An Email Exchange With Joe Wood

Joe sends me something very interesting on Vatican II and wishes me "a good Advent." I respond:

Joe,

   Yes, quite good, and grateful to have received it. A "good Advent" = a "good eschatology" of maranatha rather than a "dies irae," if I read Benedict and St. Josemaria correctly. (That may need explaining but I'll leave it at that). Merry Christmas if connections are disrupted before the 25th. Fr. Bob

Joseph Wood	3:52 PM (20 hours ago)
to me

Are dies irae and maran atha mutually exclusive?

Robert Connor	10:18 PM (14 hours ago)
To the question as to whether “maranatha” and “Dies Irae” are mutually exclusive?

Dear Joe,

   I suspect the short answer is to be found on pages 8-11 of Ratzinger's "Eschatology." They are mutually exclusive in that maranatha is Christian hope that Christ is present now in my becoming Him in the giftedness of self in work. It is all of Opus Dei. Christ lives (The Way 584 cf. the Rodriguez critical edition). Christ wants to be placed at the summit of all human activities - now. 

  Dies Irae means that Christ is in the past and in the future. He has gone to heaven and will come at the end of history to exercise the terrible judgment against sin. 

   In the meantime, we are bored, bourgeois, extrinsic, formalistic, living a minimalism and fearful of the final judgment. Ratzinger asks: "However did we arrive at that tedious and tedium-laden Christianity which we moderns observe and, indeed, know from our own experience?” (Ratzinger, p. 8). He asks again: "Isn't this shifting of the axis the real cause of the crisis in Christianity? Hasn't Christianity elected to make the past its preferred moment in time and so deprived itself of the future?" (p. 10). 

   Therefore, the distinction between the two expressions is immense. Fr. Bob

Joseph Wood	7:18 AM (5 hours ago)
to me

Thanks very much, as always.  I had a more limited notion of dies irae, to mean only a final day of judgment when Christ comes at the end of time, as the Catechism describes, and not ruling out the conclusion that we are in the end times since Christ came, that He continues to act, and that through self-giving we are indeed to put Him at the summit of all activities including work, in this beginning of eternal life we now travel through, until that final day.  

A question that continues to interest me, on which many of the Work seem reluctant to comment: does the purpose of the job or task at hand affect our ability to out Christ at its summit?  Many of the jobs we engage in seem aimed at what is essentially rent seeking, or extracting more value from activity (and from creation) than we put in.

Dear Joe,

   "Rent seeking" is to understand the self to be in the down time (desert) before the terrible finale of the "Dies Irae." Could this not be the entire point of the re-mystification of work as the self-given and therefore the activity of work itself as prayer (if intended as service to another), the giftedness of the work itself (and its concomitant quality) and the affirmation and sanctification of the other (apostolate)? Doesn't #6 of "Laborem exercens" explain that work is the act of a subject that actualizes itself (himself) as "gift?" And isn't this the point of "Charitas in Veritate" of BXVI where he says "The great challenge before us, accentuated by the problems of development in this global era and made even more urgent by the economic and financial crisis  is to demonstrate, in thinking and behaviour, not only that traditional principles of social ethics like transparency  honesty and responsibility cannot be ignored or attenuated, but also that in commercial relationships the principle of gratuitousness and the logic of gift as an expression of fraternity can and must find their place within normal economic activity. This is a human demand at the present time, but it is also demanded by economic logic. It is a demand both of charity and of truth" (#36).

    Add to this John Paul II's "Letter to Artists" where the work produced is fraught with quality of the person of the artist himself. 

   Isn't the point that Christ becomes incarnate ever again and persistently in my flesh and work within the world (as the subject - me)? and therefore "Maranatha"!! That is I am making him present in the world now – Come, Lord Jesus, Come now! -  and insofar as you and I are at the summit of all human activities, Christ is at the summit of all human activities - which is the deep meaning of “It is Christ passing by.” That is, this whole understanding of the difference of maranatha and "Dies Irae" is the very crisis of Christianity and of the global culture. Having a “good Advent” depends on this.

