Jean Khoury – Holy Week 2026

Summary: Living Tradition is a mystery. This article explores a particular aspect of its nature: that by which it may be perceived as the river of divine Revelation. It focuses more precisely on bringing to light its relationship to the Passion of Christ, as well as its role in the progressive understanding of the mystery of salvation. Starting from the observation that “you do not understand it now; but you will understand later” (Jn 13:7), it examines the objective stages of salvation and the subjective conditions required to access them. Living Tradition is not a static given but a living flux whose depth increases gradually for those who advance, as shown by Ezekiel’s vision of the Temple. However, entry into and progression within this River require inner transformation and vital mediation—that of Mary and the Church. The article notably exposes the contemporary problem of breaks in transmission and criticises the false use of the concept of “remnant” to justify the impoverishment of Christianity.

Introduction

Christ’s words to Peter during the washing of the feet pose a fundamental question that runs throughout the entire history of salvation: “What I am doing you do not understand now; but you will understand later” (Jn 13:7). This statement is not simply a psychological observation about human limitation. It enunciates a major theological principle: understanding of the mystery of Christ and the work of Redemption is possible only progressively, through stages that are historically and subjectively necessary.

77 “In order that the full and living Gospel might always be preserved in the Church the apostles left bishops as their successors. They gave them their own position of teaching authority.” Indeed, “the apostolic preaching, which is expressed in a special way in the inspired books, was to be preserved in a continuous line of succession until the end of time.”

78 This living transmission, accomplished in the Holy Spirit, is called Tradition, since it is distinct from Sacred Scripture, though closely connected to it. Through Tradition, “the Church, in her doctrine, life and worship, perpetuates and transmits to every generation all that she herself is, all that she believes.” “The sayings of the holy Fathers are a witness to the life-giving presence of this Tradition, showing how its riches are poured out in the practice and life of the Church, in her belief and her prayer. 

79 The Father’s self-communication made through his Word in the Holy Spirit, remains present and active in the Church: “God, who spoke in the past, continues to converse with the Spouse of his beloved Son. And the Holy Spirit, through whom the living voice of the Gospel rings out in the Church — and through her in the world — leads believers to the full truth, and makes the Word of Christ dwell in them in all its richness.”  (Catechism of the Catholic Church 77-79)

Living Tradition in the Church rests precisely on this logic of progression. It is neither a fixed datum nor a quantitative accumulation of doctrines. It is, according to the Psalmist’s expression, a River whose streams gladden the City of God (Ps 46:5)—a living and dynamic course into which each generation of believers must enter and progress. Yet this progression is not self-evident. It requires both an objective understanding of the conditions of salvation and a subjective transformation of the believing subject.

The contemporary stakes are grave. On the one hand, there are observable signs of authentic Christian life—initiatives, focal points of spiritual commitment. On the other, these manifestations often seem bereft of deep rootedness in the River of Tradition. The result is a Christianity that perceives itself as new, renewed, yet which remains precarious, fragmented, without real access to the fullness of the mystery of Christ and the transmission of salvation.

This article aims to illuminate this situation in six movements: first, to examine the theological reasons for progressive understanding; next, to describe the nature and dynamics of the River of Living Tradition; then, to analyse the mystery of inner transformation; thereafter, to explore the conditions of transmission and ecclesial mediation; subsequently, to critique the false comforts that justify impoverishment; finally, to analyse the contemporary paradox and propose pastoral reflection.

1. The Objective Conditions of Salvation and the Pedagogy of Redemption

Understanding of the mystery of Christ cannot be immediate. It is suspended on the fulfilment of an objective order of salvation. As Scripture affirms, it “was necessary that Redemption be realised” (cf. Jn 2:22; Jn 12:16). This necessity is not arbitrary; it pertains to the internal logic of the divine plan.

Several elements must first be accomplished. First, there was the need for the purification of the disciple. Next, reconciliation had to be accomplished by the Lord on the Cross, he who “made both one… by destroying the wall that separated them” (Eph 2:14–16). Finally, the gift of the Holy Spirit was necessary, without which the mission could not begin: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you, and you will be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8).

