IV Sunday of Pascha: Sunday of the Paralytic.

A reading from the Holy Gospel according to he Apostle and Evangelist Saint John (Jn 5:1-15).

"After this, there was a feast of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.

Now there is in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate a pool, which is called in Hebrew Bethesda, having five porches. In these lay a great multitude of sick people, blind, lame, paralyzed, waiting for the moving of the water.

For an angel went down at a certain time into the pool and stirred up the water; then whoever stepped in first, after the stirring of the water, was made well of whatever disease he had.

Now a certain man was there who had an infirmity thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there, and knew that he had already been in that condition a long time, He said to him, “Do you want to be made well?”

The sick man answered Him, “Sir, I have no man to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; but while I am coming, another steps down before me.” Jesus said to him, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.” And immediately the man was made well, took up his bed, and walked. And that day was the Sabbath.

The Jews therefore said to him who was cured, “It is the Sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your bed.” He answered them, “He who made me well said to me, ‘Take up your bed and walk.’” Then they asked him, “Who is the Man who said to you, ‘Take up your bed and walk’?”

But the one who was healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had withdrawn, a multitude being in that place.

Afterward Jesus found him in the temple, and said to him, “See, you have been made well. Sin no more, lest a worse thing come upon you.” The man departed and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had made him well."

Homily

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Brothers and sisters in the Lord, today the holy Church places before us a poignant and deeply human image: a man who has been lying motionless for thirty-eight years, forgotten by the edge of a pool. The water is stirred, but no one helps him. Time passes, but nothing changes. He is there—alone. Invisible. Perhaps mocked. Perhaps pitifully ignored. Certainly forgotten.

And yet, in this paralyzed man, we recognize something of ourselves.

Some are immobilized by illness, others by fear, resentment, or a past they cannot forgive. Still others lie in indifference or despair. Today, Jesus draws near to all these invisible beds scattered throughout the world and asks a question that strikes like lightning: “Do you want to be healed?” (John 5:6).

It is not a naive question, but a divine one. It is God bending down to man—not to judge, but to awaken. He does not ask whether the man deserves it, He does not examine his faith, nor does He rebuke him for his sins. He asks only one thing: whether he wants to rise. It is a question that does not impose but invites; that does not demand but waits for a free and conscious response. Christ offers healing, but leaves us free to accept or refuse it. He does not compel us, but loves us with infinite patience, waiting for our hearts to answer His love with trust.

The paralytic does not say “yes.” Instead, he laments: “Sir, I have no one…” (John 5:7).

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, today we are invited to reflect on one of the most painful and most human realities of our lives: paralysis. Not the physical kind, which can be seen with the eyes, but the more subtle kind that afflicts the spirit and the heart. It is the paralysis that seizes us when we feel unable to react, to rise, to hope. In a world that moves at high speed and constantly pushes us to do more, to be more, we sometimes find ourselves like the paralytic in the Gospel: stuck, weak, unable to walk in faith, in hope, and in love.

So we must ask ourselves: are we the ones paralyzed, or is it society that paralyzes us?

We live in a time marked by a deep paralysis—not because our legs don’t move, but because our hearts have stopped. It is an inner paralysis, invisible but devastating. It is the heart that freezes at the sight of another’s suffering. It is the mind that shuts down when someone needs our time, our listening, our understanding. It is the will that falters before the challenge of fidelity, commitment, perseverance.

Society distracts us, numbs us. It offers a thousand promises but often leaves us empty. Relationships grow shallow, egocentrism prevails, and we feel unable to truly respond, to do good, to genuinely connect with others. The modern paralytic is the one who feels powerless, trapped in a world that seems to offer no room for redemption or the dream of a new life.

Then comes another form of paralysis—social paralysis. We live under the crushing weight of others’ expectations, of success, of appearances, of the pressure to constantly “measure up.” We are tired, yet we cannot stop. We are connected, yet deeply alone. Authentic relationships are scarce. A community that truly embraces us is missing. So individualism and materialism become invisible chains: they immobilize us. And we find ourselves stuck, prisoners of the fear of failure or of that inner emptiness no material good can fill.

Today’s paralytic is the one lying at the edge of social, spiritual, or familial life. The one who can no longer pray, or trust, or love. The one who has lost their job, who lives alone, who suffers from mental or spiritual illness. It is the young person crushed by unreachable expectations, the forgotten elderly, the betrayed woman, the man broken by shame. The paralytic is also the one caught in addiction—not just to substances, but to destructive habits: pornography, judgment, control, power.

And we must admit that sometimes, we are the paralytics. We are the ones who delay doing good, always waiting for someone else to stir the water. “I have no one,” says the man to Jesus. How often have we said the same? “I have no one who understands me… no one to help me… no one who truly listens…” And so we lie there, passive, motionless, waiting for someone else to take the first step.

Yet even in our paralysis, God sees us. And He does not leave us alone.

