The other day I came across this image and couldn’t help but remember a hymn that undoubtedly stands out in this time of Lent: the hymn Ġesù tiegħi, particularly the verse that goes:

Ġesù tiegħi, idejk min niffed
b’dawk l-imsiemer tal-ħadid?

Kienu l-ħafna dnubiet tiegħi.
Ġesù twajjeb, aħfer u ħenn.

a litteral translation from Maltese to English would read something like this: My Jesus, your hand who pierced / with those iron nails? / It was my many sins. / Good Jesus, forgive me and be merciful.

Although it is strictly not a liturgical hymn but a devotional one, it still resonates with us so deeply throughout Lent. However, this is not simply a traditional Maltese hymn. Actually, it was composed—words and melody—by St Alphonsus Maria de’ Liguori (1696–1787). It seems that the original name of the hymn was Alla Passione di Gesù Cristo, and the earliest publication we know of dates to 1738, in the book Via facile e sicura del Paradiso by the Neapolitan priest Don Gennaro Maria Sarnelli (1702–1744), who was a close friend and collaborator of St Alphonsus. Even an adaptation of the words of this hymn exists also in English under the title My Jesus! Say what wretch has dared (although there are different melodies, and the closest to the original is still heavily altered).

Perhaps some may find this hymn too boring or dull. And this is somewhat true… but, precisely because this is true, we need to hear it more, to sing it, to meditate upon it, and truly pray it. Antonio Maria Tannoia (1727–1808), a Redemptorist priest and the first biographer of St Alphonsus, writes that, before Eucharistic adoration, the saint would often sing this hymn, and his deep devotion, combined with his sweet and passionate voice, bore more fruit in the hearts of the gathered faithful than even his own sermons.

And indeed: with its melody similar to a funeral march and lyrics formed by a series of rhetorical questions, all having the same answer, how can we remain cool and untouched? How can it fail to make us aware that it wasn’t simply the Jews or the Romans who were the wicked guys responsible for Christ’s death, but the sin of humanity, the sins of all men—past, present, and future—that truly led God to become man, so that He could take upon Himself our sins and carry them HIMSELF, so that we might be ransomed and enjoy the saving grace of His great mercy!

Yes, my sins were already present in the depths of His soul at that very moment, before I even began to exist. My sins, too, which are many, were the ones that nailed Christ to the cross and subjected Him to all that torment. But ultimately, it was the same infinite love of Him who, not only suffered the offense of our transgressions, but also paid the highest price to ransom and win us back, that held him fast to the cross!

Maltese has some very beautiful expressions that link our relationships with one another to the spoken word. When two people begin to fall in love, we say: “Look at him, he’s talking to a girl.” When two people are in disagreement, we say: “Look at them, they’re not speaking at the moment.” This shows that where there is dialogue, there is also relationship.

From the very beginning of creation, it was God’s delight to “walk in the garden in the cool of the day” and to seek out the human person in order to speak with him (Gen 3:8). Sin abruptly brought this dialogue between God and humanity to a halt. Humanity fell silent and hid itself, but God, in his boundless love, prepared a plan to break the silence and to reach humanity through his Word.

Since God is a God of relationship and love, he wished to continue speaking with us at all times. The tragedy of sin neither restrained him nor prevented him from speaking.

In the sacred books, the Father who is in heaven meets His children with great love and speaks with them … For Sacred Scripture is the word of God inasmuch as it is consigned to writing under the inspiration of the divine Spirit.

Dei Verbum, nos. 21; 9

The Word of God is so powerful that, when it is spoken, it comes to pass. We see this in creation: each time God spoke, he created. What God willed came to be and, in its fullness, took flesh in Christ. “In the past God spoke to our ancestors many times and in various ways through the prophets; in these last days he has spoken to us through his Son” (Heb 1:1–2). It is no coincidence that in the Gospel according to St John, instead of a narrative of Jesus’ birth, we find the narrative of the Word (the Verb or Logos) in the person of Christ.

St George Preca placed a special emphasis on the words spoken by Jesus, calling them “the voice of the Beloved”. He encouraged children to fall in love with the Word of God. Why? “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life” (Jn 3:16). For this to happen, it is now up to us—those for whom Christ came—to speak. How? By allowing our lives to become a fitting response to this Word through our actions.

God does not want to speak alone. He wants to enter into dialogue with us. God is waiting for us to commit our lives so that they may become a faithful response, in the way we live and in the way we speak. On this Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, as we celebrate the Word of God, let us renew this love for the Beloved by spending more time with Sacred Scripture, because through it alone we can be sanctified and become more like Christ. There is no more fitting response for this special day than to contemplate this Word which has the power to transform our lives, so that we ourselves may become the delight of the Beloved!

