Homily by Pope Leo XIV
Dear brothers and sisters,
God always loves us first. The beauty of the sea, this island and your faces is a reflection of his gratuitous initiative: love precedes us, surrounds us and brings us together. I am grateful to the Lord for the opportunity to visit you, following in the footsteps of Pope Francis, who chose to travel to Lampedusa on 8 July 2013 for his first trip as the Successor of Peter.
The Apostles, as you know, sailed the Mediterranean and experienced the hospitality of the inhabitants of its islands and coasts, which have been a crossroads of civilizations for millennia. The Gospel resounds where peoples meet, people welcome one another, their lives intertwine and different cultures engage in dialogue. It falls silent, however, when each person makes him or herself an island, avoiding contact and cutting off exchange. In this sense, the parable of the Good Samaritan, which we just heard, describes a story that continues to speak to us (cf. Lk 10:25–37), and the Encyclical Fratelli Tutti has helped us re-examine it in light of the challenging historical circumstances in which we find ourselves. The word of God is always relevant for today and draws us into a conversation from which we emerge transformed. How, then, will we respond to the love of the One who loved us first?
Dear friends, today Lampedusa and Linosa lie along a path as dangerous as the one that led down from Jerusalem to Jericho (cf. v. 30). Here you have seen not just one, but thousands of human beings fallen into the hands of robbers who have taken everything from them, beat them brutally and walked away, leaving them half-dead (cf. ibid.). The sea has claimed the lives of others — those who did not manage to reach their hoped-for destination. Yet we feel their presence, which challenges us no less than that of those who have landed in need of attention and aid. Indeed, before any intellectual consideration or ideological conviction, the encounter with those who lie before us, stripped of everything, calls us to be close to them. The Letter to the Hebrews tells us: “Remember […] those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering” (13:3). This is the heart of the Gospel parable: we become neighbors by acting as neighbors (cf. Lk 10:36–37)!
I have come to thank you, brothers and sisters of Lampedusa, for the solidarity that so many of you have shown. Once again, the miracle of compassion has taken place: “he saw them and had compassion on them” (v. 33). It is an inner revolution that brings forth within us God’s “heart” and broadens our thoughts, hearts and lives. I thank the volunteers, the organizations united in the “Forum Lampedusa Solidale,” the civil institutions, the Coast Guard, the mayors and local administrations that have served over the years. I also thank the deacons, priests, religious sisters, doctors, psychologists and educators, as well as the security forces and all those who, with or without the gift of faith, have chosen to love one another. Yes, it is love that has taken shape among you. Compassion, which recognizes a brother or sister in peril at sea, is its first stirring: a profound call to do what you might never have imagined possible. I greet the migrants who are here. They themselves have not only received solidarity but have often shown it on their journey, as the poor helping the poorest. Thank you, brothers and sisters, because there is nothing to be taken for granted in you reaching out to others; nothing happens automatically.
The parable tells us that love is always rooted in freedom, and freedom lies in the decisions we make. There are also those who choose not to be a neighbor and those who choose not to make a decision. Those who have lost their lives in this sea are victims both of decisions that were made and of decisions that were not made. Indifference to the common good and corruption in their countries of origin; a global economic system that generates poverty and exclusion; fear that fuels prejudice and contempt; the belief that such problems do not concern us; the criminal calculations of those who profit from the suffering of others; the slow and difficult transition from mere emergency management to the development of comprehensive and shared policies — all are present-day echoes of the haste to “pass by” (vv. 31-32) in the Gospel narrative.
In the parable, a priest happens to be there “by chance” (v. 31), followed by a Levite. Both see what is happening, but they continue on their way. Unfortunately, in every age there are those who fear being “contaminated” by contact with others, thus denying — even in the face of suffering and death — our common origin in God, the infinite dignity of every human being and the call to boundless love. It is time to recognize and affirm that religious affiliation must never become a reason for discrimination, as if faith had boundaries rather than being a universal call to salvation. Where there were walls of separation, Christ broke them down (cf. Eph 2:14). There is no love of God without love of neighbor, and there is no neighbor if I do not draw near. To pause, to be moved, to bend down, to weep before another’s pain — as Jesus did — means entering into the dynamic of love, the very movement in which God has revealed himself.
