisions that, until recently, were the exclusive domain of humans. What happens when a machine decides who lives and who dies? What responsibility still falls to humans? These are new questions for which we do not yet have answers, but which we can no longer afford to ignore.
I do not wish to dwell on these complex issues, but simply to point out that this new era also raises unprecedented questions that we will sooner or later have to take seriously. It should be noted, however, that the crisis of multilateralism and institutions, as well as these new issues, are not intellectual abstractions detached from our daily reality. On the contrary, they have a direct impact on the lives of our community; they form the framework within which daily life has unfolded in recent years, and they are a source of profound suffering. I have often wondered, for example: How many people have died in our territory in recent years because of a “decision made by an algorithm”? It is in this context that we must examine the lived experience of our diocese.
Without claiming to cover everything, let’s try to bring some order to the chaos around us by grouping the various aspects of our experience into five fundamental themes.
1. The Break in the Bond: Pain, Hatred, and Distrust
The first rift is in the fabric of human relationships. Pain—which always deserves respect—is deeply ingrained in the minds of too many people.
In the face of the tragedies and injustices of our time, feeling like a victim is a very common reaction. Everyone tends to perceive their own hardships as unique and absolute, which makes it difficult to acknowledge the experiences of others. This attitude is common to so many people and communities, and it profoundly influences the way we live and interpret what is happening around us.
But we must also recognize that the experience of being a victim can vary depending on one’s circumstances. Some lose their lives while resting at home, while others die directly in combat. There are those whose homes are destroyed in bombings, and those who, year after year, witness the loss of their land. Some have lived under siege, deprived of essential supplies such as food and medicine, while others face the constant fear caused by terrorist attacks. Pain is always pain, and we have no intention whatsoever of ranking forms of suffering. While respecting the diversity of situations and acknowledging their complexity, we cannot, however, consider them all to be the same: there is a difference between those who wield power and those who are subject 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. Recognizing this difference is a sign of respect for justice and truth.
Hatred has carved deep rifts. We are witnessing a painful dehumanization of the other: once the other becomes simply “the enemy,” anything goes. Violence has not only destroyed cities and homes, people and hopes: it has scarred consciences, poisoned public discourse, and fostered a sense of betrayal—even toward ideals we thought we shared. It is this vicious cycle, in which victims are pitted against victims, that makes reconciliation increasingly difficult.
This has created a cycle of victims pitted against other victims, which, over time, hardens hearts and makes it increasingly difficult to pursue paths of reconciliation.
Political life and civil institutions, devoid of prospects, exacerbate feelings of disarray and skepticism. That is why, among many—especially young people—mistrust is growing toward any promise of coexistence, as are doubts about the existence of an alternative to the spiral of conflict and injustice.
Since the war began, the economic situation has deteriorated everywhere. Pilgrims are few and far between, leaving hundreds of families without work; the closure of the Palestinian territories has deprived others of their livelihoods. Communities are struggling to make plans. Young people are not getting engaged, are not getting married, and are not having children. The housing crisis for families is also getting worse and worse. Many are looking abroad and dreaming of a future far from their homeland. Emigration, that old wound, is reopening today more deeply than ever.
When the cries of those who are suffering seem to go unheard or unanswered, the temptation is great to lose faith—even within faith communities, which should be the voice of the most vulnerable—and even faith in God itself.
It would be unfair, however, to stop at this bleak description of the problems. For it is precisely in this gap—in the void left by politics and the law—that associations, movements, and local initiatives have never ceased to act. Not out of a naïve commitment to dialogue, but out of a tenacious determination to regard the other as a human being. This is not the place to list them all, nor is it necessary to turn them into hagiographies. But it is from there—from these fragments of concrete humanity—that the vision of a possible coexistence can emerge. If and when we emerge from the rubble, it will be they—and not the major international organizations in crisis—who must be the architects of reconstruction. In this respect, the collapse of the international system has at least the merit of having restored visibility and dignity to those who had never stopped working on the ground.
2. Division and Fear: The Temptation of Enclaves
Compounding this breakdown of ties is a troubling phenomenon: growing polarization. Not only between Israelis and Palestinians—which we are well aware of—but also within these two social fabrics themselves. People are increasingly retreating into closed groups, into social enclaves where they interact only with those who share the same opinions, speak the same language, and share the same fears. This trend is further reinforced by social media algorithms, which constantly feed users content that confirms their preexisting beliefs, thereby reinforcing the divides within which they operate and further widening the chasm of mistrust and fear between groups.
Fear and radicalization lead to fragmentation and isolation. People seek refuge within their own group, as if it were a safe haven. They stop associating with those who are different, those who think differently, those who belong to another community, another faith, or another political movement. Parallel bubbles form, with no communication between them.
This fragmentation does not only concern relationships between groups: it calls into question the very way in which a sense of belonging—national, social, or personal—is constructed. We increasingly define ourselves by opposition: we are what the other is not. In this game of mirrors, identity becomes rigid, defensive, and exclusive. It is as if there were no longer a “We” that encompasses everyone, but only a multitude of small “we”s that stand in opposition to one another. When “we” is reduced to opposing identities, it becomes easy to reduce the other to a simplistic image and view them as a homogeneous bloc. Yet in every society, there are different voices and perspectives, and resisting the temptation to view entire peoples as monolithic blocs is the first step toward rebuilding relationships.
A sense of belonging to a community is not necessarily a negative thing. Every community is characterized by its own identity, a specific mission, and a unique charism that should be preserved. This richness is part of the unique mosaic of the Holy Land, which must be preserved—provided, however, that these qualities are not asserted at the expense of others and do not become instruments of opposition.
From this perspective, the Christian life, grounded in solid roots, shows how a sense of belonging can be strong without becoming rigid or defensive, and it is precisely the depth of one’s identity that makes openness to others possible. In this way, “we” can once again become inclusive, capable of bringing together different affiliations without reducing them to opposing identities.
3. The Feeling of Loss: Words Wasted and a Common Good Obscured
The third element is the most profound: the loss of the reference points that allowed us to find our way. We have lost faith in the words “coexistence,” “dialogue,” “justice,” “human rights,” and “two peoples and two states.” These words, which have shaped our discourse for years, now seem worn out and devoid of meaning. When we use them in our communities, we sometimes encounter weary and disillusioned stares. Faced with the horror of the images that reach us every day, these words truly seem to belong to another world. We are then left speechless, and in that silence, violence screams its brutal language.
Added to this is the confusion surrounding the “common good.” We struggle to answer fundamental questions such as: What kind of society do we want to build? What is the common good we want to pursue together, beyond individual interests?
On this Earth, the common good is sacrificed by everyone, in different ways, on the altar of self-interest. It seems as though everyone thinks only of themselves, of their own survival, of their own safety, in an endless existential war fought on fronts that are increasingly distant.
However, the most powerful language is that of reality. And reality—far beyond what we think, feel, or believe—reminds us that we are destined to find ways to live together. There is no alternative. This land—so fiercely contested and yet so deeply loved—is home to everyone: Israeli Jews and Palestinian Arabs, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Druze, Samaritans, Baha’is, and people of every other faith. God has brought us together here. We, Christians in particular, have a specific mission: to be salt and light wherever we are. This means not giving up on creating opportunities for encounter between different national and religious communities, for when words are no longer enough, that is when concrete actions become necessary.
4. The Unique Challenge of the Holy Land: Interfaith Dialogue in Trouble
Another aspect, no less painful, concerns our relations with other religious communities. Interfaith dialogue—which has been our mission for years—is facing challenges. Not because we have stopped meeting, but because the ground for these encounters has been overtaken by what we have discussed so far: mistrust, disillusionment, and weariness.
We have had to grapple with historical narratives that are irreconcilably at odds with one another, each claiming a monopoly on the interpretation of events. We did not feel supported or heard by one another. This is a source of great bitterness that touches us in the very depths of our being.
The Holy Places, which should be spaces for prayer, are becoming battlegrounds over identity. Sacred texts are invoked to justify violence, occupations, and terrorism. This misuse of God’s name is perhaps the gravest sin of our time. Many religious institutions seem to condone these abuses rather than curb and denounce them, thereby demonstrating their prophetic weakness.
Yet for us Christians, dialogue is not an option—it is a vital necessity. Our children—Christians and Muslims—attend school together; our sick are cared for in the same hospitals, where no distinction is made between Jews, Christians, Muslims, and followers of other faiths. Our poor share the same needs. Without a relationship with other faiths, we have no future. But the issue runs deeper: dialogue is our calling and our destiny. It is one of the ways in which our faith is expressed and nourished.