This is why the Lord gives this explicit instruction to the apostles: “Do not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the promise of the Father” (Acts 1:4). The Church cannot begin its mission, its proclamation and its visible constitution without having received the gift of the Spirit. Understanding is therefore suspended on the paschal event and Pentecost—two decisive historical moments that constitute the objective foundations of all subsequent understanding of the mystery.

The Lord himself acknowledges this present limit: “I have much more to tell you, more than you can now bear” (Jn 16:12). There is no pessimism here, for this incapacity is not definitive. The Lord promises: “When he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all the truth” (Jn 16:13). The Holy Spirit is therefore the inner teacher of this progressive understanding.

Note: In this perspective, Yves Congar, in his work La Tradition et les traditions, in examining how the early centuries understood the “Living Tradition,” came to note that fundamentally, the true subject of this Tradition is the Holy Spirit himself. The Catechism says (see above): Tradition is accomplished in the Holy Spirit.

This divine pedagogy is also expressed by a silence demanded. At the Transfiguration, Jesus orders the apostles: “Tell the vision to no one until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead” (Mt 17:9). Understanding of this mystery is possible only after his passage through the Passion and Resurrection. The disciples themselves understand only afterwards: “When he rose from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this” (Jn 2:22). To understand what Christ accomplished—the very work of Redemption—requires time, maturation, a reflective return to the event.

Note: It should be noted that Scripture itself bears the trace of this process. It is not written as the simple immediate account of past events, but as a return to those events, illuminated by a progressive understanding awakened by the Holy Spirit, that is, by a new understanding and experience. The New Testament, in particular, is entirely written after the Resurrection and Pentecost, within this new light where the lived facts are grasped in their salvific depth, sometimes after many years: Luke presumably completes his final version after AD 70; Peter and Paul have already completed their course; Mary herself has been assumed into glory; John, for his part, writes towards the end of the first century, probably after AD 95. As John himself emphasises: “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth” (Jn 16:13).

2. Living Tradition: Nature, Dynamics and Transmission

This progressive entry into the mystery does not stop with the apostles. It continues in the life of the entire Church and in the life of each believer. What then is Living Tradition?

First, it is a transmission. The Apostle Paul commands Timothy: “And the things you have heard me say… entrust to reliable people who will also be qualified to teach others” (2 Tim 2:2). Tradition exists only in this passage from one generation to the next. It is vital precisely because each generation is responsible for it.

Next, Living Tradition is not mere repetition. It is deepening. Scripture calls for growth: “Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ” (2 Pet 3:18). There is therefore true development, not an alteration of the deposit entrusted, but organic growth—similar to that of a living organism which unfolds according to its internal principles.

Note: It is good to deepen the notion of “development of Christian doctrine.” Saint John Henry Newman, Doctor of the Church, was one of those who explored this reality most profoundly, demonstrating its internal coherence and organic growth within Living Tradition.

The decisive question becomes: how to guarantee transmission without interruption, without diminishment, without deviation, and yet with growth? Several mistaken representations obscure this reality. Some think that deepening faith is optional, whereas Scripture speaks of a passage from spiritual childhood to maturity: “Then we will no longer be infants… Rather, speaking the truth in love, we will in all things grow up into him who is the head, that is, Christ” (Eph 4:14–15).

Others think that Living Tradition is a fixed datum, whereas apostolic teaching calls for active and living guardianship: “Guard the good deposit that was entrusted to you—guard it with the help of the Holy Spirit who lives in us” (2 Tim 1:14). This guardianship is not that of a mummy, but of a living being—vigilance, deepening, confrontation with new challenges.

Living Tradition is admirably illuminated by the vision of the Temple in Ezekiel. The prophet sees water flowing out of the Temple: “I saw water coming out from under the threshold of the temple” (Ez 47:1). This water proceeds from a unique and divine source. Yet the further one moves away from the Temple, the more abundant and deep it becomes: “The water was ankle-deep… then knee-deep… then up to the waist… it was a river that I could not cross” (Ez 47:3–5). Thus it is with Living Tradition: it proceeds from a unique source—the Revelation of Christ—but its depth ceases not to grow for those who advance. It is not static; it is a movement into which one must enter and progress continually.

3. The Interruption and Transformation: From Human Capacity to Divine Capacity

However, there exists a decisive rupture in this progression. It is not a rupture in the content of faith, but in the manner of participating in it. The Lord states it thus: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Is 55:8). It is the passage from the human mode to the divine mode of believing, hoping and loving.