Fr. Bob

There Is A Place

There is a place prepared for little children

Those we once lived for, those we deeply mourn,

Those who from play, from learning and from laughter

Cruelly were torn.

There is a place where hands which held ours tightly

Now are released beyond all hurt and fear

Healed by that love which also feels our sorrow

Tear after tear.

There is a place where all the lost potential

Yields its full promise, finds its lost intent;

Silenced no more, young voices echo freely

As they were meant.

There is a place where God will hear our questions,

Suffer our anger, share our speechless grief.

Gently repair the innocence of loving

And of belief.

Jesus, who bids us to be like little children

Shields those our arms are yearning to embrace,

God will ensure that all are reunited;

There is a place.

by John Bell

Sent by Nick Finamore who heard it at a church in Concord, Ma. The lyrics are of a hymn by a Scottish hymn writer named John Bell - written in response to a very similar massacre at a school in Dunblane, Scotland in 1996. 

Icon of the Times

Christ, The Truth, Knows Me From Within: BXVI Schulerkreis 9/2/12

If we read today, for example, in the Letter of James: “You were made in the word and in the truth”, which of us would dare to rejoice in the truth that we have been given? The question immediately arises: but how can one have the truth? This is intolerance! Today the idea of truth and that of intolerance are almost completely fused, and so we no longer dare to believe in the truth or to speak of the truth. It seems to be far away, it seems something better not to refer to. No one can say: I have the truth — this is the objection raised — and, rightly so, no one can have the truth. It is the truth that possesses us, it is a living thing! We do not possess it but are held by it. Only if we allow ourselves to be guided and moved by the truth, do we remain in it. Only if we are, with it and in it, pilgrims of truth, then it is in us and for us. I think that we need to learn anew about “not-having-the-truth”. Just as no one can say: I have children — they are not our possession, they are a gift, and as a gift from God, they are given to us as a responsibility — so we cannot say: I have the truth, but the truth came to us and impels us. We must learn to be moved and led by it. And then it will shine again: if the truth itself leads us and penetrates us.

Dear friends, let us ask the Lord to give us this gift. St James tells us today in the Reading: you must not limit yourselves to hearing the Word, you must put it into practice. This is a warning about the intellectualization of the faith and of theology. It is one of my fears at this time, when I read so many intellectual things: they become an intellectual game in which “we pass each other the ball”, in which everything is an intellectual sphere that does not penetrate and form our lives, and, thus, does not lead us to the truth. I think that these words of St James are directed to us theologians: do not just listen, do not just intellectualize — be doers, let yourself be formed by the truth, let yourself be led by it! Let us pray to the Lord that this may happen, and that like this the truth may have power over us, and acquire power in the world through us.

The Church has set the words of Deuteronomy — “Where is there a people to whom God is so close as our God is close to us, every time we invoke him?” — at the centre of the Divine Office ofCorpus Christi, and gave it new meaning: where is there a people to whom God is as close as our God is to us? In the Eucharist this has become the full reality. It is of course not merely an exterior aspect: someone can stand near the tabernacle and, at the same time, be far from the living God. What matters is inner closeness! God came so close to us that he himself became a man: this should disconcert and surprise us again and again! He is so close that he is one of us. He knows the human being, he knows the “feeling” of the human being, he knows it from within; he has experienced all its joys and all its suffering. As a man, he is close to me, close “within earshot” — so close that he hears me and I am aware: He hears me and answers me, even though perhaps not quite as I imagined.

Let us be filled again with this joy: where is there a people to whom God is so close as our God is to us? So close that he is one of us, touches me from within. Yes, he enters me in the holy Eucharist. A bewildering thought. On this process, St Bonaventure once used in his communion prayers a formula that shakes, almost frightens, one. He said: my Lord, how did you ever think of entering the dirty latrine of my body? Yes, he enters into our misery, he does it knowingly and in order to penetrate us, to clean us and to renew us, so that, through us, in us, the truth may be in the world and bring salvation. Let us ask the Lord forgiveness for our indifference, for our misery that makes us think only of ourselves, for our selfishness that does not seek the truth but follows habit, and that perhaps often makes Christianity resemble a mere system of habits. Let us ask that he come with power into our souls, that he be present in us and through us — and that in this way joy may be born in us again: God is here, and loves me. He is our salvation! Amen.

