The parish of St. Eusebius opens in the heart of the Esquiline, in Piazza Vittorio, a crossroads of peoples: many Chinese persons, but also Bengalese, Nigerian, Indian.
When in the morning, I leave through the door of the house to open the church and I cast a gaze on the piazza, my heart expands: I have the impression of being in front of the entire world. And yet, quite often, walking under the porticos, it is I who feel like a foreigner: the people pass next to me wearing traditional dress, speaking languages that I do not understand. Even in the courtyard of the church, before one of the bigger mosques in the area, I feel like a visitor.
Every time he is amazed and says that this is exactly what he was looking for.
The population of our parish has been reduced numerically. The few persons present are mostly older or else young families who moved to Rome for work. What’s more, being the center of the city, almost 70% of the houses have been transformed into short-term rentals. All of this increases the difficulty of integration and makes community life challenging.
And yet, I believe our parish is the most beautiful in the world, precisely because it lies at the center of the world, but above all because every day, from morning to night, I experience encounters—beautiful or painful, but always unpredictable—that test my openness to constant newness.
I carry in my heart certain events—both beautiful and painful—that have marked my life because of what the Lord has accomplished and continues to accomplish in the story of my forty years of priesthood.
The Chinese Boy
One day in church, the confessional bell rings. I opened the door and found myself face to face with an 18-year-old Chinese boy. He asked me to baptize him. Surprised, I invited him in and we began to talk. He wanted to become Catholic because he thought that this would bring him closer to God. He attended the Chinese Evangelical Church—there are three of them in Piazza Vittorio—but he was not baptized, and that community did not satisfy him.
To test him, I laid out the challenges of the catechumenate in the Catholic Church: two years of preparation, a weekly meeting with me, and a monthly meeting at the vicariate with the other catechumens. Without hesitation, he replied that it was perfectly fine. Since then, we’ve met regularly, and he’s been incredibly faithful: I see him at Mass every Sunday, even though he still can’t receive the sacraments. At Easter 2026, he will be baptized in our parish.
Every time we meet and I speak to him about the beauty of encountering Jesus in the Christian life, he is amazed and says that this is exactly what he was looking for, even though he didn’t know what he needed. For me, every time it’s like reliving the beauty of the encounter that changed my life—that with the Movement of Communion and Liberation —where I too have the certainty that what I seek every day is the face of Jesus in the people He places before me.
The Unexpected Friend
One day a man showed up asking if I remembered him. His face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I later discovered he was the father of a little girl I had baptized two years earlier. During the preparation meetings, he had been deeply moved and had begun reading the books I recommended.
He had come back to see me because, although he had been baptized as a child, he had not received any other sacraments since then. Now he was asking for First Communion and Confirmation. I suggested a preparation program, and after a few weeks, during the First Communion Mass for the children, he too received the sacraments: Confession, Communion, and Confirmation. It was moving to see him, an adult, standing among the children as he received the Eucharist.
His wife, daughters, and especially his elderly parents were present. At the end of Mass, his father took me aside and, thanking me, told me that I had perhaps been a better father to his son than he had been, and that this was the most beautiful day of his life.
But it didn’t end there. Shortly after, my new friend went to teach at a vocational school, to share with the students—almost all of whom were foreigners—the beauty of the faith he was living. So he said. And even now, every evening after Mass, he tells me about the challenges of teaching humanities to future carpenters, electricians, and mechanics; but also about how, starting with the real people he has before him, opportunities for true life emerge. I see in his eyes the affection he has for those young people, who often arrived in Italy after desperate journeys. Every time I meet him, I sense the living presence of the Lord who works and builds, through people, that new world we all hope for in our city and our neighborhood.
The Elderly Professor
One day, a woman called me. From her voice, I could tell she was elderly. She asked for an appointment, requesting that it not be after dark because her eyesight was poor. I immediately offered to go to her home, but she protested: “Nooo, that’s not possible,” she said. “My husband doesn’t believe and would never accept me speaking with a priest!” So we met at the parish.
She was 84 years old, a retired professor, like her husband, from La Sapienza University. They weren’t believers and hadn’t even had their children baptized. Now, she was living with a question that tormented her: “What purpose has my life served?”
What a wonderful question! That anguish was the way the Lord Jesus was leading her to meet Him. I said to her: “Madam, I don’t know how the Lord will meet you, but I can tell you how it was for me. I see that Jesus waited 84 years to bring you here today. He is truly the Lord who accompanies us with patience and knows how to wait for our timing, for our freedom. For me, this is already the encounter with Him who today reveals His face of mercy to us.”
We have remained friends ever since.
The Troubled Youth
Encounters with people are crucial for the face of the Lord to be revealed. Sometimes, however, they also bring great suffering.
Hundreds of people come to the parish asking for money. By now I know that most of them will use it for drinking or drugs. I find myself facing total helplessness: if I give them money, I’m not doing them any good; if I don’t, they risk becoming violent.
Together with some retired parish staff members, we’ve started two Caritas listening centers. Whenever someone asks for help, we invite them to stop by the center to see how we can support them. This way, we can gauge whether they truly want to be helped: many accept, and a dialogue begins; others walk away. In any case, the choice remains theirs, while our willingness to help remains.
“What purpose has my life served?” What a wonderful question!
There are also foreign families struggling to make ends meet. For them, together with parishioners, we collect food supplies that we then distribute once a month. How many people in need we encounter! Yet the greatest need remains that of learning to make the right choices. And it is precisely here that the gift of faith helps us live realistically, without succumbing to the illusions of a well-being that never comes.
One day, while I was in the office, Don Paolo—the priest who lives with me—called me. He had heard noises coming from the church: a young man was smashing the kneeler in front of the crucifix to get the money from the collection box inside it.
We went over and asked him to stop. His response was surprising: “When I have money, I put it in. When I don’t have any, I take it.”
We waited for him to take everything: as he ran out, he divided the money between him and us and said goodbye. It was clear he had mental health issues. Despite the damage, I felt a deep tenderness thinking of his suffering and his abandonment, even by the institutions. He wasn’t the only one: most of the people living in poverty whom I meet also have mental health issues.
Every time I open the church, my heart swells: I live in anticipation of how the Lord will choose to reveal Himself that day; I wait to see the face that Jesus will take on in the people I will meet. This daily opportunity is truly a great gift for me and for the home I share here at Sant’Eusebio with my brothers.
When we gather for lunch or dinner, recounting the day we have lived is always a source of wonder. In the evening, as we celebrate Mass with a few elderly people present, we entrust to God all the needs we have encountered, all the suffering we have witnessed throughout the day.
Together, we ask the Lord to help us to entrust ourselves to Him and that He free us from the temptation of thinking that we save the world: only He can do so, through us.