Living Tradition seems at first to be covered with an external shell: Scripture. In this sense, Word of God and Living Tradition coincide almost entirely. The Word constitutes the expressed source, whilst Scripture is its veil, its outer shell. The content of Revelation, that is, Living Tradition, is expressed in Scripture and through it, progressively forming a quasi-unified reality – this identity not necessarily being manifest from the outset, but revealing itself over time. Living Tradition can thus be compared to a great river, vast and deep. Yet at the beginning, it appears to us as merely a small stream. The organic link with Scripture is not yet perceived; the realities remain disjointed. This limitation is owing to our condition: “Now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). Our intelligence is limited, our heart is limited, our hope still bears the mark of a human mode.

It is precisely at this critical point that an ordeal occurs. Proximity to Tradition, understood as the living river of Revelation, experiences an interruption. This crisis manifests itself strikingly during the Passion of Christ. The disciples experience their radical incapacity to follow: “Then all the disciples deserted him and ran away” (Mt 26:56). This crisis reveals an essential and hidden dimension of faith: faith certainly comprises an object—Christ to follow—but it also presupposes a subject, that is, a real inner capacity.

Now it is not enough that Christ be given as way: “I am the way” (Jn 14:6). For Tradition to be truly living, there must also be given the capacity to walk in this way, to navigate in this river. It is here that the decisive word resounds: “Apart from me you can do nothing” (Jn 15:5). This word does not enunciate a definitive powerlessness. It enunciates the necessity of a transformation, a change of vital source.

It is here that Mary intervenes. She appears as she in whom this capacity is given in fullness: “Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord’s promise to her will be fulfilled!” (Lk 1:45). She is the living support—what bears and renders possible—Tradition. The passage is dramatic and necessary: to abandon our small personal boat, fragile—”you of little faith” (Mt 14:31)—in order to enter into a manner of believing that precedes us and bears us. From our craft made of weak reeds, we are called to enter into a vessel capable of bearing us through the whole “breadth and length and height and depth” of the mystery (Eph 3:18).

4. Participation and Mediation: the Responsibility to Transmit

To wish to follow Christ is therefore to wish to enter into this immense River. This is necessary, for the Lord says: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink… Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them” (Jn 7:37–38). We are not only called to enter it, but to take part in it, to become active participants. And this participation fulfils our vocation: “until we all reach unity in faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ” (Eph 4:13).

This presupposes a real exploration of this river, each according to the share given to him: “Now to each one the manifestation of the Spirit is given for the common good” (1 Cor 12:7). In entering into the River, we become participants in this divine life given, and, in union with Mary who is in Christ, we in turn become mediations of transmission for others.

There is here a profound transformation: “But whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit” (1 Cor 6:17). Man is, as it were, assumed into this divine movement. He becomes, in a sense, a “passage” for his brothers. This is why the Apostle can affirm: “We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors” (2 Cor 5:20). The Church itself, as “universal sacrament of salvation,” embodies this mediation. And each member, according to the place given to him, participates in this living transmission.

However, if a Christian—be he an ecclesial leader—does not seek this river and does not deepen his access to it, then transmission is gravely affected. The Lord warns: “If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit” (Mt 15:14). The next generation, this “body” entrusted, will not receive real access to the fullness of Tradition. Thence, the consequence is grave: “My people are destroyed from lack of knowledge” (Os 4:6). There is diminishment of access to salvation, impoverishment of Christianity, obstruction of entry to the river. It is no longer fullness that is transmitted, but an altered form.

5. Critique of False Comfort: the Remnant as Justification for Impoverishment

From a historical point of view, it is possible to discern not only ancient fragilisations, but also, more recently, forms of break (let us think for example of the post-conciliar period). And this phenomenon produces a troubling paradox.

Faced with this situation, one must beware of a false comfort, which would consist in invoking a certain interpretation of the “remnant,” as if historical infidelities and losses were directly related to a positive design of God. Scripture certainly speaks of a “remnant”: “Yet some will escape and return” (Is 10:21). But this remnant is linked to a purification for the sake of restoration, not to a justification of loss or diminishment.

