The motto of this Day of Consecrated Life is not a self-affirmation (‘we are what we are’), but a question that whispers: ‘Who am I for?’ It does not seek to be a catchy and attractive slogan; rather, it is an existential question that resonates like an echo within. Its power does not lie in the answer we can give, but in its ability to bring us back to the search, to that depth that keeps us awake and alive. I have recently started reading Byung-Chul Han's book On God: Thinking with Simone Weil, which sheds a lot of light on this question.
With this motto, we do not ask ourselves what position we occupy in the world's organisational chart, but rather for whom our hearts beat. The question is not about function, but about meaning. And meaning is not something that can be captured or controlled; it is something that is received, discovered and allowed to blossom, placing us simultaneously in our roots and on our horizon.
To ask ourselves ‘who am I for?’ is to enter the territory of what gives breath to existence. It is not the usefulness of what we produce, but the depth of what we live. Byung-Chul Han speaks of how meaning unfolds over time, connecting who we were with who we are called to be. Today, Religious Life is called to embrace its own wound. For a long time, the temptation was to hide behind large institutions, behind the security walls that provided the solvency of structures. However, the Spirit seems to be whispering a different truth to us today: strength does not lie in armour, but in openness. A wounded Religious Life is a Religious Life that can accompany others from a position of horizontality, not moral or hierarchical superiority. This prepares us to listen, to give and receive, to learn and complement each other.
The ‘nakedness’ that appears in Genesis is not merely a numerical decrease or a lack of resources; it is, in essence, a capacity for relationship with God. When we accept our fragility, we cease to be ‘stewards of the sacred’ and become wounded people who care for other wounded people. This reciprocity transforms the mission: we no longer go ‘towards’ others to teach them something they do not have, but rather we walk ‘with’ them to discover together the Treasure that already dwells on the path.
Meaning, because of the horizon it possesses, gives us the courage to go out to where people are and live. It does not wait in the office or take refuge in the choir; it goes out into the open air of current questions. Especially with young people, the challenge is not to offer them a catalogue of closed solutions, but to have the humility to share with them the vital questions.
Setting out on the road means recognising that the Spirit blows where it wills and that, often, the most illuminating answers arise in dialogue with those who think differently. It is in this sharing of doubt, the search for justice and the longing for transcendence that charisma becomes relevant. Charismatic accents are not flags to differentiate us, but spices that add flavour to the common table of humanity. Each congregation, each community, contributes a colour, a note, a way of looking at things that enriches the polyhedron of the Church.
At our origin, we are ‘creatures’: beings who have received life as a gift. Accepting this makes us vulnerable, and to embrace that truth we need to strip away the layers of prestige that we sometimes use as armour against the void. The real meaning is not in what we show, but in placing ourselves under a gaze: that of a God who loves unconditionally, that of our brothers and sisters, and that of a wounded humanity with whom we share our fragility.
When we look at witnesses, at those men and women who have worn themselves out over time, we do not see perfect lives, but accomplished lives (something I often experience at the funerals of the older sisters in my congregation). A fulfilled life is not a life without mistakes or changes of direction; it is one that was able to listen to its time and break its own expectations to allow itself to be surprised by God. These are people who have lived their lives in a language of simple and faithful love.
At the end of the road, when the time comes to say goodbye, what remains is not the effectiveness of management, but human quality. It is the warmth of those who knew how to be ‘hosts’ to mystery. The value of a life is not measured by how much is seen, but by its capacity to generate life in others, to care for silences and to accompany slow processes.
Interestingly, the question ‘Who am I for?’ also invites us to rest. A rest that is not escape, but trust. It is to stop justifying ourselves to the world and allow life to rest in the One who sustains it. In a culture of exhaustion and haste, religious life is called to be a sign of reconciliation.
Returning to the insights of Byung-Chul Han: while the world ‘devours’ information, we are invited to ‘look.’ Simone Weil said that ‘attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.’
Giving someone your full attention, without any pretence of success, is a sacred act. Religious life does not offer recipes, but the courage to dwell on questions, even in the midst of silence. This question is never exhausted. Not having a definitive answer is not a failure; it is a sign that the Spirit is still at work. The Day of Religious Life invites us to pause and listen to that echo: ‘Who am I for?’ Not to define ourselves once and for all, but to continue searching for ourselves in vulnerability and hope. Because life is worth living when we live for someone else, recognising that hope is held in our wounded hands.
02/02/2026