St Paul begins today with one of the most moving confessions in all his letters.
He says, “I have great sorrow and constant anguish in my heart.”
Why? Because so many of his own people — Israel — have not recognised Christ.

Paul isn’t angry; he’s heartbroken.
He even says, “I could wish that I myself were cut off from Christ if it could help them.”
That’s not exaggeration; it’s the cry of a man whose love has become Christ-like — willing to suffer for others’ salvation.

Paul’s anguish mirrors the heart of Jesus in today’s Gospel.
Jesus goes to dine with Pharisees — the very people plotting against Him.
He sits at their table, not in spite of them, but for their sake.
And there, before their eyes, He heals a man swollen with illness.

Love does what law alone never can.
The Pharisees can quote the Sabbath code; Jesus embodies the Sabbath’s mercy.
He doesn’t abolish the law — He fulfils it by showing what it was meant for:
to bring life, not restriction.

God’s commandments were never meant to crush us,
but to guide us into holiness and joy.
But when law is separated from love, it hardens into pride.
That’s the tragedy of the Pharisees — they guarded the rules and lost the heart.

Both Jesus and Paul show the same pattern:
love that refuses to give up even when rejected.

Paul’s own people reject him — he loves them more.
Jesus’ own hosts judge Him — He still heals.

That’s divine love.
Human love draws back when it’s hurt; Christ’s love presses forward.

That’s what it means to carry the Cross — to keep loving when it’s not returned,
to keep praying for those who misunderstand you,
to keep showing mercy when it’s inconvenient.

That’s the measure of a Christian heart.

When Jesus asks, “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?” no one answers.
They’ve forgotten that the Sabbath was God’s gift of rest — a sign of His love.
And love doesn’t take a day off.

Every healing of Jesus is a restoration of the Sabbath —
the rest of creation being remade in Him.
When He touches the sick man, He isn’t breaking the Sabbath;
He’s keeping it perfectly.

For the Pharisees, holiness was separation. For Jesus, holiness is compassion.
The truly holy person doesn’t withdraw from the suffering of others —
he draws near, like Christ did.

That’s the challenge of every Eucharist:
we receive the Lord who breaks Himself for us
so that we may go out and be broken in love for others.

Paul’s anguish for his people also teaches us something vital for the Church today. Evangelisation isn’t about winning arguments; it’s about winning souls.
You can’t preach effectively if you don’t love deeply.
You can’t draw people to Christ if you secretly resent them.

Our mission starts not with strategy, but with sympathy —
a heart that aches for those far from God.

That’s the heart of every priest, every disciple, every parish.
To love the lost enough to keep the door open,
to pray for the unresponsive,
to never stop believing that grace can reach the hardest heart.

That’s apostolic love: wounded but unwearied.

Today’s readings give us two hearts that echo one another —
Paul’s and Christ’s. Both broken, both burning, both beautiful.

So the question for us is simple:
How much do we love?
Do we love only when it’s easy,
or do we keep loving when it costs us something?

Because that’s where holiness begins —
when love goes from polite to persevering,
from cautious to crucified.