Service is the Rent You Pay For Living

A very experienced person recently wrote the above topic:  “Service is the rent you pay for living.”

December 14, 2012 St. John of the Cross

  I take this to be the grounding of John Paul II to which he applied St. Thomas’s metaphysics of being and the phenomenology of Husserl (through Scheler) and came up with the “I” to get at the “I Am” of the burning bush of Exodus 3, 14. So that by experiencing self as “I” going out of self he would be able to give an account of the “I Am” of Christ: “When I am lifted up from the earth you will know that I am” (Jn. 8, 28). In my mind this is presupposed in Ratzinger’s Thesis 3 of “Behold the Pierced One;” that is, you cannot know who Christ is as “I –Son” loving and obeying the Father unless you have a like experience yourself (since like is known by like).

Tomorrow’s feast of St. John of the Cross [Wojtyla’s mentor] (December 14):

This excerpt from A Spiritual Canticle by St. John of the cross (Red. B, str. 36-37) was written amidst great suffering while the Saint was in prison.  It is used in the Roman office of readings for the feast (liturgical memorial) of St. John of the Cross on December 14.  It makes clear why is he known as Saint John of the Cross--he expresses here that the only path to profound knowledge of God and the joy that this brings is through tribulation and suffering.  But this difficult path is worth traveling.  For Christ, the destination, is like a mine with many pockets containing great treasures.  So he encourages us to dig deeply into Christ! “Though holy doctors have uncovered many mysteries and wonders, and devout souls have understood them in this earthly condition of ours, yet the greater part still remains to be unfolded by them, and even to be understood by them. We must then dig deeply in Christ. He is like a rich mine with many pockets containing treasures: however deep we dig we will never find their end or their limit. Indeed, in every pocket new seams of fresh riches are discovered on all sides. For this reason the apostle Paul said of Christ: In him are hidden all the treasures of the wisdom and knowledge of God. The soul cannot enter into these treasures, nor attain them, unless it first crosses into and enters the thicket of suffering, enduring interior and exterior labors, and unless it first receives from God very many blessings in the intellect and in the senses, and has undergone long spiritual training. All these are lesser things, disposing the soul for the lofty sanctuary of the knowledge of the mysteries of Christ: this is the highest wisdom attainable in this life. Would that men might come at last to see that it is quite impossible to reach the thicket of the riches and wisdom of God except by first entering the thicket of much suffering, in such a way that the soul finds there its consolation and desire. The soul that longs for divine wisdom chooses first, and in truth, to enter the thicket of the cross. Saint Paul therefore urges the Ephesians not to grow weary in the midst of tribulations, but to be steadfast and rooted and grounded in love, so that they may know with all the saints the breadth, the length, the height and the depth – to know what is beyond knowledge, the love of Christ, so as to be filled with all the fullness of God. The gate that gives entry into these riches of his wisdom is the cross; because it is a narrow gate, while many seek the joys that can be gained through it, it is given to few to desire to pass through it.”

Advent 2012

If you view Advent as a time of purification, of evacuating the self to make room for Christ in you at Christmas, it will appear as a little Lent. It would be likening Advent to the state of desert, which is precisely the meaning of Lent as desert experience. Benedict XVI explained that the German word for Lent is “Season of Fasting,” of overcoming the self in order to stand fast against the natural tendency to dissipation.

                Advent has a different and bigger meaning. It is salvation history itself writ small. Its proper understanding demands refocusing the meaning of “God-with-us.” Indeed, God has become man in Jesus Christ and is with us, and continues to be with us. He has not gone off to heaven leaving us alone in what can seem to be a desert. Recall that the apostles returned from Olivet – the mount of the Ascension – rejoicing. He continued to be with them invisibly in much the same way that He was with the two disciples – unrecognized - on the road to Emmaus.

