The third chapter of the encyclical Dilexi te, under the title “A Church for the Poor,” unfolds a true theology of embodied charity—an historical and spiritual journey that reveals how the Church’s attention to the poor is not a secondary work, but the very heart of its identity.

From the opening lines, the Pope roots this call in the desire expressed by his predecessor: “Ah, how I long for a Church that is poor and for the poor!” This phrase, first heard at the beginning of Pope Francis’s pontificate, becomes in Dilexi te a central axis. It is not a romantic ideal but a pastoral and structural conversion: the Church can only understand herself when she looks at the world from the margins, when she stands with the least, when she recognizes in them the living face of her Lord.

The chapter traces, with impressive breadth, the history of ecclesial compassion. From the apostolic communities—which established the ministry of the diaconate to serve the needy—to contemporary Congregations working in hospitals, schools, or on migration frontiers, the Pope shows how each age has embodied the same Gospel in new ways. This is not a theoretical treatise but a living memory of concrete holiness: a tradition of service that has made visible, throughout the centuries, Christ’s love for the poor, the sick, the captive, and the migrant.

A Theology from the Poor

The doctrinal core of the chapter begins with a decisive claim: there exists an inseparable bond between faith and the poor. One cannot truly believe in Christ without recognizing him in the little ones, nor celebrate the Eucharist without sharing bread with the hungry. Leo XIV takes up the teachings of the Fathers of the Church—Ignatius of Antioch, Polycarp, Justin, John Chrysostom, Ambrose, and Augustine—to show that from the very beginning, Christian faith was understood as a concrete communion with the poor. Charity was not a moral or philanthropic gesture but an act of faith: to serve the needy was to confess the Incarnation of the Word.

Saint John Chrysostom, with his fiery eloquence, warned: “If you do not find Christ in the poor at your door, you will not find him on the altar.” This principle, strongly emphasized by Leo XIV, reveals that poverty is not merely a social problem but a theological place. In the poor, the presence of the Crucified One becomes visible; in them, the Church touches the suffering flesh of Christ. That is why the Pope insists: charity is not optional but the criterion of true worship. Concrete love for the poor is the verification of the authenticity of faith.

The Charity that Heals and Liberates

The Pope devotes extensive sections to showing how this love has historically taken shape in three great dimensions: the care of the sick, the liberation of captives, and the education of the poor. From Saint Cyprian during the plague of Carthage to Saint John of God and Saint Camillus de Lellis in hospitals, and through the Daughters of Charity founded by Saint Vincent de Paul and Saint Louise de Marillac, the text portrays a compassion that heals, cleanses wounds, and restores dignity. The Church is a mother when she heals, not when she preaches from a distance.

The Pope stresses that in caring for the sick, Christians touch the flesh of Christ. It is not merely a matter of easing pain but of participating in the mystery of the Incarnation. The sick person is not a passive recipient of help but a living sacrament of the crucified Lord. For this reason, Leo XIV recalls that the great figures of Christian caregiving were not benefactors but servants who saw in human suffering the privileged place of divine presence. In the tenderness with which the Daughters of Charity accompanied the dying—in the hands that cleansed wounds and the eyes that gazed with respect—the Church revealed her most evangelical face.

The same logic runs through the section devoted to the liberation of captives. In recalling the Trinitarians and Mercedarians, the Pope shows that charity can become heroic: many of them gave their own lives to ransom slaves. Their action was neither political nor economic, but sacramental—a redemptive act that prolonged Christ’s self-giving in history. In that fidelity lies the deepest truth of Christian freedom: there is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

Poverty as a Path of Communion

Leo XIV devotes a wide space to the monastic and mendicant traditions. In the monks—especially Saint Basil and Saint Benedict—he sees the witness of a poverty that does not withdraw from the world but transforms it from within. The monasteries became oases of hospitality, schools of charity, and centers of culture at the service of the poor. Within their walls, a civilization was woven where work, prayer, and sharing formed a single act of praise. The monk did not flee from the poor but welcomed him as a brother, knowing that true contemplation demands mercy.

