Beyond the Medal - Homily at the Olympics

This homily for Sunday, February 15th, was delivered by Fr. Diego Puricelli in Milan, Italy during the occasion of the Olympics. It is re-printed with author permission. The author is not affiliated with Theology for the Unwanted.

“Blessed are they who follow the law of the Lord!”: We have just repeated these words with the psalmist. And, they are not simply beautiful poetry. They reveal a beatitude — a promise from God himself — that true and lasting happiness is found in walking in His ways.If we are here this evening, it is because we have tasted the joy of being with the Lord; because, at least once in our lives, we have savored a drop of His love — and that was enough to awaken within us a longing for Heaven.

“You would not be seeking Me if I had not already found You”, saint Augustine once wrote, expressing the paradox at the heart of every search for God: we are able to seek Him only because He first allowed Himself to be found.

And so, His Law can only be a path meant to help us live each day with joy. By following it, we discover true happiness.

And yet, something does not quite add up.

I do not know about you, but as I listened to this evening’s long Gospel, I found myself feeling somewhat unsettled. Jesus’ words seem to place before us an ideal that is lofty and beautiful, yet difficult to attain. And so it often happens that the Law of the Lord — which should be a source of joy — ends up feeling like a burden.

How many times, in fact, do His commandments, instead of “giving light to our eyes”, as the Psalm says, leave us weighed down by guilt? Measuring ourselves against them, we feel lacking, inadequate, never quite enough. This is a common experience, especially for those who live a form of Christianity in which rules, norms, and precepts gradually take over and dominate everything.

And so it happens that faith, from being a liberating experience, gradually turns into its opposite: a constant reminder of our fragility, an inner tribunal that leaves little room for mercy. We end up living as though life were a never-ending examination to be passed — exhausting and distressing, because it offers no rest.

In these days, as I have been following the Olympic competitions and watching both the victories and the inevitable falls of so many athletes, I have found myself wondering: is this not the same logic we often apply to our life of faith? A logic built on performance, results, and inner rankings — where we end up feeling “good” only when we win and “wrong” when we fall.

“Nothing hurts more than trying your best and still not feeling enough”. This repost on TikTok by Ilia Malinin — known as “the Quad God” — shared shortly before the performance in which he lost the gold medal, struck me deeply. It goes straight to the heart of one of the most profound dimensions of our human experience: the need to feel recognized, welcomed, and loved — not for what we manage to achieve, but for who we are.

Yes, someone might object: But this is the Olympics! Here, you have to prove your worth. Here, results, scores, and medals matter. And that is true: in a sporting competition, performance is decisive. But the real question is another: is this also true of our lives? Is it true before God? And if we think about it carefully, even in sport — when it is authentic — things do not really work this way. Behind every medal there are sacrifices, countless quiet hours of training, falls, defeats, and fresh starts. An athlete does not stop being valuable when he or she loses. No one loses their dignity because of a fall.

And this, in fact, is what fascinates us about sport: it tells, with disarming simplicity, the nobility of effort and, at the same time, the truth of our humanity — a humanity that is fragile, limited, exposed to failure, and yet capable of extraordinary courage and astonishing new beginnings.

The Gospel we have just heard, then, does not seek to pin us down to our miseries or our shortcomings. No. It calls us to give the best of ourselves, to dwell in the heights of love, to captivate the world with a way of living that carries the fragrance of Heaven.

As the Czech theologian Tomáš Halík reminds us: “The most authentic expression of our faith — or of our unbelief — is our humanity. Not what we say or think about God, but how we live our lives. And not only our moral life, our virtues and our sins, but also our imagination, our creativity, our compassion, our capacity for wonder and for laughter.

Homily: When we Reduce God to a Guarantee of Our Own Protections

Fr. Diego Puricelli is a moral theologian and priest of the Diocese of Belluno-Feltre. This homily by our guest author is reprinted freely with permission.

Celebrating the feast of Saint Stephen on the day immediately following Christmas may appear, at first glance, to be an unfortunate choice. The account of the violent death of the first martyr in history, in fact, ruins the enchanted atmosphere of Christmas. 

Yet this feast has its roots in a very ancient tradition: as early as the 4th century it was celebrated on December 26, particularly in Jerusalem and Rome. It is not, therefore, a random choice, but an original and intentional placement, dense with theological meaning. 

In a few days, then, we will celebrate another memorial, that of the Holy Innocents, namely the children killed by Herod. Here too, once again, the tragic presence of bloodshed, in the aftermath of the most beautiful of announcements. In short, it seems almost as if the liturgy intentionally wants to crack the enchantment of Christmas. But why? 

One of the keys to interpretation can be provided directly by the text of Luke, specifically the sixth chapter of the Acts of the Apostles. Here Stephen appears from the very start as a man "full of grace and power," whose life is totally crossed by the force of the Spirit. His word, however, is not neutral or accommodating: it is a word that unsettles, that unmasks: in short, that causes a crisis. 