If Saint Paul were to write a letter to the Maltese, he would surely have to repeat what he once wrote to the Philippians: “their god is the belly” (Phil 3:19) . It is striking how every liturgical season has its own foods and, above all, its own sweets. Let’s be clear: this is something found in many cultures, especially Mediterranean ones. Yet on these two tiny islands, where diabetes is the national health problem, one can only marvel at how—perhaps because we were ruled by so many—we’ve inherited a bit of everyone’s culinary and confectionary traditions. Even for this time of year, besides Saint Martin’s bags filled with nuts and fruits, we also have the għadam tal-mejtin (“bones of the dead”)—neither dry nor soft, but certainly disappearing faster than the smallest real bone could ever decompose!

Apparently, we love the taste of figolli so much—especially the homemade ones—that we can’t bear to wait a whole year for them. Some people even freeze them, so that during the leaner months they can profit from the abundance that almost overwhelms us at Easter, particularly if we kept Lent without sweets. But after all, the għadam tal-mejtin are really figolli too: instead of the shape of a lamb (or any other form devoid of meaning), they take the shape of a bone.

Yet this link between Easter and All Souls’ Day—fossilised, so to speak, in bones and figolli—is not merely a charming coincidence. It has deeper theological roots touching the very heart of our faith. Spread almost evenly through the year, these two celebrations remind us of the belief we profess every Sunday in the Creed. Besides proclaiming our faith in the resurrection of Jesus, according to the Scriptures, after his bitter passion and cruel death on the cross for our salvation, we also profess that we believe in the resurrection of the dead. And this is no casual addition, inserted merely to give composers another movement to set to music. It is an essential part of our Easter faith, because just as Christ died and rose again with the same body—now glorified—so we too, at the end of time, shall share in this glory and in the eternal joy of God with our whole selves, composed not only of soul but also of body.

No one can say exactly what will remain of our bodies by that day, whose hour is hidden, and surely we would all wish for a body somewhat better and less frail than the one we have now. Yet yes, we too shall share the same destiny as Christ. Indeed, this is precisely why Christ became man: to take upon himself what is ours, so that we might share in what is his.

Therefore, while it is good to practise moderation in our sweets and to allow God’s plan to unfold without hastening too eagerly the hour of our death, it is also good that, with every bite of these “bones” we enjoy at this time, we remember our loved ones and commend them to the Lord—that he may soon let them taste the sweetness of his presence. And why not? Let us also remind ourselves of that sweet and blessed hope in which we believe.

We have begun the month of October, the month associated with devotion to and the Marian prayer of the Rosary—a prayer through which we contemplate the mystery of Christ through the eyes of His Mother and our Mother, Mary. During the general audience on Wednesday, 24 September 2025, Pope Leo XIV invited Catholic Christians to pray the Rosary daily throughout this month—personally, with the family, and in community—and to offer it for peace in the world.

Undoubtedly, what comes to mind immediately is the genocide currently taking place in the Gaza Strip and, in a more subtle way, the seizure of control of the other Palestinian territory stretching from the east of Jerusalem to the Jordan River. We also think of the ongoing conflict between Russia and Ukraine, which has now lasted for more than three years.

This topic is also being discussed at present during the 80th General Assembly of the United Nations. These two wars—especially the one currently afflicting the Palestinian people—are receiving particular attention. But what struck me most was the speech by the representative of the Holy See, Archbishop Paul Richard Gallagher, Secretary for Relations with States and International Organisations within the Secretariat of State. His words closely align with the Pope’s appeal to pray the Rosary for peace throughout October.

What touched me most about Archbishop Gallagher’s speech wasn’t any emotional or impassioned tone. It was the way this English prelate, in the context of wars waged under the pretext of religion, unequivocally recalled the first words spoken by Pope Leo XIV to the city and to the world following his election:
“Peace be with you all! … A peace without weapons, a peace that disarms—humble and persevering.” Peace is not achieved when you have destroyed your enemy, as we are witnessing in the two conflicts mentioned earlier, but rather when we allow love to take hold of us and bring us face to face as human beings, vulnerable as we are. In a world that is increasingly fragmented, we must remember that peace is

an active and demanding gift. It engages and challenges each of us, regardless of our cultural background or religious affiliation, demanding first of all that we work on ourselves. Peace is built in the heart and from the heart, by eliminating pride and vindictiveness and carefully choosing our words. For words too, not only weapons, can wound and even kill.

Leo XIV, Address to the Diplomatic Corps accredited to the Holy See, 16 May 2025

But what most moved me in the speech by the Holy See’s representative was precisely the universal—truly Catholic—gaze at the state of peace, development, and human rights. He did not focus solely on what everyone is already talking about. Instead, he reminded the world of many ongoing conflicts in various regions, which, at least in the West, we have all but forgotten or are ignoring—simply because they are not close to us.