For purification, in the logic of the divine, does not signify a quantitative reduction accompanied by impoverishment, but a growth in depth and in quality: “He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful” (Jn 15:2). It is an intensification of life, not a regression. Divine purification always aims at increased fullness, not at diminishment.

Yet in certain contemporary readings, the “remnant” is presented as a sort of fatal necessity, almost as a normal state willed by God. Such a perspective actually leads to endorsing an impoverishment of Christianity, and consequently an impoverishment of access to salvation transmitted to subsequent generations: “See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition” (Col 2:8). This mistaken interpretation offers a false comfort that anaesthetises pastoral responsibility.

It is a confusion of categories. The biblical “remnant” is never the justification of a passive acceptance of loss. On the contrary, the remnant is called to restoration, to renewed fruitfulness. Jeremiah precisely stigmatises those who have “forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water” (Jr 2:13)—that is, who have cut off access to the living river of Revelation in order to content themselves with fractured reservoirs, with human traditions.

Our responsibility towards subsequent generations is therefore engaged decisively. Crises, challenges, difficulties must receive an answer commensurate with them. Otherwise, the consequence is grave: there is not only a quantitative limitation, but a genuine qualitative impoverishment of access to salvation. This is the true stakes of transmission: not simply to save a few islands of faith, but to ensure continuous and increasing access to the fullness of the mystery of Christ.

6. Contemporary Ruptures and the Paradox of Superficial Renewal

The point of view must be recovered. By “point of view,” is meant the location where one stands on the mountain, from which one can embrace the valley in all its breadth and discern the height of the summit to be reached. “He took them up on a high mountain where they could be alone” (Mt 17:1). Height gives a comprehensive understanding, of the entirety of the mystery, of the meaning of Christian life.

Yet if one considers recent historical situation, there appears a major paradox. On the one hand, there inevitably appear authentic signs of Christian life. One sees sprouts emerging, initiatives, focal points of Christian life, islands here and there. The Lord has promised: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed… the smallest of all seeds” (Mt 13:31–32).

But, on the other hand, these sprouts often seem to lack depth. Their rootedness remains limited, the roots are shallow. They seem largely to ignore the river in its depth, its breadth, its dynamics. Their manner of living Christianity does not really presuppose the existence of this river, nor the effort that real entry into it implies.

Thus the paradox manifests itself: an appearance of renewal, real in a sense, but which does not correspond to an insertion into the fullness of Living Tradition. It is a Christianity that “has a form of godliness but denies its power” (2 Tim 3:5). One finds oneself before a form of Christian life renewed indeed, but precarious, “come what may,” without real access to the depth of the mystery. This is why the Lord warns: “If the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again?” (Mt 5:13). The true stakes therefore remain “the point of view”: to recover a position that permits one to see the river in its unity, its continuity and its depth, so as to enter it really and to live from it.

7. Towards a Pastoral of Depth: Conditions and Responsibility

In the light of this analysis, it is necessary that a real, structured and accompanied effort be put in place to ensure entry into the River of Living Tradition. It is not simply a matter of external fidelity to traditions or to ways of doing things. It is a matter of commitment to enter into the very depth of the mystery of Christ.

The Lord clearly states a condition: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only those who do the will of my Father” (Mt 7:21). The stakes are interior and vital, not formal. This entry into the River cannot be considered optional. It pertains to an objective necessity of Christian life.

There exists indeed a real risk that certain practices, even sacramental ones, be lived in a routine and stagnant manner. The Lord denounces this: “These people honour me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me” (Mt 15:8). Without this entry into depth, spiritual life remains on the surface, and the Eucharist itself, though it remains central—”Do this in remembrance of me” (Lk 22:19)—risks becoming a practice without real transformation.

Note: The Catechism of the Catholic Church warns against superstition, defined as “the deviation of religious feeling and of the practices it imposes. It can even affect the worship we offer the true God, for example when one attributes a kind of magical efficacy to certain practices, otherwise lawful or necessary” (CCC 2111). The attribution of the efficacy of prayers or sacramental signs to their external performance alone, without the interior dispositions they require, is called superstition. In the context of liturgical practice, this emphasis on the exterior can degenerate into a kind of empty routine, an idolatry of the rite where one risks losing sight of Christ himself, in favour of an attachment to forms without interior participation.

