He fulfilled his only desire every day without effort. He stood up and counted in his mind the time it took to do it. He counted time as if he had it under control as he escaped. He knew its age, but he insisted not to be surprised by its effects. He called on his mind and body to keep them alert, vigilant, and aware of the decline that was battling them. He dressed with presence, and, in a meticulous protocol, plunged and clenched his two fists in his pockets, the left on his handkerchief rolled into a ball, the one that his wife had given him, and the right on a small cross which he had also been offered, but he no longer knew by whom. Reassured by their symbolic presence, he finished getting ready.
He succumbed to another ritual, that of sitting in his armchair and drinking a bowl of coffee while looking out the window, in front of him, at the hilly landscape and the gorges which fractured the distance. He thus gave free rein to his imagination and the book of his memories. He appreciated the kaleidoscope of images. He loved this river of images, one day a stilled stream, the other a bubbling water; it summed up his life, rather sharpened it, restoring to him the extraordinary happiness that sparkled in each of its fragments and imposing on him an inestimable motivation.
Reading the letter from the Vatican produced by Imedia after Françoise Nyssen's visit with Pope Francis1 .
It is always a surprise to discover, like this morning, an interview with a person, known or not, representative of our time, admitting that his meeting with Pope Francis was one of the most significant moments of his life, but not getting any action from it. As if this meeting should be one moment among many others in the ocean of memories.
The loss of faith rooted in modern man by comfort
We thus see people touched by grace in their daily lives, savoring an encounter, a moment, feeling that this encounter or this moment does not belong to them in any way but that they can enjoy it, intuiting that it comes from a provoked abandonment. by the vagaries of life, experiencing the force that emanates from this encounter or this moment, while drawing no action from it. They declare: “this is the happiest moment of my life!” » and will never do anything to reproduce it or try to understand what caused it! This remains an impenetrable mystery; this inaction embodies the passivity of modern man in the face of his life and the little faith he has in his ability to transform it. This loss of faith is now rooted in modern Western man, which is how he will fight for orange peels and completely miss the point. François Nyssen admits at the end of the interview: “I myself am not baptized, but when I left, I promised the Pope that I would pray for him.” What does that mean? The confusion is total.
How many couches collapse under the weight of words or silences that gather together in the sole hope of suffocating the soul?
Two things are missing for the alchemy to take place. First, education in the inner life. Françoise Nyssen was not baptized. She is interested in religion since she asks for an audience with the Pope and publishes dear Sébastien Lapaque… Moreover, she has always lived in books, so she knows the interiority and the power of this other life. Yet nothing about her confirms this feeling. She looks at him as something outside her, as something foreign, as an exoticism, one would be tempted to say. An attractive exoticism, with a strong power of “seduction” (or nostalgia?), but not enough to change everything and to adhere to it. She doesn't feel the lack in her, even if she sees the point of it very well. She is full. Let's think back to Ernst Jünger's phrase in “The Rebel's Treatise 2 ”: “Every comfort comes at a price. The status of domestic animal entails that of animals for slaughter. » We no longer have a thirst to discover ourselves, because we are full of ourselves. The passage of psychoanalysis in the modern world and the place it has taken replacing sacrament, penance and interior life marks a sterilization of our deep being and the messages that our soul expresses more and more sporadically. How many couches collapse under the weight of words or silences that gather together in the sole hope of suffocating the soul? She herself no longer sees the use of it, because she no longer feels love which, when expressed today, is transformed into interest or curiosity ... We are spectators of our life. We watch it helplessly and cowardly. The whole message of Christ encourages us to do the opposite, to turn the table over in order to be free. Oh ! He knew well that we would continue to be weak, however did He imagine that we would be so with so much self-sacrifice, with so much devotion?
Do men always thirst for God?
So the quest, the thirst, the desire is simply missing. And François Nyssen's interview is empty of it. She suggests cooking on the Pope's plane, but there is no question of interior life. She does not want to change even though she sees the effects in Lapaque's books, in the Pope's eyes, or elsewhere, fleetingly when the soul unfolds and pushes the interior furniture a little to signify its presence. No, she will not change because she likes what she is and she is not thirsty, even if she sees people she likes drinking from it, and finally because she does not believe that that can change something in his life! And that’s the most serious part! This sin against the Spirit! Secondly, let no one ask him to drink there! Pope Francis wants, he has repeatedly repeated and shown, not to force anyone and to respect everyone on the path of faith. Not even a little encouragement? Some time ago I heard a historian and theologian explain that during the meeting between Saint Francis of Assisi and the Sultan of Egypt, Sultan Al-Malik al-Kamil, "we were not sure that the saint asked the sultan for his conversion. For a bit, we would be led to believe that he took the risk of going to see him to talk to him about the landscapes of Assisi... You have to live in the 21st century to hear such nonsense! Worse, take credit for it. Faith appears worldly, too, and we must realize that it has adhered with all its pores to modern life and that nothing has been done to prevent it, quite the contrary; she drowns in comfort and the condition of a domestic tool that can be useful from time to time... You never know... It's in the old pot , it seems.
