A path to eternity

 

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

Whoever does the will of God abides forever!  (1 John 2:17). 

A question has permeated the ages and dwelt in the human heart since the dawn of time: is our existence limited to our brief passage on earth? Is there a path, revealed by the Mystery, that opens us to the possibility of eternity, that dimension which transcends all barriers of time and space? Today, like a voice rising in the desert of conventional thought, I wish to proclaim a certainty: the path to eternity is open to us. And the threshold of the Mystery, made accessible by the experience of Jesus, opens before us as a real possibility and a living promise.

We are not abandoned to a blind fate or a labyrinth of unknowns. Human history took an irreversible turn when, in the fullness of time, Jesus walked our paths, fully embracing the human condition. His path was not that of the powerful or the wise, but that of those who allow themselves to be guided by the will of the Father, who is also Mother, in the profound docility that transforms history into an ascending parable toward infinity. In Him, the Mystery became close, a friend, a traveling companion. By following in His footsteps, we become pilgrims of eternity, called to a destiny that neither wealth nor power can buy.

Eternity: a word that fascinates and unsettles, that promises and eludes. It consists neither of an infinitely long time, nor of a boundless space. Eternity is the fullness of being, the absolute "here and now" where all the fragments of time and the distances of space are recomposed into perfect unity. It is the day without sunset, the fire that never dies, the abode where every tear is dried and every desire fulfilled. Only those who allow themselves to be guided by the Word of Jesus can perceive that this fullness is not a distant utopia, but a presence already felt deep within the heart, like the echo of a promised homeland.

In the face of death, the Mystery becomes denser and more silent. But its shadow, for those who believe, is no longer the seal of an end, but the threshold of a passage. Jesus, by passing through death, transformed it into a door opening onto a new dimension. It is not about abandoning everything, but about being welcomed into a greater embrace, where life is no longer threatened by the anguish of passing time. Christian hope is not mere comfort, but the certainty that death has been conquered and that those who enter it with trust rise again transfigured, finally freed from the chains of transience.

The human mind, designed to understand and control, is confronted here with an insurmountable limit. Any attempt to grasp eternity through reason breaks like a wave against a reef. Yet, we are not left unscathed: in intuition, in aspiration, in sudden flashes of joy and beauty, the Mystery reveals itself as something too vast to be contained in a formula. Perhaps folk wisdom is merely fragments of a deeper truth: the human heart is made for eternity, and only by listening deeply to the Mystery can it find peace.

But what is the path that leads to eternity? It is not the path of outward triumphs or possessions, but the path of obedience, of renouncing the ego, of listening to the will revealed by Jesus. “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of God, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven” (Matthew 7:21). Here is the key that opens the door: a docile heart, capable of trusting, letting go, and welcoming the Word as light and guide. Eternity, therefore, is not the reward for accumulated merits, but a gift for those who allow themselves to be guided on the path of trust and love.

The Word of Jesus is not a distant, luminous sign, but a fire that burns today and illuminates the steps of those who listen to it. To live his message is to allow oneself to be transformed daily, to welcome each situation as an opportunity to make room for the Mystery. “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path” (Psalm 119:105): putting this Word into practice is already to participate in eternity, to make visible here and now the new life that Jesus brought. The love we give, the forgiveness we offer, the hope we bear witness to are seeds of eternity sown in the field of history. It is his Word that contains the mysterious power that led Jesus into the new dimension of eternity. To do the will of Jesus is to listen to this mysterious Word and put it into practice. The path is visible only to those who live what they hear from the Master. In the Gospel, we encounter all the signs of this mysterious path, revealed only to those who live what they hear. Let us therefore listen to its message, let us help one another to live it, so that we too may pass with Him from this world of death to the new dimension of eternity.

Here, then, is the solemn invitation renewed today: let us not be deceived by the appearances of a brief and fragile life. The Mystery calls us to lift our eyes and commit ourselves, with ardent hearts, to the path inaugurated by Jesus. Eternity is not an unattainable mirage, but the secret goal of each of our steps, the fulfillment of what we can already experience insofar as we trust in the Word and obey it. May our existence be like that of the prophets: a voice that proclaims, hands that welcome, a heart that hopes. Thus, we too will be bearers of eternity, in time and beyond time, in history and beyond history.

 

The Weak Theology that is born on Christmas night

 

 

  Prophecy of marginality and hope

 

Paolo Cugini

 

In the heart of the quietest night, on the forgotten outskirts of Bethlehem, a theology is born that does not proclaim granite-like dogmas, but allows itself to be shaped by flesh and dust, by tears and waiting. Weak theology is not a denial of the Mystery, but its abandonment in the furrows of history, where life manifests itself in all its vulnerability. It is the theology that arises from the folds of marginality, where questions do not seek strong answers, but embraces that can protect and uplift.

This perspective arises from a profound reading of existence, which embraces fragility as a theological site, not an accident to be corrected. It is rooted in the experience of those living on the margins, in the weary bodies of the excluded, and in the restless hearts of thoughtful seekers of meaning. Weak theology thus contrasts the arrogance of a faith that claims to be invincible; instead, it becomes a traveling companion, a voice among voices, a gaze filled with mercy. The central scene of this theology is the manger, neither adorned nor celebrated, but chosen out of necessity and poverty. It is here that the Mystery manifests itself not among the powerful, but among shepherds, travelers, and animals, in a context of rejection and precariousness that seals its total solidarity with discarded humanity. The manger smells not of incense, but of hay and expectation, of that cold that only the homeless truly know.