5. The Many Faces of Our Local Church in This Chaotic Context
Our church community lives in the midst of this general confusion. We are a Church that spans different territories—Israel, Palestine, Jordan, Cyprus—each with its own history and dynamics. There is no single political situation or single pastoral context. There are many different situations, and all of them require our attention. This complexity is our strength, but also our challenge. It compels us to avoid generalizations, to never speak in abstract terms, and to always keep in mind the real faces of the communities living in different places. It compels us to listen attentively and to carry out pastoral ministry that can adapt to the needs of each territory.
That said, let’s try to take a closer look at the reality of our Church during this very difficult time.
In Gaza, our brothers and sisters are in a state of extreme distress. For years, they have lived under bombardment, without water, food, or medicine. And today, they live amid the rubble. We have lost young people, the elderly, and children. The Holy Family Parish and Caritas have been and remain the Face of Christ in the midst of this horror. In churches turned into shelters, hundreds of displaced people have shared everything they have.
In Palestine, the situation is deteriorating day by day. We’ve already discussed this at length, but things don’t seem to be getting any better. It is here that the future of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is being played out, silently and structurally. The abuses caused by the occupation and the total absence of the rule of law are on the rise, while the settlements continue to expand. If this downward spiral is not halted, there is a risk that a situation of permanent occupation will take root, eroding any possibility of a just and shared solution. I fear that this concern and this situation will continue to shape the nature of our engagement 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 inequality, and growing insecurity. The rise in crime—which, in some areas, exerts tight control over the territory, causing deaths and injuries every day—is fueling widespread fear that reinforces the desire to leave among many. Israeli society is traumatized by October 7, and this trauma has fueled mistrust toward anything related to the Arab world, creating deep mistrust between the two populations.
In this deeply divisive debate, the Hebrew-speaking Catholic community has not always felt that its Church was listening to it, and it has made this clear. Our Hebrew-speaking Catholic brothers and sisters experience a particular kind of ecclesial isolation. They are part of a Church that they may not fully feel is their own. Over the coming months, I will seek opportunities to meet personally with this segment of our diocese, in order to listen to them more closely.
Migrants and asylum seekers in our communities live in situations of existential insecurity, fearing deportation and facing discrimination and exploitation. They, too, have been caught up in the violence of the conflict, and some have been killed in various attacks in recent years.
Our schools—places of community and a true source of pride for the Church—are also struggling to guide students. Teachers and students alike carry into the classroom the weight of what they see on television and on social media; today, for them as well, dialogue on the most divisive topics has become difficult, to say the least.
Even in the midst of this desolation, our determination to build a society based on brotherhood remains steadfast, and our Christian communities continue to be a tangible sign of hope.
In Gaza, faith continues to guide the lives of local Christians. Daily Mass, the Rosary, and the charitable works of the parish and Caritas keep the Christian faith alive. Thanks to the commitment of the parish and Caritas, thousands of families in Gaza have been able to receive aid and support, even during the most difficult moments of the war.
In Palestine, our parish priests have organized and maintained unity within their communities by launching initiatives of support and solidarity, especially for the families most in need. They have been able to identify the needs of their communities and provide support, particularly to the families most in need.
In Israel, too, the priests spared no effort during the most difficult period of the war.
In Jordan, life is proceeding relatively normally, and despite the economic crisis, parishes have been actively organizing fundraisers, prayer vigils, and rosary prayers in solidarity with parishes in the diocese that are currently facing difficulties.
Cyprus, too, having recently been drawn into this war, has pledged its solidarity and is devoting its efforts to strengthening its pastoral activities.
It is important to note that the entire universal Church—from Pope Francis to Pope Leo XIV, right down to the smallest and poorest dioceses—has shown its solidarity by offering prayers and material support to our Church in the Holy Land. It is our duty to thank all those who have rallied—and continue to do so—to enable us to keep facing the many difficulties of this time; to thank them above all for their affection and their Christian closeness, which console and edify us. During this time, the actions of the entire Church have shown that hope is made real. Indeed, there have been countless organized prayers, solidarity fundraisers, and so many other concrete expressions of communion.
In light of all this, we must truly reflect on another important aspect of our mission. It is true that during this time, we have been present throughout the diocese through acts of brotherhood and solidarity. Our Church has made its voice heard by striving to speak the truth—honestly, clearly, and with parrhesia (frankness)—even in the midst of this turmoil, often at the cost of being misunderstood. But I wonder: has that been enough? Or, during this very difficult time, have we sometimes prioritized caution and sought institutional survival, at the risk of sacrificing our prophetic witness? How can we speak a word of truth—clear and honest—without creating new barriers and new victims? It is a question that always stays with me and one that is never easy to answer. But asking ourselves this question is perhaps the most honest and sincere prayer we can offer, knowing that discernment means listening to His voice, turning to the truth, seeking justice, and always choosing the good of our brothers and sisters.
There you have it. This is the reality in which we live: a desert of tears, resignation, and empty words—yet one filled with courageous experiences of vitality and brotherhood. It is in this desert that we are invited to recognize once again the voice of God calling out to us.
In the face of this chaos, the crucial question is not how to escape it or how to resolve it, but how to live within it as believers—without letting ourselves be consumed by its logic and without renouncing our responsibility to bear witness to the Gospel. That is why it is time to lift our eyes and ask ourselves what the Lord is saying to us through all of this, allowing ourselves to be drawn by a light that comes from above. We need to contemplate God’s vision for His city.
PART TWO – The Calling – God’s Dream Called Jerusalem
After offering a general—and inevitably approximate—overview of our shared yet highly diverse experience, let us return to the initial question: How can we live as Christians in this situation of conflict, which we can now rephrase as follows: What is God’s will for Jerusalem? Let us therefore try to examine together the image of the Holy City that He Himself offers us.
From the very first pages of the Book of Genesis, Scripture provides us with the foundation for relationships as God intended them: between Him and humanity, between human beings, and between humankind and creation. It is from this foundation that the entire history of salvation unfolds. But it is above all the perspective of Revelation that will guide us throughout our reflection. This book is often misunderstood, particularly because of its symbolic language, which is not intended to fuel fears or fatalistic interpretations of history, but rather to help reveal its ultimate meaning in light of God’s faithfulness and Christian hope.
According to the Scriptures, humanity begins in a garden, Eden. The garden symbolizes a humanity that is still in a state of original innocence and, all things considered, solitude. Ultimately, however, it is precisely in the Book of Revelation that history comes to an end in a completely different and inverted setting: a city. This is not just any city: it is the New Jerusalem. This passage is by no means a mere 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 building of a communal, complex, and reconciled future. The end of history is a mature society—a “city,” precisely.
The first city mentioned in the Bible was founded by Cain (Genesis 4:17). After killing his brother, he built a refuge: a place to put an end to violence and to rebuild the lost bond of brotherhood. In Scripture, the city emerges as a human attempt to recreate communal life where relationships have been severed. The last city mentioned in the Bible, meanwhile, is the New Jerusalem “coming down from heaven” (Rev. 21–22).
It is between these two poles—the city of refuge built by humans out of fear, and the city of gift bestowed by God out of love—that the entire history of salvation unfolds. The Bible never presents an ideal, static image of the 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 experiences this tension.
This tension runs throughout Scripture and is uniquely focused on Jerusalem. No other city in the Bible receives as much love and as much rebuke, as many promises and as many condemnations. And this same tension, as we shall see, also exists within the Church that was born in Jerusalem.
When we speak of Jerusalem today, we focus primarily on its political, historical, and sociological aspects. Let us not forget that what binds the entire world to this place goes beyond history, geography, and stones. When we speak of the Holy City in this context, we understand it not only as a physical reality, but also—and above all—as a symbol of the People of God and of the Church, born at Pentecost in the Upper Room. At that moment, the Holy Spirit descended upon the Twelve—that is, upon the entire apostolic assembly gathered in the room where Jesus had instituted the Eucharist. It was on that Pentecost morning that the miracle described in the Acts of the Apostles took place. The disciples, having received the Spirit, went out into the streets to proclaim what had happened, and: “They were utterly bewildered because each one heard them speaking in his own dialect.” In amazement and wonder, they said, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? How is it that each of us hears them in our own dialect, our native language?’” (Acts 2:6–8)
All those present at that time—from different nations and speaking different languages—were able, through the work of the Holy Spirit, to understand one another and build unity. From the very beginning, the Church was universal, united, and diverse. From there, the Twelve set out to bring the Good News to the whole world.
Even today, the Christian community in Jerusalem retains this universal character, which does not mean “international,” but rather refers to a deeper reality—one described in an exemplary way in the Acts of the Apostles. Even today, most Churches have their ecclesiastical centers elsewhere in the world, but each retains its heart and a living presence in Jerusalem. In this city, the various Christian denominations come together to share space and time, giving life to an imperfect but vital path toward the unity of believers. Through different rites and languages, celebrated in the same places—places lived in and frequented 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 the Apostles then set out to proclaim the Gospel to all nations, so too today these communities, rooted in the same land and in the same families, are called to rediscover full communion in faith and charity.