In later centuries, the Spirit raised up the mendicant movements—Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians, Carmelites—as an evangelical response to new forms of poverty. Francis and Clare of Assisi embodied the ideal of radical poverty, not as bitter renunciation but as the fullness of love. For them, becoming poor was the only way to resemble the poor Christ. Saint Dominic, for his part, showed that preaching is credible only when the word is spoken from a simple life. In all of them, the Pope sees a model for today: a pilgrim Church, light in baggage, free from power, and close to the suffering of the people.

To Educate, Welcome, and Accompany

Another deeply relevant aspect is the reference to education for the poor. Leo XIV revisits the work of Saint Joseph Calasanz, Saint John Baptist de La Salle, Saint Marcellin Champagnat, Saint John Bosco, and so many women’s Congregations that brought the light of the Gospel to children and young people without access to schooling. Teaching, says the Pope, is not a favor but a duty: the poor have a right to wisdom. Christian education is an act of justice because it restores to each person the awareness of his or her dignity. In the tradition of Vincent de Paul and Louise de Marillac, knowledge becomes service and culture an instrument of liberation. To educate is to evangelize both mind and heart.

The encyclical also addresses the accompaniment of migrants, situating this concern in continuity with the biblical history of the pilgrim people. Abraham, Moses, Mary and Joseph, and Christ himself were migrants; therefore, every Christian community must recognize itself in those who today cross seas and borders. The figures of Saint John Baptist Scalabrini and Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini, patroness of migrants, embody this ministry of welcome. The Church—affirms Leo XIV—is a mother when she walks with those who walk, when she builds bridges where others build walls. Where the world sees a threat, the Church sees sons and daughters.

The Least Ones: Privileged Place of Holiness

The chapter concludes with a gaze of hope. Leo XIV recalls that Christian holiness blossoms in the most wounded places: in the peripheries, in poor neighborhoods, in hospitals and prisons, in refugee camps, and in popular movements struggling for dignity. He quotes with emotion Saint Teresa of Calcutta and Saint Dulce of the Poor—women who turned charity into prophecy. In their hands, faith became bread, embrace, and consolation. Charity is not ideology or activism but incarnate prayer.

Popular movements, the Pope adds, represent today a new face of this tradition. In them, organized lay people express a solidarity that is not almsgiving but a struggle for justice. Leo XIV takes up Pope Francis’s words to affirm that the Church must not do politics for the poor but with the poor—listening to their voices and walking alongside them in building a more human world.

A Church that Serves from Below

Taken as a whole, this chapter offers a masterful synthesis: the Church is truly Church when she bends down to wash the feet of the world. Poverty is not merely a topic of her social teaching but the concrete form of her fidelity to the Gospel. The Pope presents an ecclesiology of compassion: a Church stripped of privilege, finding her authority in service, her beauty in mercy, and her strength in tenderness.

Saint Vincent de Paul dreamed of a missionary Church, humble and close to the poor—“a Church that evangelizes with its hands.” Dilexi te carries that same spirit: a faith that becomes charity, a charity that becomes community, and a community that becomes hope for the least.

Some Citations from Chapter III for Reflection

CITATION 1

The Church “recognizes in those who are poor and who suffer, the likeness of its poor and suffering founder.” Indeed, since the Church is called to identify with those who are least, at her core “[T]here can be no room for doubt or for explanations which weaken so clear a message… We have to state, without mincing words, that there is an inseparable bond between our faith and the poor.”
(Dilexi te, 36)

The relationship with the poor is not optional; it is constitutive of the Christian identity. In them, the face of the poor and patient Christ becomes visible; to serve them is to serve Him.

Pope Leo XIV here takes up the very heart of Vincentian spirituality: “The poor are our lords and masters.” Vincent de Paul understood that there can be no true communion with God unless it passes through communion with the poor. Love for Christ is not proven at the altars but on the roads where human suffering lies. To believe in Jesus is, ultimately, to let His compassion take flesh in our hands.

