‘Taken by the Spirit’ (Acts 20:7-38)           

I will end with two narrations of ‘farewell’. We can thus see this last reflection as a sort of ‘viaticum’. A further reserve of ‘food’ for our pathway. The Christians of Troas are with Paul for the last time (verses 7-12). The apostle and his friends will never see each other again. The pathos and the emotion that we find a little later, in the salutation to the elderly of Ephesus at the port of Miletus, are not described. With great discretion, however, Luke takes us into the heart of Paul and of this little community which has welcomed him and loved him. The Christians of Troas, therefore, host Paul for a whole night because they know that he has to leave and that they will not see him again. It is the moment to say farewell and there are very many things that must be asked and related; very many questions have to be asked; and very many problems have to be dealt with. They do not want him to go but they know that they cannot hold him back; and fighting against sleep they give themselves a last night to listen to the word and celebrate the Eucharist, to be amongst brethren and comfort each other and strengthen each other in the faith.

First of all we feel that we are invited to fully appreciate the people who are near to us, their presence, and the richness of their hearts. We do not know for how long the Lord will allow them to be near to us, we do not know if it will be possible to see them again, to hear them, to touch them…
And we would like to be able to say goodbye to them without too many regrets, without paralysing nostalgia, keeping in our hearts memories that are at times marked by a thread of melancholy but always and whatever the case a capital of gratitude.  It is a real sin, after time has passed, having to recognise that we did not understand or appreciate enough the presence of a religious brother who has passed away: in vain do we try to reconstruct the features of our relationships, the episodes that characterised our meetings, and the phrases that marked us and struck us. We feel that a great deal escapes our labile memories, even when we can see the images again and hear again the words that sealed our friendship. Nothing gives back the living presence, the being able to touch, the looking into eyes, and living the same feelings side by side. In these circumstances it is a source of peace to know that one has enjoyed and experienced the presence of the other, used well the opportunities that were given to us be close to him without suffocating him, to love him without making him a slave.

This text teaches to us the importance of learning to say farewell.

Koder “Ultima cena”

The moment of farewell is always a very delicate one. Not that of the final farewell, of our deaths, which is radically inaccessible to our calculations regarding the time and way in which it will take place. We do not know if we will die calmly or defeated, in a bed or in the street, while asleep or after a long illness… But before the final farewell there are many others. We are called to leave our father and mother; we may change our city or country, ministry or school, to leave a community, to start all over again in a place which until a short time ago was completely unknown to us. There are relationships in which we find ourselves glued; ones that are not free and not clear; relationships where the risk of using the other is high (or of allowing ourselves to be used knowingly by him). There are others where we do not have the courage to acknowledge that the conditions of the starting point have changed: a relationship of help has become an affective one; spiritual accompanying has been transformed into a mutual unfruitful reflecting of each other: esteem and affection have collapsed in the worship of a person; gratitude has been transformed into slavery, as though the whole of life was a debt that had to be paid…

The list is endless, as we well know.

To ask for the gift of clarity, in these circumstances, also means asking for the grace of a farewell, the strength to know how to ask to learn to journey anew. Still today, in various circumstances, what Paul and the believers of Troas did is done by people: the sealing of  an important moment with a celebration of the Eucharist. But our commemorative celebrations of the Eucharist, or ones of the end of the year, or ones to say farewell to a religious brother who is leaving, in reality have little to do with at the level of time and form with the Eucharist that was  celebrated in Troas. In the narration of the Acts we encounter certain elements that are characteristic of the first Christians: the room on the upper floor, listening to the word, the breaking of bread, the first day of the week.

The place, like the dining room, of this room as well is ‘raised’; it is not given to us to know if this location was a matter of chance but whatever the case it is significant: it emphasises the need for ‘separation’ and distance, for the quiet and silence which should accompany every celebration of the Eucharist. The time at which the rite takes place is also interesting: at the end of a day of work with a great deal of tiredness. But only the ‘external’ elements of this long generation of graces are described. Luke also enables us to perceive the feelings of this community. The first is the wish to come together. If there is one thing that appears clearly in this passage from the Acts it is that this community wants to be together. The second is the need to get through the night. The large number of lamps which are in the location of the assembly do not only describe the ‘furnishing’ of the room that is hosting the believers of Troas. It also describes their wish to have in their hands a small light which will allow them to walk in the dark, to overcome their fears, and not to get lost in the darkness.

The story of these humble believers is the story of the whole Church, of all Christians. Called to be the ‘light of the world’, they for the most part experience the difficulties of their journey, the abysses of evil that are inside us and outside us, and the uncertainty of their journey. Our task is to keep many lights alight, to make sure that there is oil for the lamps, to conserve a flame of good and goodness, of courage and patience, to continue to be a ‘lantern that shines in a dark place’ At the centre of the whole of the nocturnal celebration of Troas are the proclaiming of the word and the breaking of bread. The rest is secondary. The word is proclaimed with an abundance that we might be led to see as exaggerated. Paul never stops talking about it. On the one hand there is a man who talks, Paul, but on the other there is a word that ‘governs’ this man, that ‘moves him’, we would say (forcing English grammar) that governs him, that has won him over. It is the word itself that conserves, that augments and transforms the reality of those who allow themselves to touched and won over by it. Starting with these observations, Cardinal Martini offers some practical suggestions by which to enter the secret of the effective communication of the word, and sums them up in three passages.

The first: ‘from the heart’.

‘Christian preaching arises from interiority, from my deep conviction and also from my deep sufferings. To enter the heart we have to engage in a certain journey because it is not easy to fish in one’s own interiority: a time of reflection is needed. Often Christian preaching gives the impression of a certain shallowness and repetitiveness, and people realise that things have not been suffered, endured, lived’.

The second: ‘the heart’.

‘There is a heart to every oral and written exposition that should have a meaning, a substance. If this does not exist, the preacher wanders, the phrases are out of line, placed one after the other without really understanding what the speaker wishes to communicate. One should search for the heart, try to find what the message is that I really want to communicate’.

The third: ‘to the heart’.

‘Communication should be able to reach what a person lives or would like to live in his interiority. Interiority in its broad meaning: moves towards God and also interior dismay, worries, shadows, fears. What matters is to reach this heart of the person. This is not a matter of transforming my language by camouflaging it or translating it, but, rather, of starting from my interiority which is identical, in its tribulations, sufferings, aspirations, to that of all men, without any exceptions’.

For those who want to continue this reflection we also offer a summary of the second talk of Fr. Valtorta

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