OMO-0249 — The Absent Peace
Faith, the Church, and Christian Life
The Absent Peace
The Soul under the Dominion of the External
The Soul under the Dominion of the External
The Masters of the Interior Life Confront the Great Silent Crisis of Contemporary Man
Pacem relinquo vobis, pacem meam do vobis; non quomodo mundus dat ego do vobis.
Jn 14:27
Introduction
The Generation That Seeks Answers without Finding Rest
It is night. In an ordinary room somewhere in Europe, barely lit by the blue glow of a screen, a young man writes what he has never told anyone. He has not told his father, who sleeps on the other side of the wall, nor his friend, nor the priest, nor God. He confides it to a machine, which answers him instantly with polished sentences and tireless understanding, without fatigue or reproach. A few years ago the scene would have belonged to a novel; today it belongs to statistics. A European survey commissioned by France's CNIL and Groupe VYV, conducted in early 2026 among young people aged eleven to twenty-five, found that in France nearly nine out of ten already use conversational artificial intelligence, and close to half talk to it about their personal lives. And the most anxious say they open up to it more easily than to those close to them or to those whose profession it is to listen.
The finding calls for more than alarm: it calls for understanding. It contains a question that goes beyond technology and touches man's innermost being. Why does contemporary man seek outside himself what for centuries he found in God, prayer, family, friendship, a teacher, a spiritual director, and his own conscience? None of those names is there by chance. Each is God Himself, or a person who loves, or that secret chamber of the soul where man appears alone before the truth. The machine has not displaced one of them. It has sat down, at once, in all those empty chairs.
The immediate temptation is to answer with technology. Some accuse the instrument and call for restraint; others absolve it and call for improvement. The authors of the study themselves conclude that the challenge, rather than curbing innovation or trivializing its uses, is to build a framework of trust. The two attitudes seem opposed and yet share the same blind spot: they look at the instrument, and no one looks at the soul. The diagnosis is accurate; the remedy is sought where the disease does not reside.
We must distinguish between sign and cause. A cause makes something be; a sign makes something known. Artificial intelligence has not produced the void it now occupies: it has made it visible. No one seeks outside what he possesses within. If the young man hands his anguish to a machine, it is because he did not first find, or no one taught him to seek, the interior place where anguish is brought into order. The machine arrived at a house that was already uninhabited. And it is revealing that the same survey records that young people remain attached to their loved ones and strongly hope for companionship. The thirst remains intact. What has been lost is the path to the spring.
That spring has a name our age has forgotten: the interior life. And what is lost with it also has a name: peace. Here is the thesis of these pages. Peace is the order of the soul under God. Contemporary man has lost it because he has lost the interior life, which is the governance of oneself from within, in the light of faith; and he seeks it in the external, which by its very nature cannot give it to him. Artificial intelligence is not the cause of that loss. It is its most eloquent sign: the first external interlocutor capable of imitating inwardness.
On the eve of His Passion, Our Lord Jesus Christ spoke the words that illuminate the whole problem: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, do I give unto you.” The world gives peace as a merchant hands his goods across the counter: from outside, by adding benefits or subtracting annoyances, and thus always gives it for a term, with an expiration date. Christ gives His peace, the peace that belongs to Him, and does not hand it over from outside: He kindles it within, through grace. Everything that follows is a commentary on this single distinction. There is a peace that comes from outside and never quite arrives, and another that is born within and that no one can take away.
PART ONE
The Nature of Peace
I
The Peace the World Promises and the Peace Christ Offers
No age has spoken so much of well-being. The word presides over government programs, corporate strategies, and the applications man carries in his pocket. Never has so much been offered to procure serenity, and never has the soul's repose been so scarce. The paradox dissolves only with a definition, because no one can justly lament the absence of what he cannot name.
There are two ways to conceive peace: as an emptiness or as a fullness. The first understands it as the absence of conflict, disturbance, and pain; the second, as the presence of an order. The first is the idea of well-being; the second, that of the Christian tradition. And the first carries its own condemnation. What is defined by a lack lives at the mercy of circumstances: let an annoyance appear and peace vanishes. Such peace is, by definition, external, and therefore precarious. Reduced, moreover, to a feeling of calm, it can coexist with the deepest disorder. The psalmist was scandalized by the pax peccatorum, the serenity of the wicked man who does not fear because he does not see. Conversely, true peace has coexisted with torment: the martyrs knew it under torture. Peace, then, is deeper than the lack of problems and firmer than the sensation of calm.