When the Church disregards the poor, it ceases to resemble its Master. When it prefers comfort over service, security over risk, diplomacy over witness, it distances itself from the Gospel. But when it bends down, when it listens, when it shares and accompanies, then it becomes a radiant sign of the Kingdom. In this sense, Dilexi te reminds us that the bond between faith and the poor cannot be weakened by theological explanations or pastoral excuses. It is a sacramental bond: the poor are a place of encounter with the living God.

From the Vincentian charism, this truth acquires a concrete resonance. It is not enough to love the poor “from afar” or to serve them “out of duty.” It is about recognizing in them a presence of Christ that evangelizes. The poor evangelize the rich, the weak transform the strong, the needy teach those who believe they know. Faith is purified when it touches the wounds of the world.

Today, amid a culture that idolizes success, money, and appearances, this citation invites us to rediscover the beauty of a Church that is stripped, free, and loving from the margins. A Church that does not seek honors but humanity; that does not accumulate power but tenderness. Because only a poor Church can speak with authority about the God of the poor.

Questions for Reflection

1. How do I experience in my life and in my community that “inseparable bond” between faith and the poor?
2. In what ways can I discover Christ in the concrete faces of suffering around me?
3. What pastoral or personal changes do we need so that our faith is not lived with our backs turned to the least of our brothers and sisters?

CITATION 2

From Saint Ambrose’s account, we learn that Lawrence, a deacon in Rome during the pontificate of Pope Sixtus II, was forced by the Roman authorities to turn over the treasures of the Church. “The following day he brought the poor with him. Questioned about where the promised treasures might be, he pointed to the poor saying, ‘These are the treasures of the Church’.”
(Dilexi te, 38)

The scene of Saint Lawrence recalled by Dilexi te is one of the most beautiful and prophetic in the entire history of the Church. Before the power of the empire seeking material wealth, the young deacon presents the poor as the true treasure of the Church. With this gesture, he reveals the economy of the Gospel: the coins of the Kingdom are not gold or silver, but the suffering faces of those who bear the cross.

Pope Leo XIV recalls this episode to remind us that the Church possesses nothing more valuable than her poor. They are her most sacred patrimony, her living relic, her most precious good. Everything else—temples, ornaments, structures—is secondary if it does not lead to the service of those in need. The greatness of the Church is not measured by her possessions, but by her capacity to love.

Vincent de Paul, like Saint Lawrence, saw in the poor the treasure of Christ and of His community. In the person of the one in need is hidden the real presence of the Lord, for He Himself promised: “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me” (Mt 25:40).

This spirituality transforms our way of seeing the world. In the logic of the Gospel, the poor are not objects of assistance but sacraments of communion. They evangelize the Church, purify her of vanity, and return her to her vocation of humility. When the People of God lose sight of this treasure, they become sterile; when they rediscover it, they are reborn.

The gesture of Saint Lawrence is also a judgment on our times. In a society obsessed with performance, consumption, and accumulation, the Gospel reminds us that only shared love is true wealth. Christian communities are called to examine their priorities: what place do the poor have in our churches, in our agendas, in our budgets, in our conversations? If we do not recognize them as the treasure Christ has entrusted to us, we risk serving idols disguised as religiosity.

The poor are the treasure because in them the hidden glory of God is revealed. To guard, serve, and love them is to guard the very heart of the Gospel.

Questions for Reflection

1. What treasures does our community value today? Are they the same ones Christ values?
2. Do I recognize in the poor the living presence of the Lord, or do I see them only as recipients of aid?
3. How could we express, in our concrete pastoral life, that the poor are truly the treasure of the Church?

