The Intensity of the Instant

Simone Riva - A dialogue with adults presenting his new book in Rapallo. Italy.

A Book Born Not to Forget
First of all, thank you for the invitation, which allows me to return to the origin of the facts. I would like to tell you how this book was born, a project that I didn’t even imagine at first. Since I moved to Monza, I began a collaboration with a local weekly newspaper, editing a column. From the beginning, I questioned what was worth writing about, what was really important to communicate. I decided that there was nothing more important to share than what one truly experiences in their own life.

Many friends started sharing my articles. One time, some suggested I put them in a book, thinking it would be helpful. We undertook this project with an ironic approach and, I must admit, I reread those articles from time to time with pleasure. The collaboration with the newspaper continues and the articles are piling up.

The book was born out of something that I recognized had unlocked in me, a kind of new look at reality. Many things in me have not changed yet, but this has: a new taste has emerged, a different way of looking at reality - and myself - that has given me the desire not to neglect the details of life.

It is as if it is a reflection on reality and on others of something I feel first in my life, in my way of seeing, in my humanity. I rediscovered this aspect particularly during the summer, because the truth of what you write and live verifies it when you are alone, when you don't have external footholds, organized things or the daily routine to support you.

Beyond Appearance: the Gift of Living Intensely

When you are alone with yourself, the intensity and truth of what you live in front of others emerges. This summer, I was lucky to spend long vacations with friends. But when I was alone, I realized that I don’t want to live the day or life as it is. And that is a true gift.

It is not something you decide to do, nor is there a school that teaches how to live this way. It is really a gift. At a certain point, an unlocking happens that you begin to enjoy.

What kind of unlocking is it? It is an unlocking that is first of all about the human, the discovery of being, as Fr. Alberto also mentioned, beyond roles. It is about living first of all as humans.

Did you notice the final two questions in the first reading, when Moses addresses the Israelites as men? He provokes them by asking, “Find if there is a God closer to us than the one we have met, find if there are laws more just than the ones he has given us.”

These questions struck me because the page ends like this, with two questions. 

Not because of What is Missing, but because of What is There.

This phenomenon is particularly evident in boys, who suffer greatly when they perceive that they are being watched with ulterior motives. However, this dynamic is not limited to young people, but extends to adults as well. Indeed, those relationships in which a person is constantly evaluated not for who he or she is but for what he or she should be or what he or she might do turn out to be intolerable. 

This attitude recalls the critical gaze of the Pharisees and scribes in the Gospel, who asked, “Why do your disciples sit at the table without respecting tradition?” Such an approach reveals a tendency to judge based on predetermined expectations and norms, rather than accepting and appreciating the individual for his or her uniqueness.

This critical attitude manifests itself not in appreciation for the presence of the other, but in being scandalized by what was not done, such as not washing one's hands. Such an approach, which sometimes creeps into relationships, leads to a focus on the other person's shortcomings rather than his or her mere existence. There is no amazement at the individual's presence, only criticism of what does not conform to expectations.

Choosing the book cover turned out to be a more challenging process than the writing of the work itself. While searching through my old digital photographs, a particularly significant image emerged. This photo, taken in 2013 during a trip to Monterosso while I was teaching in Gallarate, captures a special moment, coinciding with my birthday. The image proved to be extraordinarily evocative, encapsulating the essence of what I wanted to convey.

The photograph depicts a young girl, now grown up with a family of her own, in an instant that perfectly reflects the title of the book. The image captures her youth, with all her years still ahead of her, even with her braces visible. What is most striking is her gaze, which suggests deep insight, as if she has glimpsed something significant. This gaze invites the observer to stop and reflect. Such an image represents, in my opinion, the thematic undercurrent of the entire book.

When No One Needs to Know About Me

Rereading the ancient texts and articles, a common thread emerges throughout the stories. One perceives how the mystery, or God, constantly offers us something worth dwelling on and reflecting on. It is important not to let these opportunities slip by, as highlighted in the examples cited by Fr. Joseph.

In the school context, I propose a topic to students at the middle and end of the year. The topic requires them to recount the experience they are having during the school term, building on the reflections that emerged in class. What has particularly struck me is the seriousness with which almost all students approach this assignment. I realized that they are rarely asked to reflect on what they are experiencing, making this exercise a unique opportunity for introspection and sharing.