The birth of Jesus, experienced on the margins, is a prophecy of a God who does not fear smallness, but embraces it as a privileged path of revelation. On that night, fragility is no longer a cause for shame, but becomes the womb of a new hope. Weak theology finds its cradle here: in the ability to see, in smallness, the manifestation of the divine; in exclusion, the promise of a communion that transcends the confines of the established order. Shortly after his birth, Jesus' family is forced to flee. Precarity becomes an existential condition: exile, fear, the need to find acceptance in a foreign land. Here, weak theology becomes a companion to migrants, the persecuted, the invisible. The experience of the persecuted child Jesus is a faithful mirror of the broken lives of those today who seek refuge, dignity, and a listening ear.

There is no truer theology than that which can bend over wounds, that dares to name suffering without exploiting it, that isn't afraid to dwell in doubt. Weak theology thus becomes a gaze of solidarity, capable of recognizing God's presence not in the inaccessible, but in wounded flesh and in the stubborn hope of those who continue walking despite everything. It offers no easy answers, but a faithful presence, and welcomes the question as a sacred place to inhabit together.

The history of the Christian faith is marked by profound tensions between strong and weak theological visions. On the one hand, the human need for certainty has often generated imposing dogmatic systems, sometimes distant from the concrete reality of life. On the other, weak theology proposes an alternative path: no longer truth as possession, but as pursuit; not doctrine that separates, but mercy that unites.

In this prophetic tension, weak theology stands out for its rejection of technical language and the claim to totality. It does not confine itself to formulas, but opens itself to listening; it does not build towers, but reaches out. It draws close to those who doubt, those who fall, those who feel alienated within and outside the Church. At its heart, weakness is not an absence of meaning, but the womb of a new strength, different from that of the world: the gentle strength that becomes service and sharing. If theology truly wants to be good news, it must speak a language that is understandable, inhabit simple words, become a narrative close to the stories of those living on the margins. Weak theology is not content to be thought: it wants to be lived, narrated, and shared in everyday life. It chooses words that warm, that uplift, that exclude no one from the table of understanding.

A theology for the weak does not fear contamination by the stories and questions of the street; it listens more than it explains, it accompanies more than it judges. In this context, even the language of faith is transformed: no longer a shield, but a bridge; no longer a weapon, but a caress. It is time for theology to be shaped by the experience of those who live on the threshold, for only there can it rediscover its true voice and its most authentic meaning. It is time for theology to be contaminated by the existential frailties encountered along the way. Precisely because it is weak, the theology born from the manger remains constantly open to welcome and embrace human weaknesses, those excluded in the moment, refugees unable to find solace, and poor families destitute in search of a refuge they cannot find.

Weak theology, born of the manger, of flight, of exclusion, today becomes a prophecy for a Church that desires to be a home for all, especially the least fortunate. It is a call to break down the barriers of fear, to choose the path of solidarity, to embrace complexity without entrenching itself in dogmatism. Only a Church that knows how to be weak, that is willing to learn from fragility, can truly be a credible sign of hope in our troubled times.

What remains, then, of the night in Bethlehem? What remains is the light that rises from the shadows, the trust in encounter, the radical choice to leave no one behind. Weak theology invites us to step down from our cathedras and stand beside the poor, the excluded, the forgotten: it is there that the Mystery continues to whisper words of life. And if faith still has any meaning, it will be to become flesh within every wounded story, because only in weakness does the truest hope flourish.

 

SPIRITUAL RETREAT TO ADVENT SUNDAY 21 DECEMBER 2025

 

 

José: a simplicity that acolhe or Mystery

When José agrees with me, he goes as the old man of the Senhor orders him and takes his table away from home  (Mt 1:24).

Never again will you enjoy the image of São José. Austere and silent day, strange day. Always those who Maria wants something better. Traditionally, based on apocryphal text, it presents José as an ideal and living pair of six sons (four men and two men). In our modern times, she was accused of pedophilia, seeing as how Maria lived for two years in the old age. As I said, José's silence in the New Testament is amazing. The Gospel of Marcos, which, according to tradition, is most ancient, does not make a direct reference to José, and indeed Jesus is remembered as the son of Mary. No Gospel of João, the images and images of Jesus are mentioned, but not even a vestige of José. Somente our Gospels of Mateus and Lucas have some reference to José, but he never does it, or so, no word is attributed to him. Why so much silence? Isn't he foreign? Or what is it that I have already said?

 

By seeking answers in texts from other sources, such as Judaica, it is possible to make assumptions that we are dismantling and deconstructing established constructions in other places. Pirké Avot 5:23 we said that, in the Jewish tradition, the house was marked for a rapaz in the last year, as for a moça, aos doze. Therefore, following this line of fish, José was a young gentleman loved by Maria. Honestly, I prefer this version because it is more realistic and because, in a certain way, it returns to the history of Maria and José more authentically. Instead of the story of a stranger forced between an idyllic home and a young man, it contains a story imbued with the true feelings that constitute our stories of love. Além said, thinking about José as a young man of three years allows us to better understand Maria's perplexity about the proposal made by me. While listening to God's words about returning to my Senhor's mother, Maria did not escape from the perspective of her home with an idyllic home, but instead a voice of authentic love, vivid in a different and original way like her young José. 