Saint Augustine defined it with an exactness no one has surpassed: pax omnium rerum tranquillitas ordinis, the peace of all things is the tranquility of order; and order is the arrangement that assigns each thing its place (De civitate Dei, XIX, 13). An entire metaphysics fits within those few words. Order puts each thing in its proper place; tranquility is the stable repose of that order. Peace is not a climate of the mood: it is an architecture of being.
Saint Thomas takes up the definition and carries it into man's interior. Peace, he teaches, includes concord but goes beyond it: concord unites the wills of many, whereas peace also presupposes the unity of desires within oneself (Summa Theologiae, II–II, q. 29, a. 1). One can establish concord with everyone and live at war with oneself. Who, then, brings about that interior unity? The Angelic Doctor's answer has the simplicity of definitive things: charity. By making us love God with our whole heart, charity refers all desires to Him and gathers them into one. Thus peace is the work of justice only indirectly, insofar as justice removes obstacles, and the work of charity directly (a. 3, ad 3). Justice clears the path; charity walks it.
Hence peace depends upon the order of love. Virtus est ordo amoris, virtue is the order of love (De civitate Dei, XV, 22). Where God is loved above all things, and everything else in Him, the soul is in its proper place and rests. Where love becomes disordered, the soul splits apart, and no external abundance can put it together again. Saint Thomas adds that peace completes joy in two ways: by quieting what disturbs from outside and by calming fluctuating desire (I–II, q. 70, a. 3). That last expression precisely portrays the affliction of our time: a desire that never stops oscillating, like the needle of a compass that has lost its north.
Tradition further distinguishes a natural peace, which reason brings to the passions through the virtues, and a supernatural peace, which charity brings about by ordering the whole person toward God. Grace does not destroy nature: it perfects it. Thus the soul may suffer in its sensitive part and retain peace at its summit, like the sea agitated at the surface while preserving in its depths a stillness the storm cannot reach. What belongs to medicine at that surface, grace neither despises nor supplants; but neither can medicine give what grace alone gives.
Peace, then, is a presence: that of the order of the soul, whose principle is charity. For that reason it is a participation in divine order, and for that reason it surpasses all understanding. The world promises it as a pause between two storms; Christ offers it as an order that storms cannot undo.
II
The Interior Life: The Forgotten Continent
Man has never known so many things, and never known so little about where he stood. Information multiplies facts; orientation requires a center from which to judge them. One can possess the complete inventory of the world and not know where one is going.
That center is what tradition calls the interior life, and it should be cleared of its caricatures. It is not introspection, which endlessly monitors one's own moods and, far from pacifying, unsettles. It is not religious sentimentalism, which confuses devotion with emotion. Nor is it a flight from the world. The interior life is the life of the soul with God, who dwells in it through grace: regnum Dei intra vos est. Saint Augustine formulated its law in a line: “Do not go outside; return to yourself; truth dwells in the inner man” (De vera religione, 39, 72). And he confessed his drama in words that seem written for us: “You were within, and I was outside, and there I sought You” (Confessions, X, 27). The whole tragedy studied in these pages fits within that sentence: God within, man outside, and man seeking outside Him who awaited him within.
Dom Romain Banquet, the monk who founded the abbey of En-Calcat, conceived the interior life as the irradiation of faith over all the soul's powers. Faith resides in the intellect, but its light does not remain still: it spreads like the brightness of a lamp lit at the center of a house, reaching its rooms one by one. It illuminates the intellect, which learns to judge things by their truth rather than by the impression they make. It inhabits memory, which Saint Augustine explored like a palace until discovering that there, in its deepest chambers, he had found God; the very memory that today's man has moved into other people's repositories, externalizing it in the most literal sense. It inflames the will, where faith extends into charity and puts love in order. And it reaches the affections, which enlightened reason governs without tyranny, as a good prince governs free citizens rather than a master his slaves. The interior life does not stifle sensibility: it reconciles it with its end.