Generally, students' main concern is about what they know or do not know. However, the religion hour provides a different space. In this context, a particularly hermetic boy, whom I was keeping an eye on with interest, handed me a seemingly blank sheet of paper. Upon opening it, I found a single sentence, with no first name, last name, class or date: “No one must know about me.”

This sentence brought to mind Rilke's famous text, “Everything conspires to keep silent about us.” It is as if the implied message is: study math, learn Italian, acquire a trade, do whatever you want, but the important thing is that no one knows who you really are. It is a subtle refrain that gradually creeps into the mind until it becomes a conviction.

The impact of this phrase caused a significant change in me. From that moment on, every time I entered the classroom, I had that boy even more present in my thoughts. I never directly solicited him about what he had written, but I tried to educate myself to look at him differently, to keep him more present in my mind. This was not an act of charity, but a personal challenge.

Do you start with Me?

Reflecting on my student years, I remember how pervasive the feeling was that there was always something wrong. The idea that, just as you are, you are never enough, that there is always something to change, was constant. This perception persists until one meets someone who genuinely appreciates us, accepting us as we are.

This encounter represents a turning point in life, a moment we all long to experience: finding someone before whom we can be ourselves, without the constant burden of having to improve or change something. It is an unconditional acceptance, without “but” or “however.”

To further illustrate this concept, I would like to share a second example. One day, upon entering the classroom, I found the students in turmoil after a math test. Chaos reigned as everyone compared their answers. 

No one seemed intent on starting the lesson. I sat down, somewhat discouraged, trying to stall and encouraging the students to vent. Suddenly, a student in the front row looked at me and said, “Professor, start.” Then he added, “Start with me.”

This episode struck me deeply, highlighting one of the biggest pitfalls in education: the tendency to fall into the trap of predetermined roles. Often, one finds oneself expecting all students to be at the same level or expecting them to reach it. However, the real educational challenge lies in having esteem, affection and love for the specific point on the path where each individual is.

This perspective, which I apply to myself, makes me question why I should use a different method with others. The essence lies in cherishing each person's starting point, recognizing that in a class of 20 or 25 students there are just as many different starting points. Each student brings with them a unique story, different expectations, personal challenges, varied hopes, and comes from distinct family and educational backgrounds.

The real educational challenge, therefore, lies in creating an environment in which each can feel individually seen and considered. This personalized approach takes into account the uniqueness of each student, respecting his or her personal journey and pace of learning.

When God forces us to look outside ourselves

It is remarkable to see how the initiative of an individual can introduce something new for the whole group. This principle is reminiscent of the divine approach in human history: God did not wait for the whole of humanity to be ready, but began his project with specific individuals such as Abraham, Moses and Mary. Reflecting on the risk God took in history is deeply moving.

The student's request, “Begin with me,” is an invitation to take the individual seriously, without waiting for everyone to be ready. It is a call to acknowledge his presence and go from there. Although there is no guarantee that others will follow immediately, this approach has begun a process of shared work. This beginning has led to significant change for both the student and me, with the hope that it will extend to others in the future.

The succession of events invites us to be fully present in what we do, to be authentic with ourselves, as emphasized by Fr. Alberto. This authentic presence manifests itself in all environments of daily life, including contexts such as the summer oratory.

Last year, during summer oratory, a little Ukrainian boy caught my attention. At that time, high school kids had made crafts using glass bottles filled with colored sand. The child took me by the hand into the oratory courtyard, eager to show me his creation. After complimenting him, he suddenly became disinterested in the handiwork and asked me, “But shall we become friends?” At that moment, I sensed that there was something deeper behind that question.

Intrigued, I asked him how to become friends. His answer was simple and immediate: he took my hand, proving that friendship begins with a gesture of connection. Soon after, he further surprised me by asking, “But do you think Jesus is really cool?”

This sequence of events struck me deeply. Reflecting on the dynamics of how things happen, if we can overcome distraction, a web of circumstances emerges that reveals the work of God. It is as if God himself orchestrates events, wooing us in intense ways, forcing us to turn our attention away from our concerns to look beyond ourselves.

The child's invitation to see his handiwork, followed by the provocation about friendship, made me reflect on the gesture of exchanging peace during Mass. How often do we make that gesture without full awareness? The child, with his simplicity, reminded me of the deep meaning of that act: establishing an authentic connection with the other.