For believers, the bond with this land also implies a fundamental—albeit complex—relationship with Judaism and Islam. Here, over the centuries, interreligious dialogue has become for us not only a condition for survival, but also an expression of fidelity to our universal identity. It is indeed here that the Mother Church is called to give life and to care for others, by promoting understanding of the other, the need for forgiveness, and the pursuit of genuine respect.
The universality of the Church is not at odds with the concrete nature of places and local churches. On the contrary, it is within the local Church itself that the Church becomes visible and active. This is why St. John Paul II spoke of a “mutual interiority” between the particular Churches and the universal Church.
It is not only the Church; the Holy City itself has preserved this universal character. Pope Benedict XVI described it with great clarity in a homily delivered precisely in Jerusalem:
“In fact, Jerusalem has always been a city where the echoes of different languages resound in the streets, where people of every race and language walk upon its cobblestones, and whose walls are a symbol of God’s providential love for the entire human family. As a microcosm of our globalized world, this city—if it is to live up to its universal calling—must be a place that teaches universality, respect for others, dialogue, and mutual understanding; a place where prejudice, ignorance, and the fear that fuels them are overcome by honesty, justice, and the pursuit of peace. There should be no place within these walls for narrow-mindedness, discrimination, violence, and injustice. Those who believe in a merciful God—whether they identify as Jews, Christians, or Muslims—must be the first to promote this culture of reconciliation and peace, without being discouraged by the painfully slow pace of progress or by the heavy burden of memories from the past. ” (Benedict XVI, Valley of Jehoshaphat, Jerusalem, May 12, 2009).
The mission of the earthly Jerusalem is, in a sense, to become the image and reflection of the heavenly Jerusalem, “a prophecy, the promise of universal reconciliation and peace that God desires for the entire human family. ” (Benedict XVI, ibid.). It is this mission that we have lost sight of amid the whirlwind of events in recent years. And it is to this mission that we must return.
In summary, it can be said that, at the crossroads of civilizations, religions, and ethnic groups, Jerusalem represents a symbolic microcosm; it is a paradigm of the world at large and thus embodies within itself all the contemporary challenges we face on a global scale. While it is certainly at the heart of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it also embodies the complex interactions between different religions and nations. The conflict tearing this city apart has far-reaching regional and global repercussions. A simple stroll through the streets of Jerusalem is enough to understand just how much the city truly serves as the focal point for many other conflicts perceived on a global scale: the tension between modernity and tradition, liberal democracy and conservatism; universalism and particularism.
Jerusalem brings together the various components of our Church and exemplifies its mission in a remarkable way. It is in this place—amidst a reality marked by sharp divisions, which are a common feature of the course of human history—that the Church is called to express itself.
The most powerful images in Scripture that reveal the profound identity of Jerusalem—and, consequently, the identity and mission of our Church—are found in John’s vision of the heavenly Jerusalem, described in the last two chapters of Revelation, from which we now draw inspiration.
1. A New Heaven for a New City
“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea” (Rev 21:1)
The first thing John sees is not the city, but a “new heaven.” Jerusalem has a sky. This may seem trivial or obvious, but it is its most telling characteristic. Even its antagonist, Babylon, is described in Revelation in great detail: its rivers, its deserts, its abysses. And yet, we never see Babylon’s sky. It is a city without a sky—and therefore without God—trapped within a purely human and earthly horizon, and consequently doomed to ruin.
The sky over Jerusalem is, moreover, quite unique: it is a “new” sky. This is not the first time John speaks of heaven. In chapter 4 of Revelation, the visions begin with a significant announcement: the seer sees a door open in heaven (Rev 4:1). Heaven is therefore new, first and foremost because it is open. And it has been opened because the Son of Man, who came down 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 humanity.
In this passage, we find an important insight: to build the city, to forge authentic relationships among ourselves and among our communities, we must begin, above all, with an awareness of God’s presence, of God’s primacy, and of faith. God must not be excluded. Jerusalem is not merely a matter of political boundaries or technical agreements. Its core identity—the most important characteristic of the City and of the entire Holy Land—is that it is the place of God’s revelation, the place where religions are at home.
Even today, this aspect remains tangible and visible, especially in what is considered the Sacred Basin, where nearly all the major holy sites are concentrated: the Old City and the Mount of Olives. The public celebrations of the various religious communities—which follow different calendars and sometimes overlap—transform the city, especially at certain times of the year, giving rise to an extraordinary symphony of prayers, songs, and diverse liturgical rites.
It is also common, at the first light of dawn or in the silence of the night, to come across men and women of all ages —Jews, Christians, and Muslims—walking along the city’s streets, wrapped in their various cloaks and heading toward their respective Holy Sites to join the religious leaders who pray there day and night. Ultimately, the prayer of the various religious communities sets the rhythm for the entire city: it is its breath and its light. This is the city’s most beautiful and captivating identity, its most precious characteristic, which must be cherished and preserved.
Ignoring this “vertical” dimension of our Earth—the religious and spiritual sensibilities of the communities that make it up—Jewish, Muslim, and Christian—is the root cause of the failure of the successive coexistence agreements over the past few decades. And future agreements, too, will be doomed to failure if we do not take into account the unique, prophetic character of Jerusalem. It must be, above all, a house of prayer for all peoples (cf. Is 56:7). We do not wish to call into question—and indeed we affirm—the necessity of the various existing statuses quo, which are important for regulating relations among the city’s diverse communities. I believe, however, that we must also have the courage to breathe new life into the situation, to build new models of life and relationships where our shared faith in God can become an opportunity for encounter rather than exclusion. A faith that opens us to Heaven and to the world, where all believers feel called to lead humanity toward God. No plan for coexistence in the Holy Land can ignore this vertical dimension—the awareness that this land is, above all, the place of Revelation.
2. A City That Descends from Heaven
“And I saw the Holy City, the New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared for the wedding, like a bride adorned for her husband… In the Spirit, he carried me away to a great and high mountain; he showed me the Holy City, Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God; it had the glory of God within it” (Rev 21:2, 10–11).
The Holy City does not rise proudly toward heaven by its own power. John sees it “coming down from heaven, from God,” and he sees it coming down twice (three times if we also take Rev 3:12 into account). This downward movement is not something that happened once and for all, but rather its permanent state of being. The New Jerusalem continually receives itself and its life from God. Its existence is not a conquest, but a gift.
She comes down “like a bride adorned for her husband.” This is an image of intimacy and relationship. John also uses the biblical image of the tent, in which God chooses to dwell in the midst of humanity, and which He makes the place of encounter with people (John 1:14). It is, therefore, a city whose very essence is to live in deep intimacy with the Lord, but also to be like the tabernacle, a place of welcome. This dual movement—intimacy and welcome—defines the life of the Church. In this dwelling of God among his own, the victory over evil and death is fulfilled: not only is evil defeated, but humanity is comforted by God himself, who wipes away the tears from their faces (Rev 21:4).
This passage offers us another important insight. It is a crucial warning, especially for the religious institutions of the Holy City: without a continual “coming down from heaven”—that is, without humbly and tirelessly drawing from their relationship with God, allowing Him to enlighten their way of thinking, and without continually nourishing themselves with the Word of God—religious institutions risk withering away. They risk becoming impregnable fortresses closed off from the world, instead of being open cities and sources of new life. We do not receive from God, once and for all, the strength and capacity to see things differently: these gifts require a constantly renewed effort of the soul and the heart.
In practical terms, listening to Scripture means, for churches and religious communities, listening first and foremost to the cry of those who do not know Christ, do not know Him well enough, or have strayed from Him, but also to the cry of the poor, the marginalized, and those who suffer because of conflicts.
It is there—as a concrete opportunity to welcome others into the wounded flesh of humanity—that we can verify the authenticity of our relationship with God. If our focus on God does not open our eyes to the suffering of others, then we have not truly encountered the God who descends into the city. This is a call to religious authorities to reconcile their closeness to God with their closeness to their own people.
3. The Temple and the Lamb
“I saw no temple in the city, for its temple is the Lord God, the Ruler of the universe, and the Lamb.” (Rev. 21:22)
The Scriptures present God as the One who desires to dwell among humankind. In the Old Testament, this presence was linked to the temple, the place where God met with His people. The prophet Ezekiel, too, envisions a renewed city centered around the temple, the heart of God’s presence and a sign of His holiness.
