Soon, my Charles will be taken to the pinnacle, in St. Peter's Square, in Rome.
I shouldn't say it: the idea seduces me moderately.
No doubt I am not pious enough, but it always seemed to me that a canonization was a kind of self-celebration, that through a man the Church crowned itself, with its troops, its miracles , her models of life, that in short she advertised for her products...
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And then I think of Foucauld: this man, one of the most humble on earth, would he have liked to be raised to such dignity, he who spent his life seeking the "last place", fleeing from honors and the grandeurs of establishment, even going so far as to refuse to have his name appear on the covers of his books, for fear that the crackling of the flashes would extinguish his inner light?
There are also less avowed reasons for my reluctance: I would like to keep it to myself.
Led like a cavalcade, the life of Charles is not yet another life of a saint: it is an adventure novel.
A Theological Western
For years, I have nurtured a Carthusian devotion for this soul brother.
This great invisible friend, dead...
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