CITATION 3

“Do you wish to honor the body of Christ? Do not allow it to be despised in its members, that is, in the poor, who have no clothes to cover themselves … [The body of Christ on the altar] does not need cloaks, but pure souls; while the one outside needs much care.God does not need golden vessels, but golden souls.”
(Dilexi te, 41)

Pope Leo XIV quotes Saint John Chrysostom: there is no true worship without compassion, no genuine cult without justice. Liturgy that does not translate into concrete love for the poor becomes an empty rite. The altar of the temple and the altar of the street are one and the same, because Christ offers Himself and allows Himself to be found in both.

In this passage lies a truth that runs through the entire Christian tradition: the Eucharist continues outside the temple in charity. Whoever communes with Christ in the consecrated bread is called to commune with Him in the wounded body of the brother or sister. One cannot honor the Body of Christ clothed in silk and abandon the Christ who trembles in the cold. True Eucharistic worship consists in prolonging the love received, turning prayer into service, and letting gratitude become self-giving.

Vincent de Paul expressed it with admirable clarity: “To leave God for God.” In this spirit, Vincentian spirituality inseparably unites adoration and action, altar and street, bread and hand. Love for the poor is the prolongation of the Mass in daily life. Every gesture of tenderness, every visit, every moment of listening, is a Eucharistic act.

The text of Chrysostom, taken up by Leo XIV, challenges us as Church. We risk building beautiful temples but having empty hearts; perfect liturgies but indifferent communities. The gold God desires is not in the chalices, but in the souls that love. He needs neither incense nor marble: He needs hands that heal, arms that lift, and eyes that look with mercy.

Questions for Reflection

1. Do I live the Eucharist as a source of commitment to the poor or as a rite isolated from my daily life?
2. What does it mean to me to “honor the Body of Christ” in those who suffer?
3. How can my community make visible that worship and service are inseparable?

CITATION 4

“It is very cold and the poor man lies in rags, dying, freezing, shivering, with an appearance and clothing that should move you. You, however, red in the face and drunk, pass by. And how do you expect God to deliver you from misfortune?… You despise the one who feels pain, who is torn apart, tortured, tormented by hunger and cold.”
(Dilexi te, 42)

Pope Leo XIV recalls here one of the most powerful and lucid passages of Saint John Chrysostom. There are no embellishments or theories—only the contrast between two realities: the poor man who trembles and the rich man who passes by. In that contrast, the Gospel is at stake. This is not a fourth-century scene; it is today’s mirror, when “rags” take on other names—exclusion, loneliness, migration, eviction, abandonment—and indifference remains the great spiritual illness of our time.

The text denounces an attitude that crosses the centuries: our ability to grow accustomed to the suffering of others. Chrysostom speaks not only of charity but of justice. He does not condemn wealth itself, but the anesthetized heart that no longer feels compassion. Those who live enclosed in their comfort not only ignore the poor but distance themselves from God. Because, as the Gospel reminds us, the final judgment will be based on compassion: “I was hungry and you gave me food…”

But it is not enough to feel compassion; that compassion must be turned into action. To see, to draw near, to touch, to share. Charity is not sentimentalism; it is a concrete decision to stand beside those who suffer. In every marginalized human being, Christ is knocking at our door with the face of pain.

By bringing us these words, the Pope reminds us that Christian love begins with a gaze that lingers. Indifference is the sin of the satisfied; tenderness is the virtue of those who know how to see. When the Church becomes a neighbor, history changes: a coat given, a shared meal, a listening ear offered—these are small sacraments of the Kingdom. Where the world builds walls, the disciple of Jesus extends a hand.

The Vincentian charism urges us to live charity not as almsgiving but as loving justice. Serving the poor is not a favor—it is restoring to them what belongs to them. That is why Vincent reminds us that the goods of the rich are the patrimony of the poor. If the poor suffer while we remain comfortable, faith becomes fiction.

Questions for Reflection

1. What forms of “comfortable indifference” do I recognize in my life toward the suffering of others?
2. Do I let myself be challenged by the poor I encounter, or do I pass them by?
3. How could we, as a community, transform compassion into concrete actions of justice and service?