The virility of discomfort as the only refuge
Two lacks for a non-encounter: the lack of education to seek God in all things and that of no longer proclaiming His word. The fifth joyful mystery through the recovery of Jesus in the temple, and the third luminous mystery, the proclamation of the Kingdom of God. Reciting the rosary every day of one's life can be compared to the illumination of a medieval manuscript; one can no longer imagine one without it after turning one of its pages. It would have been interesting to offer a rosary to Françoise Nyssen and to instruct her on its use and to invite her to recite it. If it does not lead back to God, every word is worldly. “I myself am not baptized, but when I left, I promised the Pope that I would pray for him. » Here is the very example of a worldly and decaying word. Pray, but who? Great saints have often repeated: “If you pray without naming God, without being certain that you are addressing God, you are praying to the devil. » Now, the demon is worldly. He is even the inventor of the concept. In this silky world, only the virility of discomfort conceals freedom, it is valid for everyone, man or woman, it is the ultimate means of reaching and showing oneself worthy of God's love.
It is Sunday ? It is Sunday ! Smell the dawning day as we speak at home, Savor a hearty breakfast, it's a day of celebration! Let's not forget it or rather let's remember it! Getting ready for a big day, the big day! Listen to a grumpy taxi driver complaining about the world as it's not going well, Get distracted from this conversation, as from any discussion, Climb the steps, enter the building and let yourself be absorbed by it. Breathe, come back to life like a plant that has lacked water and light for too long... Take root. Pray. Pray ! Advise and be informed! Listen to yourself love! Listening to each other loved! Enjoying yourself, with yourself absent from yourself, Feeling back at home, in lands always unknown. Feeling completely, entirely, intensely loved... Wondering what deserves this... Hearing yourself gasp. Hearing yourself mean the end of eternity. Deo Gratias! Lamenting the end of this adventure that contains all adventures. Finding the world after having forgotten it, stammering and chaotic. Find the crowds, the noises, the clutter of the world... everything that is not Him. Sanctify lunch as if He were going to sit there with us. Savor a soft nap where dreams take your mind to an unknown and heavenly land. Waking up, foggy, in a disparate mood, getting up with difficulty. Rework the threads of oneself, and others. Always stitching up your life. Especially the one to come. Kneel, askew, try to stand in prayer. Dreaming to capture the unimaginable, the meaning that gives meaning to the void. Find a thousand excuses to run away, listen to them all one by one, paying particular attention to them. Believing that the truth could be exercised differently. Trying to rediscover the essence of what filled the morning hours. Being Sunday afternoon… Is it Sunday yet? Where did the magic run? Bored with useless thoughts hoping that time will pass faster. Hearing yourself calling from a distance: “Where are you? » Fear, shudder, tremble, cry, shudder at the terrible echo... Remember... Fear no more. Never have any fear again. Dreaming of it being Sunday morning... Hallucinizing yourself going to the appointment and declaring to Him in a whisper: “I'm here! » Dreaming of it being Sunday morning to reconnect with the marvelous.
Morning prayer sparkles when the body is slow to stretch itself to honor the new day. The hand turns over the covers, summoned to wait for the revolution of the day to find a use again. Rejected, crumpled, they sag, overturned on the bed when the body stands up in the splendor of the dawning day. Eternal moment which reproduces itself as long as life flows through the veins and provides this breath whose absence rhymes with death. The body moves and embraces the darkness to slide on the mattress and let the feet touch the ground. Doesn't this ground wobble? Habit causes the room to become dark by denying it its mystery. The hand finds the pants and the sweater that will dress the clumsy body to regain movement when it had become accustomed to the stillness of the night. Suddenly, space has defined and precise volumes that are best not confronted with. Darkness watches over it so as not to lose its fortifications and hopes to regain some ground in its fight against daylight and against visual acuity which slowly adapts to the lack of light.