This doesn't end here. It is possible to take another significant step in the deconstruction of a tradition which, in order to "save" the virginity of Mary, alters the historical facts which, in reality, bind us to a more human and authentic José, conferring even greater value on the figure of Mary. In fact, José is represented by the tradition of the New Testament as a just home, whose loyalty stemmed from his loyalty to the tradition of his country. However, carefully reflecting on this tradition, if José were completely faithful to his wife, there would be such a reason for Maria's assassination. According to the tradition of the Old Testament, Maria must have died because the son she was carrying was not her future husband, and José, if he had just no sense of faith in tradition, must have publicly repudiated her. But no. As we know, these things we meet in a different way, because José desobedeceu, rebelou-se against her of his country, who queriam that his future wife was apedrejada. Just at that moment, I saw your heart, your feelings, once again from her, that he, a young, loved one, felt through Maria. And love opens its heart to mercy, leaving the side of the sacrifice, anticipating that as a young child it will ever be pointed out as an authentic journey by those we love or Pai: "That mercy, more than that sacrifice." It was the rebelliousness of José who allowed the Holy Spirit to enter the history and, moreover, we gave ourselves to the mother of that Salvador's birthplace: Maria. Obrigado, José!

I am gold and I implore a good degree to a José as he is: 

 

O São José, may I desobedecest you of the Fathers who queriam Maria apedrejada até to death.

 

I implore you:

Give me strength to rebel against all your injustices.

Help me to radically reject the religion I have.

Let me, in all the circumstances of life, to place in the first place, as you would imagine, the love for her and the appreciation for tradition.

Impress my mind with strength, so that I am not helpless in conflict situations that seem difficult to resolve.

Help me, enfim, to look into life with serenity and trust, like a wonderful sun of a Pai who longs for us, our sons, who we follow the logic of mercy, and instead of obedience we follow the traditions, which we call.

Amém

 

Not silent from the sacred history, José emerged as a common home, deeply extraordinary. His life unfolds through the ancient streets of Nazaré, in the spirit of his workshop and in the most discreet manner of his prayers, but in his heart he carries a sound that transfigures everything. It is a song that is born not from personal ambition, nor from the pursuit of greatness, but from the humility and spirit of a voice that whispers in one's heart. Let us believe that the presence of the Mystery is not as forceful as an outward one, but it is revealed that life is flowing, that we are capable of accepting every fall like an inexperienced goddess.

Joseph lives immersed in the simplicity of small gestures. All the hands, the opening of his workshop and his hands, marked by the work, move like the wisdom of his predecessors. Ele aplaina, serra, pray: o tempo da transformationação da madeira acompanha seus dias. He doesn't seek the exceptional, he doesn't pursue or succeed; Again I said, meet the extraordinary not the ordinary, in beauty no honest work. Even in the synagogue, with the warmth of the community and the ancestral voice of the Scriptures, it is a place of learning and learning. Joseph knows that faith is nourished by perseverance, that prayer is entwined with labor, that hope is nourished by the ever-humbling details of life.

On days that happen, always bad and always new, José cultivates seeds of conscience. Each gesture, as soon as it appears, becomes an opportunity to learn to love the reality as it presents itself, without asking to mold it to one's own desires. Your conscience is born from silence and from listening: a heart that must be educated by the rhythms of life, which is open to what you know, can never resist. It is in our details, that part of the conversation, that gaze turned towards Maria, that is cared for by Menino, that José has built a just conscience, that he cannot master the medium or the doubt, but that he enters, with simplicity, into the bond of the Mystery that guides everything.

Filling the Mystery means giving space to the unexpected, allowing revelation to penetrate the mundane substance of everyday life. Joseph says discreetly, without warning: don't look for extraordinários sinais, you'll be surprised by the presence of the Mystery in the entrelinhas from day to day. My son is not an escape from reality, but a new perspective on his own reality. In every encounter, in every effort, I perceive an echo of the mystery that transforms simple things into the sinais of eternity. Like, or labor, or afeto, or suffering and joy return to places of revelação, wherefore the divine approaches and life acquires a more profound meaning.

For many centuries, José remains a shining example of someone who knows how to embrace life with a strong and grateful heart. His justification is not formalism, but rather at the disposal of being molded by the mystery that manifests itself at the same time and, above all, in most simple people. His story tells us that true faith changes not through spectacular gestures, but rather through a loyalty obstinate to reality, lived as a man and a man should. By following these steps, we will learn that conscience is formed in everyday gestures, that the beauty of life is hidden in simplicity and that the Mystery can only be encountered by those who, like José, embrace us every day with admiration and silent affection.

 

. A history of Elizabeth

 

They were not sons, because Isabel was estéril and both were of advanced life  (Lk 1:6).

 The theme of sterility goes all the way through the Bible and, once in a while, it's worth addressing it.

It is difficult to pass from despair to sterility of all the spouses of the three first patriarchs, Sara, Rebeca and Raquel, spouses of Abraão, Isaac and Jacó, respectively. These biblical facts are returned to other parts of the Scriptures, instead of indicating that it is God who gives life and is not at home, sublining that he is not the man who always fulfills the promises. In truth, it's God that Sarah, Rebeca and Rachel come back and are capable of conceiving a son and don't care about their husbands. Or what is in the game is not so much the authority of the homens who, as we know, were pais due to the polygamous structure of the current culture, but to the motherhood of the women whom God sought to fulfill His promises. From the beginning, a divine promise relativizes family ties and pai-filho relationships, breaks with patriarchal success and establishes the home of Israel through the multitudes, offering us an equal structure.