In its vision of the New Jerusalem, the Book of Revelation uses different language. John states: “I saw no temple.” Not because God’s Presence is lacking, but because It is no longer confined to a separate space. God Himself and the Lamb dwell in the midst of their people and constitute its living center. From this perspective, there is no longer any 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 places where God is present and others where He is not. There are no places where He listens and others where He does not. Any distinction between the included and the excluded based on criteria of purity also disappears. While, in Ezekiel’s vision, access to the temple was governed by strict distinctions, in the New Jerusalem, everyone is welcomed: men and women, children and the elderly, the healthy and the sick, the free and the enslaved.
This passage from Revelation offers a powerful lesson to earthly Jerusalem, torn apart by conflicts over land ownership and the definition of exclusive borders. The obsession with occupying spaces and with property has become one of the main criteria for interpreting relations between communities, often leading to division and violence. It almost seems as though, in order to build relationships and have a voice, one must possess, occupy, and justify one’s presence within a territory.
We must not be naive. There are spaces that must be preserved—places that are essential for every community to live and bear witness to its faith. We must not forget that the Holy Land is also the Land of the Holy Places, which preserve the memory and historical identity of peoples. But borders serve to preserve freedom, not to stifle it. They must not become insurmountable barriers or a cause for exclusion. It is possible to live together while respecting one another’s spaces, taking into account each person’s history and differing sensibilities.
In the New Jerusalem, then, there are no places to possess, but relationships to build. If the God of the Holy City does not occupy spaces or erect barriers, then no one should feel excluded. Therefore, we cannot use God to justify choices of isolation or exclusion.
This passage from Revelation, while inviting us to lift our eyes to heaven, actually brings us back down to earth: a city is alive to the extent that it recognizes that the true temple to be preserved—its vital center—is human relationships and the relationship with God. On the contrary, it is doomed to wither and die when it allows itself to be dominated by the logic of possession, by the devaluation of others, and by self-referential narratives, rather than by the light of the Lamb, which is the logic of gift.
4. The Lamp and the Lamb: A New World of Truth
“The city has no need of the sun or the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God illuminates it: its light is the Lamb. ” (Rev 21:23). “Night will be no more, and they will no longer need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, because the Lord God will illuminate them; and they will reign forever and ever.” (Rev 22:5).
We have seen that there is no temple in the New Jerusalem. But then, where is God? How does He dwell in Jerusalem? Where do we encounter Him? God’s presence in the city is not an intrusive, imposing presence that forces itself upon us. God is present like a lamp that gives light. He is present as a new way of seeing—and therefore a new way of living; he sheds light on relationships, on life, on all things.
If the lamp is the Lamb, this means it is a “Paschal” light: it is the splendor of the One who gave his life out of love, freely and unconditionally. Easter ushers in a new way of seeing reality. It is the Paschal experience that enables us to see life—even where our physical eyes see only death, defeat, or devastation.
This passage from Revelation takes us a step further, beyond the criteria of possession, suffocating spaces, closed borders, and idolized property that we have seen so far. Light cannot be possessed: we welcome it and share it. It thus becomes the standard by which we interpret reality and guide our choices. With what eyes, with what spirit do we look at others—especially those who are not “one of us”? With trust or with fear, or worse still, with contempt?
Training one’s eyes to see this light—which is life—becomes the first task of anyone who wishes to belong to this city. This means recognizing every person—the poor, the stranger, and even the enemy—as a creature made in the image and likeness of God, and looking upon them as one looks upon God. This is the same manner as that of the Lamb who illuminates the city: an authority expressed through self-giving, which transforms power into service rather than into possession and domination.
5. City Life: Hospitality and Memory
“It had a great and high wall, with twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels; and on the gates were inscribed the names of the twelve tribes of the sons of Israel… The wall of the city rested on twelve foundations, on which were inscribed the twelve names of the twelve Apostles of the Lamb. ” (Rev 21:12–14)
What is striking about this description is an apparent incongruity. The apostles are presented as the foundation of the building, while the gates are represented by the twelve tribes of Israel. From a chronological perspective, we would expect the opposite: Israel precedes the apostles. Yet, in the vision of Revelation, the old and the new neither oppose nor overlap, but are recomposed into a redeemed unity. God does not erase history, but recreates it by giving it new foundations, in which nothing is lost and everything finds its proper place. Jerusalem thus becomes the fulfillment for both the twelve tribes and the twelve apostles. It is only within this city that each person can rediscover the meaning of their own history and their own mission.
This is a crucial point for us today as well. Violence often stems from the inability to reinterpret one’s history from a perspective of redemption. This occurs when memory becomes a closed narrative, constructed against the other and defended as an exclusive possession. The concern with ownership—already mentioned earlier—when taken as a criterion for defining relationships, is also reflected in our approach to historical memory. We tend to want to appropriate the narrative of events, as if it were a territory to be defended, by continually questioning the other’s historical narrative. In doing so, memory no longer contributes to improving relations; on the contrary, it becomes a “toxic memory” that poisons them. Denying the other’s historical memory is a subtle yet powerful form of exclusion.
On the contrary, we must rethink the very categories of “history” and “memory” and, consequently, those of “guilt,” “justice,” and “forgiveness.” It is these categories that directly link the religious sphere to the moral, social, and political dimensions. This is not a matter of denying the facts of the past, but of scrutinizing their interpretations, so that these interpretations do not forcefully dictate the choices we make today. Only through this honest reexamination can we restore our own understanding of history for the benefit of all humanity. Schools, universities, cultural centers and movements, as well as the media, bear the primary responsibility for this mission of reinterpretation and healing of memory. They are the ones who can help construct a different, positive, and inclusive historical narrative.
This purification is neither a diplomatic maneuver nor a political compromise: it is a profoundly spiritual act, for it touches the very roots of identity and pain. It requires that we allow ourselves to be redeemed by God so that we, in turn, may become instruments and channels of healing for others. Only a redeemed memory can bring about a different future. The Church’s mission is therefore to promote a true “purification of historical memory.” Saint John Paul II forcefully reiterated this during the Jubilee of the Year 2000, when he spoke of the need to purify memory as a profoundly spiritual act, capable of touching the roots of identity and suffering.
I am well aware that this subject is unacceptable to many. Perhaps for some it is a topic that is “too Christian”; to others, it may seem utopian, or even something to be rejected. But that does not matter. This is the contribution, the mission, that the Lamb entrusts to us. The witness we are called to bear—the “promise and prophecy” that must sustain our pilgrimage in the Holy City, in our Church—is to dare to embrace a vision that does not spring from possession, fear, or self-interest, but from the redemption of history. What kind of Church would we be if we did not have the courage to point toward a world that does not yet exist, but which God promises us and which we already glimpse on the horizon?
6. Open House
“Day after day, the gates will never be shut, for there will be no more night.” (Rev 21:25)
A city’s ramparts are always built for defensive purposes. Here, however, they are not intended to protect the city from a threatening outside world, as if what lay beyond were dangerous. They serve to define a way of life, a sense of belonging, but they are constantly open. There is nothing to defend, but only a way of life to offer. Open in all four directions, so that anyone, at any time, may enter and become part of this new humanity. “My house shall be called a ‘House of Prayer for all peoples’” (Isaiah 56:7).
What, in the Old Covenant, was the privilege of a single people—although, from the beginning, intended for all the peoples of the earth (cf. Gen 12:3)—is now prophesied for all. All may be part of God’s holy people. The Church lives this out and proclaims it today by carrying this prophetic treasure in earthen vessels. This, too, is another clear indication offered to us by the Book of Revelation. In the city that comes down from heaven, no one can exercise a monopoly, for the Holy City, by its very nature, is incompatible with any form of closure, exclusivity, or monochromatic identity. It does not belong to some at the expense of others, nor can it be reduced to the possession of a particular group. Its gates are always open: this is not merely an architectural detail, but the expression of an identity defined solely by welcome and relationship. Coexistence is the result of sharing a common project, of which everyone is an integral part.
7. The Common Heart of Humanity
“The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it… The glory and splendor of the nations will be brought into the city.” (Rev 21:24, 26)
The city’s gates are not merely open. John clarifies and adds that peoples, nations, and otherness do not constitute a threat, but are, on the contrary, considered a source of richness. It is the gold and frankincense of the peoples that adorn the city. This is another of the great innovations described by the Apostle. The standards of beauty, holiness, and purity are completely reversed: it is not what is immaculate, solitary, or isolated that is beautiful, but what is open to others. Jerusalem is enriched to the extent that it welcomes others.