Stories of patience and restart

The previous year's experience made me think deeply about the question, “Do you think Jesus is really strong?” This year, a similar episode reinforced this reflection. During the weekday oratory, after celebrating a funeral in the church, I went out a back door, unexpected for the boys. There, I found a child waiting for me with a basketball. Immediately, I sensed that something significant was about to happen.

The child invited me to play, and despite my poor basketball skills, I accepted. We headed to the court and started playing, taking turns in shooting. Other kids joined us. I made a few shots: the first one went out, the second one went into the basket. The child made a basket on his turn. On my third attempt, I missed again.

After two consecutive failed shots on my part, I noticed that the child was sitting next to me, holding the ball. With surprising empathy, he said to me, “Until you make a basket, I'm not shooting anymore.” This gesture of solidarity and patience from a child deeply affected me, revealing a wisdom and understanding beyond his age.

This episode struck me deeply because it reflects the way God acts with us. He does not play in our place, but waits patiently for us to begin again, to find our center. These are experiences that, until recently, I would not have considered significant. Probably, when asked to play, I would have said, “I'm sorry, but I can't right now.”

However, as Fr. Alberto suggested, life has become more interesting since I began to open up to reality and let myself be touched by daily events. Of course, we are all sinners, some more than others, and things do not always go as we would like. But all it takes is for a meaningful experience to happen once for it to happen again.

This summer I have been reflecting on the fact that moments of solitude, when we confront ourselves, are the most revealing. In those moments, we understand whether what we are experiencing is superficial, a mere illusion, or whether it is truly the substance of our lives, the essence of everything.

The tenderness of Mary and Jesus at the heart of human frailty

I would like to conclude with a scene from the TV series “The Chosen,” which tells the life of Jesus in a special way. One episode struck me deeply: the apostles, in Jesus' absence, gather around an evening fire. Tired and irritated, they begin to argue, letting mutual resentments emerge. One of them accuses Matthew: “You have sold out.” Our Lady observes the scene from the sidelines, with a look of infinite tenderness, without intervening.

As the discussion flares up, Jesus returns, visibly tired. He does not utter a word, but his gaze is enough to silence everyone. A touching scene follows: Jesus retires to his tent, followed only by Mary, who helps him prepare for the night, despite the fact that he is now an adult.

This scene made me reflect on the unique relationship between Jesus and Mary. It seems to me that she alone was able to enter the innermost place in Jesus' heart, without the need for words. The apostles, while not fully understanding, sensed the profound change Jesus had brought into their lives.

When no one can get that far

I wonder: where did Jesus want to lead his apostles? He certainly did not wish to see them arguing with each other after a day full of extraordinary miracles and profound words. Yet, these extraordinary events did not seem enough to transform them completely.
I believe Jesus educated the apostles through the daily example of his relationship with Mary. Imagine the apostles observing the interaction between Jesus and his mother day after day. Gradually, their humanity, even with its imperfections and responsiveness, no longer stood as an alternative to what they had encountered, but became a stepping stone to something greater.

As Mel Gibson portrayed in his film, I think Peter's tears after denial found comfort in Mary's embrace. Christ ensured that, even during his passion, there was always an alternative model of life physically embodied before them.

I reflect on the moments of loneliness that we all experience, when we realize that no one can really accompany us all the way or completely alleviate the drama of existence. These are precisely the moments when we can really empathize with that unity that existed between Jesus and his mother, and which can become the unity between Jesus and us. In this way, Christ ceases to be just a name and becomes a real presence.

The details of reality become like road signs showing us where to look and in which direction to walk. For all this, I am deeply grateful.

Gratitude and Vertigo: Rediscovering God's Chosen Men

I am grateful because this book began as an act of gratitude for the encounters I have had and continue to have, for the grace of the life I live. At some point, I rediscovered myself as a man even before I became a priest, and this allowed me to experience the vertigo of being confronted with such profound humanity, of being chosen. This realization still makes me shudder, because when God takes risks, he really does.

I see the intensity of the moment as an opportunity offered to everyone not to miss the best of life. That is why I accepted this challenge and continue to write. I find it surprisingly simple and, strange as it may sound to say, tasty. I see that it helps, and that is the only reason I continue, without any other gain. My purpose is to tell that this experience is possible, that it is daily history, the story that God started one day and that is not over yet, that it will not end until he returns.

