Friday in the 30th Week of Ordinary Time, October 31, 2025

Romans 9:1-5

Brothers and sisters: I speak the truth in Christ, I do not lie; my conscience joins with the Holy Spirit in bearing me witness that I have great sorrow and constant anguish in my heart. For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own people, my kindred according to the flesh. They are children of Israel; theirs the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises; theirs the patriarchs, and from them, according to the flesh, is the Christ, who is over all, God blessed forever. Amen.

Few passages in Scripture are as startling in their emotional intensity as this one. Paul — who has spoken so exaltedly of the Spirit’s power, of divine love triumphant over every adversity — now turns suddenly inward, and we see the cost of that love. The Apostle who soared into the heights of grace now descends into the depths of anguish. For true love, in the image of Christ’s own, cannot rejoice in heaven while brothers remain estranged from it.

Paul begins solemnly: “I speak the truth in Christ, I do not lie.” These are not casual words, but the language of oath and conscience. He knows what he is about to say sounds almost blasphemous—“I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ.” It is as though he offers himself as a substitute for his people, yearning to bear their loss that they might find salvation. Here the Apostle mirrors the very heart of the Redeemer: he would descend into the outer darkness if only others might see the light. It is an impossible wish, yet it expresses the perfection of charity — a love that measures nothing, but gives all.

The object of his anguish is Israel, “his kindred according to the flesh.” These are the people among whom he was raised, the people who first received the promises of God. Paul enumerates their privileges with reverence: “the adoption, the glory, the covenants, the giving of the Law, the worship, the promises, the patriarchs.” It is a litany of divine intimacy. In every age God had drawn near to them, teaching them to hope for the Messiah. How painful, then, that when the Christ finally came—“who is over all, God blessed forever”—many could not recognize Him. The tragedy of unfulfilled expectation pierces Paul’s heart like a sword.

Yet even in lament, Paul’s tone is not one of reproach but of adoration. His grief becomes a prayer. He begins with sorrow but ends with praise: “Christ, who is over all, God blessed forever.” His anguish is enfolded by doxology. This is the mystery of redemptive compassion — the pain of love that does not despair. The same heart that breaks for the lost can still bless the Lord who saves.

For us, this passage invites a searching question: how deeply do we allow the sorrows of others to enter our own hearts? Do we, like Paul, feel “great sorrow and constant anguish” for those who wander far from God? Or do we shield ourselves from such pain? The apostolic spirit is one that refuses indifference. To be joined to Christ is to share in the burden of His longing — that none be lost, that every heart find its way home.

Paul’s lament is not the cry of one who doubts God’s justice, but of one who loves with God’s own compassion. It is the echo of Christ’s lament over Jerusalem: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not.” Such love does not fade into bitterness; it endures, hopes, prays, and waits.

And so the passage closes not in darkness but in light. Israel’s story, Paul will show, is not ended but fulfilled in the mystery of Christ. The same God who chose them will yet reveal His mercy in ways the apostle himself cannot foresee. For divine election is not annulled by human failure, and the covenant written in sorrow will one day be perfected in joy.