At the beginning, we saw that Jerusalem is built to the extent that it receives itself from God. Now, as the vision comes to a close, we can also see that Jerusalem is enriched to the extent that it receives from others. The two go hand in hand. This seems to be the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy: “Nations will stream toward her, and many peoples will come. They will say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob! Let him teach us his ways, and we will walk in his paths.” (Isaiah 2:2–3)
The heart of the world lies in Jerusalem, as evidenced by the millions of pilgrims who flock from all over to the Holy City. Pilgrims are an integral part of the city’s life. Without them, without this connection to the world, the city is incomplete—and we have, unfortunately, seen this all too clearly in recent months, marked by their absence. This means that local leaders must always bear in mind that what happens in Jerusalem affects the lives of billions of believers around the world. It is not merely the private concern of those who have the grace to live in these places. Jerusalem does not belong exclusively to anyone, but belongs to everyone, for it is not spoils of war, but a gift, a shared point of reference, and a heritage of humanity.
The world has the right and the responsibility to take an interest in Jerusalem. Not to impose solutions from above, in defiance of the sovereignty and self-determination of the peoples who live there, but to exert constant and discreet pressure—diplomatic, cultural, and spiritual—so that no logic of exclusion, oppression, or exclusive ownership can prevail. The international community should safeguard Jerusalem’s universal mission, reminding everyone that what happens within its walls touches the hearts of billions of believers and the entire human family.
8. The Calling: To Heal the World
The City is not an end in itself. Its mission is universal and therapeutic.
“Then the angel showed me the water of life: a river as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the middle of the city’s square, between the two branches of the river, stands a tree of life that bears fruit twelve times a year: each month it yields its fruit; and the leaves of this tree are a healing for the nations.” (Rev 22:1–2)
From the throne of God and of the Lamb flows a river of living water, and on its banks grows the tree of life, whose leaves “are for the healing of the nations.” Such is the ultimate and sublime mission of Jerusalem. The tree of life, which was forbidden to man in Eden, is now at the heart of the city, accessible to all. And its leaves are not reserved for a select few, but are intended for the healing of the “nations”—a term that, in Revelation, often refers to the unbelieving world, those who are outside, who do not yet know God. Divine mercy is not a privilege reserved for a select few, but a destiny offered to all.
Jerusalem’s mission is not limited to within its walls; it is not confined behind its gates. From its heart, where the Lamb reigns, flows a spring of living water that nourishes the tree of life—not only for itself, but for the whole world. Jerusalem is a city “reaching out,” called to bear fruit for humanity. What she has received from above, she must share with all. She has a specific mission, one that belongs only to her: to “heal the nations.” Heal them of what? The text does not say, for it does not refer merely to a wound, but to the very root of wounded life. It does, however, say that what heals is being alive—participating in the life of God.
The Holy Land will need healing. Long healing processes will be needed to mend the countless and painful wounds that this conflict inflicts on all communities: a source of comfort in the face of the hardships caused by hatred and “toxic memory.” The Church’s mission is not to draw tighter boundaries, but to keep the doors open, bearing witness to a love that never abandons and reaches even those who are far away, doubtful, or reluctant. The responsibility of human freedom is affirmed, but so too is the boundlessness of divine grace.
The Holy Land, along with the small and vulnerable Christian community that lives there, has much to share. It has no military or economic power, but draws from the Lamb the “meekness” of those who, according to the Gospel’s Beatitudes, will inherit the earth. It possesses the strength of self-sacrificing love—the only strength that evil cannot overcome.
To atone for the consequences of the conflict—hatred, fear, “toxic memory”—is the specific and sublime mission of the Church of Jerusalem for the entire world. Its roots are deeply embedded in the geography of salvation, but its vision is universal: to be for the world not a utopia, but the seed of a real city, the city set on a hill (cf. Mt 5:14), which radiates the light of Christ upon all nations, where people learn the art of forgiveness, the strength of equality, and the joy of service. Above all, it is the courage to forgive that is the most powerful remedy, capable of bringing healing, and it is also the most authentic witness our community can offer to the peoples of this Earth.
It is not a matter of serving as a bridge between two parties in conflict, as if Christians were called to play the role of mediators from the outside. That is not their role. Christians in the Holy Land are not an unwelcome third party, nor a neutral buffer between Israelis and Palestinians, nor a group distinct from their non-Christian brothers and sisters. Rather, they are the salt, the light, and the leaven within the societies to which they rightfully belong. Primarily Palestinian or Jordanian citizens—Arab Christians—but also Cypriots and Israelis, they share the history, language, wounds, and aspirations of their peoples. They are not called to withdraw into a protected enclave, nor to flee, but to live out their vocation to the full: to be at the heart of society, sharing its destiny, to leaven it from within with a vision of humanity—and of society—rooted in the Gospel.
They do not offer the world an abstract utopia, but rather the seed—fragile, concrete, sometimes almost invisible—of a possible city. A city that grows from the ground up, rooted in the fabric 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 we have been exploring are not disconnected from reality. John is well aware that, in addition to the charm and beauty found in the passages we have presented, there is also the possibility of rejection. There are several passages that point in this direction (21:8, 27; 22:11, 15). Let’s take just one as an example: “Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood!” (Rev. 22:15).
This is strong language, to which we may no longer be accustomed. It highlights an important point: living in the Holy City is a choice and a responsibility. The city walls, as we said, do not defend, but define. They define the way of life of those who have decided to live in the light of the Lamb. If we choose to live in this city full of splendor, with its gates always open, eager to welcome and heal, we also take on the responsibility of rejecting everything that does not belong to this way of life.
There is a choice to be made, a way of life to embrace. Anyone who rejects this model cannot remain 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 ensuring that darkness and everything that belongs to the world of death do not dwell within the City.
It is important to understand the nature of this refusal. It is not a matter of judging our humanity—which is always marked by imperfection—nor our condition as sinners in need of forgiveness; quite the contrary: it is precisely for this reason that the Lamb is an inexhaustible source of mercy. The rejection spoken of in Scripture is something more radical: it is a deliberate, obstinate, and unyielding refusal to repent—a way of life that is the very negation of the Lamb’s logic. It is the deliberate choice of lies as a system, of violence as a method. This manifests itself in the claim to possess not only spaces but also the truth. It is building one’s own life and one’s own city on the model of Babel, which claims to rise to heaven by its own strength alone, excluding God and, consequently, casting aside one’s brother.
The city with open gates does not expel anyone, but it clearly defines what is incompatible with its very existence. The choice is ours: to live by the light we receive, or to pretend that we ourselves are the light. For those who make this choice, the city with open gates can only appear as a judgment of condemnation. But for those who embrace the way of the Lamb, it is—and forever remains—a home.
It is important to emphasize, however, that we must not delude ourselves into thinking that this choice is made once and for all, nor that the heavenly Jerusalem corresponds perfectly to any earthly community—not even to our Church. As long as we are pilgrims in history, the Holy City will remain before us as a gift and a promise, not as a possession. Our communities, our religious institutions, and our hearts, too, still bear the scars of sin and division. The temptation always lies in wait for us to shut ourselves away in an “ideal city” built by our own hands. That is why the Jerusalem that comes down from heaven never ceases to descend: we always need to receive it anew, for we never possess it.
10. A City for All: Experiencing History Through the Eyes of the Lamb
Ultimately, the vision of the New Jerusalem is not an escape from history, but a guide for moving forward at the heart of history. It is a model, an example, and a concrete point of reference for the Christian community and for all those who care deeply about the earthly city.
The principles that emerge—groundedness in reality, the preservation of the sacred, the universality of hospitality, the strength of gentleness, the primacy of relationship over possession, the need for the redemption of memory, and openness to all nations—have immediate political, social, and interreligious implications. They teach us that:
Jerusalem’s history reminds us that the city is the homeland of both Israelis and Palestinians, with each side claiming it as their capital. However, exclusive claims run counter to Jerusalem’s true purpose. It is a city meant to be shared, a place of encounter.
The religious nature of Jerusalem cannot be ignored in any political agreement. Past failures prove this. We must recognize that the Holy City’s defining characteristic is that it is the site of God’s revelation.
Harmony among communities (Jewish, Christian, and Muslim) is the earthly reflection of intimacy with God. Divisions are a negation of that harmony.
Religious institutions are called to constant spiritual renewal so that they do not become obstacles to the knowledge of God and to engagement with the world.
Ownership of land and holy sites must not become an ideological absolute. We must find new balances that take into account the vital needs of all, moving beyond the logic of exclusion. We must find a way to live together, respecting one another’s sacred sites.
The international community has a duty and a right to take an interest in Jerusalem, because it belongs to everyone. The heart of the world lies in Jerusalem, and what happens there affects billions of believers.
The Church of Jerusalem, small yet resilient, lives here and now according to the model of the heavenly Jerusalem: to be a welcoming place, a Paschal splendor that illuminates the darkness of resentment; to be a house with open doors; to be an instrument of healing in the world. This is its dream, its mission, and its gift to humanity.
