On May 21, the Most Rev. Gherardo Gambelli, Archbishop of Florence, Italy, offered this reflection at the Diocesan Prayer Vigil for Overcoming Homotransphobia at the Parish of Mary Help of Christians in Florence, organized by the Inclusion Ministry of the Diocesan Family Ministry in collaboration with the Kairós group—LGBTQ+ Christians and their parents in Florence. This was one of many such vigils throughout Italy, and the world, on that day. Read in the original Italian here.
Thus says the Lord who created you, O Jacob, who formed you, O Israel: ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine. If you must cross the waters, I will be with you; the rivers will not overwhelm you; if you must walk through the fire, you will not be scorched, the flame will not burn you, for I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as the price for your redemption, Ethiopia and Sheba in your place. “For you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you; therefore I will give people in exchange for you, and nations in exchange for your life (Isaiah 43:1–4).
The words we have just heard are very beautiful; they are taken from the second part of the Book of Isaiah, known as the “Book of Consolation.” These are words addressed by God to his people during a dramatic and dark time. Israel is in exile, broken and dejected not only because it has been deported to a foreign land, but even more so because, in that situation, it feels rejected and abandoned by God.
In the darkness of this crisis, the prophet’s words—addressed to the people as well as to each of us this evening—cast a ray of light: “Do not fear, for I am with you” (Is 43:5).
“I am here,” is God’s very name from the Book of Exodus onward. A name that speaks of closeness, care, and an unwavering, faithful presence at our side.
“I am” or more accurately “I am here,” is God’s very name from the Book of Exodus onward. A name that speaks of closeness, care, and an unwavering, faithful presence at our side.
The God who created us all cannot abandon anyone: that God who one day, calling us into being, said, “I want you to exist: yes, you, with your gifts and your limitations, with your identity that is at once wonderful and fragile, with the uniqueness contained in that name that I alone know fully.” No one can be abandoned by the God of the covenant, who blesses every existence, who desires fullness of life for all; He who, for all, without exception, gave His life and who today continues to repeat: “You are precious in my eyes, you are worthy of esteem, and I love you.”
If we are here tonight, also at the invitation of the recently concluded Synod of Italian Churches, it is to allow this word of love not only to console us but to continue shaping and transforming our lives and the lives of our communities, making us ever more in his image and likeness.
We are here to ask God for the gift of eyes like his, capable of recognizing the dignity and beauty of every face; attentive ears, capable of deeply listening to each person’s experience; a mouth from which no harsh judgments emerge but rather kind words that bless and encourage instead of hurting; a heart ready to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep.
In this spirit of deep communion, we wish to remember in prayer the names and faces of people—especially those who are homosexual and transgender—who, in society, but also within our families and Christian communities, have suffered and, sadly, sometimes still suffer because of prejudice, ignorance, and patterns of marginalization, if not outright exclusion and violence: all attitudes that are irreconcilable with the Gospel perspective.
This is the longing that we, too, as a church, carry in our hearts: to truly be a home for everyone.
The latter, however, is well evoked by the conclusion of the passage from Isaiah that we have read: “I will say to the north, ‘Give them back,’ and to the south, ‘Do not hold them back; bring my sons back from afar and my daughters from the ends of the earth.’”
Words capable of communicating the deep longing of God’s heart, who, like the merciful father in the parable of Luke 15, yearns for every distant child and cannot begin to celebrate until all have rediscovered the joy of feeling at home.
This is the longing that we, too, as a church, carry in our hearts: to truly be a home for everyone.
Let us then invoke the Holy Spirit, whom we will celebrate this Sunday on the feast of Pentecost. A Spirit capable of transforming every death into life, every sorrow into joy, every exile into a journey home. A Spirit who descends upon the apostles like fire that does not destroy but sets hearts ablaze, granting the courage to look beyond oneself and one’s own circle, to overcome walls and open doors, so that the communion of God’s family may finally know no boundaries.
One day a rabbi asked his students: “How can one tell that the night is over and the day is returning?” One student suggested, “When you can clearly see that the animal in the distance is a lion and not a leopard.” “No,” said the rabbi. Another said, “When you can tell that a tree bears figs and not peaches?”
“No,” said the rabbi. “It is when you can look into another’s face and see that that woman, that man, is your sister or your brother. For until you are able to do this, no matter what time of day it is, it is still night.”
May this evening’s vigil also contribute, Lord, to bringing an end to the night and hastening the dawn of a new world!