The corridor continues. It allows you to move towards the greatest adventure of the day. A few steps, and the corridor ends. The bathroom. A little bit of light. Very little. You have to wake up, but don't wake anyone. This meeting returns every morning around the world, intimate, without any display. The body discovers the dawning day, it leaves the night and its ocean of unconsciousness to bathe in the new source.
Finally, the prayer room. The little light that slides and reveals the triptych icon, a Virgin and Child, surrounded by the archangels Michael and Gabriel. A soft light like a setting Mediterranean sun. The kneeling descent on the prie-dieu reveals the moment of truth. Knees creak and beg for mercy. The muscular force deployed to descend onto the worn cushion placed on the wood of the prie-dieu allows the members to become familiar with this new position. Slouch while maintaining the dignity required by prayer. Let your gaze wander over the composite altar. Gaze at the woody light of the lamp on the cracked icon. See the face of Christ in this 19th century painting and his finger discreetly indicating his merciful heart. Recognizing the Trinity by Andrei Rublev. Think of the genius of Tarkovsky and all the fools-in-Christ. Let your mind wander like in an Antoine Blondin novel. Review this poorly signed contract, the chaos of work and human relations. Trying to ignore those creaky knees begging for comfort. Forget that phone call where each word sounded like a hammer blow. Let yourself be overcome by a few notes of despair about life after that horrible day the day before when all the work of several weeks was reduced to nothing. Regretting this fatigue which never ends and which longs to be swept away by a vacation which does not appear on the horizon... How so many thoughts turn and turn in the human skull which cannot stop tossing and cajoling its ideas, its concepts, this way of the world, the days past, those to come? What a marvel that these senses, all these visual or tactile or sound or taste or smell impressions come back and form the memory, where the spirit resides. What poetry!
The thoughts erase any pain from the knees or the osteoarthritis that sticks there like a shell to its rock. But, after the storm of memories and hopes, comes the time of hope and remembrance. It overflows memories and hopes by a hundred cubits, in depth, in length, in breadth, and in height. To tell the truth, it is very difficult to say how much it exceeds them, because there is nothing to compare them. The soul feels a wave of shock at the idea of this comparison. Nothing can be compared to hope and remembrance. It would be like comparing heaven to earth. That would not be appropriate. How can people who do not believe live like this, leaving out their souls? How can they cover them with so many artifices that they no longer resonate loudly enough to wake them? This is beyond comprehension.
Oration sifts and sifts the first ideas. Those that resonate and descend into a bottomless cavern. The ones that continue to resonate when we no longer hear them. Ideas from beyond the grave which modify everyday life, which influence and deepen it. In what time and space is life expressed? We believe it here and it is there. We think of it as distant, absorbed in theory, and practice wins the vote by embracing thoughts and actions. We are absent to ourselves. So often. In such a meaningful way. Let's leave you alone. And, if we succeed, if we allow ourselves to be absorbed by this dawn which tramples and groans, which gives birth to day and life, love arrives without warning and envelops us and embraces us. It is the fruit of prayer. There is a provoked moment that awaits us in spite of ourselves. From this moment, no one comes back the same. A moment from which we never really return. The beauty of this hand-to-hand combat from which only love emerges victorious orders the world. We would thus like to avoid it, because there is no time, there is so much to do, the seconds ricochet off one another, the world commands us and we are victims of our crumbling structure.
Sometimes too, when the thoughts dissipate, the waiting brings us to despair. The appointment is missed. A participant is kept waiting. Yet the mind demands it. We wait and we get impatient. We would come to look at the time. We stamp our feet. Until the moment we realize that it is not the right place, that we have made a mistake, that we have gone astray. From experience, we should know that if the appointment does not take place, it is never His fault, but ours. We did not make ourselves available. The only time in our lives when we must be absent to attend.