Spiritual growth is thus conditioned by entry into this River and by progression within it: “Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ” (2 Pet 3:18). Ezekiel’s image is here decisive: “The water was ankle-deep… then knee-deep… then up to the waist… and it was a river that I could not cross” (Ez 47:3–5). What was at first merely a trickle becomes an impassable depth. Arriving at this critical point, a passage is necessary. Man can no longer advance by his own strength. “Apart from me you can do nothing” (Jn 15:5). One must then receive a new mode to continue advancing. It is this transformation which alone permits authentic participation in the mystery of Christ and, consequently, in the living transmission of salvation.

From this perspective, Christian pastoral care should aim above all at the real growth of man in the River of Revelation and of Grace, that is, his progressive transformation in Christ. As St. Paul reminds us: “until we all reach unity in faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ” (Eph 4:13), this transformation is not an abstract ideal but the concrete vocation of every Christian, inscribed in the very plan of salvation. Growth towards union with Christ, and the interior stages that mark this path—purification, illumination, union—are not optional: they constitute the very heart of the task entrusted to man to respond to the call to become a participant in divine life.

Spiritual Formation is the privileged mode for entering into this River and progressing within it. It is neither reducible to the acquisition of knowledge nor to the execution of ritual practices: it consists of an organised, lived and accompanied path, which forms man to receive the grace of the Spirit and to respond to Christ’s call in all dimensions of his life. Spiritual Formation allows one to discern the stages of interior growth, to purify the attachments that hinder, to illuminate the intelligence by the truth of faith and to nourish the will by the practice of love. It is through Spiritual Formation that one learns to navigate the River and to integrate Living Tradition as source and transforming current of Christian life. In current pastoral practice, this dimension should develop. Teaching on Christian life risks being limited to moral prescriptions, to doctrinal knowledge, or to external ritual practices, whilst the living experience of the Spirit and of interior transformation remains largely ignored or underdeveloped, superficial, mechanical. This reduction, whether conscious or unconscious, risks leaving the Christian on the bank of the River, perceiving Tradition and the Word without entering fully into their transformative power.

Yet the call remains integral and radical, as the Lord proclaims: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Mt 5:48). This call is not an invitation to human perfectionism, but a movement of growth that runs through the whole of life. Spiritual Formation is the concrete path by which the Christian receives and lives the promised transformation, becoming a participant in the very life of God and allowing the River of Tradition and of the Word to work in him a profound interior transformation.

The primary stakes of pastoral care reside in the responsibility of those in charge—priests, bishops, deacons, catechists,…—who must first themselves turn to the authentic sources that enable entry into the River and progression within it. As Christ says to Peter: “You do not understand now what I am doing, but later you will understand” (Jn 13:7), it is not ordination that magically confers understanding or the capacity to guide others. The true source of this experience is personal spiritual experience. One transmits only what one possesses, what one has become. Ministers cannot therefore neglect their own conversion and their own immersion in the River: their personal growth and their union with Christ constitute the necessary condition for guiding the faithful. This requires concrete, daily effort on the part of each pastoral agent. Without this rootedness in Living Tradition and in the Word of God, pastoral care reduces to an external routine, bereft of transformative power, and Spiritual Formation of the faithful cannot attain its end.

There is here a danger that deserves to be named directly. If pastoral work becomes the sole purpose of those in charge — bishops, priests, deacons, catechists — it places the leader in a blind spot. No one can give what he or she does not possess. If the entirety of a vocation is progressively absorbed by service to others, that vocation is truncated at its root. The first and constant imperative is to seek God, and to deepen one’s personal spiritual life — not as a supplement to pastoral activity, but as its irreplaceable condition. This is precisely what is meant by the necessary effort to draw ever closer to the living stream of Tradition. Ordinary daily prayer, however faithful, is not sufficient on its own. One must dig deeper — into the mystery of the first commandment and its constant implications for the deepening of one’s relationship with God, and for the living understanding of the faith. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind” (Mt 22:37): this commandment is not merely the first in rank; it is the inexhaustible source from which all else proceeds. A pastoral care that neglects this source does not merely weaken itself; it gradually loses the very capacity to lead others to the River it has itself ceased to drink from.

