Cenacle, July 24, 2025
Dear brothers and sisters,
May the Lord give you His peace.
A few seconds ago, while we were listening to the Gospel chanted by the deacon, I felt a great grace. Because, as you know, every time we celebrate the sacraments — especially the Eucharist — when the Church celebrates, the coordinates of space and time disappear, and we become contemporaries of the mystery we celebrate.
Many times in my life, during the Eucharistic celebration, I have prayed, because at that moment we were truly, as a community, inside the Cenacle. Together with the Apostles, with Jesus. Just now, listening to the Gospel, I thought that here in the Holy Land — as Scripture teaches, and as you all know — the spatial coordinate is not abstract: it is real.
And so I felt in my heart that being here, in this place, as a Christian community, as a fraternity of Franciscan Friars, means being truly contemporaries and participants in that one discourse that Jesus gave — according to the evangelist John — right here, within these few square meters. A discourse in which He spoke of His relationship with the Father and the gift — repeated five times — of the Holy Spirit.
It is a great grace. It is a thought I had never had with such clarity until today. And what I ask for myself — and I hope also for you — is that we may never grow accustomed to this grace that has been given to us.
The event of Pentecost, as described in the Acts of the Apostles, right here in the Cenacle, recalls — according to scholars — the divine epiphany on Mount Sinai. The same elements are present: thunder, a mighty wind, fire, noise.
And before us, here in this place, on this hill of Jerusalem, Mount Zion, the Cenacle becomes a new image of Sinai.
But the reality of Sinai is no longer geographical, no longer just a physical place: here it becomes interior, spiritual.
It is, therefore, an event that marks a new covenant, a new irruption of God into human history — into the human heart.
The central phrase in the Acts of the Apostles’ account is this:
“They were all filled with the Holy Spirit.”
The new covenant — so long awaited by the people, so often announced by the prophets (“I will give you a new heart, I will put a new spirit within you…”) — is fulfilled here.
It is a new, and we could say eternal, covenant.
No longer a law, but the irruption of the Spirit — we could say: the irruption of God Himself into the life and heart of every person.
As Jesus reminded us in the Gospel we have just heard:
“Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.”
From this first experience of the Spirit, which happened right here, a particular sign emerged — described by the evangelist Luke with these words:
“They began to speak in other tongues.”
The sign of this irruption of God into the human heart is precisely the capacity to speak in other tongues — that is, to understand one another.
The long list of nationalities mentioned by the evangelist reflects the universal dimension of Christianity, which had already spread across many regions of the Roman Empire.
It is an event that concerns everyone. It reaches people from every land and every shore.
And in this, a major shift is revealed.
If we think of the episode of Babel — a symbol of pride and oppression — it was there that languages were confused, and people could no longer understand each other.
When we no longer speak the same language, when we no longer understand one another, we grow apart.
But here in Jerusalem, in the Cenacle, on Mount Zion, the Spirit becomes a source of harmony, of communion among people of different languages, cultures, and nations.
And this moves me deeply.
Because here, a beautiful face of the Church is revealed: the Church is, in a profound way, the “anti-Babel.”
And I love to say it, right here and now, as a Franciscan fraternity: we too, Brothers of the Custody of the Holy Land, are called to be the anti-Babel par excellence.
The contrast emphasized by Luke is striking:
At Babel, according to Genesis 11, no one could understand the language of their neighbor.
They were physically close, but did not understand each other.
At Pentecost, in the Cenacle, each one heard the others speaking in their own language.
They were distant in origin, yet they understood each other.
Dear brothers, the Franciscan fraternity of the Custody is made up of friars from different countries and languages.
Only the irruption of the Holy Spirit can create true harmony and unity among us.
Only the gift of the Spirit enables us to truly understand each other.
And we know it well: we all need to be understood, to feel truly known.
How many times do we say: “No one understands me. I’m going through something difficult… but no one really gets it.”
It is a deeply human and essential need.
Our fraternity must be — as Saint Francis says — a mother: a place where each person can express their needs without fear and be welcomed.
This is not only about understanding one another linguistically: we deeply need to feel welcomed, understood, and heard.
Here, in this Cenacle, the real possibility of communion, of mutual understanding, of unity is born… thanks to the descent of the Holy Spirit.
When I entered here today, I was struck by the large seal hanging above, the coat of arms of the Custody of the Holy Land.
It clearly marks the guardianate of this first Franciscan presence.
Two main episodes are depicted on it — though many more happened here — but these two stand out: the descent of the Holy Spirit and the washing of the feet.
And I sensed something: it is not enough to say that the Holy Spirit creates unity and understanding among us.
When we don't understand each other, when we don’t feel understood, when the brother who lives with us seems to speak a completely different — incomprehensible — language,
then, maybe even before words, or reasoning, or strategies, we need to wash one another’s feet.
Because in mutual service, when we become servants to each other, barriers fall, and understanding begins.
For the first time today, I wore the dalmatic — the liturgical vestment of service — which represents the first order received, that of the diaconate.
And this is what I feel: we all need to serve one another, because this is the path that leads to communion and understanding.
This past Monday, on the feast of Saint Lawrence of Brindisi, I prayed, asking for the grace to understand my mission and the strength to fulfill it.
Entering this Cenacle, looking at that seal, I said to myself:
“Maybe this is the mission: to be docile to the Spirit, to live according to the Spirit and not the flesh… and to serve.
To wash my brothers’ feet.”
Dear brothers, every time division arises among us, every time we fail to understand one another, we — unlike many others — have a special grace:
we can come back here, to this Cenacle, and invoke a new Pentecost in our hearts.
Let us do it, even alone. Let us come here.
Now that there are no pilgrimages, there is a surreal silence — an unimaginable desert.
And when the pilgrims return — for they will return — let us remember:
When we do not feel in communion, let us return here.
Let us make a personal pilgrimage and ask for grace in the holy places.
One last thought, taken from the historical note read at the beginning:
Today, the Franciscans of the Custody are celebrating the Eucharist here in the Cenacle for the entrance of the new Custos.
And from this we learn to enter into God’s time, which is not human time.
To live in God’s patience, which always surprises us.
Nothing is ever lost forever. Even when we feel lost or wounded, there is always hope.
This celebration reminds us that hope is born from God’s plan, which is far greater than our own.
So let us ask for the grace — today, as yesterday and tomorrow — to continue in faithfulness and perseverance.
Praised be Jesus Christ.