Never has the creature revealed itself as much of a creature. All weaknesses displayed. All fragilities exposed. Nothing protects anymore, because nothing could tarnish the moment. The day that slips away and merges with the night light. The furtive shadows that slide across the face of the Virgin. The sword of Saint Michael which shines ready to serve. The zertsilo of the Archangel Gabriel where Christ is reflected, indicating the way always to come, to imitate. All these thoughts, these emotions, these feelings nourish and feed each other, mindful of their importance. No order governs them. The immensity of what they reveal and the smallness of their container frighten, but also captivate. Everything that has been said, what is going to be said, what has not been said, what could have been said, is concentrated and extracted to be reduced to nothing. The prayer has only just begun. She announces herself. The eyes close. We grope our way into ourselves. There is a sanctuary there that is worrying. Will we find what we are looking for? “Lord, in the silence of this dawning day, I come to ask you for peace, wisdom and strength…” You have to come looking for nothing to find every new thing there. The words suddenly agonize. They are no longer up to the task. The prayer begins. She extinguishes everything that is not her, the silence. The depth of silence. The abysmal intensity of silence. The silence that completes everything in its presence. The silence that reigns for its master: love. Then begins prayer, when love unfolds and fills every vein, every organ, every fiber of the being to establish the precedence of the Creator over the creature. Nothing else exists. The heart flooded with joy. Nothing else can exist, because everything is incongruous when compared to this moment, which is neither a feeling, nor an emotion, nor a thought. The universe diminishes and becomes shorter. There is a moment which does not exist, but which will recur at the next abandonment. This is a moment that gives life all its importance. There, at the heart of prayer vibrates love, a jewel that we all have, but not by escaping, by abandoning ourselves. Nothing is taken for granted, everything is offered. Little by little, by no longer having access to it, we convinced ourselves that it did not exist or that it no longer existed. He did not resist science, we found, this new religion. We even ridiculed him, because it was not enough to forget him, we had to denigrate him. However, whoever allows himself to be captured there, transforms there, metamorphoses there. To refuse is to die slowly. Die to Him. Forever.
Prayer influences all life by restoring its simplicity, the marvelous.
Not all migrants arriving in Europe today are fleeing a catastrophic situation. They often arrive with big smiles. They don't all seem destitute. They show no nostalgia for their country and arrive in numbers to find another number. Melancholy is absent, because it is compensated by the communitarianism that they import and that they rediscover. Finally, they travel as single people, without wives or children, which should be intriguing. At least. That there is a will behind this seems obvious, even if the conspiracy label will be brandished at this sentence. The old-style migrants left an unfavorable situation to find not comfort, but rather to escape hell, without being sure of finding comfort, but armed with hope as I said above. They left with women and children, because they wanted to protect them. National feeling has disappeared among modern migrants, are they a-national? If so, what could make them a-national, a supra-nationality? Where do they find the money to make the crossing? During the Iraq War, Christian religious authorities noted that passports and visas had been widely distributed, where before the war it was extremely difficult to obtain one. Finally, the fact that the majority of its migrants are Muslims should also raise questions. When we know that a Muslim must die (and therefore live) in a Muslim land, we can only ask ourselves the question of their lack of desire to join a Muslim land. Especially since these are often much closer geographically than Europe. So many questions that Pope Francis never asks. So many questions that seem to make sense.
Just listen to the captivating music of some tangos, Carlos Gardel, of course, Astor Piazzolla too, and others, who thus sang of exile, the distant, the inaccessible, to chase away their waves from the soul , their melancholy and live for the duration of a song in the combined happiness of their memories and their hopes, to feel the distress of someone who believes they have lost their country forever.
This conjugation is called hope. Where the soul vibrates to feel alive. Pope Francis, as a good Argentinian, feels in his veins the migration of his ancestors to this El Dorado, Argentina. That this modifies his vision of the migrant, whose overly generic name indicates from the start the difficulty of talking about him, is undeniable and proves to be a key to understanding his erratic speeches on the subject.
Exile forces the soul to reveal itself, and to veil. To reveal certain things in oneself that one did not know, that one ignored, that one kept hidden for fear of what they might conceal. Faced with exile, they emerge from oneself as if from nothing, become what they have always been, and dominate us. What merit forged in us by exile, often in spite of ourselves, because we refused to do so! Exile breaks down a barrier often erected in a hurry and without real thought. Man is a reaction animal. When he evolves in his usual element, he most often reacts to his own demons, resentments and mood swings. When he emerges from his cocoon, he reacts to survive by relying on what he believes in, often the fruit of his culture, but his nature is not foreign to it either. This rootedness protects him most of the time from self-disappointment, but not from melancholy, homesickness.
The expression, travel forms youth , comes from this experience. Exile forces the heart, mind and body to communicate differently with the soul which therefore reveals itself, but which also requires us to veil parts of our personality that it took for granted. Sometimes, these are revealed sections which veil other sections. What we believe turns out to be overestimated.
Preamble This letter to Pope Francis was first written forLa Voie Romaine1in order to bear witness to the beauty and effectiveness of the traditional Roman rite and to bear witness to the shock caused by the motu proprio, Traditionis custodes , published on 16 July 2021 byPope Francis.