   In an early sermon (1964), Benedict explained that because of the discrepancy between Christ’s announcement that “the time is accomplished: the kingdom of God has arrived,”[1] and the apparent failure of said arrival, “Christian theology… turned the kingdom of God into a kingdom of heaven that is beyond this mortal life; the well-being of men became a salvation of souls, which again comes to pass beyond this life, after death.”[2] In a word, the expectation of the kingdom of God taking place on this earth was put aside and vaulted out of reach into the beyond of space and time. Heaven is “up there” and beyond the “now.” The presence of Christ on earth is put on hold and stored. It now made sense that He would not be recognized since He was not here now.

                Even when physically present, He also seemed not to be recognized by John the Baptist. From jail, John sent out messengers asking Christ if He was really the Messiah or “shall we look for another?”[3] Christ responds: “Go and tell John what it is that you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them.”[4] Of course, John identified Christ at the Baptism when He heard the voice of the Father and saw the Dove; yet he himself testified twice “And I did not know Him” (Jn. 1, 31, 33). Puzzling! He sees, hears, gives testimony with a burning triumphalism that He, the Messiah,“ will clean out his threshing floor” and “the chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire” (Lk. 3, 17). And so, John knows, but doesn’t know.

                And so it is with Advent. Benedict describes it with a kind of short hand: “already,” “not yet.”[5] That is, Christ is present already but not fully so yet. What does this mean?

                First consider the remarks of St. Josemaria Escriva concerning the locution he received during Mass on August 7, 1931: “At the moment of elevating the Sacred Host, without losing proper recollection, without being distracted… there came to my mind, with extraordinary force and clarity, the phrase of Scripture ‘et si exaltatus fuero a terra, Omnia/omnes traham ad me ipsum” [And I , if I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all things/men to myself] (Jn. 12, 32). Ordinarily, in the face of the supernatural, I am afraid. Afterward comes the ne timeas [do not be afraid], it is I. And I understood that it would be the men and women of God who would lift the Cross with the doctrines of Christ over the pinnacle of all human activity… And I saw Christ our Lord triumph, drawing all things to himself.

                “Despite feeling  empty of virtue and knowledge (humility is truth…, without beating around the bush), I wanted to write books of fire that would run through the world like a living flame, filling mean with their light and warmth, converting poor hearts into read-hot coals, to offer them to Jesus as rubies of his royal crown” [see ftn. #6 below]

                Coverdale continues, “Reflecting years later on this experience, Escriva said that he understood our Lord to be saying those words to him ‘not in the sense in which the Scripture says them. I say it to you in the sense that you are to raise me up in all human activities, in the sense that all over the world there should be Christians with a personal and most free dedication, that they be other Christs”[6] (emphasis mine).

                Recently, to my astonishment because of its identity with this locution of Escriva, I discovered Chapter VII of Vatican II’s “Lumen Gentium” #48 to read: “Christ, having been lifted up from the earth has drawn all men to Himself. Rising from the dead He sent His life-giving Spirit upon His disciples and through Him has established His Body which is the Church as the universal sacrament of salvation. Sitting at the right hand of the Father [this is not a place but the locus of supreme power], He is continually active in the world that He might lead men to the Church and through it join them to Himself and that He might make them partakers of His glorious life by nourishing them with His own Body and Blood. Therefore the promised restoration which we are awaiting has already begun in Christ, is carried forward in the mission of the Holy Spirit and through Him continues in the Church…” (emphasis mine).

 And the next paragraph begins with “Already the final age of the world is with us (cf. a Cor. 10, 11) and the renewal of the world is irrevocably under way;’ it is even now anticipated in a certain real way, for the Church on earth is endowed already with a sanctity that is real though imperfect.” This “sanctity… real though imperfect” is explained in the next paragraph with “we are truly called and indeed are children of God (cf. 1 Jn.  3, 1) though we have not yet appeared with Christ in glory (cf. Col. 3, 4) in which we will be like to God, for we will see him as he is (cf. 1 Jn. 3, 2).  This ultimately means that to see God as He is, we must be like God since only God knows God.[7] That is, since there is only one one Son of God, to be children of God we must all become other Christs.