Together with this, there is in the Bible a strongly symbolic theme of the eeriness of the desert which is transformed into plain, with streams of water (Is 35; Is 40).

There is a mystery, profound and silent, that permeates the essence of our existence: or of hope that endures even within the limits of rationality, of faith that dares to believe why everything seems intransparent. The story of Isabel and Zacarias emerges as a dark story, telling us that the impossible could, in fate, be possible again. It is a story of expectations consumed over time, of desires buried in everyday poetry, but also of unexpected turns that subvert all human expectations. Meditating on this history helps us to recognize the inestimable value of hope, the ability to restore the feeling and a future that everything seems irremediably lost.

Isabel and Zacarias live in foreignness and speed, conditions that, in the culture of the time, represented the definitive impossibility of descent, of a land without sands and of a love without promises. No condition, no hope is not a passing feeling, but a silent companion that creeps into the corners of two days and weighs on the sounds . Isabel's spiritual womb is a metaphor for all human situations in which hope seems to be destined for friendship: broken relationships, failed plans, expectations that are transformed into residence. The coming day of the same time represents a life that approaches twilight, so that the hope for a thousand things seems almost miraculous.

It has a deep and useful message that we share with Isabel and Zacarias: to embrace our own fragility , to accept our own identity and that it is different from ours, not to escape from losing our sins, but to remain there with courage . Learning to live with the symptoms of death, whether solidity, disappointment, sorrow or vainness, means remaining faithful to ourselves, even when the surrounding circumstances seem to give us all hope. The apex of life, even in times of trial, is an act of faith: I do not wish or hope for the last word , but I continue to turn my heart towards those who are already invisible and can surprise me.

Elisabeth personifies, with humility and firmness, the silent force of those who have never left . His faith is not ostensive nor shouted, but whispered every day, a perseverance that he does not fear for a long time. Despite the critical criticism of society, despite the weight of her own doubts, Elisabeth does not lose her dignity even in the strength of her heart. Your courage remains open to the sun, and can only be cultivated when everything indicates that it must be rejected. Nela, or thousand from the confiança inabalável comes true, a light that burns under the chinzas of habit.

Suddenly, the wind of Mystery shakes the curtains of his house: so that before it has dried up, now life flourishes; whereby the silence returned, now it was filled with joy. Elizabeth's suffering is transformed into a song, her belly into a new hope. The realization of an impossible dream is not enough to satisfy a person's desire, but a sign that the Mystery of Life can surpass and subvert all human predictions. The happiness that brota is born from heartfelt hope, from constant vigilance even when the noise seems to stop.

This story reveals the paradoxical logic of the Mystery: love manifests precisely where the shadows seem more dense, the life of the desert, the grace insinuates itself into the breach of our vulnerability . In favor of Elisabeth and Zacarias there is no obstinacy, but an opening confiding in the unexpected. It is the light of a Love that cannot be sold by trevas, which transforms darkness into dawn. This light reminds us that the profound meaning of life is not understood through human calculations, but is revealed to those who know how to hope and embrace it.

The story of Elisabeth and Zacarias encourages us to rediscover the value of silent prayer, of meditation that brings forth the depths of heart and open space to the Mystery . It is a meditation that we learn the art of smelling or that whispers to us in life, to distinguish in voice from the hope of the middle one. The spiritual journey is not an escape from reality, but rather a deeper immersion in it, the point of recognizing a greater level of awareness. Rezar is to confide in one's wounds in the Mystery, to meditate is to decide to mold oneself for the certainty that, even when one is not there, something is already brooding.

The story of Elisabeth and Zacarias returns to the prophecy and provocation: we believe that we believe in the possibility, that we do not fear our inner deserts, that we do not give up when everything indicates that we must abandon our hope . In the world many times dominated by the efficiency and logic of results, the spirituality seems to us that life flourishes precisely where we learn to hope, to trust, to be superior. That Isabel's courage is our example: in the noise, the light just hopes to be cooled. And sometimes, when everything seems lost, the Mystery surprises us again, allowing us to glimpse that the impossibility is the space in which hope dwells.

 

A liquid theology

 

 

Critical analysis of dogmatic theology and proposal for a new mode of theological thought

Paolo Cugini

 

In the contemporary landscape, theological reflection finds itself at a crucial epistemological crossroads. If dogmatic theology can be defined as "solid," that is, founded on stable and often immutable principles and systems, its natural opposite is "liquidity." This metaphor, borrowed from the lexicon of the social sciences, suggests a theology capable of adapting, flowing, and renewing itself in relation to the historical, cultural, and social needs of the present time.

The solidity of traditional theology, while ensuring doctrinal coherence and identity, has often generated rigidities that hinder dialogue with the complexities of current events. This epistemic rigidity, in fact, makes it difficult to address the new demands of society, generating disorientation and distrust in the possibilities of reform. A solid structure, if incapable of change, risks breaking down in the face of challenges it cannot understand or resolve, to the point of gradually disappearing from the cultural horizon.

In this context, the need for a new theology emerges, one capable of addressing problems as they arise, without becoming rigid in the face of diversity or novelty. Liquid theology, from this perspective, does not simply tolerate differences, but embraces them as an opportunity for growth, listening, and dialogue. It views the plurality of opinions not as a threat, but as a constructive stimulus that can renew doctrine itself.