CITATION 5

The Almighty will not be outdone in generosity to those who serve the people most in need: the greater the love for the poor, the greater the reward from God.
(Dilexi te, 45)

God cannot be outdone in generosity: He multiplies the life of those who give themselves, filling with grace those who empty themselves for love. The Pope, inspired by Saint Augustine, invites us to see charity not as loss but as fruitfulness. In the eyes of the world, serving the poor may seem like a useless expense, an effort that dissipates; but in the eyes of faith, it is an investment in what does not perish. Every act of compassion opens space for the life of God. The more we give, the more we resemble the Lord who “though He was rich, became poor for our sake.”

Vincent de Paul saw charity as a loving response to the God who first loved us. Poverty does not impoverish—it liberates; service does not exhaust—it makes fruitful; true almsgiving does not diminish what we have—it enlarges the heart.

Moreover, this statement from the Pope highlights divine reciprocity: when we serve the poor, God Himself serves us. In them, we are given the opportunity to experience His mercy. The reward He promises is not material but spiritual: the peace of heart, the joy of being useful, the certainty of having touched His love.

In a culture that values success and gain, this text proposes another logic: that of the gratuitous gift. It is not about “giving to receive,” but about loving because we have been loved. And yet, the Christian paradox is that those who pour themselves out for others are never left empty. In the face of the poor, God returns a hundredfold: He comforts those who comfort, feeds those who share, and blesses those who serve.

When the Church draws near to the poor, she does not lose authority or prestige; she gains credibility, beauty, and hope. That is why serving the poor is opening the door to the very God who awaits us in them. Love for the poor is not only ethics—it is mysticism, communion, a foretaste of eternity.

Questions for Reflection

1. Do I truly believe that God “cannot be outdone in generosity”? How have I experienced this in my life?
2. What sometimes prevents me from giving myself with joy, without calculation or reserve?
3. How can we cultivate in our communities the certainty that serving the poor is a source of grace and not a burden?

CITATION 6

Christian compassion has manifested itself in a particular way in the care of the sick and suffering… The Christian tradition of visiting the sick, washing their wounds, and comforting the afflicted is not simply a philanthropic endeavor, but an ecclesial action through which the members of the Church “touch the suffering flesh of Christ.”
(Dilexi te, 49)

Leo XIV describes the care of the sick not as an act of human solidarity, but as an ecclesial act—a continuation of the Incarnation. In them—in their fragility, in their pain, in their dependence—the crucified Christ Himself is present. To care is not simply to assist; it is to enter into communion with the mystery of His Passion and His Love.

For Vincent de Paul and Louise de Marillac, charity was not a concept but a physical, concrete, incarnate experience. To serve a sick person meant to touch the body of Christ. That is why Vincent reminded the Daughters of Charity that, when leaving prayer to attend to a poor sick person, they were “leaving God for God.”

“To touch the suffering flesh of Christ” means to recognize His presence where He seems absent, to discover the divine in what is fragile, the eternal in what is mortal.

The text also invites us to examine our attitudes. In a society that hides pain and conceals illness, the Christian community is called to embrace fragility as a sacred place. There is no full Christian life if we ignore the wounded bodies of our brothers and sisters. Visiting the sick, accompanying the lonely, holding a trembling hand—these are profoundly theological gestures. Where the world sees uselessness, faith discovers sacrament.

The Vincentian charism teaches us to view health care as an extension of the altar. The hospital, the nursing home, the elder’s residence, or the sick person’s house become temples where Christ allows Himself to be found in His most vulnerable form. In that “washing of wounds,” the gesture of the Master who washed His disciples’ feet is renewed. In this way, the Church becomes mother: she cares, cleans, supports, and loves without measure.

The care of the sick is not an added duty but a pure expression of the Gospel. Whoever touches the suffering flesh of Christ already participates in His Resurrection, for love that heals conquers death.