PART THREE – Pastoral Implications
Having come to terms with reality and contemplated the future entrusted to us, the time has come to ask ourselves: How can we, as a community, live out the vision of Jerusalem coming down from heaven here and now? This is not about implementing an abstract project, but about allowing ourselves to be guided in our daily lives—within our parishes, families, and institutions. It is a long and demanding journey, but it is the only one that can give us hope.
Let us not think that we can do nothing because of the conflict. Difficulties must not serve as an excuse to curb charity or justify inaction. On the contrary, it is precisely in these contexts that our pastoral work must become more effective—not to play the hero, but to make room for God’s work.
Building on what has been presented so far, I will now outline certain areas of pastoral ministry in which it is clear that our Church’s mission is to concretely embody the vision that God has revealed to us.
1. The Primacy of Liturgy and Prayer
We have seen that the first element of the City that comes down from heaven consists in continually drawing sustenance from God, keeping alive the awareness of his presence. And it is the sacramental life of the Church—the liturgy and prayer—that preserves and renews this awareness. It is an integral part of the Church’s mission.
There is a subtle temptation that we must recognize: the temptation to reduce prayer to a mere tool, an instrument for obtaining something else—be it peace, an end to war, or the resolution of problems. Prayer is not a means to an end. It is a moment of love and encounter with God, where we seek to see Him and be seen by Him, just as we do when we visit those we love. It is the heart, the breath. It is what keeps our community alive when everything else is faltering. Those who pray find hope, even when it seems impossible, for while prayer may not change everything or bring immediate, tangible results, it transforms the way we see things.
We must therefore restore liturgy and prayer to the center of our communities’ lives. Not just prayers for peace—which we must certainly encourage—but prayer as a constant presence in our lives, as the force that shapes our days, our weeks, and our communities.
I am thinking in particular of the communal Liturgy of the Hours, lectio divina, and Eucharistic adoration: these are not practices reserved for the initiated, but simple and profound expressions of the Church’s prayer, capable of immersing our daily lives—with all their fears and hopes—in a living relationship with God.
We should also promote the communal and salvific dimension of the sacrament of Reconciliation. Too often experienced in a private and isolated manner, it is in reality an ecclesial sacrament that heals not only the individual but the entire community by restoring broken communion. Well-prepared communal penitential celebrations can restore to this encounter with God’s mercy its full power of renewal.
Special attention must also be given to the sacrament of marriage and to supporting families. In an age that struggles to believe in fidelity and lasting commitment, supporting married couples means helping them build their home not on the fragility of emotions, but on the rock of Christ’s love.
In summary, here is the essence: 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, and our schools. A community that prays does not flee from reality, but learns to live it through God’s eyes, in the light of Easter that shines even when all around is darkness. Parishes are undoubtedly the beating heart of our community life; it is there that the sacraments are administered and the liturgies are celebrated.
2. The Family: House Churches
While parishes are the beating heart of our community life, families are its daily breath. It is there that faith is learned, passed on, and lived out. It is there that children have their first experiences of love, forgiveness, and trust. It is within the family that each person develops the perspective through which they will view the world throughout their lives.
In these times of skepticism and fear, our families have an additional mission: to be places of reconciliation, schools of humanity, and domestic churches.
Let’s think about this “purification of memory” we’ve been discussing. Where else can it begin, if not within the family? Parents are the first to tell the story. The way they recount the past—with bitterness or honesty, with resentment or hope—leaves a lasting mark on children. Educating for peaceful coexistence also means this: telling the truth—even when it is painful—without instilling hatred. It means teaching that we can remember without seeking revenge, that we can mourn our dead without wishing death upon others.
It is within our families that we first learn to reach out to others: our neighbors, classmates of a different faith, and coworkers. If parents maintain relationships marked by respect and openness, children learn that such relationships are possible. If parents speak with contempt about those who are different, children absorb this poison and incorporate it into their worldview.
And then there’s prayer. As the old saying goes, a family that prays together stays together. No need for complicated rituals. The sign of the cross and a prayer before meals, a short prayer in the evening, opening the Gospel and reading it together on Sundays. These small gestures create an atmosphere that reminds everyone—children and adults alike—that God is at home within these walls.
I am thinking in particular of mixed families within the Christian community—those in which different traditions coexist. In a context that pushes toward separation, they are a prophetic sign: they bear witness that love is stronger than barriers, that encounter is possible, and that it is possible to build unity in diversity. They deserve our support and our admiration.
I am well aware that families today are under pressure. The economic crisis, fear of the future, the temptation to emigrate, and daily hardships. Many families are being put to the test; they are exhausted and weary. To them we extend our deepest solidarity. The Church does not ask the impossible, but it wants to stand by your side, support you, and help you rediscover the beauty of your journey.
To you, families, I say: do not feel alone. The Church is with you. The parish is your home. We certainly cannot do everything or be there for everyone, but do not be afraid to share your struggles or to seek guidance when everything seems bleak. And never forget your mission: you are the first witnesses of the faith to your children. More than words, it is actions that count. More than speeches, it is love.
May Mary, Mother of Nazareth, who, in a small house, treasured and pondered the wonders of God in her heart, accompany every family in our diocese. May she teach us all the art of preserving and bringing together, of waiting patiently, trusting despite all expectations.
3. Schools: Laboratories of the Future
Our schools are perhaps the greatest gift the Church offers to this world… They always have been. Generations of leaders, professionals, and men and women of good will—Christians, Muslims, and Jews—have attended our schools. And this is no mere detail: it is a mission.
Today, our schools are called upon to do even more. They are not merely places of learning, but true workshops for a new kind of humanity. They are spaces where we learn to live together, where difference does not frighten but enriches, and where encountering others becomes an opportunity for growth rather than confrontation. Pope Leo XIV, recently, while commemorating the 60th anniversary of the conciliar document *Gravissimum Educationis*, declared: “Education is an act of hope and a passion that is constantly renewed because it manifests the promise we glimpse in the future of humanity” (Charting New Paths of Hope 3.2).
At the same time, they remain essential places for passing on Christian values. Our young people need to know who they are, what history they are part of, and what treasure they carry in their hearts. One cannot bear witness to a faith one does not know. A fragile conscience closes in on itself out of fear, while a strong and mature conscience opens itself to encounter.
Let’s imagine schools where we don’t just impart knowledge, but where we learn to reinterpret history with a perspective free from all resentment; where conflict isn’t suppressed, but addressed using the tools of understanding others, 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 interpret reality without fear, and where teachers and educators are not merely transmitters of content, but witnesses to a way of life.
Our schools must become the places where the vision we have outlined in this Letter—Jerusalem with open gates, the redemption of memory, and the rejection of violence—takes concrete shape in our educational methods and daily lives. It is there that a decisive part of the future of this Land is at stake.
I am fully aware of the chronic problems—and not just financial ones—affecting most of our schools and universities. Recently, in Jerusalem, the issue of permits for teachers coming from Bethlehem arose, which seriously jeopardizes the ability to preserve the Christian identity of our schools. In this area as well, the political conflict has direct consequences for the life of the Church, and we must do everything in our power to help and support our teachers, without, however, harboring any illusions. Difficult times lie ahead in the coming years. Nevertheless, one thing is certain: with gentleness and determination, we will continue to defend the Christian character of our institutions.
To the administrators, teachers, and all the staff at our schools, I extend my most sincere gratitude. Your work—often arduous and behind the scenes—is an investment in the future. Day after day, you are building the city of our dreams: a city where living together is not a utopia, but an experience we learn from a very young age.
4. Hospitals and Social Services: The Leaves That Heal
There is a place where everything we have discussed so far—welcoming, dialogue, healing—is already a lived reality: our social ministries. Our hospitals, our clinics, the Caritas centers, the soup kitchens, the shelters. The Book of Revelation speaks to us of a tree of life whose leaves “are used to heal the nations.” Well, our charitable works are like those leaves—silent, unassuming, yet capable of bringing relief and comfort to anyone in need, without asking for identification or religious affiliation.
In our hospitals, Jews, Christians, and Muslims are born, treated, suffer, and sometimes die together. Doctors and nurses of different faiths work side by side. In these everyday acts, God’s love is made present and heals divisions that words often fail to mend.
That is where dialogue takes shape. There is no need for grand speeches. All it takes is the gesture of someone who takes on a hardship, of someone who offers a glass of water, of someone who stays by a dying person’s side. In these gestures, God’s love is revealed and heals.
Our pastoral mission is twofold. First, we must generously support these organizations so that they can continue their mission. It is becoming increasingly difficult to ensure their long-term sustainability and growth while preserving their spirit of openness and hospitality, as well as the professionalism of their work. This will be another challenge facing us in the years ahead.
