About Today
Wednesday 22 April 2026
Wednesday of the 3rd week of Eastertide
The Lord has truly risen, alleluia.
Year: A(II). Psalm week: 3. Liturgical Colour: White.
Today's gospel reading John 6:35-40 Whoever comes to me I will never cast out
At that time: Jesus said to the crowd, ‘I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day.’
Reflection on the painting
In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks words of extraordinary tenderness: “whoever comes to me I shall not turn away.” It is an open invitation, revealing the very heart of Christ. He does not set conditions, everyone is welcome. Come with your questions, your hunger, your searching. Because he knows that he alone can satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. To come to him is not to be judged or dismissed, but to be received!
And yet, the first reading introduces us to someone moving in the opposite direction: Paul the Apostle, then still known as Saul. He is not indifferent to Christ: he is actively opposed to Christ before his conversion. Burning with zeal, he sets out to crush this new Christian movement, entering homes, dragging men and women away, determined to extinguish the Church at its very beginning. He sees himself as defending God, yet he is resisting the very work of God. And still, Christ does not turn away from him. Instead, Christ goes out to meet him, on the road to Damascus. Christ interrupts Saul's path, forgives Saul and then sets him on an amazing mission. The one who sought to destroy the Church becomes its greatest preacher. And so with this we discover something even more astonishing: Christ not only welcomes those who come to him, he also seeks out those who are far from him, even those who stand against him. He literally is there for everyone.
I saw this painting for the first time ever earlier this year, and it left quite an impression. This early version of the Conversion of Saint Paul by Caravaggio, in the Odescalchi collection in Rome, is stunning. Painted on cypress wood rather than canvas (this is Caravaggio's only surviving work on panel), around 1600–1601, it bears all the marks of Caravaggio’s genius: the dramatic light, the physicality, the sense that something utterly real is happening before our eyes. And yet, what is most surprising is what is not shown. Paul’s face is barely visible. We do not see the expression of the man being converted on the road to Damascus. Instead, we see his body, collapsed, overwhelmed, thrown off balance, as if the encounter with Christ is something that impacted his whole body and being. This is perhaps why the painting was controversial. Viewers expected clarity, a visible moment of recognition. But Caravaggio gives us something else: mystery.
The gesture of Paul covering his face is very powerful. We might first read this as a reaction to the blinding light of Christ... but it feels like more than that. It is a deeply human gesture. It is what we do when we realise something painful about ourselves, when truth breaks in, when regret surfaces. We cover our face. We hide. We recoil... not just from light, but from what that light reveals within us. And perhaps that is exactly what Caravaggio is showing us. This is not only the moment Paul is struck down... it is the moment he sees himself clearly for the first time. The man who had been persecuting the Church now comes face to face with the reality of what he has done. His gesture becomes one of repentance as much as of shock.
The Conversion of Saint Paul,
Painted by Michelangelo Merisi detto Caravaggio (1571-1620),
Painted between 1600-1601,
Oil on cypress panel
© Private Collection, Palazzo Odescalchi Balbi, Rome
Wednesday of the 3rd week of Eastertide
The Lord has truly risen, alleluia.
Year: A(II). Psalm week: 3. Liturgical Colour: White.
Today's gospel reading John 6:35-40 Whoever comes to me I will never cast out
At that time: Jesus said to the crowd, ‘I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day.’
Reflection on the painting
In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks words of extraordinary tenderness: “whoever comes to me I shall not turn away.” It is an open invitation, revealing the very heart of Christ. He does not set conditions, everyone is welcome. Come with your questions, your hunger, your searching. Because he knows that he alone can satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. To come to him is not to be judged or dismissed, but to be received!
And yet, the first reading introduces us to someone moving in the opposite direction: Paul the Apostle, then still known as Saul. He is not indifferent to Christ: he is actively opposed to Christ before his conversion. Burning with zeal, he sets out to crush this new Christian movement, entering homes, dragging men and women away, determined to extinguish the Church at its very beginning. He sees himself as defending God, yet he is resisting the very work of God. And still, Christ does not turn away from him. Instead, Christ goes out to meet him, on the road to Damascus. Christ interrupts Saul's path, forgives Saul and then sets him on an amazing mission. The one who sought to destroy the Church becomes its greatest preacher. And so with this we discover something even more astonishing: Christ not only welcomes those who come to him, he also seeks out those who are far from him, even those who stand against him. He literally is there for everyone.
I saw this painting for the first time ever earlier this year, and it left quite an impression. This early version of the Conversion of Saint Paul by Caravaggio, in the Odescalchi collection in Rome, is stunning. Painted on cypress wood rather than canvas (this is Caravaggio's only surviving work on panel), around 1600–1601, it bears all the marks of Caravaggio’s genius: the dramatic light, the physicality, the sense that something utterly real is happening before our eyes. And yet, what is most surprising is what is not shown. Paul’s face is barely visible. We do not see the expression of the man being converted on the road to Damascus. Instead, we see his body, collapsed, overwhelmed, thrown off balance, as if the encounter with Christ is something that impacted his whole body and being. This is perhaps why the painting was controversial. Viewers expected clarity, a visible moment of recognition. But Caravaggio gives us something else: mystery.
The gesture of Paul covering his face is very powerful. We might first read this as a reaction to the blinding light of Christ... but it feels like more than that. It is a deeply human gesture. It is what we do when we realise something painful about ourselves, when truth breaks in, when regret surfaces. We cover our face. We hide. We recoil... not just from light, but from what that light reveals within us. And perhaps that is exactly what Caravaggio is showing us. This is not only the moment Paul is struck down... it is the moment he sees himself clearly for the first time. The man who had been persecuting the Church now comes face to face with the reality of what he has done. His gesture becomes one of repentance as much as of shock.
The Conversion of Saint Paul,
Painted by Michelangelo Merisi detto Caravaggio (1571-1620),
Painted between 1600-1601,
Oil on cypress panel
© Private Collection, Palazzo Odescalchi Balbi, Rome