Throughout his address, Gallagher reminded us that over 360 million Christians live in areas where they are persecuted or discriminated against for their faith. He spoke about the trampling of human dignity and fundamental rights as a widespread phenomenon. He highlighted the commitment to eradicating poverty and hunger, the need for debt relief for countries weighed down by underdevelopment, the care of creation and the climate crisis caused by humanity, the phenomenon of migration and refugees, the rights of workers, the protection of the family—and he also warned of the challenges posed by artificial intelligence. All of these are necessary for there to be true peace.

And, if that general overview wasn’t enough, Gallagher even mentioned specific situations in particular countries and regions. Beyond Ukraine and the Holy Land, he mentioned the entire Middle East and Syria. He referenced several African nations plagued by instability, including the Sub-Saharan region, Cabo Delgado, the Horn of Africa, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Sudan, and South Sudan. He listed various issues such as drug trafficking in Latin America, conflicts in the Caribbean, Haiti, and Nicaragua. He then turned to the Asian continent and spoke about the situation in Myanmar and the human trafficking happening along its borders with Thailand, China, Cambodia, and Laos. His wide-reaching summary closed the loop by returning to where it all began, discussing recent developments in the Balkans and the road ahead for fuller reconciliation between Armenia and Azerbaijan.

When you see such an exhaustive list, you can’t help but feel struck. And surely, we need to pray for peace! Surely, not just one Rosary, but even two or three are needed in the face of this global scenario! But we believe in a God who is faithful to His children, and in this month we place ourselves—and the world—under the maternal protection of the Mother of the One who died precisely to reconcile humanity with God. May this truly Catholic and universal vision of the world move us not only to not lose heart, but to pray even more, and to let our hearts be touched, not just by the desire for peace, but by the suffering of so many people, following in the footsteps of Christ and His Mother who stood at the foot of His Cross and and stands under every cross borne by humanity.

On 29 September, the Church celebrates the feast of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael. The word angel comes from Greek and means messenger. Therefore, archangel means a higher-ranking messenger—probably one sent with a more important message or entrusted with a greater mission. Although various Christian traditions and some ancient written sources mention other archangels—generally adding up to seven in total—the Church specifically celebrates only these three, because they are the only ones mentioned in the canonical books, that is, the books that form the Bible.

We are well aware of the significance of the messages delivered by the Archangel Gabriel. And we also know something of the battle fought by the Archangel Michael against the angels who rebelled against God, as well as his protection over God’s chosen people—both in the Old Covenant and the New. But perhaps we are less familiar with the story of Raphael the Archangel. Those of us who attended M.U.S.E.U.M. centres likely remember how, before setting off anywhere in the van, we would end the prayer by invoking a short prayer (ejaculation) to St Raphael, asking him to bring us safely to our destination. And rightly so!

The adventure of this archangel is recounted in the Book of Tobit, one of the so-called deuterocanonical books—literally, “those that form a second canon.” From the earliest centuries, Christian Tradition regarded these books as inspired by God and made use of them in liturgy and teaching, even though, from the second century onward, the Jews no longer included them in their sacred scriptures—though they continued to be valued as valid sources of knowledge and moral teaching. It is for this reason that Protestant Christians also do not consider these books to be inspired.

The narrative of the Book of Tobit revolves around the story of two Jewish families exiled among the nations, yet remaining faithful to the traditions of their ancestors, despite many obstacles. Raphael enters into the heart of these two families as a representative of God and assists them in the most delicate moments of their story. He appears in the form of a man who accompanies Tobias, whom his father Tobit sends to recover some money from a relative after the family falls into poverty due to Tobit’s blindness. On their journey, they catch a fish from the river Tigris after it tries to attack Tobias’ leg, and Raphael instructs him to open the fish and remove its gall, heart, and liver, as they will find good use for them.

During this journey, Raphael guides the young man to find his future wife, Sarah, and through the burning of the fish’s heart and liver on their wedding night, she is freed from an evil spirit that had killed every man who married her and approached her. After retrieving his father’s money, Tobias returns home with his wife, and, through the fish’s gall, God heals Tobit’s blindness.

It is at the end of these events that Tobias’ companion on the journey reveals his true identity: “I am Raphael, one of the seven holy angels who present the prayers of the saints and enter into the presence of the glory of the Holy One … Do not be afraid; you will be safe. But praise God for ever. I did not come as a favour on my part, but by the will of our God. Therefore praise him for ever” (see Tob 12:15–18). As soon as he said this, Raphael ascended and disappeared from their sight.