The appeal of Pope John Paul II, in Novo Millennio Ineunte (nos. 30–31, see below), to place the entire pastoral plan under the aegis of the call to holiness has considerable consequences. It implies a profound revision of the manner in which we conceive and live our faith day-to-day, of the manner in which we view the parish and its activities, as well as of the very conception of pastoral care and of Spiritual Formation of pastoral agents. This appeal emphasises that the mission of the Church is not first a matter of organisation or programmes, but of the real growth of the faithful in holiness, in an integral and personal manner, and that every pastoral plan must be oriented towards this ultimate goal: to lead each person to union with Christ in the River of Tradition and of the Word.

8. Theological Method as the Vehicle of the Living River

A final and indispensable clarification is required concerning the very form of theology that serves as the vehicle of this living Tradition. The content transmitted cannot be separated from the mode of its transmission. If the theological method is inadequate to its object, then — even if materially correct — it remains formally incapable of conveying the reality it intends to express. The Mystery of Christ is not an object among others; it is a living reality, given in Revelation and communicated in the Holy Spirit. Consequently, a theology that limits itself to recounting the historical development of doctrines or to mapping the succession of theological notions risks remaining at the level of description rather than participation. It speaks about the river without ever entering into its current. As the Second Vatican Council insists, Revelation is not merely a set of propositions but a divine self-communication: “by this revelation… God speaks to men as friends and lives amongst them, so that He may invite and take them into fellowship with Himself” (Dei Verbum, 2). A method that does not correspond to this personal and dynamic character inevitably remains on the surface of things.

This leads to a deeper question: what is theology in its very nature and function? If theology is reduced to an intellectus fidei, understood in a purely analytical or explanatory sense, its horizon is truncated. Certainly, theology seeks understanding — “faith seeking understanding,” as the classical definition affirms — but such understanding is intrinsically ordered to communion. Scripture itself presents knowledge of God not as a purely conceptual act but as a participatory reality: “This is eternal life, that they know you the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent” (John 17:3). To know is already to enter into life. If theology does not lead to God, if it does not indicate the path of union with Him and foster that movement, then it fails in relation to its proper object. It no longer serves the transmission of a living Tradition but confines it within the limits of discourse. In such a framework, the Gospel is understood, but not fully received; it is clarified, but not allowed to exercise its transformative power.

From this follows a third and decisive consequence. For theology to serve as a true “riverbed” for the living stream of Revelation, it must integrate three inseparable dimensions: science, experience, and discernment. Science is necessary: the rigour of concepts, the labour of reason, and the historical intelligence of the data of faith all belong intrinsically to theology. Yet, taken in isolation, this scientific dimension is insufficient. The reality it seeks to articulate exceeds what can be grasped by intellectual analysis alone. There must also be experience — not in a subjective or purely emotional sense, but as the lived contact with God in prayer and in the life of grace. “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8): this biblical invitation indicates that divine truth is verified in a lived encounter. Finally, there is discernment, that is, the capacity — under the guidance of the Holy Spirit — to recognise the authentic action of God, to distinguish it from its distortions, and to guide others along this path. Saint Paul expresses this dynamic succinctly: “the spiritual man judges all things” (1 Corinthians 2:15).

When these three dimensions are separated, theology is reduced and, with it, its capacity to carry the living Tradition is diminished. A theology that becomes exclusively scientific, relying only on historical and critical faculties, risks transforming the “living water” into an object of study. The method of “history of…” — legitimate in itself — becomes dominant and alters the very relationship to Revelation. What is transmitted is no longer the immediacy of a life given, but the mediated account of what once was. In this sense, the riverbed no longer corresponds to the water it is meant to carry: it constrains it, diverts it, and ultimately alters its quality. The result is not necessarily error, but impoverishment — a progressive loss of vitality.

The consequences of such a shift are not merely theoretical; they manifest concretely in the life of the Church. One may consider, for example, the evolution of religious life in recent decades. The decline in vocations since the mid-twentieth century cannot be reduced to sociological factors alone. It raises the question of formation, and therefore of the theological framework that undergirds it. Where the living tradition of spiritual life is no longer transmitted in a form capable of sustaining it, it gradually disappears. Formation risks becoming informational rather than transformational. In such a context, theology, instead of serving as the faithful mediator of a received life, can appear as an external element — almost an intrusion — that modifies the internal equilibrium of religious life. What was once a living current of prayer, discernment, and union with God becomes attenuated, and the very capacity to receive and transmit this life is weakened.