The Lord is not scandalized by our tiredness. He does not let our complaints block Him. He does not judge us for our discouragement. He loves us even in our sighs. And with gentle authority, He tells us: “Rise, take up your bed, and walk” (John 5:8).

Saint Ambrose says: “The paralytic is an image of one oppressed by the weight of sin. Christ heals him not only in body, but especially in soul, freeing him with a single word” (Expositio Evangelii secundum Lucam, V, 45).

And Saint John Chrysostom adds: “When Christ heals, He does not touch the body but commands with the word, because His voice is divine power” (Homiliae in Ioannem, 37:1).

In the book of Acts, we see this same power at work in the Church: Peter, with the same authority as Christ, says to Aeneas: “Jesus Christ heals you: rise up!” (Acts 9:34). And immediately, Aeneas rises. Then Peter kneels to pray and calls Tabitha, a beloved disciple and benefactor, back to life.

This is the Church: not a sterile institution, but the living hands of Christ, who still today raises, heals, consoles, and resurrects.

In this wounded world, Tabitha today is every silent soul who does good without appearing. It is those who burn in charity without receiving applause. It is the single mother who raises her children with dignity. It is the worker in a community who accompanies with patience. It is the priest who listens with compassion. It is the forgotten volunteer. It is the elderly person who prays for everyone. It is the one who clothes the poor, cares for the sick, consoles the little ones. It is the one who, like Tabitha, “was full of good works and alms” (Acts 9:36)

But Tabitha dies. The good seems to fade. And then, a Peter is needed. And who is Peter today?

Peter is the one who, in faith, dares to believe in the resurrection, even when everything seems lost. It is the one who, in front of the death of hope, enters the room, prays, and says with a prophetic voice: “Rise!” Peter today is the one who does not surrender to the cynicism of society, but announces that Christ is alive. It is the one who takes by the hand and raises up. It is the one who, in the name of the Lord, restores dignity, courage, and a future.

Today, we need to become like Peter, not with our own strength, but with that of the Risen One. Because it is the Lord who heals. It is He who says: “Rise, take up your bed, and walk” (John 5:8). But today, He also entrusts that command to us. To me. To you. Because there is always someone beside us who lies paralyzed in heart and needs you not to ignore them.

Helping, however, comes at a price. It exposes, challenges, and invites us to step out of our comfort zone. It means relinquishing control, giving time, listening, and love. Yet, too often, we prefer to remain silent spectators of broken lives, convinced that “it’s not our concern.” But as Christians, we can no longer afford that. We cannot remain indifferent to the pain of others.

Today, as we reflect on the figure of the paralytic, we are called to look inside ourselves and ask a question: where do our paralyses hide? In which corner of our life are we still unable to walk, to live fully the freedom Christ has given us? What are the wounds we carry in our hearts that prevent us from experiencing the peace and joy of salvation? Paralysis can hide in a heart that has stopped hoping, in a mind that has surrendered to the difficulties of life, in a broken relationship we are not ready to heal. But Christ’s question remains the same: “Do you want to be healed?” It is an invitation that pushes us not to remain prisoners of ourselves, but to embrace the healing that only He can offer us.

The real challenge is not only to recognize paralysis, both in ourselves and in society, but to overcome it. We cannot afford to remain still. The healing that Jesus offers us is not just physical, but embraces our spiritual, emotional, and social dimensions. His invitation to rise and walk is a powerful call not to let interior and social paralyses determine our path. It is a call to live fully the freedom that only Christ can give us, to take the first step toward a world that, more than ever, needs healing, hope, and hearts ready to respond to His love.

The Church teaches us that salvation is not an isolated act, but a reality lived in the community of faith, where we support one another. In the Holy Liturgy, healing is always a process involving the entire Church: when one member suffers, the whole community shares the pain and together seeks restoration in Christ. Collective prayer, confession, and the Eucharist are tools that help us rise, healing not only physical wounds but also the inner paralyses that prevent us from responding to our vocation.

The Church, the house of mercy, is the place where body and soul find healing through the community and divine grace. Christ does not ask us to be perfect, but to open ourselves to His healing power. And this transformation also happens outside the walls of the temple, when – like Peter – we witness the Resurrection through concrete acts of love and charity.

The healing that Christ offers is not limited to us: it makes us instruments of hope for those today who are paralyzed in heart, mind, and life. As Saint Paul says: “Encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11). Faith is never just personal: it is communion, support, and co-responsibility.

The challenge is hard. But as Christians, we cannot let the paralysis of the world prevail. We are called to react, like Tabitha, with the silent strength of good works, and like Peter, with bold faith in the Risen One. Only then will our community – alive, orthodox, rooted in Christ – be a beacon of hope. A place where the wounds of the world can be healed, where those who have fallen can be raised, where every person wounded in spirit or body can rediscover their dignity.

Christ passed by the paralytic and did not leave him there. He healed him. He invited him to rise. Today, Christ passes by each of us. Let us not miss this visit. Let us not allow fear, sin, or distrust to paralyze us again. Let us say in faith: “Yes, Lord, I want to be healed.”