Regarding the young people I meet, for several years now at the beginning of the school year, after the telling of their summer experiences, I ask them to write on an anonymous sheet of paper the questions with which they begin the year. Questions about school and questions about themselves always emerge.

The Mystery of Self

What strikes me is the seriousness with which the students approach this task. I keep all their answers, because they reveal deep reflection. They seem to be waiting for the very opportunity to express the questions they carry within themselves. The questions range over many areas, but some recur constantly.

The most frequent question, which emerges in all age groups from first to fifth grade, is always the same: “Who am I?” This is the real challenge: confronting one's identity. The second pressing issue concerns their usefulness. There is often a fear that they are useless, that they do not make a difference, whether they graduate or not, whether they get a job or not.

This reveals, in my view, the need for a look that values them for who they are, where they are. It is difficult to generalize about what young people believe in, but there are episodes that give me pause.

For example, in one of my most difficult classes, composed almost entirely of boys, I noticed that often the most agitated students are also the sharpest. One day, during recess, one of these boys, instead of going out, stayed in the classroom and talked to me. He told me about going out for the first time with a girl. Weeks later, he told me he broke up with her because “it's not enough that she's a pretty girl.”

This struck me because it shows that there is a point in life when we can no longer pretend. Our heart has a sensor that signals us when something is wrong. If a person has a modicum of passion and self-love, he or she will not ignore these provocations of reality.

In my opinion, openness to faith begins when a person discovers that he is a mystery to himself. When this mysterious nature is realized, it opens the possibility of considering that this mystery that we are may have a fulfillment.

What do you seek?

Until we come to this realization, there is a risk that our words and proposals will not intercept the true urgency within each person. We struggle, and I see this over the years, because we thought that ritual was enough to hold the community together.
If you notice, in all our proposals there is always a Mass involved. Not that it is wrong, for goodness sake, but it is just that. In the everyday, we struggle to intercept a presence that does not need a safe place to show itself. This, in my opinion, is something we need to be vigilant about.

No one has the perfect recipe, but we must be vigilant: the Christian proposal cannot be limited to seeing who comes or does not come to Mass, or to organizing initiatives only around Mass. Is that enough? Or is it like waiting at the finish line for people who have not yet started the race? Jesus did not start with “do this in memory of me,” but with “what are you looking for?”

To address the question of adults, I would like to give an example. I don't know if you have seen the movie “Gran Torino” by Clint Eastwood, which I consider a masterpiece.

Do you remember the plot of the movie? The main character, a Korean War veteran, finds himself the only American in a neighborhood now inhabited by Koreans. He is a bitter man, at odds with everyone. In his garage he keeps a Gran Torino, a valuable antique car. He cares for it maniacally: he polishes it, washes it, has even fabricated parts to keep it running. He displays it in front of the house for all to see, then picks it up in the evening. But he never gets on it. In the whole movie, we never see him driving this car.

I often use this movie as an example in school. Many kids haven't seen it, but I find this scene to be a powerful metaphor. In my opinion, we adults run the same risk: we never “get on” our humanity, we don't use it. Yet, our humanity is like a Ferrari; God spared no expense in creating us, He did not make us with flaws.
The danger is that our children do not see adults engaged in work on themselves. This can cause them to question the appropriateness of growing up. What does it mean to “get into the car,” the Gran Torino? It means enjoying and appreciating ourselves for who we are.

Discovering His Presence in the Other.

It is about taking the risk not to censor ourselves all the time, but to learn to appreciate ourselves for who we are, to love ourselves, to look at ourselves as Jesus looks at us. I am always struck by what St. Ambrose says about creation: “We do not read that God rested in the previous days that created light. He rested only after creating man, because he finally found one to whom he could forgive." 

We must therefore become judges of ourselves. If God has chosen this path, let us learn to enjoy who we are.

I do not want this to sound like advice, because in education, advice can be risky. Rather, it is a challenge for us as adults: to check whether we are working on ourselves, whether we are “driving our own car” or whether, although we have a Ferrari in the garage, we are riding around on bicycles.