Questions for Reflection

1. Do I recognize in the sick the face of Christ, or do I find it difficult to look upon their fragility?
2. How can I live care—in my home, my work, my community—as a concrete form of faith and worship?
3. What simple gestures could help us turn our pastoral spaces into places of comfort and healing?

CITATION 7

Since apostolic times, the Church has seen the liberation of the oppressed as a sign of the Kingdom of God. Jesus himself proclaimed at the beginning of his public ministry: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives” (Lk 4:18).
(Dilexi te, 59)

Liberation is a hallmark of the Gospel; it is not a sociological add-on but a sign of the Kingdom: wherever chains—material or spiritual—are broken, Christ is at work. For the Vincentian charism, evangelizing and liberating cannot be separated. The Good News is not proclaimed by words alone; it becomes real when the captives regain dignity, voice, and future.

Vincent de Paul read this verse as a program: to draw near to the “captives” of every age—misery, illness, loneliness, ignorance, unpayable debts, addictions—and to organize charity so that no one is left out. If Jesus proclaims “liberty to captives,” the disciple positions himself where people are bound: suffocating bureaucracies, lack of housing, exploitative labor, silencing violence. Vincentian compassion does not stop at consolation; it accompanies processes, denounces injustices, weaves networks, builds alternatives.

This passage also sets the spiritual tone of service. The anointing of the Spirit precedes mission: first prayer, then action. We do not liberate by sheer willpower but because the Spirit anoints us to see as God sees and to act with His effective gentleness. Thus, every Vincentian work—a clothing bank, a soup kitchen, a legal aid center, a prison visit—is, in essence, a liturgy of the Kingdom: a concrete gesture proclaiming that the Father wants no one in bondage.

Living this text calls us to conversion: moving from “doing things” to accompanying lives, from one-time aid to sustainable change, from pity to love that dignifies. When the Church lives in this way, people understand the Gospel with their bodies: bread arrives, the door opens, the debt is renegotiated, the wound is healed, hope returns. Then the Word becomes life, and life becomes proclamation.

Questions for Reflection

1. What concrete forms of “captivity” do I see today in my neighborhood or community—material, psychological, or spiritual?
2. How do we integrate prayer and action so that our service truly flows from the Spirit’s anointing?
3. What concrete steps can we take to move from occasional help to processes of integral liberation?

CITATION 8

Religious did not see redemption as a political or economic action, but as a quasi-liturgical act, the sacramental offering of themselves. Many gave their own bodies to replace prisoners, literally fulfilling the commandment: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” ( Jn 15:13). The tradition of these orders did not come to an end. On the contrary, it inspired new forms of action in the face of modern forms of slavery: human trafficking, forced labor, sexual exploitation and various forms of dependency. Christian charity is liberating when it becomes incarnate. Likewise, the mission of the Church, when she is faithful to her Lord, is at all times to proclaim liberation. Even today, when “millions of people — children, women and men of all ages — are deprived of their freedom and forced to live in conditions akin to slavery,” this legacy is carried on by these orders and other institutions and congregations working in urban peripheries, conflict zones and migration routes. When the Church bends down to break the new chains that bind the poor, she becomes a paschal sign.
(Dilexi te, 61)

Pope Leo XIV reminds us that freeing captives was neither a political gesture nor a social program, but an extension of the paschal mystery. Love, when it becomes flesh and dares to risk itself, ceases to be an idea—it becomes sacrament. When the Church “kneels to break chains,” she does not abandon her liturgy; she brings it to fulfillment. The altar extends into the street, and the Eucharist continues in hospitals, refugee camps, and marginalized neighborhoods.

Today, millions remain enslaved. The new forms of captivity—human trafficking, structural poverty, addiction, exclusion—demand the same courage once shown by the Trinitarians and Mercedarians: a charity unafraid of getting dirty or worn out. The faithful Church does not resign itself to watch from afar; she kneels before suffering to set free.