Next, we must raise awareness of these realities to show that another path is possible. Too often, we hear only the voices of hate. We know far too little about the quiet acts that keep the fabric of our shared life alive.
To all those who work in our health and social services—doctors, nurses, volunteers, and staff—I extend my most sincere thanks. You are like leaves that, starting today, silently heal the wounds of our time. In a world where everything divides us, you build unity. In an age when hatred screams, you love in silence. Your work is precious in the eyes of God and the community.
5. Our Elders: A Living Memory
There is also a treasure within our communities that we may never fully appreciate: our elders. In an aging society like ours, they, too, are a precious presence that deserves our attention and gratitude.
Our grandparents, our elders, are the living memory of the Church. They have lived through wars, unfulfilled hopes, exoduses, and periods of reconstruction. They have seen borders, flags, and governments change. And yet, they remained; they kept the faith and passed it on—often in silence, with the discretion that belongs to those who have truly learned that words carry weight and must be used with care. Today, many of them live alone. Their children have left, seeking a future elsewhere. Families are more fragmented. The loneliness of the elderly is a concern we must view with fresh 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 as quick, even those who need help with the small tasks of daily life. In a society that measures value by productivity and efficiency, they remind us that dignity is not lost with age and that life is valuable not for what we do, but for who we are. Wisdom comes from time and the trials we have endured. Even when loneliness sets in—because children are far away or families have become fragmented—the elderly remain a precious treasure to be cherished. As Pope Francis has taught, “The elderly help us perceive the continuity of the generations, with the charism of serving as a bridge.” (Amoris Laetitia, 192).
May our parishes be places where older adults feel at home—places where they are not only helped but listened to; not only cared for but loved. Let us create opportunities to spend time with them, to hear their stories, and to learn from their experience. Young people, families, and the Church need them.
To all the elderly in our diocese, I say: thank you. Thank you for your quiet faithfulness. Thank you for the prayers you offer day and night. Thank you for the patience with which you bear the weight of the years and of loneliness. You are like deep roots—invisible, yet sustaining the tree. Without you, our Church would be more fragile.
In her old age, Mary cherished God’s wonders in her heart. Let us learn from her—and from our elders—the art of cherishing and waiting with confidence.
6. Young People: Courage and Prophecy
If the elderly are the memory, the young are the prophecy. In them are concentrated the hopes, the fears, but also the most vibrant energies of our communities. They show that this community still has a future.
Today, young people are the first to suffer from a lack of jobs, unaffordable housing, and a future that looms like a wall. They are increasingly questioning their place in this world and its future. But young people are also the ones who dare to take risks, who refuse to stop asking questions, and who take nothing for granted.
So to the young people, I say: Do not believe those who tell you there is no future here. It is you who will build the future with your own hands, through your intelligence and your faith. The Church wants to stand by your side. We have no ready-made solutions, but we do have one certainty: without you, our home is impoverished. I ask you to be bold. Do not let fear hold you back, but commit yourselves with confidence to building our city.
May our parishes be places where young people feel at home—not merely as participants in activities, but as active contributors. Places where they can express their talents, where their questions are not judged but welcomed, and where they can fall in love with Christ and his Church.
May the Blessed Virgin, who was just a young girl when she said “yes,” walk with you and teach you the courage to say, “Here I am.”
7. Our Priests: A Source of Guidance for the Community
I now think of our priests with gratitude. They are the ones who, day after day, stand among the people, share in the struggles and hopes of our communities, and distribute the Word and the Bread of Life.
They are on the front lines. In these complex times, marked by confusion and mistrust, their mission is more delicate and valuable than ever. They bear the weight of their pastoral responsibility on their shoulders, seeking to maintain unity among diverse perspectives, to listen to everyone’s pain without fueling divisions, and to become a sign of unity in contexts that are often fragmented.
I ask our priests to be a solid and positive anchor for their communities—not merely those who administer the sacraments—though that is, of course, an essential task—but men capable of listening, encouraging, and mending relationships. May your words—in an age when words are overused and often poisoned—be words of trust and hope. May your presence be one that unites and welcomes.
I am well aware that loneliness, fatigue, and sometimes a lack of understanding are very real burdens. Yet many of you continue to give of yourselves selflessly, with generosity and love. To all of you, I would like to express my most sincere thanks, as well as those of the entire diocese: for the faithfulness with which you support the communities, and 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 permeates our entire diocese—often hidden, yet essential. I am thinking of our men and women religious. They are the watchmen of the dawn and the night (cf. Is 21:11–12).
Through their lives 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 narrow horizons of politics, survival, and fear, they lift their eyes to heaven and remind us that, without God, every human endeavor will sooner or later collapse. As Saint John Paul II reminded us, their witness is a prophetic testimony to the primacy of God and of the things to come, which arises from following Christ and from love for our brothers and sisters (cf. Vita Consecrata, 85).
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 shelters. Often, their presence is discreet and not very visible, but it is essential. In the silence of prayer and the faithfulness of daily service, they bear witness that the Christian life is not measured by effectiveness or visibility, but by faithfulness and love. In a land marked by divisions, through their presence they build models of peaceful coexistence that transcend group affiliations.
I think with special gratitude of those who, during these months of war, fully shared in the people’s plight. Men and women religious endured hunger, fear, and bombings alongside the people. When everything seemed to be falling apart, their presence became a powerful sign: God does not abandon his people. When death seemed to be prevailing, they continued to pray, to serve, and 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 among the most needy. To all the men and women religious in our diocese, I offer my most sincere thanks: through your quiet fidelity, you are experts in communion and builders of unity. You do not make a fuss, but you build; you do not seek the spotlight, but you sow goodness. 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 from the same textbooks, and share the same future. Daily life naturally transcends rigid denominational distinctions, demonstrating a capacity for interdenominational fellowship that we are called to preserve. In the Holy Land, ecumenical dialogue—or rather, the concrete relationship between the various Christian Churches—is neither an option nor an exercise reserved for specialists: it is a daily pastoral reality and a fundamental dimension of the life of our Church.
No priest can minister to his community without taking into account the other Christian communities living in the same area. Our mission is inevitably part of a network of relationships that requires respect, coordination, and a sincere desire for communion.
One of the most keenly felt difficulties concerns the difference between liturgical calendars, particularly regarding Easter. In some areas of the diocese, it can happen that, at the same time, one community is celebrating the Resurrection while another is entering Lent. This is a painful situation, especially for families, and one that has long weighed on the conscience of the Church. Numerous discussions have taken place in an attempt to resolve it, sometimes oscillating between adopting the Gregorian calendar or the Julian calendar depending on the time of year. The truth is that no solution has yet been found. Whatever choice is made, it will not be able to meet all the diverse and varied needs of our Church. That is why we are called to endure this trial with patience, fostering mutual participation and fraternal sharing, and continuing to pray and hope as we journey forward—a journey that cannot arise from abstract decisions, but only from reflection matured together.
In Jerusalem, the weight of the divisions among the Churches throughout the world is felt in a particularly tangible way, right within our own communities. Our calling is not only to be an instrument of healing for the city and for 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 were to make significant progress in this area, the entire universal Church might benefit from it.
Relations between the Churches are generally characterized by mutual correction and respect, both at the leadership level and in parish life. This is a sign of maturity that must be preserved. We must, however, acknowledge that, in recent times, certain positions have hardened and that, in some areas, misunderstandings and tensions—sometimes painful ones—have arisen. In these situations, the temptation is to react by erecting new barriers and adopting the same language as the other side. Without being naive, we are called to remain faithful to the spirit of hospitality and gentleness, maintaining an open and receptive attitude, without losing our identity or our history, and while remaining faithful to our vocation.
That is why it is important to foster concrete opportunities for mutual understanding: exchanges between parishes of different denominations, and meetings between priests and youth ministry leaders. Only by getting to know one another truly can we overcome prejudice and ignorance.
Furthermore, reality demands that we speak with one voice—not only on social and political issues, which we already do, but also on fundamental ethical issues, such as the defense of life, equality among peoples, respect for human dignity, social inequalities, and the rights of the poor, as well as various other issues that affect human life.
In our hearts, our intention must remain open to universality, welcoming, and oriented toward unity—without naivety, but also without defeatism. For the primary focus of our ministry, and our first witness, is unity among ourselves.
10. Interfaith Dialogue: Not an Island, but a City
As we have said, interfaith dialogue is facing challenges. Christians, Jews, and Muslims are finding it difficult to come together. Mistrust has created deep divides, and many are wondering whether it is still worthwhile to persevere on this path.