And it is precisely this that the text lets us see clearly: the light that comes from God, when taken seriously, is not only a source of consolation, but also of resistance. This, after all, is an intuitive fact. Light, while on one hand it brightens and warms, on the other can be annoying to those who are not used to the light, to those who live in darkness. 

If Christmas, therefore, announces the breaking of this light into history, Stephen is one of its first and concrete consequences. His martyrdom, in fact, does not contradict Christmas joy, but simply reveals its price.  Now, there is an aspect on which we perhaps do not dwell enough: the very source from which the persecution is born. 

Stephen’s persecution, in fact, does not originate in distant environments or those openly hostile to God, but takes shape within a religious context. They are men expert in the Scriptures, guardians of the Law, who feel threatened by his word. 

And this is precisely the most uncomfortable point of the story: resistance to the light does not always come from the outside, but can be born and often is born right where one considers themselves to be on God's side. 

On this point, the insights of American sociologist Mark Juergensmeyer in his book "Terror in the Mind of God" appear illuminating: in this small masterpiece, the scholar shows how religious violence—a phenomenon transversal to all religions, Christianity included—is not born primarily from an absence of faith, but from an absolutized faith, that is, one incapable of tolerating the challenging of its own certainties. 

When God is reduced to a guarantee of one's own identity, to a guardian of the borders and symbolic power of a group, then every "other" word—even when it is most faithful to the Gospel—becomes a threat to be neutralized. 

Violence, in these cases, does not serve to defend God—as if God needed to be defended—but to defend a system that has put itself in His place. And this, you know, concerns us much more closely than we are willing to admit. We are often quick to point the finger, to comment, to judge, to talk behind the backs of those next to us. 

Much less prompt, however, to recognize the rigidities that inhabit our hearts, the discords between the Gospel we proclaim with words and the one we concretely live, the reassuring comforts that we end up mistaking—and sometimes justifying—as evangelical radicalism. 

We stink, and we don't realize it. And whoever reminds us of it, whoever dares to tell us frankly, often disturbs us more than the evil they denounce.  After all, all of this should not surprise us: we live in a cultural climate of constant moral impunity, in which no one truly assumes their own responsibility: the blame is always outside of us, never inside. 

In this light, one also understands the fate of Stephen. He is not killed because he denies God, but because he announces Him in such a way as to dismantle a closed, self-sufficient religious order, fundamentally impermeable and resistant to any change. 

In this, Stephen is truly a crystal-clear image of Christ

And indeed, his death will be an almost perfect overlap with that of the Master: "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." "In manus tuas, into your hands, Father, I commend my spirit." That is why the blood shed by Stephen is found next to the cradle of the child of Bethlehem: because the God who is born out of love is the same one who, if taken seriously, can cost one's life.

Homily for Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception

The following is reprinted with author permission. Fr. Diego Puricelli is a professor of moral theology and a priest of the Diocese of Belluno-Feltre.

"Where are you?" It is a question as old as humanity. A discreet question, almost whispered, and yet capable of opening up abysses. A question that resurfaces when we finally slow down, when the noise that dwells within us fades, and by grace, we truly become capable of listening to ourselves.

"I heard your voice in the garden: I was afraid, because I am naked, and I hid myself." We often cannot even formulate a similar answer. We do not possess the lucidity of Adam, whose sentence is truly a distillate of self-knowledge. What had happened? Adam discovered he had been deceived. He experienced his own fragility, his own vulnerability: he felt naked. And the fear of being wounded again pushed him to hide, to shut himself off, to distance himself even from his dearest affections, the first of which is his own God.

How similar we are to him! How many times do we also hide, not because we truly want to disappear, but because we are afraid of being seen for who we are: incomplete, contradictory, exposed. We hide behind efficiency, behind the quick wit, behind the roles we hold; we even hide behind spirituality, when we transform it into an alibi for not facing our deepest fears.

"Where are you?". Not: "Why did you make a mistake?", not: "Why aren't you better?". Simply: "Where are you?". Where do you find yourself in your life today? A question that does not condemn, but invites us to step out of the shadows.

This, however, is not the only one. Another question reaches our progenitor: "Who told you that you were naked?". It is an interrogation that inevitably resonates within us too. "Who deceived you? Who made you feel wrong? Who broke your heart?"

At first glance, it seems like a cruel question, one that puts a finger on the wound. And yet, paradoxically, it is an offer of salvation. Moreover, I would say: it is the only question that truly makes sense to try and answer.

This time, however, Adam cannot delve deep. And, in fact, he behaves as we often behave: he passes the buck. He blames Eve, who in turn blames the serpent. No one takes the part that belongs to them: no one has the courage to say: "It was me."