For the Vincentian, this is daily Easter: not a spiritual emotion, but the power of the Risen Christ at work in history through serving hands. To kneel before the poor to untie their chains is to proclaim the Resurrection in the language of love.

Questions for Reflection

1. What new forms of slavery do I see around me, and how can I help in their liberation?
2. Do I live my service to the poor as an act of worship, a “liturgy of charity”?
3. In what moments have I felt that serving the needy was, truly, proclaiming Easter?

CITATION 9

Monastic life, which originated in the silence of the desert, was from the outset a witness to solidarity. Monks and nuns left everything — wealth, prestige, family — not only because they despised worldly goods — contemptus mundi — but also to encounter the poor Christ in this radical detachment. Saint Basil the Great, in his Rule, saw no contradiction between the monks’ life of prayer and contemplation and their work on behalf of the poor. For him, hospitality and care for the needy were an integral part of monastic spirituality, and monks, even after having left everything to embrace poverty, had to help the poorest with their work, because “in order to have enough to help the needy… it is clear that we must work diligently… This way of life is profitable not only for subduing the body, but also for charity towards our neighbor, so that through us God may provide enough for our weaker brothers and sisters.” In Caesarea, where he was Bishop, he built a place known as Basiliad, which included lodgings, hospitals and schools for the poor and sick. The monk, therefore, was not only an ascetic, but also a servant. Basil thus demonstrated that to be close to God, one must be close to the poor. Concrete love was the criterion of holiness. Praying and caring, contemplating and healing, writing and welcoming: everything was an expression of the same love for Christ.
(Dilexi te, 53-54)

This passage reveals a fundamental aspect of Christian spirituality: the inseparable union between contemplation and service. Leo XIV highlights the figure of Saint Basil the Great to remind us that holiness does not blossom in flight from the world, but in concrete love. The monk does not abandon humanity—he welcomes it. His cell becomes a hospital, his prayer becomes work, his silence becomes tenderness.

This message is profoundly Vincentian. Vincent de Paul also rejected any form of spirituality that hides in the temple and forgets the poor. For him, the Christian was to live in a fruitful balance between adoration and action.

The text describes a vision of the Church where holiness is measured by closeness to human suffering. Prayer bears fruit when it generates concrete gestures: bread, medicine, teaching, hospitality. The monastery, in this view, is not a wall that isolates but a spring of active compassion. And this is precisely what inspires the Vincentian vocation: prayerful and missionary communities that live the presence of God in the faces of the poor.

Through this example, the Pope invites us to rediscover the spiritual root of service. It is not about doing things for others, but about serving from prayer and praying through service. When our hands heal and our knees bend before the Lord, our life becomes “one single liturgy of love.”

Basil understood this well: hospitality is a form of prayer. Every door opened to the poor is an altar. Every wound healed is a Eucharist. And every community organized to serve is, at its core, a monastery of charity.

Questions for Reflection

1. How can I better integrate prayer and service in my daily life?
2. In what ways can my community today become an “open monastery” for the poorest?
3. What does it mean to me that “being close to God” necessarily implies “being close to the poor”?

CITATION 10

We must also recognize that, throughout centuries of Christian history, helping the poor and advocating for their rights has not only involved individuals, families, institutions, or religious communities. There have been, and still are, various popular movements made up of lay people and led by popular leaders, who have often been viewed with suspicion and even persecuted. I am referring to “all those persons who journey, not as individuals, but as a closely-bound community of all and for all, one that refuses to leave the poor and vulnerable behind… ‘Popular’ leaders, then, are those able to involve everyone… They do not shun or fear those young people who have experienced hurt or borne the weight of the cross.” These popular leaders know that solidarity “also means fighting against the structural causes of poverty and inequality; of the lack of work, land and housing; and of the denial of social and labor rights. It means confronting the destructive effects of the empire of money… Solidarity, understood in its deepest sense, is a way of making history, and this is what the popular movements are doing.” For this reason, when different institutions think about the needs of the poor, it is necessary to “include popular movements and invigorate local, national and international governing structures with that torrent of moral energy that springs from including the excluded in the building of a common destiny.”
(Dilexi te, 80-81)

The poor are not objects of compassion but subjects of transformation. Citing Francis, Leo XIV places at the center the popular movements as expressions of solidarity that make history. This is not about philanthropy but incarnate justice; not about almsgiving but participation.

