Way Friday Diary

Malagar, Wave Friday, 1958

A storm broke out on Monday against Tuesday. The children were very frightened and excluded in their rooms, preserving the smell of winter, of the long and gloomy months during which no one had penetrated the closed home. So nature is in turmoil. The birds were silent; The lilies and peonies, who were about to bloom, were clutching. Today, on Good Friday, after the clear morning, the sun, as it is written, hid for three hours. A desperate wind, who invaded the sea, pushed clouds into disorder.

Shall I continue in this tone? And what should I talk about? In between what a Christian commemorates today, and people’s policy extends a gap that I am unable to overcome. What can I talk about, if not about what a believer is afraid to speak – not of human respect, but because love has its own. And mostly because he is aware of how much everything is not clear about the one who does not experience it. Newman says (or was it Kirkegor) that God is someone who is talking, not someone we are talking about. Very often, correspondents question me in this direction and are surprised at my faith, this rush, hidden under everything I write, but which comes between words.

On the day of the Lord, it is appropriate to talk about it. Why am I in this religion? Because I was born in it? Yes, no doubt. But as Pascal says, just because I was born in it, I am facing it. And since I was born in Nay, I find it different from everyone else. It doesn’t prevent me (how to deny it?) That she owned me before I could resist her. Many others, also born, are constantly trying to get rid of her without ever feeling her attraction.

Why are we so different, we, the faithful?

Yet I would have resisted if I did not believe that everything that was written was true, true with a literal truth that every word of the Lord (Heaven and earth will pass, but my words will not pass) weighs over history with its eternal burden.

And finally, would I decide to cooperate with this publishing series entitled What do I believe?if I could only answer a few lines to explain the motives of my faith? What could I say then? Was all this passionate approval to face the ban on reason? Reduced to its simplest expression, my faith rests on an obviousness, which is undoubtedly not valid for me: life has a direction, it has a goal. He could not just arise so, at some point, on the surface of eternal matter. The first living cell carried with it the embryo of all love and every thought, of every music, of the human body, so beautiful when it is beautiful. That is why everything that is inspired is enough to make me kneel.

If we were created, how did the one who created us, if it was love, could not appear? Here we come to the fact of Christ. « The myth » will object to me. No, factabove all. I even admire the way you try to get rid of it in just one word, because everything rests on history, not on a legend, on texts, on testimonies revealed by historical criticism. I belong to a generation of Christians who were twenty years old during the time of modernism, whose faith had to bear the assault on exeges from Germany and France. I was personally affected as far as to ban the reading of the Gospel of St. John. And I’m still wondering that.

Does this mean I no longer doubt?

I will lie if I say it: to believe means to doubt. Only those who believe doubt. I believe, Lord, help my unbeliefS This prayer in the gospel flows from a caded heart as it stops beating. I stumble into the sin of Adam, before the mystery of evil, to this creation, whose law seems to be « eating-on-by-ni » (the word does not appear in the dictionary, but most accurately conveys what is happening). I don’t make any solution. I pass through this wall as the resurrected Lord. I trust the word, the promise of the one who came and loved me.

Of course, there are other religions, other baskets. But I’m from this flock. The Lord insists on this: His sheep know him, and He knows his sheep. Which does not mean that others are despised or less beloved. It seems to me that the light for our era is that different human communities do not turn through force to dominate each other, but only to connect in adoration, in common for them.

Another reason to pour bloody tears because of the idiotic and criminal policy that separates us from the non -Christians, as we are sadly discovering the connection that connects us to them for the centuries and in heaven. Christ says to the Jews: Abraham, your father, would rejoice eAnd he saw my day, and saw, and rejoicedS This previous knowledge of the story that Abraham had for Christ affects everything that comes after Abraham: the story of Jacob and Ismail.

I stop here. What right do I write these things? And who gave me the mission to talk about it? No one is true. But is it no less true that even the last of Christians must testify from the place it occupies, and according to the inspiration. And grace must save what it should be. At least this is what I believe tonight of my life.

Translated from French Tony Nikolov

François Moriak (1885-1970) is a French writer, one of the most significant Christian authors of the twentieth century. A member of the French Academy (1933), winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (1952). Remaining an orphan at a young age, Moriak grew up in the Catholic boarding house of the Marianists near Bordeaux. The memory of the morals in the French province is also the nucleus of his future short but psychologically saturated novels, revealing the soreness of the passions of the soul: « Theresa Deskierru », « Parent », « The Desert of Love », « The Pharisee », « The Junior » « What I believe. » In his political commitment, Moriak is a convinced Democrat and a vivid opponent of Axion Frances and the far right with her anti -Semitism and nationalism. He branches on social Christianity and remains close to General de Gaulle.