My dear friends, those who allow themselves to be drawn into this dynamic of compassion and mercy begin to live differently, to be citizens in a different way and to work differently. Then the civilization of love — the one envisioned by my holy predecessors John XXIII, Paul VI and John Paul II — can truly emerge. Together with a great number of prophets and martyrs of the last century, they understood that only mercy can respond to the depths of the human heart and the horrors of war by opening the way to a new beginning. Now, standing on the shoulders of these giants, we have entered a millennium in which we must give spiritual, cultural, legal, political and economic expression to the civilization of love. May the enormity of the suffering we witness help us grasp the radical nature of this call.
Like the Good Samaritan, we can always change our plans and direction. More than the Good Samaritan, we have the resources and opportunities to give hope a concrete, historical reality. He “went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine; then he set him on his own beast and brought him to an inn, and took care of him” (Lk 10:34). We, too, must recognize that “the civilization of love will not arise from a single or spectacular gesture, but from the sum total of small and steadfast acts of fidelity that serve as a bulwark against dehumanization” (Encyclical Letter Magnifica Humanitas, 213). To this, friends of Lampedusa, you are witnesses! Here, as we encounter each other, we gain a better understanding of our era, and each of us can assess the direction of our own lives. “Certainly, not everyone has the same power to make a difference… Yet, no one is without responsibility. We all have our own areas for action, and it is precisely there — and nowhere else — that we must choose whether to fuel the mentality of force (even if only through indifference, cynicism, lies or hatred), or to preserve the mindset of peace (with truth, moderation, closeness and care)” (ibid., 212).
From this far-flung corner of Europe on the Mediterranean Sea, one can more clearly perceive the momentous challenge that the phenomenon of migration poses to European societies. In this regard, just as with the ecological transition and the promotion of peace, Europe possesses a unique potential, stemming from its history and culture, and therefore bears a corresponding responsibility. Thanks to its geographical location and institutional framework, Europe is capable of addressing the crisis — in this region — in a comprehensive manner, integrating immediate relief efforts into a long-term strategic plan capable of receiving, protecting, supporting and integrating migrants, while at the same time assisting developing countries so that no one is forced to emigrate. All of this must be done with vigilance, ensuring respect for the dignity of every person. This is a task not only for public institutions but also for civil society as a whole and for the Church.
Sisters and brothers, as I said recently in Tenerife during my Apostolic Journey to Spain, in Lampedusa too, the culture of hospitality has a tourist dimension, which, unfortunately, can feel threatened by migration routes and give rise to indifference, or even opposition, to their dramatic aspects. Indeed, for many a vacation is merely a distraction, a time of lightheartedness and carefree enjoyment. It then seems as though an invisible wall has to be erected between the sea of shipwrecked migrants and the vacationers. Have the courage to think differently. Little by little, with a bit of creativity, you will be able to ensure that anyone who spends time on this island, even if only for rest, becomes more humane, inspired by your charity, what the sea has taught you and the encounters that have formed you. There is authentic rest when the meaning of life is rediscovered, and true well-being when the economy is just and fraternal. In such an economy, care for creation and social friendship come together in a synthesis that humanity is seeking today.
The first reading reminded us that, by practicing hospitality, “some entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2). May you, in your own small ways, be a prophetic sign of what we can aspire to achieve together on a larger scale. You and your families will be the first to benefit from this, overcoming divisions and differences that only charity can dissolve. The parish, in particular, should be a community where, guided by the Gospel, we learn to welcome, accompany and integrate one another in a spirit of communion.
Here, next to the altar, we have the image of Our Lady of Safe Harbor, the patroness of Lampedusa. Perhaps you know that Saint Augustine liked to describe human life as a voyage across a stormy sea and one’s destiny as a safe and secure harbor. Let us not be overcome by fear, but rather look upon daily hardships as a time of opportunity and witness. May your faith, dear friends, be strengthened by these years of trial and generous commitment. May this venerated image speak to you once again with the same power as in days past, when those who handed down this devotion entrusted themselves to the Virgin’s intercession with radical sincerity. In God we all have a safe haven, and every Christian community is called to be a reflection of it on earth. And to you, the communities of Lampedusa and Linosa, may you never lack the breath of faith, hope and charity: “O’scià!” [a traditional greeting of the people of Lampedusa].
Source: vatican.va