Vincent de Paul sought not only to relieve misery but to organize charity, to give structure to compassion, to empower the poor to become active participants in their own liberation. In his works, ordinary men and women were collaborators, not beneficiaries. Laypeople were protagonists of social and ecclesial change in their time.

The text reminds us that true solidarity does not fear conflict; it confronts the structural causes of poverty. This lucid charity is not content with healing wounds; it seeks to prevent them. Therefore, to love the poor also means to work for a world in which no one is poor.

Moreover, the Pope emphasizes the communal dimension of commitment: popular movements are networks of hope, spaces where social fraternity is learned. In them, the Church finds a mirror of her vocation—to be “a community of all and for all.”

The final message is clear: charity becomes revolutionary when it is organized and guided by the poor themselves. When the excluded take part in building the common future, history becomes a place of salvation. Thus, the Church fulfills her paschal mission: to lift up the fallen, heal wounded structures, and proclaim that justice, too, can be a form of prayer.

Questions for Reflection

1. How can we, within our communities, support and accompany the poor as protagonists rather than mere recipients of help?
2. What concrete forms of structural injustice are we called to confront today, in light of the Gospel and the Vincentian charism?
3. In what ways can our everyday solidarity “make history,” sowing seeds of the Kingdom within society?

Community Prayer

Lord Jesus,
You who became poor to enrich us with your love,
You who still walk the dusty roads of the world
in the face of every wounded, every sick, every forgotten person,
look upon us today and rekindle within us the fire of your compassion.

You have told us in your Gospel:
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
for he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor,
to proclaim liberty to the captives.”
Let these words become life within us—
not written only in books,
but engraved upon our hands, our eyes, and our hearts.

We thank you for the saints
who made your love visible on the margins:
for Vincent and Louise, for Lawrence and Basil,
for all those who touched your suffering flesh
in the sick, the captives, the beggars,
and all who have no roof or hope.
Teach us, as they did,
that to serve the poor is to worship God,
that to wash wounds is to prolong your Eucharist,
that to listen to the abandoned is to proclaim your living Word.

Make us a poor and serving Church—
a community unafraid to kneel and wash the feet of the world,
a Church that prays while working and works while praying,
that stores up not treasures but embraces;
that seeks not power but tenderness;
that fears not to soil its hands,
for in wounded hands your glory shines.

Lord, deliver us from indifference,
from empty words,
from charity without commitment,
from worship that does not become justice.
Awaken us with the cry of the poor;
make their lament our daily liturgy,
their hope our mission,
and their joy our reward.

Give us a generous heart—
able to give without measure and to love without expecting return,
a heart that never tires of beginning again,
of healing, of welcoming, of setting free.
Make us servants of the Kingdom,
children of tenderness,
builders of fraternity.

We pray to you for today’s captives:
for migrants, the homeless, the exploited,
the addicted, and those who live without inner freedom.
May there always be someone to walk beside them,
to believe in them,
to restore to them their name and their dignity.
Make us instruments of that liberation
which springs only from the greatest love.

Holy Spirit,
light us with your gentle and mighty fire;
make our communities places of welcome,
hospitals of the soul where the wounded find comfort,
schools where compassion is learned,
workshops where faith becomes bread shared.

Mother of Charity, Virgin of the roads,
you who kept in your heart the small gestures of love,
teach us to see as you see,
to serve in silence,
to uphold the hope of those who can no longer hope.

And when the day is done, Lord,
whisper in our ear those words
that are both promise and reward:
“Come, you blessed of my Father,
for I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
I was alone and you welcomed me.”

Amen.