Faith is not found by chance, and it cannot be lost. Faith arises from a profound and all-embracing encounter with Jesus Christ, a memory that you cannot forget. Those who experienced it remember the day and time (!) And I agree with a deacon our friend that faith cannot be lost… maybe you can betray it, but you can’t lose it. Otherwise it was just religion, custom and tradition; beautiful and useful things, but not all-encompassing as faith is.

At that time I was a boy…

The year was 2001. Neither Christian nor atheist nor anticlerical… the problem just didn’t interest me. I was studying physics. I used to climb in the mountains and I had a girlfriend (and a motorbike). My world was made up of these few things. It was enough for me. I didn’t understand much of life, but I went on with hiding on the teeth hoping that one day luck would smile to me too.

The experiences I used to have in the mountains deeply marked me. Sitting up there, often alone in the severe nature… speaks to the soul. And my soul, or consciousness, or whatever it is, opened my eyes to the immensity of the world and on my littleness, suggesting that there was something beyond the stones, the road and the clouds. Very new-age thoughts, but kind of spiritual anyway. Then I said, “Here’s what I miss more than physics, my motorbike and girlfriend… I miss something spiritual of some kind…” (be patient, I was young).

By chance (chance?) it happened that in those months my dear friend Alessandro started spending time with some missionary nuns of the Risen Christ (??). I was very surprised. Our friendship dated back to the first years of high school, and was founded on things like spitting contests from the motor scooter or on who pisses farthest… What could have brought him —my friend— close to a reality as rough as a group of nuns?! He even invited me to participate… poor guy —I thought— he lost his mind.

The point is, one day he dragged me to the university chapel with some kind of trick and forced me to attend one of these meetings held by the sisters (… do you remember the story of the paralytic lowered from the roof?). I’ve never had a more repugnant experience (except for Latin classes, but those are “hors categorie”). I wasn’t just angry, I was furious. Furious. You will ask: with Alessandro? Not at all, and not even with the nuns. I was furious with no one, yet a powerful rage was boiling up inside my chest.

This reaction made me question myself more than anything else. If the meeting with the nuns didn’t matter, why am I reacting so strongly? Something that doesn’t matter just leaves you indifferent, not furious. This is what I had on my mind. There was something I wasn’t getting; I didn’t know what, but there was something. A few days later I took heart and went to the nuns. I told them that I wanted to learn more about spirituality, and since they were “professionals” I could learn something from them… I wasn’t interested in Jesus or in the Church, I just wanted to acquire the tools.

But you have to be careful playing with fire. And Jesus is live fire. The nuns were very available and invited me to join them and a group of guys on an Easter Triduum retreat in a little monastery outside of Rome. I didn’t have the slightest idea about what it could mean, but in a shot of unconsciousness I accepted… and it changed my life.

I gave myself just one rule. Since I was going with this bunch of crazy people, it made no sense to express my judgment when seeing things that I disagreed with. I would have done what the others did. If they’d kneel, I would kneel; if they’d pray, I would pray; I’d get up when they would get up, and when they would close their eyes, I’d close mine too. When they would kiss the cross, I’d kiss it too; and as they would deliver their sins in confession, so I would do. Lord you seduced me… and I let myself be seduced. On that occasion I was taken by hand, on that occasion the Lord stretched out his hand and I accepted His help and His presence. I experienced it.

I met a person there, and that person is called Jesus Christ. Not an idea, not a moral, not a religion, but the living one.

After the retreat, coming back home on Sunday night, we arrived at the Tiburtina station and my heart was overflowing with joy. I hated that neighborhood, but my eyes were happy to see those buildings that had always seemed ugly to me (they are). They didn’t change, but I did. And I wasn’t changed because of me, but thanks to whom I met.

How was it possible? I don’t know. I know the Lord knocks at the door of our heart night and day, but we don’t let Him in. But I know that once the barriers of our heart are knocked down, He comes in. The journey had begun. It took years to understand its meaning (and so many aids, like the 10 commandments class, the courses in Assisi, and a spiritual path). And it took years to adapt my life to the encounter with the Lord, in order to turn it into a stable relationship and not the result of chance. I’m still on the road; sure I am not alone now that I have my wife and my three beautiful children, but always on the road.

What I realized is that the history of the Church is built by these meetings, from these changes of life: the old things passed away, now there are new ones. No authentic Christianity is a breeding-Christianity (getting baptism, communion, confirmation in your parish without trying to understand), nor a self-service Christianity. An authentic Christianity is instead made of questions, falls, forgiveness and resurrection. It is a path for us to look to God in the same way as little ones look to their parents, and say —as my son Samuel looking up to me— “Nice daddy!”.

Safe spiritual journey to all of you.