On the journey of life, you probably won’t encounter any fish trying to bite you. But you’ll certainly come across two-legged sharks, and you’ll experience no shortage of trouble from evil. So, it’s not a bad idea to pray to Raphael the Archangel, asking him to accompany you along your way and to bring healing of heart to you and, through you, to others.

As we find ourselves between the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul, the Feast of the Apostle Thomas, and the Gospel reading for the Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year C)—where Jesus sends out the seventy-two disciples two by two to every place he intended to visit—we are naturally drawn to reflect on the apostolate. Again and again, we see the Lord choosing people not to remain idle, but to be sent.

The very word apostle comes from the Greek verb apostelló (ἀποστέλλω), which means “to send away” or “to dispatch on a mission.” It suggests movement, purpose, and being entrusted with something beyond oneself. In the New Testament, the term apostle does not only apply to the Twelve—the closest companions of Jesus whom the Evangelists often refer to simply as “the Twelve.” Rather, apostles were those who were sent by a living community of faith, usually in pairs, to proclaim and share the life they themselves had received in Christ.

This missionary identity did not end with the first generation of believers. Through the gift of the Holy Spirit received in the Sacrament of Confirmation, each of us is called to participate in this apostolic mission. The call to be apostles—heralds, witnesses, and ambassadors of the Gospel—is embedded in our Christian identity. For how could the joy of encountering Christ leave us satisfied with private devotion alone?

While not every Christian is an apostle in the formal sense of being specially chosen and sent, all of us are called to be living witnesses. Through what we think, say, and do, we prepare hearts to receive Christ and bring his peace into the world. According to our own place in the Church and in society, we are each sent—not to stand still, but to go forth with the Gospel.

From ancient times, the fish has been associated with Christianity. The Greek word for fish is ichthys. From the beginning Christians made an acronym from it: Iesous Christos Theou Yios Soter, which means Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour. In Scripture we find a number of references to fish. For example, Jesus fed five thousand men with two fish and five loaves. He also called his disciples ‘fishers of men’. Tertullian uses the Ichthys symbol to compare Christians to fish, since they were born of water into Jesus Christ. In the Gospel according to St Matthew, Jesus says: “the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind” (Mt 13:47).

After his resurrection from the dead, when Jesus appeared to his disciples on the shore of the sea of Galilee, we find Simon Peter on his boat bringing back to land a net containing one hundred and fifty-three large fish: “Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn” (Jn 21:11). Why does the evangelist specify that there were one hundred and fifty-three fish caught in the net? St Jerome in the fourth century writes that this number symbolises all species of fish, and therefore signifies that there is a place for everyone in the Church. It is also interesting to note that if we were to count the number of times Jesus blessed various individuals in the four Gospels, it would amount to one hundred and fifty-three people, on forty-eight different occasions.

What happened to Moses when he encountered God? Did his face shine or did he grow horns? When we look at Moses’ iconography, he is frequently portrayed as having horns on his head. According to what was written in the Bible, when Moses came down from Mount Sinai, his face changed. This is what is written in the Book of Exodus:

Moses came down from Mount Sinai. As he came down from the mountain with the two tablets of the covenant in his hand, Moses did not know that the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God.

Exodus 34:29

In Hebrew the verb to shine is קרנ (q-r-n). The account in Exodus 19 describes the events at Mount Sinai. When the Jewish people arrive, God tells Moses: “If you obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession out of all the peoples” (Ex 19:5), and God offers to make a covenant with the people. Moses’ face begins to shine when he encounters God, but Moses does not realise it; it is the people who see his shining countenance. This verb caused numerous arguments to arise throughout history, because the noun ‘qeren’ means ‘horn’. Some of the principal reasons that this word is translated as ‘shining’ and not a ‘horn’ are as follows:

1. The subject of the verb ‘q-r-n’ is the face, not the head. It is unlikely that horns grew on Moses’ face without him noticing.
2. The horn as a symbol does not make sense in light of what Moses had experienced.
3. The majority of the principal Biblical translations, apart from the Vulgate, translate this verb as ‘shining.’

Since the Vulgate (the Bible translated from the original languages into Latin by St Jerome) was the translation used for many years, Michelangelo created his sculpture of Moses based on the Vulgate’s translation:

Cumque descenderet Moyses de monte Sinai, tenebat duas tabulas testimonii, et ignorabat quod cornuta esset facies sua ex consortio sermonis Domini.

And when Moses came down from the mount Sinai, he held the two tables of the testimony, and he knew not that his face was horned from the conversation of the Lord.

Ex 34:29 (Douay-Rheims 1899 American Edition)

This is the reason why Michelangelo sculpted Moses with horns on his head. Throughout history, these horns have been interpreted as symbols of wisdom and leadership.