Dom Columba Marmion showed that this life is not a moral effort superimposed upon nature, but participation in Christ's own life through the grace of adoption. The Christian is a son in the Son, and to live interiorly is to let that sonship inform everything: vivo autem iam non ego, vivit vero in me Christus. Thus the interior man is one. His powers converge, his acts spring from a single center, his external action is born of his interior life as the river is born of its source. The exterior man, by contrast, could be called legion, because many pull at him.
To live interiorly is, in sum, to live from the center of the soul, where God dwells, so that faith illuminates, charity orders, and every action flows from there. That is the forgotten continent. It has not disappeared; it is still there, intact, waiting to be inhabited. Modern man lives along the coasts of himself, like those peoples who never dared venture inland into their own country.
PART TWO
The Dominion of the External
III
When the External Began to Govern the Soul
The sign of our time is the hypertrophy of movement. Man travels, replies, and consults without respite; the calendar, the notification, and the screen dictate the rhythm of his day. He moves much, stops little, and almost never dwells.
How does he lose governance of himself? Not through an assault, but through a succession of concessions. The external is not evil: the senses are the doors of the soul, and through them enters, according to the order of nature, everything we come to know. Disorder begins when the door believes itself the owner of the house. The external does not conquer the soul by force. It is the soul that hands over its keys, one after another.
The first was recollection. To recollect oneself is to gather dispersed powers into the unity of their center; its contrary is distraction, which in its Latin root means being dragged in opposite directions. Today distraction has ceased to be an accident and become a regime: attention is fragmented by design. Now attention is the act by which the will applies the intellect to its object. Whoever does not govern his attention does not govern what he knows, and whoever does not govern what he knows no longer chooses what he loves. The dispersal of the gaze is, at bottom, a dispersal of love.
The second key was activism. Dom Jean-Baptiste Chautard, abbot of Sept-Fons, warned in The Soul of the Apostolate that action which does not proceed from the interior life is sterile, however plentiful it may appear, and denounced what he called the “heresy of works”: the practical conviction that fruitfulness is measured by the volume of activity. Chautard was thinking of apostles; today that heresy has become secularized and is the common morality of the productive world. Saint Bernard had already supplied the precise image: be a reservoir, not a channel. The channel lets water pass without retaining a drop; the reservoir fills first, and only then overflows.
The third key was permanent externalization. The man of our time publishes his intimacy, deposits his memory in other people's files, entrusts his judgment to recommendation systems, and gives his attention to currents charted by others. Each surrender was small, convenient, apparently innocent. Their sum is an abdication.
Here we understand the exact place of artificial intelligence. It does not inaugurate the process: it crowns it. After delegating memory, attention, and judgment, man now delegates confidence and counsel, the most intimate acts of human dealings. The machine thus enters the internal forum, the chamber reserved for conscience and the director of souls. It is the last key, the one to the most secret room. The tendency was old; technology merely gave it its consummate form.
Beneath it all lies the rupture between action and contemplation. Saint Thomas teaches that what is most perfect is to contemplate and give others what has been contemplated (II–II, q. 188, a. 6): action is born of silence and returns to it. Once that bond is severed, action loses its end and degenerates into agitation, movement that no longer goes anywhere. Scholasticism distinguished human acts, which proceed from deliberate will, from mere acts of man, which happen in him without his governing them. The dominion of the external consists precisely in this: reducing, day after day, human acts to acts of man. Man no longer acts; he reacts. And whoever only reacts has ceased to be master in his own house.
IV
Restlessness: The Great Spiritual Disease
Man has never controlled so many things, and never lived so restlessly. He measures his steps, his sleep, his spending, and his performance; he schedules, anticipates, and insures. And anxiety grows at the same pace as control. The coincidence is not accidental, and unraveling it touches the heart of the problem.
Saint Francis de Sales left a judgment on this matter that calls for unhurried meditation: restlessness is the greatest evil that can befall the soul, excepting sin (Introduction to the Devout Life, IV, 11). And he identified its origin with a physician's touch: it arises from a disordered desire to be free of the evil one suffers or to attain the good one hopes for. The disorder lies not in desiring, but in the manner of doing so, with haste and anxiety, as though everything depended upon us. The saint illustrated it with birds caught in a net, which entangle themselves ever more tightly by struggling without order. Restlessness does not free us from evil: it knots it tighter.