                It means that Christ is present in the world here and now insofar as you and I have become “other Christs.” It does not refer to an objectified institution - an “It” - such as Christendom. It refers to the transformation of “I’s” into the “I Am” of the burning bush[8] - subjects into the Subject -  Jesus Christ as face and name of God. St. Paul speaks about a growth of Christ in the world by a transformation of persons into Christ. It is not simply a following of Christ or an imitation of Christ. John Paul II quotes St. Augustine saying to the baptized: “Let us rejoice and give thanks for we have become not only Christians, but Christ (…) Marvel and rejoice: we have become Christ!”[9] Christ becomes progressively present in the world by the transformation of Christians – and others - into Christ.

                Emphasis should be put on the words “in the world” since this most personal and intimate encounter with Christ can take place in the exercise of ordinary work and family life. Did not Vatican II emphasize that the laity seek the kingdom of God – which is the Person of Christ Himself[10] - by engaging in temporal affairs.[11] And did not John Paul II emphasize that this becoming Christ by working in the world is the meaning of “secularity” as the “characteristic” of the laity?[12]

                And is not the whole point of the Year of Faith the recovery of the enthusiasm for having the Lord with us? Doesn’t Benedict XVI see the present state of affairs – without and within the Church - as a practical atheism that is like the chosen people in the desert? At one point in his “Eschatology,” Ratzinger quipped “However did we arrive at that tedious and tedium-laden Christianity which we moderns observe and, indeed, know from our own experience?”[13] The task before us is similar to the People of God who had traversed the desert with Moses and was on the point of taking the Promised Land. At the negative report of the scouts who had been sent to reconnoiter it, the people, turned back on themselves and counting only on their own strength, grumbled against the Lord and against Moses. Caleb and Joshua alone trusted in the Lord with faith: “The country which we went through and explored is a fine, rich land. If the Lord is pleased with us, he will bring us in and give us that land, a land flowing with milk and honey. But do not rebel against the Lord! You need not be afraid of the people of that land… Their defense has left them, but the Lord is with us. Therefore, do not be afraid of them.”[14]

                “It is Advent… The first thing we have to accept is, ever and again, this reality of an enduring Advent. If we do that, we shall begin to realize that the borderline between ‘before Christ’ and ‘after Christ’ does not run through historical time, in an outward sense, and cannot be drawn on any map; it runs through our own hearts. Insofar as we are living on a basis of selfishness, of egoism, then even today we are ‘before Christ.’ But in this time of Advent, let us ask the Lord to grant that we may live less and less ‘before Christ,’ and certainly not ‘after Christ,’ but truly with Christ and in Christ; with him who is indeed Christ yesterday, today, and forever (Heb. 13, 8). Amen.”[15]

---

[1] J. Ratzinger, “What It Means to Be a Christian,” Ignatius (2006)28.

[2] Ibid

[3] Lk. 7, 19.

[4]Ibid.

[5] J. Ratzinger, “Dogma and Preaching,” Franciscan Herald Press (1985) 71-77.

[6] J. Coverdale, “Uncommon Faith,” Scepter (2002) 89-90.

[7] “No one knows the Son except the Father; nor does anyone know the Father except the Son, and him to whom the Son chooses to reveal him” (Mt. 11, 27).

[8] Exodus 3, 14.

[9] John Paul II, Veritatis Splendor #21.

[10] “The kingdom of God is not a concept, a doctrine or a program subject to free interpretation, but it is before all else a person with the face and name of Jesus of Nazareth, the image of the invisible God;” John Paul II, “Redemptoris Missio” #18.

[11] “By reason of their special vocation it belongs to the laity to seek the kingdom of God by engaging in temporal affairs and directing them according to God’s will. They live in the world, that is, they are engaged in each and every work and business of the earth and in the ordinary circumstances of social and family life which, as it were, constitute their very existence. There they are called by God that , being led by the spirit to the Gospel, they may contribute to the sanctification of the world, as from within like leaven, by fulfilling their own particular duties;” LG #31.

[12] John Paul II “Christifideles Laici” #15.