Liquid theology is thus distinguished by its ability to give and receive, to welcome the contributions of other theologies without fear of contamination. In this way, it embodies a more inclusive and merciful ecclesial model, in stark contrast to the doctrinal harshness that, over the centuries, has sometimes sown violence and intransigence. The dark pages of history, from the "holy" Inquisition to the witch hunts, testify to how solid theology, allied with political power, has forcefully imposed a uniform faith, obliterating diversity and freedom of conscience.

In conclusion, liquid theology offers an alternative paradigm, capable of overcoming the rigidities of the past and promoting a more open, dialogical theological thought, attentive to the challenges of the present. Only through this epistemological transformation will it be possible to restore theology to its original function: as a place of research, discussion, and authentic spiritual experience.

 

The day the women left the Church: forever

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

And so the day arrived. There was a murmur in the air, accompanied by friendly laughter. A silent yet cheerful rush to leave. They had secretly agreed, just like in the old school days. But now they were grown, and precisely because of this, they decided that day to go elsewhere. In fact, they had resolved to leave the church forever: never to return. The latest events had finally convinced them that there was no place for them. Perhaps those repeated rejections were part of a voice from the Mystery, guiding history and the universe to move in another direction. The universe is vast, so why insist on remaining in a place that, day by day, reveals itself to be hostile?

This was the thought of the friends who, filled with joy, decided that day to walk through every street in the village, calling out to every woman they met and sharing the great news: the Mystery is calling us all to go elsewhere. Centuries upon centuries receiving nothing but rejection, misunderstanding, orders to remain silent. And don’t you remember when they amused themselves by burning us, by calling us witches! So why should we stay in a place like this, that doesn’t want us, that treats us badly? Let’s all leave, they shouted, and dancing and singing merrily, they went from door to door. “Let’s go, girls! We’re free! Let’s never again be trapped by their petty words.”

So it was that from that day onwards, the churches were left without a single woman: they had all gone. And on that day, it was written in the skies and etched into the whispers of the wind: “New times will come,” proclaimed the silence of the empty naves, “for the women, daughters of the earth and of courage, have listened to the secret heartbeat of the Mystery.” Thus, like waves abandoning the shore after centuries of storms, they left the places that had not loved them, carrying with them the ancient light of freedom. And the bells, which once called people to gather, remained silent, contemplating the peaceful revolution of souls on the move.

It was the end of one era and the dawn of another, where the voices of women, finally freed from the shackles of invisibility, echoed through the alleys, the squares, beneath the limitless sky: “There will be no more prison that can hold us, nor word that can silence us. From today, life will be written elsewhere.” And even now, those who listen with an open heart can hear them, dancing lightly on the border between the old and new world, proclaiming that where freedom calls, no heart shall remain in chains.

Rediscovering the Mystery beyond orthodoxy

 



Paolo Cugini

 

 

In the silence that precedes every great turning point, a voice rises inviting one to deviate from the beaten path. It is the voice of the prophets, those who choose to go against, to cross theology from the other side of orthodoxy. Their journey is solitary, often criticized, but necessary: only those who dare to challenge common sense can discover the hidden face of truth, concealed precisely where no one dares to look.

Prophecy, in this context, is not only anticipation of the future but also a break with the past. Those who stubbornly identify life with the norm, with what has already been said and done, condemn themselves to a spiritual sterility, unable to grasp the thrill of the true. Truth is not found where everyone points, but on the inverse path, in the opposite direction, where the thirst for life, justice, and love pushes to seek the new beneath the ashes of the old.

Thus, theology “going the wrong way” becomes a desire for authenticity, a recognition that il Mistero cannot be imprisoned in handed-down formulas, but hides from the eyes of those who believe themselves custodians of the past. Here springs living water, not from fossilized memory, but from the present that unsettles and renews, like the wind that shakes the branches and invites stepping out of the security of habits.

Going against, then, is a prophetic act: it requires courage and critical spirit, and above all the ability to be questioned by the unknown, by that part of history that still has no name. Only those who embrace uncertainty discover that faith is a journey, never possession; love is risk, never simple adherence; justice is thirst, never reward. In this tension lives true theology: not in control, but in trusting abandonment to il Mistero that reveals itself only to those who dare to go against.

Faith itself does not arise from certainty, but from that uncertain step that leads out of the flock. The history of spirituality is crossed by women and men who knew how to listen to the contrary inner voice, choose the less traveled way, and for this have generated novelty. Today more than ever, in times of crisis and transformation, returning to prophesy from theology on the other side is an act of responsibility and hope, an invitation to be surprised by il Mistero that precedes us and accompanies us beyond every fence of doctrine.

 

The path of the kingdom of heaven

 

Paolo Cugini

 

Not everyone who says to me, “Lord, Lord”, will enter the kingdom of heaven (Mt 7:21).

O men and women who seek meaning in the folds of your existence, listen! The kingdom of heaven does not manifest itself like the kingdoms of this world, it does not rise up behind stone walls nor is it founded upon thrones of power. It is not a reality that escapes the human eye, nor a shadow that dissolves in the hereafter. Instead, it is a path that opens amidst the streets of daily life, a new way of being, a breath that transforms our relationships with others and with ourselves. Whoever wishes to enter this kingdom must listen to the Word and live it. This is where the journey begins, this is where the walk continues. It is not a matter of adhering to a doctrine or professing an outward creed: the kingdom is opened only to those who allow the Word of Jesus to illuminate the path, breaking the yoke of instincts that imprison us within the circle of our selfishness. Just as the sun breaks through the clouds, so the Word enlightens the heart and frees us from the logic of possession and domination.