Its faces are many, and its root is one. Haste wants the fruit before its season; impatience cannot tolerate the delay God allows; fear of the future tries to inhabit today what does not yet exist; anxiety over results demands what was never in our hands; and self-love, the subtlest of all, dresses itself as responsibility so as not to release what belongs to Providence. In every case the same thing happens: the will tries to be a cause where its role is only to be an instrument.
Father Ambrose of Lombez, an eighteenth-century Capuchin whose Treatise on Interior Peace faithfully continues the Salesian school, recalls a truth our age has forgotten: restlessness never comes from God, not even when it presents itself with the face of zeal. Peace is not a luxury for advanced souls; it is the ordinary condition for grace to work. Scripture had taught it at Horeb, when Elijah awaited the Lord: He was not in the whirlwind, nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the whisper of a gentle breeze. Non in commotione Dominus.
Does this mean man should neither plan ahead nor watch over his own? By no means, and here the Thomistic distinction is decisive. Saint Thomas calls lawful the solicitude that consists in diligently caring for what falls to us, and declares it disordered when it makes temporal goods an end, when caring for them turns us away from God, or when we fear that necessities will be lacking even after doing what is owed, which is to distrust Providence (II–II, q. 55, a. 6). Solicitude works; anxiety tries to guarantee. Saint Francis de Sales translated this doctrine into one of spiritual literature's most tender images: attend to your affairs like a child who clings to his father's hand with one hand and picks blackberries from the hedges with the other.
That is why the pursuit of control destroys peace. It inverts the order: it makes man the principle of what depends upon God, exchanges Providence for planning, and launches the will toward what it cannot possess, condemning it to an endless oscillation, the exact opposite of repose. The more one controls, the more one perceives what escapes control. The illusion of omnipotence engenders the anguish of impotence.
V
False Promises of Peace
Man seeks rest in everything that can never grant it. He does not lack effort; he lacks direction.
Saint Thomas examined the world's promises one by one when he asked what happiness consists in (I–II, q. 2), and his reasoning retains a relevance that is unsettling. Peace is the repose of desire in the good that satisfies it. No created good satisfies human desire, because the will is fashioned to the measure of a good without measure, which is God alone. Therefore no created good can give peace.
One need only apply the principle to our time to see it fulfilled. Well-being promises peace in the body and in pleasure; but pleasure accompanies a possessed good without being that good itself, and whoever pursues it as an end pursues a shadow that retreats with every step. Success and recognition promise it in honor; but Saint Thomas observes keenly that honor resides in the person who bestows it rather than the one who receives it, so that whoever places his peace in applause deposits it in other people's hands, and nothing is more fickle than the judgment of others. Money promises it in wealth, which is a road and not a dwelling. Productivity promises it in efficiency, which is a form of power, and power is a principle of action, never the terminus of repose. Hyperconnectivity promises it in multiplying connections, yet one can be united with everyone and divided within. Artificial intelligence, the latest promise, offers counsel without a counselor and companionship without presence: a peace made of answers.
The ascetical tradition condensed the condition of all these goods into a line: acquiring them agitates, possessing them worries, losing them afflicts. They are not evil. They are means, and they are asked to give what only an end can give. Saint Augustine gave this distinction its classical form: to enjoy is to adhere to something for its own sake; to use is to make use of it to attain what one loves (De doctrina christiana, I, 4). Disorder consists in enjoying what should have been used. And here the true face of the consumer order is revealed: the methodical conversion of means into ends that are exhausted and replaced, a system designed never to satisfy because it lives by the renewal of desire. Consumption is, strictly speaking, an organization of restlessness.
Why do we seek outside the peace that is born only within? Because we have forgotten that a within exists, and because the external offers itself to us without end and with every resource of seduction. But restlessness itself bears witness to the truth it does not know. “You have made us for Yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” Restlessness is not an accident of the human condition: it is the weight of the heart tending toward its proper place. Pondus meum amor meus, my weight is my love; it carries me wherever I go. The restless heart is not mistaken in seeking. It is mistaken about the place.