[13] J. Ratzinger, “Eschatology,” CUA (1988) 8.

[14] Numbers 14. 8-9.

[15] J. Ratzinger, “What It Means To be a Christian,” op. cit. 40.

Fr. Michel-Marie, a Cassock in Deep Marseille

The life, works, and miracles of a priest in a city of France. Who has made the faith blossom again where it had withered

by Sandro Magister

ROME, December 4, 2012 – The title of this article is the same one that "Avvenire” gave to a feature report from Marseille by its correspondent Marina Corradi, in the footsteps of the pastor of a quarter behind the old port.

A pastor whose Masses are crowded with people. Who hears confessions every evening until late at night. Who has baptized many converts. Who always wears the cassock so that everyone may recognize him as a priest even from far away. 

Michel-Marie Zanotti-Sorkine was born in 1959 in Nice, to a family a bit Russian and a bit Corsican. As a young man he sang in the nightclubs in Paris, but then over the years there emerged the vocation to the priesthood he had had since his childhood. His guides were Fr. Joseph-Marie Perrin, who was Simone Weil's spiritual director, and Fr. Marie-Dominique Philippe, founder of the congregation of Saint John. He studied in Rome at the Angelicum, the theological faculty of the Dominicans. He was ordained a priest in 2004 by Cardinal Bernard Panafieu, the archbishop of Marseille at the time. He writes books, the latest of which is entitled "Au diable la tiédeur," to the devil with lukewarmness, and is dedicated to priests. He is pastor at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul.

And in this parish on Rue Canabière, which leads from the old port through ramshackle houses and shops, with many homeless, immigrants, Rom, where tourists do not venture to go, in a Marseille and in a France where religious practice is almost everywhere at the lowest levels, Fr. Michel-Marie has made the Catholic faith blossom again.

How? Marina Corradi went and saw. And she tells what she found.

The feature was published in "Avvenire,” the newspaper of the Italian episcopal conference, on November 29. It is the first in a series that will present witnesses of the faith, known and less well-known, capable of generating evangelical astonishment in those who meet them.

* * * * * * *

"THE POPE IS RIGHT: EVERYTHING MUST START AFRESH FROM CHRIST"

by Marina Corradi


That black tunic fluttering along Rue Canabière, among a crowd more Maghrebi than French, makes you turn around. Check it out, a priest, and dressed like once upon a time, on the streets of Marseille. A dark-haired man, smiling, and yet with something reserved and monastic about him. And what a story behind him: he sang in the nightclubs in Paris, was ordained only eight years ago and since then has been pastor here, at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul.

But in reality the story is even more complicated: Michel-Marie Zanotti-Sorkine, 53, is descended from a Russian Jewish grandfather who immigrated into France and had his daughters baptized before the war. One of these daughters, who escaped from the Holocaust, brought into the world Fr. Michel-Marie, who on his father's side is half Corsican and half Italian. (What a bizarre mix, you think: and you look with amazement at his face, trying to understand what a man is like who has such a tangle of roots behind him). But if one Sunday you enter his packed church and listen to how he speaks of Christ with simple everyday words, and if you observe the religious slowness of the elevation of the host, in an absolute silence, you ask yourself who this priest is, and what it is in him that draws people, bringing back those who are far away.

Finally you have him in front of you, in his white, monastic rectory. He seems younger than his years; he does not have those wrinkles of bitterness which mark the face of a man with time. There is a peace upon him, a joy that is astonishing. But who are you?, you would like to ask him immediately. 

In front of a frugal meal, the highlights of an entire life. Two splendid parents. The mother, baptized but only formally Catholic, allows her son to go to church. The faith is imparted to him "by an elderly priest, a Salesian in a black cassock, a man of generous and boundless faith.” The desire, at the age of eight, to be a priest. At thirteen he loses his mother: "The pain devastated me. And yet I never doubted God.” Adolescence, music, and that beautiful voice. The piano bars of Paris, which may seem little suited to discerning a religious vocation. And yet, while the decision slowly ripens, the spiritual fathers of Michel-Marie tell him to keep to the nightlife of Paris: because there as well a sign is needed. Finally the vocation pays off. In 1999, at the age of 40, his childhood wish comes true: a priest, and in a cassock, like that elderly Salesian.