Thus, the question of theological method is not secondary. It directly conditions the integrity of the River of Living Tradition. If the riverbed is not proportioned to the living waters of Revelation, it does not merely limit their flow; it alters their transmissibility. The renewal of theology, therefore, is not an academic luxury but a vital necessity for the Church, if she is to remain faithful to what she has received: not only a truth to be understood, but a life to be communicated.

Conclusion

Christ’s word — “What I am doing you do not understand now; but you will understand later” — enunciates far more than a limitation. It enunciates the existence of a Living Tradition, a River of Revelation whose depth increases for those who advance. It affirms that there is no immediate understanding of the mystery of Christ, but a process of interior transformation that extends from one generation to the next.

This progressive understanding requires three things. First, the fulfilment of an objective order of salvation — Redemption by the Cross, the gift of the Spirit. Next, a subjective transformation — the passage from limited human capacity to participation in divine capacity. Finally, a living transmission from generation to generation, which does not diminish but deepens.

Yet there exists today a grave risk: that of breaks in the river of Tradition. This risk is not due to a lack of apparent signs of Christian life, but to the absence of deep rootedness in this Living Tradition. The contemporary paradox resides in this troubling coexistence: sprouts of Christian life, but without deep roots; an appearance of renewal, but without access to fullness; external practices, but without interior transformation.

It is crucial to reject the false consolation that some derive from a mistaken reading of the “remnant.” The biblical remnant is never a justification for passivity in the face of loss. On the contrary, it is a call to restoration and to increased growth. As Jeremiah warns, the supreme misfortune is to have “forsaken me, the spring of living water, and dug cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water.” Pastoral responsibility is therefore decisive: to ensure that each generation receives not only faithful transmission of doctrine, but real and increasing access to the River of Living Tradition.

To this end, however, it is not sufficient to renew pastoral practice alone. The very form of theology that serves as the vehicle of transmission must itself be renewed. A theology that speaks about the River without entering into its current — that maps its course without drinking from its waters — cannot faithfully carry what it is meant to transmit. The River of Living Tradition requires a riverbed proportioned to it: a theology that integrates science, experience, and discernment as inseparable dimensions, and that understands its own task not merely as the clarification of truths, but as the mediation of a life. Where this integration is lacking, formation becomes information, transmission becomes description, and the living water is gradually reduced to an object of study.

The point of view must therefore be recovered in its full breadth. It is necessary that, anew, the entire Church aim towards entry into the depth of the River of Living Tradition — not as an optional work of a few mystics, but as the essential task of the transmission of salvation. And it is necessary that theology itself recover its true vocation: not merely to speak about this River, but to serve as its faithful riverbed, so that the living waters of Revelation may flow, unimpeded and undiluted, from one generation to the next. This recognition of the River, of its unity, its continuity, its dynamics, and of the theological method adequate to carry it, is the foundation of all authentic pastoral care. Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ (2 Pet 3:18).

Bibliography

Documents

Second Vatican Council, Dei Verbum, Catechism of the Catholic Church: Revelation nn. 50-100.

Ezekiel 47:1–5 – Vision of water flowing out of the Temple Isaiah 10:21 – A remnant will return Isaiah 55:8 – My thoughts are not your thoughts Jeremiah 2:13 – Abandonment of the spring of living water Hosea 4:6 – My people are destroyed from lack of knowledge Psalm 46:5 – A river whose streams make glad the City of God New Testament