Holy Father, I was waking up from a terrible nightmare: I dreamed that you were limiting access to the traditional liturgy, so I thought it was important to reveal to you how much the Mass of Saint Pius V has marked my existence without my being the least prepared for it. Do you know that it is difficult for me to write Saint-Père, because I had no father. I have one, like everyone else, but I didn't get it when I should have. So he left me before I was born. I found it later, but you understand that I didn't get it at the right time. I didn't have the good times that a child knows with his father. I didn't know him when the need arose, and the need arose at all times since absence created it I didn't have a father to guide me, like a tutor, to share my likes and my dislikes, to marry my views or influence them.
"Is it morning or evening?" My breath would catch, then it would resume. As if giving a sign of a defect. He let me go. The pneuma was leaving me. I sighed that I was ready. My God I love! But, the breath came back, the air of nothing, as if he had gone out to run an errand. The memoir is out. I knew G. was coming. I hoped that my last strength would last until his return. I was waiting for him to go into agony. I felt no tension. I think everything went quickly afterwards. Time is rushing. I heard different sounds that don't seem to all belong to the same universe. It gave me a vague torpor like you feel when you're comatose. Sounds coming from several dimensions. G arrived with two sisters, my little memories who had taken such good care of me all these years. I heard perfectly what was being said. The soul has ears, doesn't it? I gauged which witnesses would be present during my judgment. I questioned my angel, but he did not answer. Was he already called to pave my way? I could hear G. speaking to me in his melodious voice to reassure me, but I couldn't answer him. This is certainly what decided him to bless me and offer me the last sacrament. My voice no longer came out. I understood that this time, she would never go out again. My voice on Earth died out at that moment. It started like this. She had betrayed me before, however this time, I understood that it was final. I no longer exerted any force to make her change her mind. I felt that parts of me were becoming independent of me. I wanted to repeat: my God whom I love! I say it without a voice. From the look, G. understood me. The soul has ears. G. knelt down the moment I felt like I was slipping. I remembered myself, as a child, slipping on a pool of freezing water and finding myself on my buttocks, spinning on my own. My eyes closed on this delicious memory of mom and dad laughing at the bursts of my fall, my very dear brother was also laughing at their side, then he helped me to get up. My dear parents who had given me life in a difficult time and who, at the cost of great renunciations, had prepared a marvelous home for me with their love. Everything happened very quickly. I left my body. I understood that the soul was the real I. I still felt my limbs. It was strange. I felt someone coming. Everything was going very fast. A person was approaching. He was familiar to me. How did I know? It was like a new sense that preceded all my lost senses. I knew who was coming even though I didn't see anyone, besides my vision was blurring, it was getting confused, but I knew, I felt that someone was standing in front of me.
There is a nostalgia for a lost paradise. We all feel it, more or less; it connects us to original sin and to the fall. This disease torments pure souls. She heels and waves. Illness of youth if ever there was one, romantic madness, this nostalgia is at the heart of Sébastien de Courtois' novel, L'ami des beaux jours .
Tradition requires permanent conversion. Tradition is no picnic! Tradition requires constant effort. And even the most important effort: not to forget. Tradition is about not forgetting and requires a repeated effort to remember. It cannot exist otherwise than by this back and forth movement between the meaning it gives and the understanding of this meaning through its actuality.
Manage cookie consent
To provide the best experiences, we use technologies such as cookies to store and/or access device information. Consenting to these technologies will allow us to process data such as browsing behavior or unique IDs on this site. Failure to consent or withdrawing consent may adversely affect certain features and functions.
Functional
Always active
The storage or technical access is strictly necessary for the purpose of legitimate interest to allow the use of a specific service explicitly requested by the subscriber or user, or for the sole purpose of carrying out the transmission of communication over an electronic communications network.
Preferences
Storage or technical access is necessary for the purpose of legitimate interest to store preferences that are not requested by the subscriber or user.
Statistics
Storage or technical access that is used exclusively for statistical purposes.Storage or technical access that is used exclusively for anonymous statistical purposes.Absent a subpoena, voluntary compliance from your internet service provider, or additional third party records, information stored or retrieved for this sole purpose cannot generally not be used to identify you.
Marketing
The storage or technical access is necessary to create user profiles in order to send advertisements, or to follow the user on a website or on several websites with similar marketing purposes.
There is a nostalgia for a lost paradise. We all feel it, more or less; it connects us to original sin and to the fall. This disease torments pure souls. She heels and waves. Illness of youth if ever there was one, romantic madness, this nostalgia is at the heart of Sébastien de Courtois' novel, L'ami des beaux jours .