The Word of God today speaks to us with great clarity and great tenderness. It speaks about fasting, weakness, and about light. And it speaks to our hearts, to convert them.
In the first reading, the prophet Isaiah addresses a people who fast, pray, and perform religious practices seriously. They do many good things—but something is missing. Their fasting does not change the world around them. Why? Because it has not changed their hearts. It is a fasting that bends the body but leaves the hands closed, the eyes indifferent, and the heart hard.
And the Lord speaks plainly: this is not the fast I want. The fast God desires is very concrete: to share bread with the hungry, to welcome the homeless, to clothe the naked, to stop oppression, harsh words, and pointing fingers. In other words, true worship of God always passes through love of neighbour. There is no shortcut. You cannot love God while ignoring the wounds of your brother or sister.
This Word is uncomfortable because it unmasks a temptation that is always near: a faith reduced to appearances, to rituals that make us feel good but leave others unchanged. The Lord does not reject prayer or fasting—He purifies them. He tells us: if your prayer does not lead you to compassion, something is wrong.
Then Isaiah gives us a beautiful promise: “Then your light shall rise in the darkness.” Notice this: the light does not come from perfect liturgies or flawless speeches. The light comes from justice, from mercy, from tenderness toward the poor. When we draw close to those who suffer, darkness loses its power.
Saint Paul, in the second reading, helps us understand that the message of Jesus does not advance through impressive words or human strength. Paul comes weak, trembling, without eloquence. And yet the Gospel takes root, because its power comes from God, not from us. The Lord does not need heroes; he needs humble hearts who trust in him.
And then Jesus speaks in the Gospel with simple and powerful images of salt and light. Salt does not draw attention to itself. Light does not exist for itself. Both exist for others. This is the logic of the Gospel: a life that gives itself quietly, daily, without noise.
Jesus warns us: salt can lose its flavour. Light can be hidden. This happens when we water down the Gospel, making it less demanding and less disturbing. The Gospel has a sharp taste—the taste of the Beatitudes, the taste of mercy, forgiveness, sharing, self-giving love. If we soften it too much, it loses its taste and light.
The world today needs Christians who do not point fingers, but people who heal wounds; and whose lives quietly lead others to the Father.
Let us ask the Lord for the grace of a faith that becomes bread shared, a word that becomes kindness, a prayer that becomes justice. Then, even in the darkness of our time, our light will shine—and it will be his light.
Father Josekutty Matthew CMF