Here is the secret that is revealed: a renewed humanity, generous and selfless, giving itself without measure, serving with humility and care. In this gift, in this gratuity, the kingdom of heaven is revealed. It is not a place, but a state of the soul, a relationship that becomes closeness, care, compassion. Whoever lives the Word sows light, reaps peace. There exists a secret path, traced within the fabric of history, that is revealed only to those who desire it, to those who commit themselves with burning will to put into practice what they hear. It is the will that opens the door, that transforms the Word into revelation, into illumination.

In a world that often wears the garments of darkness, a luminous way is lit: the possibility of existing in a new, different, radical way. This difference is the true kingdom of heaven, the prophecy that is fulfilled every time someone chooses to live according to the logic of service, of giving, of free love.

O you who read, the kingdom of heaven calls upon you. Do not wait for it to be a future event: it is already here, every time you choose to be light instead of shadow, every time the Word becomes action. Ancient wisdom says, “Whoever seeks finds”; whoever lives the Gospel discovers the joy that no power can take away. Walk, then, on the hidden path; make your life the place where heaven can be reflected upon earth.

 

The fertility of heresy

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

The word "heresy" often evokes images of bonfires, persecutions, and condemnations. Traditionally, the term has been associated with deviations from official doctrine, a stigma to be avoided at all costs. However, if we observe the history of ideas with a less dogmatic and more open eye, an unexpected truth emerges: heresy, far from being merely destructive, often proves extraordinarily fruitful. It acts as an engine of change, a stimulus to reflection, and sometimes as a seed for new worldviews.

Human thought has always developed through the confrontation between what is considered true and what is considered deviant. Orthodoxy, by its very nature, tends to crystallize knowledge; heresy, on the other hand, questions it, provokes it, forces it to defend itself. It is in this dialectic that the most innovative ideas often emerge. Without the stimulus of heresy, many doctrines would have remained immobile, unable to adapt to the new needs and demands of society. Again, without heresy, there would probably be no dogma.

The history of philosophy and theology is replete with figures who, accused of heresy, later profoundly influenced Western thought. Consider Giordano Bruno, who, by challenging the cosmological conceptions of his time, paved the way for an infinitely broader vision of the universe. Or Galileo Galilei, whose scientific heresy laid the foundations for the modern scientific revolution. In the religious field, medieval heresies such as those of the Cathars and Waldensians, although harshly repressed, contributed to a more nuanced spiritual and social debate.

No less important is the role of heresy in art and literature. Often, artists and writers who dared to challenge the canons and norms of their time were initially accused of aesthetic or moral heresy, but this very ability to go against the grain led to the emergence of new styles, genres, and movements. Dante Alighieri, with his personal vision of the afterlife, or Caravaggio, with his revolutionary use of light, are examples of how heresy can be a source of creative renewal.

Heresy is not limited to religious or artistic ideas, but also encompasses social models. Movements initially considered heretical, such as abolitionism, feminism, or the first demands for civil rights, have contributed to radically transforming society. While it is true that heresy can threaten the established order, it is equally true that it represents a precious opportunity for growth and evolution. Its fruitfulness lies precisely in its capacity to break with patterns, propose alternatives, and stimulate critical thinking. In a rapidly changing world, the temptation to cling to one's own certainties is great, but history teaches us that only those who know how to listen to heretical voices are capable of renewing themselves. Ultimately, as the poet said: There is no innovation without heresy.

 

Key points of a subversive theology

 

Paolo Cugini

In an era marked by profound social, cultural, and economic changes, theology is called to question its role and its capacity to have an impact on reality. It is within this context that the so-called “subversive theology” emerges and develops—a current of thought that does not merely interpret the world but seeks to transform it, positioning itself as a critical voice in the face of injustice, inequality, and oppressive structures. But what are the firm points of a subversive theology? What principles animate it and make it relevant today?

The first pillar of subversive theology is the tireless pursuit of justice. This theology takes the cry of the oppressed as its fundamental criterion, placing at its centre the experience of those who are excluded, marginalised, or exploited. This is not simply about abstract justice, but about concrete justice that translates into active commitment to the liberation of the poor and the marginalised, in line with the biblical prophetic tradition and the practice of Jesus of Nazareth. Subversive theology recognises in the poor and the weak the very face of God. The preferential option for the poor is not just an ethical choice, but a key to interpreting divine revelation. In this sense, any theological discourse that fails to consider the sufferings and hopes of oppressed peoples risks being empty and self-referential.

Subversive theology is characterised by a radical critique of the power structures that create and perpetuate injustice. It denounces the complicity between religion and political or economic power, and calls faith communities to take a stance against all forms of idolatry—of power, money, and success. In this regard, the evangelical warning remains timely: “You cannot serve both God and wealth.”

This theology is nourished by dialogue with other disciplines, other cultures, and other religions. The subversive approach rejects all forms of dogmatism and is open to engagement, aware that truth is not the exclusive property of anyone but is built through relationship, listening, and sharing. In this way, subversive theology is also self-critical, ready to recognise its own limitations and to be challenged by otherness, thus opening itself up to all forms of cross-contamination.