Regarding the encounter with Christ, I would like to mention Minsky's novel about Joseph. Toward the end of the book, there is a moving dialogue between Mary and Joseph. Mary says, “Joseph, you know very well that the dangers are not over. We must have the strength to face them." And Joseph replies, “Strength...do you have strength?” "We both have only as much as He wants to give us. One time He supports one of us, another time the other. And I think that when we support each other, He then stands invisible between us and helps the weaker through the stronger." He then concludes, “He wants everything through man.”

This, in my opinion, is the crucial point: the encounter with Christ is through the encounter with the other, in the flesh of the other. This is perhaps the most difficult aspect for us, because if Christ had remained an abstract or heavenly figure, we could have continued to fill him with our content. But having chosen to become one of us, he has made this the way forward.

Work on self and enthusiasm for life

Fr.  Giussani, in many of his texts, delves into the meaning of Christianity and the encounter with Christ. What does he mean by “encounter with Christ”? And what by “heart,” that indissoluble union of reason and affections that he called infallible? There is in us an unmistakable point on which God has decided to risk everything. The heart, as you rightly noted, Fr. Stephen, is not to be understood in sentimental or fabulist terms. It is the truest part of us, where the most decisive things are played out. And it is always what one will attempt to question.

Why? Because the more man's fragility is demonstrated, the more it creates the need for power to make him secure. All ideologies have insisted on this: “You alone are not capable. I'll show you how to do it. I'll take care of you." It is a certain way of understanding the state, for example. Without getting into politics, it is the attitude of “we'll take care of you.” You keep quiet, follow us, do as we say. We'll take care of the rest. It's like the Pharisees and scribes had delegated to us: we just abide by the rules, we're fine. Too many complications to check what fits us or not, to do personal verification, to see if something is appropriate or not, if it meets our desire. The rules are already there, the commandments are enough, right?

I don't want to close the discussion, I understand that these are all questions to be left open. But in my opinion, the most beautiful discovery is this work on self, because it gives an enthusiasm for life that grows with age. I see this in many friends: the older they get, the younger they become. It is the only way to never take yourself for granted. Many of you have such people in mind. Each one desires it for himself.

The desire for change: the spark that propels us forward.

I would like to emphasize this point, keeping all the aspects discussed together. One of the pitfalls for us adults is to wait for others to take the first step. We wait for them to understand the importance of making a gesture for peace, or to realize the need for personal change. But in reality, the protagonist of the story is already at work.

The real challenge is to let ourselves be guided by the signs of what is already alive. The very fact that someone desires change is already significant. Who puts this desire for change in us? And isn't the fact that the other person exists as he or she is, even though he or she may not have the same sensitivity as we do, already a starting point?

I think it is much more interesting to be attentive to the signs of life that already surround us, rather than trying to create them ourselves. Otherwise, we risk falling into a dynamic of pretension where, in the name of truth and things that need to be said or done, we end up excluding the other. There is a risk that, in affirming what we think is right, we forget the importance of the other. As today's Gospel says, “With your lips you are there but with your heart you are not.”

I say this because I see it in myself. I don't have a recipe, but I find it much more exciting to follow these signs of life that are already there.

Rediscovering the wonder of life

Remember that Puzzle Week game where you connect the numbered dots? It takes patience to connect all the dots and see what emerges. Don Giussani said that vocation is not a construction on life, but a recognition.

It is an interesting image: recognizing and connecting all those signs that God has already put inside us. These signs remain there, we are not forced to recognize them. But when the question is ignited in us, we start looking for them. It is a reconnaissance of our life.

I would like to conclude with a sentence by Fr. Carrón, taken from a text written for the anniversary of the famous Viterbo meeting in 1977. Fr Giussani said, “It is not we who decide who moves someone in the inner self. It is the mystery that operates through the last person or through whom he decides. And we have to obey the way he does things."

This is the “law of last resort.” I have always verified that it works. God often uses it to surprise us. Whether it is a person, a fact or a circumstance, the last thing we would invest in is the one he chooses to put everything in order. How many times has this happened?

So, I would suggest a little more awe and a little less worry in trying to create life ourselves. Rather, we should strive to recognize it where it is already present, as we already do among ourselves.

The editorial staff of Epochal Change transcribed and edited this article. The author has not reviewed its transcription and translation
The article is a transcript of Simone Riva’s talk about his new book The Intensity of the Instant, with a group of adults in Rapallo.
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