Why the cassock? "For me" – he smiles – "It is a work uniform. It is intended to be a sign for those who meet me, and above all for those who do not believe. In this way I am recognizable as a priest, always. In this way on the streets I take advantage of every opportunity to make friends. Father, someone asks me, where is the post office? Come on, I'll go with you, I reply, and meanwhile we talk, and I discover that the children of that man are not baptized. Bring them to me, I say in the end; and I often baptize them later. I seek in every way to show with my face a good humanity. Just the other day" – he laughs – "in a cafe an old man asked me which horses he should bet on. I gave him the horses. I asked the Blessed Mother for forgiveness: but you know, I said to her, it is to befriend this man. As a priest who was one of my teachers used to tell those who asked him how to convert the Marxists: 'One has to become their friend,' he would reply."

Then, in church, the Mass is stark and beautiful. The affable priest of Canabière is a rigorous priest. Why take so much care with the liturgy? "I want everything to be splendid around the Eucharist. I want that at the elevation, the people should understand that He is here, truly. It is not theater, it is not superfluous pomp: it is inhabiting the Mystery. The heart too needs to feel."

He insists a great deal on the responsibility of the priest, and in one of his books – he has written many books, and still writes songs sometimes – he affirms that a priest who has an empty church must examine himself and say: "It is we who lack fire." He explains: "The priest is 'alter Christus,' he is called to reflect Christ in himself. This does not mean asking perfection of ourselves; but being conscious of our sins, of our misery, in order to be able to understand and pardon anyone who comes to the confessional."

Fr. Michel-Marie goes to the confessional every evening, with absolute punctuality, at five o'clock, without fail. (The people, he says, must know that the priest is there, in any case). Then he remains in the sacristy until eleven o'clock, for anyone who might want to go to him: "I want to give the sign of an unlimited availability." Judging by the constant pilgrimage of the faithful, in the evening, one would say that it works. Like a deep demand that emerges from this city, apparently far removed. What do they want? "The first thing is to hear someone say: you are loved. The second: God has a plan for you. One must not make them feel judged, but welcomed. They must be made to understand that the only one who can change their lives is Christ. And Mary. There are two things that, in my view, permit a return to the faith: the Marian embrace, and impassioned apologetics, which touches the heart."

"Those who seek me out," he continues, "are asking first of all for human assistance, and I try to give all the help possible. Not forgetting that the beggar needs to eat, but also has a soul. To the offended woman I say: send me your husband, I will talk to him. But then, how many come to say that they are sad, that their lives are no good . . . Then I ask them: how long has it been since you went to confession? Because I know that sin is a burden, and the sadness of sin is a torment. I am convinced that what makes many people suffer is the lack of the sacraments. The sacrament is the divine within the reach of man: and without this nourishment we cannot live. I see grace at work, and that people change."

Days given in their entirety, on the streets or in the confessional, until nighttime. Where does he get the energy? He – almost shyly, as one speaks of a love – talks of a deep relationship with Mary, of an absolute confidence with her: "Mary is the act of total faith, in the abandonment beneath the Cross. Mary is absolute compassion. She is pure beauty offered to man." And he loves the rosary, the humility of the rosary, the priest of Canabière: "When I hear confessions, I often say the rosary, which does not prevent me from listening; when I give communion, I pray." You listen to him, intimidated. But then, should all priests have an absolute dedication, almost like saints? "I am not a saint, and I do not believe that all priests must be saints. But they can be good men. The people will be attracted by their good face."

(…)

And the new evangelization? "Look," he says as we say goodbye in his rectory, "the older I get, the more I understand what Benedict XVI says: everything truly starts afresh from Christ. We can only return to the source."

Later, I glimpse him at a distance, on the street, with that black garment ruffled by his rapid stride. "I wear it," he told you, "so that I may be recognized by someone I might never meet otherwise. That stranger, who is very dear to me."