And yet, in these difficult times, dialogue is neither the whim of a few nor just one option among many: it is a vital necessity. Our destinies are closely intertwined. We cannot build the future alone, nor can we imagine a coexistence that ignores the other. For us Christians, as we have seen, dialogue is not merely a pastoral strategy, but an integral part of our vocation and our destiny—the very essence of our being as the Church.
However, we need to take a step forward: to move from a dialogue among elites to a dialogue of everyday life. Meetings between experts and official statements are important, but they are not enough. Dialogue must extend into our parishes, our neighborhoods, and our daily interactions. We must learn to speak with one another, not just about one another; to truly listen to each other’s stories, suffering, and fears. Only in this way will we break free from the mindset that recognizes value only in one’s own suffering.
Schools are an ideal setting for this lived dialogue. Our classrooms are, in fact, already laboratories for coexistence. There, it is possible to educate young people not only about religions but also in the art of encounter, helping them develop a critical perspective capable of resisting the monolithic discourse of hatred.
Social service organizations—hospitals, Caritas, counseling centers—are also places where dialogue takes place on a daily basis, often in silence, through the shared service rendered to the poor and the sick. It is there that the “healing of the nations,” as described in Revelation, is already at work, quietly and without conditions.
And then there is forgiveness. I know, it’s a difficult word right now. But we are Christians, and Jesus is the undisputed master of forgiveness. To forgive does not mean to forget, nor does it mean to justify evil. It means breaking the chain of hatred and bearing witness to this possibility, even when it seems impossible. I know all of this may seem naive. But this is our mission. The path is difficult; I am well aware of that. But let us not close ourselves off. Our task remains to be salt and light, to create 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 will not enter the New Jerusalem. Our rejection of violence must be total and visible. We have said this many times, but that is not enough: we must live it out, not only in our actions but also in our words. We live immersed in a flood of violent words, which have become commonplace. And we, too, as Christians, risk falling into this trap.
What can we do? First of all, we need to examine our own language. In homilies, in catechesis, and within the family: let’s learn to call things by their proper names without ever reducing the other person to an enemy. In every circumstance, the other person is always someone to be respected.
Within our families, let’s teach our children not to use hateful language, not to spread misinformation, and to distinguish between legitimate criticism and insults. In our media, let’s set an example: news that seeks the truth and fosters understanding, not confrontation.
We feel powerless in the face of the law of the strongest. But the Book of Revelation reminds us that God’s strength is that of the Lamb: a gentleness that does not yield, a love that does not bow to hatred, a forgiveness that disarms the enemy. May this be our “policy.” Pope Leo XIV reminded us of this in his first message of peace: “The world is not saved by sharpening swords, by judging, by oppressing, or by eliminating our brothers and sisters, but rather by striving tirelessly to understand, to forgive, to liberate, and to welcome everyone, without calculation or fear.” (Eucharistic Celebration on the Feast of Mary, Mother of God—59th World Day of Peace, January 1, 2026).
Let us refuse to be complicit in the culture of violence. Our loyalty is to the Lamb, not to the logic of power. No matter where it comes from, no matter what form it takes: violence is never the way of the Gospel.
12. Hope: Against the Grain, but Necessary
In the first part of this Letter, I spoke about skepticism. This is the prevailing sentiment in our communities: skepticism toward institutions, politics, words, and even the future. We must recognize, however, that skepticism, when it becomes a permanent attitude, ultimately paralyzes us. We are called to respond to this skepticism with trust.
This is neither naive optimism nor an attitude that ignores the harshness of reality. Christian trust springs from faith and represents a choice that goes against the grain. It is the certainty that God has not abandoned history to chaos and that he remains close to those who suffer, those who are persecuted, and those who are rejected. It is the conviction that a life given out of love is never lost.
Let’s think about Abraham and Sarah. From a human perspective, there was no future left for them. And yet, God visited them and made them a promise. Trust always arises from a visit from God. We must pray that the Lord will visit our communities, our families, and our hearts once again. Only then can a hope that does not disappoint take root.
In practical terms, this trust inspires us to support and highlight all the initiatives, people, and communities in our region who continue to believe in one another and to promote the art of encounter. But it is not enough simply to endorse what others are doing: we are called to become promoters of this style of presence ourselves, by personally embracing the courage of unity.
Some might think 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 troublesome presence that does not let itself be swayed by hate speech, but which, with gentleness and determination, asserts its own message: Christians do not hate. That is our witness, and it is already a prophecy.
13. Hospitality: The Breath of Love
We must be aware of the latent danger that threatens every community, especially one as small as ours: the danger of turning inward, of becoming a fortress. The temptation is great to protect what remains, to defend our borders, to preserve our identity—an attitude that is understandable, to be sure, but one that is not Christian. The love that Jesus teaches us knows no boundaries. When asked which was the greatest commandment, he inextricably linked love of God with love of neighbor. And the neighbor, in his parable, is a Samaritan—a stranger, someone different, someone to whom no one spoke. Jerusalem—as we have seen—always has its gates open and endures only to the extent that it knows how to welcome others.
Welcoming others is not just about opening our doors to those who come from outside—migrants, refugees, pilgrims, and the poor of other faiths—but also about welcoming one another, beyond the divisions that separate us. In our own diocese, we have Catholics of the Latin and Eastern rites, who speak Arabic and Hebrew, and who come from different cultures and nations: Filipinos, Indians, Asians from other countries, Latin Americans, Africans, and Europeans. We are all one family, not an archipelago of islands.
To welcome means to see the other—whoever they may be—not as a stranger to be tolerated, but as a gift. It means allowing oneself to be challenged by their difference and enriched by their presence. It means moving beyond the mindset of “us” and “them” to embrace a single, inclusive “us.”
I am well aware that, given our current situation, all of this is not easy. Fear is rampant. Our identity seems fragile. But Christian consciousness is not a fortress to be defended; it is a flowing spring. A spring that is shut off becomes stagnant. Only flowing water remains alive and gives life, like the river that flows from the heart of the Lamb.
May our communities be places where everyone—regardless of their background, language, culture, or faith—can feel welcomed, heard, and loved. Not so that we lose our identity, but so that we can live it out in its truest form: that of a love that excludes no one.
CONCLUSION – Returning to Jerusalem
We have reached the end of this long letter. Perhaps some of you, having reached this point, are feeling tired or bewildered: so many topics, so many challenges, so many avenues to explore. The risk is feeling overwhelmed, asking yourselves, “How can we do all of this?”
The answer is simple: we can't. On our own, we can't. But we're not alone.
Indeed, Jesus Christ said: “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them” (Mt 18:20). This is true; we are witnesses to it: we have experienced it, even during this time. That is why we invite you “not to neglect meeting together” (cf. Heb 10:25). Jesus awaits us in our parishes, in our faith communities, and in our church groups and movements. The inspiration of the Holy Spirit is accessible in our daily lives through Scripture, personal prayer, encounters with others, and service to the poor. Even if we are tempted to shrink back in the face of the suffering and evil around us, it is by reaching out to others that we find Christ and his consolation.
We spoke about ecumenical and interreligious dialogue, the rejection of violence, prayer, schools, families, social service, religious life, the elderly, trust, and hospitality. We sketched out a vision: that of the heavenly Jerusalem, a city whose gates are always open, illuminated by the splendor of the Lamb, whose leaves heal the nations.
All of this must now continue to take shape. Not all at once, nor through impossible heroic acts, but step by step: in our parishes, in our families, in our workplaces and places of gathering, and with our friends. By calmly rereading these pages, sharing them, and discussing them in various ecclesial and pastoral contexts—without rushing, and little by little—I hope they can become a practical aid in better understanding our mission in the Holy Land.
For in the end, what sustains us is not our own strength, but the joy of the Gospel—a joy that does not depend on circumstances, that does not waver even when everything seems shrouded in darkness. A joy that springs 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, for he is risen. And he is alive among us.
The Gospel of Luke ends with a beautiful image: after Jesus’ Ascension, the disciples “returned to Jerusalem with great joy” (Luke 24:52). They had been deeply shaken; they had been afraid; they had doubted. And yet, in the end, they returned filled with joy.
We, too, wish to return to our everyday Jerusalem—our homes, our parishes, our communities, our daily commitment—with that same joy. Not a naive joy that ignores difficulties. But an Easter joy, which knows that light triumphs over darkness, that life conquers death, and that love disarms hatred.
Let us return to Jerusalem with joy. Let us return to our lives with passion. Let us carry in our hearts God’s dream for His city, 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, and Patroness of our diocese, accompany us on this journey.
May the blessing of God, the Father of all, the Almighty and Merciful, be upon you all.
Jerusalem, April 25, 2026
—St. Mark the Evangelist
+ Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa
, Latin Patriarch of Jerusalem