Subversive theology does not content itself with theoretical reflection but translates into practice. “Faith without works is dead,” reads the Letter of James. For this reason, every theological elaboration must be accompanied by concrete choices aimed at changing reality, from small daily gestures to major social and political struggles. It is a theology that “takes to the streets”, that gets its hands dirty, that puts itself at the service of those who fight for dignity and freedom.

The term “subversive” carries a significant semantic weight, evoking the idea of breaking with and questioning established structures. However, from a theological perspective, subversion is not destructive but generative: it is a matter of provoking questions, creating spaces for dialogue, and giving voice to those who have historically remained on the margins. This approach is deeply inspired by the gospel message, which subverts the logic of power to put the little ones, the poor, and the excluded at the centre. The relationship between subversive theology and the Magisterium of the Church is not simply one of opposition. At times, what seems to threaten the established order can, in fact, enable positive transformation. Subversive theology challenges the Magisterium on crucial issues such as justice, inclusion, and dignity, inviting the Church to review its positions and open itself to new perspectives.

At the heart of subversive theology is the desire for a “welcoming” Church, capable of embracing all forms of diversity: cultural, social, and gender. This embrace is not a concession but an authentic response to the Gospel, which calls for space to be made in the ecclesial assembly for everyone. In this sense, subversive theology stands as an ally of a Church that seeks to be a mother. In recent history, various movements and figures have embodied this creative tension: from liberation theology in Latin America, which gave voice to the poor against social injustices, to feminist and queer theologies, which have challenged the Church to rethink its language, its rites, and its structures. These experiences reflect a Church on the move, called to walk together (synodality), as hoped for by Pope Francis.

 

The fear that kills life

 

Paolo Cugini

 

“Sir, here is your gold coin, which I kept hidden in a handkerchief; I was afraid of you, for you are a harsh man.” (Luke 19:20-21)

There is a subtle fear, which creeps silently through hearts and minds, capable of extinguishing dreams before they have even found a voice. It is the fear that kills life. Not a concrete threat or a real danger, but an invisible presence that slowly erodes trust, desire, and hope. In an era where everything seems to be measured, evaluated, classified, the fear of living is born as the offspring of the fear of making mistakes. And so the spark of life is snuffed out, like a candle smothered by the wind of doubt.

At the root of the fear of living lies the fear of making mistakes. In a society that raises the culture of merit as the supreme rule, error is no longer seen as an integral part of the human journey, but as an indelible stain on one’s reputation and personal value. The message is clear: those who make mistakes are out, those who fall are left behind. Trapped in this logic, we quickly learn to fear every misstep, to avoid every risk, to never truly put ourselves to the test. Thus, life becomes a minefield where every decision is laden with anxiety, and every attempt can turn into a sentence.

When fear prevails, the first victim is talent. How many gifts remain buried beneath layers of shyness and insecurity? How many dreams never find a voice, suffocated by the fear of judgement or the risk of failing? Instead of blossoming, we close ourselves off, building walls that separate us from others and, above all, from what we could become. We do not experiment, we do not dare, we do not live. It is as if a tree refused to bear fruit for fear that the wind might make them fall. But the real tragedy is not falling; it is never having tried to climb.

There is an ancient truth that transcends the ages: life is a gift. And a gift, by its nature, asks to be received, lived, transformed. To give the gift back means renouncing living it; it means declaring, perhaps without words, that we do not feel worthy, that we do not desire enough. It is like returning a seed to the earth without ever having tried to sow it. Behind this act lies a lack of deep desire, a lost trust in life’s possibilities. Yet betraying the gift is the greatest offence we can commit against our own existence.

Desire is the silent engine that pushes humanity beyond its limits. Where there is desire, there is movement, openness, hope. Healthy desire is what invites us to take risks, to explore, to have a go. It does not spring from arrogance, but from a profound awareness that life, to be truly lived, must be experienced in all its shades. To renounce desire, to extinguish it for fear of making mistakes, is like choosing not to breathe for fear of choking.

There is life even in error, there is growth even in failure—perhaps even more than elsewhere. Those who do not make mistakes do not live. Those who do not fall do not learn. Failure is not the end, but a passage, an open door to new possibilities. In the cracks of error, the strength to start again takes root, along with the wisdom of those who have dared. Only those who risk truly know the depths of life and experience the secret joy that comes from rising after a fall.

The fear that kills life can only be overcome by cultivating the courage to take risks, the willingness to experiment, and faith in the possibilities hidden in each day. To live fully does not mean never making mistakes, but allowing ourselves the luxury to search, to desire, to fall and rise again. True death is renunciation, apathy, closing in on ourselves. Let us dare, then: let us trust in desire, experiment with our talents, and embrace the gift of life. Only then does fear become an ally, a travelling companion, and no longer our jailer. True life belongs to those who have the courage to live it.

 

To the source of light

 

Prophetic reflection on inner blindness and the journey towards light

Paolo Cugini

 

 

Then Jesus stopped and ordered the man to be brought to him. When he came near, Jesus asked him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ He replied, ‘Lord, let me see again!’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Receive your sight! Your faith has saved you.’ (Luke 18:39-44)

There is a subtle affliction that weaves through the folds of the soul, a shadow that creeps in silently and, over time, risks becoming a permanent condition: the blindness of conscience. It is not a visible illness, it leaves no tangible marks on the flesh, but it strikes deeper, blinding our ability to see, to distinguish, to orient ourselves in the stormy sea of life. Blindness of conscience cannot be healed by standing still, waiting for a miracle to fall from above like rain on a summer’s night. Nor is it enough to implore healing, trapped in the repetition of words that bring about no true change. It is necessary to make a move, a conscious step out of one’s state of blindness, an act of will that pushes us towards the source of light.