Matthew 5:13 – If the salt loses its saltiness Matthew 5:48 – Be perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect Matthew 7:21 – Not by saying Lord, Lord Matthew 13:31–32 – The mustard seed Matthew 14:31 – You of little faith Matthew 15:8 – These people honour me with their lips Matthew 15:14 – If the blind lead the blind Matthew 17:1 – On a high mountain Matthew 17:9 – Tell the vision to no one until the Resurrection Matthew 26:56 – They all deserted him Mark 4:17 – They have no root Luke 1:45 – Blessed is she who has believed Luke 5:4 – Put out into the deep Luke 22:19 – Do this in remembrance of me John 2:22 – His disciples remembered John 7:37–38 – If anyone is thirsty John 14:6 – I am the way John 15:2 – Every branch that bears fruit John 15:5 – Apart from me you can do nothing John 16:12–13 – I have much more to tell you Acts 1:4 – Wait for the promise of the Father Acts 1:8 – You will receive power Romans 6:23 – The wages of sin 1 Corinthians 6:17 – Whoever is united with the Lord 1 Corinthians 12:7 – The manifestation of the Spirit is given 1 Corinthians 13:9 – We know in part 1 Corinthians 13:12 – We see in a mirror 2 Corinthians 5:20 – We are ambassadors Ephesians 2:14–16 – He made the two one Ephesians 3:18–19 – The breadth, length, height and depth Ephesians 4:13–15 – Until the measure of the fullness of Christ Colossians 2:8 – See to it that no one takes you captive 2 Timothy 1:14 – Guard the good deposit 2 Timothy 2:2 – Entrust to reliable people 2 Timothy 3:5 – A form of godliness 2 Peter 1:4 – Participants in the divine nature 2 Peter 3:18 – Grow in grace and knowledge 1 Peter 2:24 – He bore our sins

John Paul II: Novo Millennio Ineunte

Holiness

30. And first of all I do not hesitate to say that the perspective in which the whole pastoral journey must be set is that of holiness. Was not this the ultimate meaning of the jubilee indulgence, as a special grace offered by Christ so that the life of each baptised person might be purified and profoundly renewed?

I trust that many of those who took part in the Jubilee benefited from this grace, fully aware of its demanding character. Once the Jubilee is over, the ordinary journey resumes, but presenting holiness remains more than ever a pastoral urgency.

It is necessary to rediscover, in all its value as a programme, Chapter V of the dogmatic constitution on the Church Lumen Gentium, devoted to the “universal call to holiness.” If the Council Fathers attached such importance to this subject, it was not to confer a sort of spiritual touch to ecclesiology, but rather to bring out its intrinsic and characteristic dynamism. The rediscovery of the Church as “mystery,” that is, as “a people made one with the unity of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,”15 could not but also bring about the rediscovery of its “holiness,” understood in the fundamental sense of belonging to Him who is supremely holy, the “thrice holy” (cf. Is 6:3). To say that the Church is holy means to present her face as the Bride of Christ, for whom he gave himself, precisely in order to sanctify her (cf. Eph 5:25–26). This gift of holiness, so to speak objective, is offered to each baptised person.

But the gift is in turn translated into a task, which must govern the whole of Christian existence: “It is God’s will that you should be sanctified” (1 Th 4:3). It is a commitment which concerns not only some Christians: “All the faithful of Christ, whatever their state or rank, are called to the fullness of Christian life and the perfection of charity”.16

31. To recall this elementary truth, by making it the foundation of pastoral planning which we undertake at the beginning of the new millennium, might at first sight seem something of little operational significance. Can holiness be “programmed”? What can this word mean in the logic of a pastoral plan?

In reality, to place pastoral planning under the sign of holiness is a choice heavy with consequences. It means to express the conviction that, if Baptism truly brings entry into the holiness of God by means of insertion in Christ and the indwelling of his Spirit, it would be a nonsense to content oneself with a mediocre life, lived under the sign of a minimalist ethic and superficial religiosity. To ask a catechumen: “Do you wish to receive Baptism?” is at the same time to ask him: “Do you wish to become holy?” This means to set before him the radical character of the discourse on the Mountain: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Mt 5:48).

As the Council itself explained, one must not be mistaken about this ideal of perfection as if it were to suppose a sort of extraordinary life that only a few “geniuses” of holiness could practise. The paths of holiness are many and adapted to each one’s vocation. I thank the Lord, who has allowed me to beatify and canonise in recent years many Christians, and among them many of the lay faithful who have sanctified themselves in the most ordinary conditions of life. It is time to propose anew to all, with conviction, this “high standard” of ordinary Christian life: the whole life of the ecclesial community and of Christian families must be directed to this end. It is, however, evident that the paths of holiness are personal, and that they require a genuine pedagogy of holiness which is capable of adapting itself to the rhythms of people. This pedagogy must integrate, to the riches of the proposal addressed to all, the traditional forms of personal and group assistance, and the newer forms brought by associations and movements recognised by the Church.