And then, His grace will lift us up. And we will walk in the glorious freedom of the children of God.

Dear brothers and sisters, I would now like to share with you an episode that profoundly marked my life. A moment of grace that changed my path, happening just before my priestly ordination, which took place in the radiant night of last year's Holy Pascha.

That evening, as I was on my way to church, I felt like the paralytic from the Gospel. Not physically, but in my heart and spirit. I felt stuck, incapable, and unworthy of facing the great responsibility I was about to take on.

Fear paralyzed me, and the prayer I was offering seemed to go nowhere.

I prayed intensely, but I couldn’t find peace. So, in my heart, I turned to the Mother of God, the All-Holy One, asking her to be with me in that moment of weakness. I said to her: “Please, don’t leave me. Stay with me. I can’t do it alone.” It was a simple prayer, but deep, full of trust and hope. A simple cry from the heart.

And in that silence, during the journey to the Church of the Good Shepherd, something happened that I will never forget. It wasn’t a noise. It wasn’t an external sign. It was a voice. A sweet yet authoritative female voice. A voice that didn’t come from the outside, but it wasn’t solely mine either. It said: “Do not be afraid. I will be with you.”

Those words pierced me. Not like a wound, but like a light that cuts through the fog. At that moment, I understood. I was not alone. I would never be alone. The Mother of the Lord, She who said “yes” to the angel, was with me as I said my “yes” to the Church. Just as She was present with the apostles in the Upper Room, so She was there in my little inner Upper Room.

And so, fear melted away. It didn’t disappear entirely, because we are human, but it transformed. It became trust. It became peace. In that moment, I truly felt that the Lord was telling me, through the voice of His Mother: “Rise, take your mat, and walk.” Walk in the vocation I have given you. Walk with Me, walk with Her.

Brothers, this is what we all need: moments like this—moments when we are not the ones seeking miracles, but allowing God to perform them within us. Sometimes, all it takes is a voice, a silent presence, to help us start walking again. And the Mother of God, who is the consolation of the faithful, is always ready to whisper in our hearts: “Do not be afraid. I will be with you.”

In this light, my dear ones, last Thursday we celebrated Saint Mark the Apostle, the intimate disciple and interpreter of the Apostle Peter, author of the Gospel that bears his name. This Gospel, inspired by the Holy Spirit, is also a miracle that invites us to walk in faith, reminding us that, like Mark, we too are called to testify to the power of Christ in our daily walk.

He was not one of the Twelve, but he was a close collaborator of Peter, and according to the ancient testimony of Papias of Hierapolis, a 2nd-century bishop, he wrote his Gospel based on the accounts and preaching of the Apostle. Papias, quoted by Eusebius of Caesarea in his Ecclesiastical History (III, 39), states that Mark “wrote accurately all that he remembered, even though not in order, of what the Lord had said and done.” For this reason, the Gospel according to Mark is considered the most faithful reflection of the voice and experience of Peter.

John Chrysostom, in his homily, writes: “Mark was the secretary of the Holy Spirit, because he wrote not according to human words, but according to the divine inspiration given to him by Peter” (Homiliae in Matthaeum, Prologus).

Saint Jerome, in De viris illustribus (ch. 8), confirms: “Mark, the disciple and interpreter of Peter, wrote a Gospel according to what Peter preached. And Peter, approving this text, recognized it as his own.”

The figure of Saint Mark is thus closely linked to the testimony of the power of Christ, who healed and transformed the lives of those who had the privilege of meeting Him. This thought invites us to recognize that the Gospel of Mark is not merely a historical memory, but a living, inspired account, shaped by the Holy Spirit to illuminate and convert the hearts of millions of believers throughout the centuries.

Through his Gospel, Saint Mark invites us to live a concrete faith, one that is not limited to words but is translated into daily actions. The Gospel is not only to be read or heard but to be incarnated. Just as Mark, inspired by the Spirit, faithfully wrote the words of Peter, we too are called to write, with our lives, the Gospel the world is waiting to see. A life lived in charity, justice, and compassion becomes itself a sacred page, capable of speaking to the hearts of men more than a thousand sermons.

Every act of love, every word that consoles, every act of true mercy becomes a line of that living Gospel that the world reads through us. Christian testimony is never neutral: it either shines with the light of Christ or risks fading into indifference.

The memory of Saint Mark then calls us to a great and joyful responsibility: just as he was a willing instrument for transmitting Peter’s message, we too are called to be a living echo of the Gospel in our time. In a world that has forgotten the voice of God, we can be the voice that announces, the hand that lifts, the heart that welcomes.

Here is our mission: to write every day, with humility and faithfulness, a Gospel that does not go unnoticed. Because the world needs not only words but credible witnesses. And you, brother, sister: what page of the Gospel will you write today with your life?

May God, the Almighty Father, bless you always, together with His only-begotten Son, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit, in the unity of the Most Holy Trinity.

Archpriest Michele Alberto Del Duca.