And yet, often our legs tremble, the heart hesitates, the mind becomes confused. We need someone to take us by the hand, to help us reach the one who can restore our sight and show us the light. No one is saved alone: solidarity, friendship, the guidance of those who have already travelled that path become beacons in the darkness.

There is a grave danger looming for those who linger too long in the darkness of their inner condition. When the mind becomes too accustomed to living in shadows, there is a risk of mistaking them for one’s natural horizon, of losing even the memory of the light. At that moment, the tragedy of no return unfolds: the abyss that transforms darkness into normality, making us incapable of desiring truth, beauty, a full life. Prolonged dwelling in the dark, allowing negativity to pervade every aspect of existence, irreparably damages our ability to see, to hope, to dare. We are responsible for our own darkness, as we are for our own resurrections.

In the Gospel of Luke, the blind man by the roadside does not remain silent. He cries out, breaking the stillness of despair by giving voice to his longing for light. That cry is the first act of will, the spark that ignites the possibility of change. It is not Jesus who goes to the blind man, but the blind man who, aided, approaches the Master. It is the will to emerge from one’s shadow that opens the way for the miracle. There are no miracles or sudden interventions that can resolve what afflicts us if we ourselves are not, first and foremost, desirous of healing, ready to take the step out of our darkness. We are the protagonists of our own harm, but also of our own resurrections. No one can choose for us: freedom, this terrible and marvellous gift, places upon us the responsibility for our choices. The voluntary exit from evil is the sign of a living faith, one that does not stop at words, but becomes action, movement, concrete change. It is faith that saves us, because it is the personal response to the free gift of love that Mystery reveals to us in Jesus. This is not a passive faith, but one that draws from the source of light and love within history, every time we so desire.

The prophecy that resounds today for each of us is a courageous invitation: do not remain motionless in the night of conscience, never identify the darkness as the only possible horizon of life. There is a source of light, of love, of salvation to which we can draw, but only if we truly wish it. It is up to us to begin the journey, to cry out, to step out, to seek the light with all our hearts. For it is only there, on the threshold between shadow and brightness, that the miracle of rebirth takes place.

 

The Theology of dissent

 

A Necessary bridge between doctrine and lived reality

Paolo Cugini

 

 

The theology of dissent represents a field for reflection and dialogue that, while developing within the ecclesial landscape, carries a profoundly human and communal significance. It arises from the recognition of a constant tension: that between the steadfastness of the Church’s official doctrine and the irreducible multiplicity of the concrete experiences lived by believers. Within this dialectic, a delicate game is played, one capable of raising radical questions about the very function of doctrine and the role of the Christian community in the contemporary world.

Dissent, contrary to what one might think, does not stem from a spirit of rebellion for its own sake, but from the acute perception of a gap—sometimes a painful one—between the absolute principles affirmed by the hierarchy and the reality of daily life. Often, it is precisely those who experience this discrepancy in their own lives who give voice to dissent, not to deny faith, but to remain faithful to it within the context of their own reality. Doctrine, by its nature, tends to formulate norms and general principles, often based on abstractions and on a partial knowledge of the complexity of humanity. As a result, it can appear rigid and incapable of embracing the full richness and nuances of individual and collective experience. In this space of disconnect, theological dissent finds its raison d’être and becomes the mouthpiece for those who do not recognise themselves in definitions perceived as too abstract, impersonal or even harmful for those living in situations of marginalisation or negative judgement.

Dissent is not limited to academic disputes among theologians, but permeates the life of Christian communities. It often manifests silently, almost submerged: many people, in their everyday lives, choose personal paths that diverge from doctrinal prescriptions, sometimes without even realising it. This raises a fundamental question: what is the purpose of doctrine, if not to guide and support people’s journey of faith? Doctrine, after all, should be a tool at the service of life, not an unbearable burden. From this perspective, dissent takes shape as a critical prod, an indispensable element to prevent faith from being reduced to a set of abstract rules. The echo of Jesus’ words against the Pharisees, who imposed doctrinal burdens that they themselves could not bear, still resounds today with force and relevance.

The theology of dissent does not stop at acknowledging the distance between doctrine and reality, but seeks to collect, organise and formalise contradictions into solid arguments. Its aim is to expose doctrinal inventions—those norms or interpretations that have drifted away from the essence of the Gospel message or the real life of the people of God. Through engagement with lived reality, theological dissent seeks to bring doctrine back to its original function: to be a word of hope and meaning for the concrete existence of people. In this sense, dissent is not the enemy of the Church, but a precious resource for its journey towards authenticity and coherence.

The tension between the ideal and reality can never be completely resolved. The theology of dissent therefore serves to keep the dialogue open, to prevent doctrine from crystallising into sterile abstractions, and to ensure that faith continues to speak to life. This is a delicate and dynamic balance, in which dissent does not destroy, but builds. Ultimately, the theology of dissent is a bridge—not between two opposing banks, but between an ideal at risk of becoming unattainable and a reality that asks to be understood, welcomed and redeemed. It is thanks to this bridge that faith can continue to be, today as yesterday, the salt of the earth and the light of the world.