After all, this is a mechanism as ancient as it is current: when the truth burns, we always look for an easier target than ourselves. Thus, pretending that words and gestures do not leave wounds, we end up judging, accusing ourselves, and hurting each other.

In the chain of passing the buck, however, the last reference point is missing. The blame slides from Adam to Eve, and from Eve to the serpent. But is the serpent really the last link in the chain? The biblical text here is extremely subtle. Yes, because who created the serpent and placed it in the garden? God. Exactly. The fault is His. Or at least in the distorted logic of our wounded heart, we end up thinking it is His.

Here is the paradox: the one who had nothing to do with it, the one who is actually the only one who truly loves us, ultimately becomes the "monster" of the situation.

Mary is exempt from these "human, all too human" logics, in the derogatory sense of the term. In her, there is no shadow of that instinctive reflex that leads us to suspect, to defend ourselves, and to accuse. She is Immaculate precisely because she possesses an original, clear, total trust in God: she does not doubt His benevolence, she does not interpret His word as a threat, she does not experience His presence as judgment.

Mary often does not understand, she is gripped by doubt, like each of us, but she trusts. Radically. Even arriving at hoping against all hope.

How much we need her example and her intercession in our lives! Looking to her, in fact, we learn to return to the essential: "God is on our side, not against us." He is the only one who does not betray us, the only one who does not tire of starting over, the only one who continues to believe in us even when we no longer believe in ourselves. And this—precisely this—is what matters, what can truly heal our hearts.

Moral theologian: When the Risen One manifests himself, he does so without any spirit of revenge

The following is reprinted with author permission. Fr. Diego Puricelli is a professor of moral theology and a priest of the Diocese of Belluno-Feltre.

“Now, the very experience of the first witnesses reminds us that the joy of the resurrection is not accessed in a straightforward, linear way. In fact, from the accounts of the appearances, we can glimpse a kind of common thread that links all these narratives: the rejection of spectacle. The Risen Lord, in fact, does not choose to manifest himself to everyone in a clamorous and convincing way. His presence is not imposed. On the contrary, he reveals himself with extreme discretion, almost with modesty, and only to a few. He lets himself be recognized through simple, almost negligible signs: the bandages left in the tomb, the heart that burns along the way, the net full of fish, the testimony of the women. In short, the presence of the Risen One is extremely discreet.

What's more, when the Risen One manifests himself, he does so without any spirit of revenge, but rather offers—as in John's account—the signs of a freely lived love: "the hands and the side." No reproach, no preaching, no petty remarks. The gestures of the Risen One are so essential that they cannot be misunderstood: “Peace be with you! Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Thus, the resurrection manifests itself in the community of believers: as a relief from one's own sin and a liberation from one's own fears. The Risen One, in fact, knows well the poverty of his church, but he also knows that in this weak and fragile humanity lies the mysterious strength of authentic witness. After all, it is true: only those who have known their own limits, only those who have experienced their own sin, can become authentic guardians of God's forgiveness, without falling into idealism and without fleeing the truth of life (how many times, instead, do we think the opposite, that God wants us to be perfect... and we don't accept our failings, we don't forgive ourselves...).

From this first expansion of life and joy, Thomas, the disciple who best of all embodies our struggle to immediately commit to a renewal of life, is initially excluded.

How many times do we, like Thomas, not believe the announcements of hope and new life that the Lord gives us, ending up remaining isolated, on our own, licking our wounds. It's true. As the then-Cardinal Bergoglio wrote back in 2005, in a wonderful little book titled "Healing from Corruption," "a painful journey always demoralizes, having experienced defeats leads the human heart to get used to them, so as not to be surprised or suffer again if others come."

Yet, in Thomas, there is something that betrays his desire to access a new relationship with his Lord. In fact, eight days later, Thomas is still there, with the group of disciples. He hasn't gone away, disappointed and upset. Thomas had the courage to disobey the protests of his wounded heart, choosing to bring his own pain closer to the hope of his brothers.

Only then does the Lord finally appear to him, to introduce him as well into the mystery of his pierced and risen love: "Put your finger here and see my hands; stretch out your hand and put it into my side; and do not be unbelieving, but believing!” Indeed, one never enters the joy of the resurrection alone, set apart, but always and only together with others, together with our brothers and sisters in faith.

Today, we too are called to live our journey of faith like Thomas. I think there is no more beautiful icon! Men and women of doubt, uncertain, wounded, but at the same time capable of confident surrender, of remaining despite everything, even when things around us often say the opposite.

In this journey, we are not alone: the Risen One walks beside us, draws near precisely where our hands tremble and our hearts close. It is He who, with the gentle strength of his wounds, gathers our questions, sustains our weariness, and transfigures our pain.

And so, truly blessed are we if we have the courage to remain: because he who remains, even in the darkness, will see the light; and he who trusts, even without seeing, will enter into endless joy!”

End post! This post has been freely shared with written permission of the author.