8 June

Dear friends

This week I had the wonderful privilege of visiting Rome with a diverse group of people from across society. Together, we tried to connect with different communities in the city, to listen to their stories, and to link them to our own search for hope.

Among the communities we visited was the Community of Sant’Egidio, founded in 1968. Their hope is simple and profound: to pay attention to the periphery and to those who live on the margins. They gather people of all ages and backgrounds, drawn together by a shared commitment to the Gospel and a free, voluntary service to the poor and to peace. They speak of three reference points: prayer, the poor, and peace. These aren’t abstract ideals—they are lived realities in the life of the community. A school for refugees, a free hospital, and a vibrant evening prayer are just a few ways these pillars take flesh.

We met in a room that, for me, carried great significance. On October 4, 1992, in this very space, Joaquim Chissano, then president of Mozambique and secretary of FRELIMO, and Afonso Dhlakama, leader of RENAMO, signed a General Peace Agreement that brought an end to 16 years of civil war. A million people had died. Over four million were displaced. And yet, peace became possible in that room.

Hanging there is a striking painting of St. Francis wrestling with a wolf. It’s a familiar story and image, but in this version, the scene is set in a modern city. The legend tells of a wolf that terrorised the town of Gubbio - killing livestock, attacking residents, impossible to defeat or tame. St. Francis approached the beast, made the sign of the cross, and was attacked. He repeated the gesture, and the wolf became calm, laying its head in his hands. From that moment, Francis called him “brother wolf.”

Those who admire St. Francis in the Sant’Egidio community were quick to say that the story likely didn’t happen quite that way. It’s more likely that Francis encountered a violent, feared man—a bandit, a figure others had already written off as monstrous. But Francis saw him. He spoke to him, cared for him, humanised him. In doing so, the man was transformed. The wolf became a brother.

Whether wolf or man, this story stayed with me. The Sant’Egidio community reminded me that our work is the slow, faithful work of humanising the wolf in our midst—whether it be the wolf out there or the one within ourselves. Through the simple acts of prayer, peace, and community with the poor, we begin to see the brother or sister even in those we fear most.

Marius Louw