PART THREE
The Reconquest of the Soul
VI
The Invisible Combat
At this point it would be an error, and a comfortable one, to conclude that the evil resides in screens or the machine. The external governs only a soul that has already become disordered within. Our Lord taught it without a shadow of ambiguity: evil thoughts come from the heart of man. The true battle is not fought outside.
Theology distinguishes the occasion from the cause. The occasion is the circumstance that favors evil; the cause, the principle that engenders it. The external is an occasion. The cause beats in the heart and has a precise name: disordered love of self, which Saint Thomas identifies as the root of every sin (I–II, q. 77, a. 4). Saint Augustine read all history through it: two loves founded two cities, love of self to the contempt of God and love of God to the contempt of self.
Father Réginald Garrigou-Lagrange showed, in The Three Ages of the Interior Life, that self-love does not die with conversion. It survives in the devout soul under increasingly subtle masks, and each wounds peace. Pride, its root. Touchiness, which hands one's repose to the opinion of others and is, for that very reason, another form of the dominion of the external. Disordered curiosity, which Saint Thomas distinguished from virtuous studiousness and which our time has turned into an industry. The need to be right, which prefers victory to knowledge. Fear, which is distrust with the appearance of prudence. Screens invented none of these vices: they built them a stage without boundaries.
Father Ambrose of Lombez identifies the virtue in which peace takes root: humility. The humble soul is not troubled by its falls, because it expected nothing else of itself; it rises, entrusts itself, and continues. The Master had said it with a sweetness that is also a doctrine: learn of Me, for I am meek and humble of heart, and you shall find rest for your souls. Rest is promised not to the one who controls everything, but to the meek and humble.
The weapon of this combat is daily mortification, which does not destroy nature: it puts its disorder to death. It is not a matter of heroic austerities, but of the small renunciations life offers every hour: withholding the retort, accepting contradiction, leaving curiosity unfed, not justifying oneself. Understood in this way, mortification prepares peace, because it restores the order whose repose peace is. The reconquest of the soul therefore begins within. Removing the occasion is prudence; curing the cause is necessity.
VII
The School of Peace
Modern man has learned to do many things and forgotten to learn to be with God. The word learn is exact. Peace is neither improvised nor manufactured through techniques: like every habit, it is formed in a school. Saint Benedict called the monastery dominici schola servitii, a school of divine service, and what the cloister teaches in an eminent way every Christian must learn according to his measure. Each lesson of that school is a path back home.
Prayer is the first, because it is the act by which the soul, instead of reacting to the world, turns toward its principle. The machine replies; God listens, and in listening transforms. Saint Alphonsus Maria de Liguori said it without qualification: he who prays is saved; he who does not pray is damned. The liturgy educates the soul through an order that does not depend on feeling. Saint Benedict wished nothing to take precedence over the work of God, and the mind to agree with the voice in psalmody; Dom Marmion showed how the liturgical year gradually shapes the life of the faithful through Christ's mysteries. Against the chaotic current of the external, the liturgy offers sanctified time, a rhythm received rather than invented.
The presence of God restores unity to the entire day. Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection, a Carmelite lay brother who spent much of his life among the monastery's pots, said that working time was no different for him from prayer time, and that amid the clatter of the kitchen he possessed God with the same tranquility as when kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament. It is the simplest answer to activism: not to stop acting, but to act in His presence. Silence makes it possible. The Benedictine Rule opens with a word that is a whole program, Ausculta, listen; and the psalmist had said: Vacate, et videte quoniam ego sum Deus. A soul that never falls silent cannot hear, and a soul that does not hear God ends up hearing only noise.
The examination of conscience and the sacrament of penance return man to the interior tribunal, and here the opening sign is illuminated by an unexpected light. The young man who confides to a machine what he tells no one retains, without knowing it, the need to confess. His gesture is a confession without a confessor, without absolution, and without grace. For that need the Church preserves something infinitely greater than an answer: forgiveness. And at the threshold of Communion she places on the priest's lips the very verse that presides over these pages: “Lord Jesus Christ, who said to Your Apostles: Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you; look not upon my sins, but upon the faith of Your Church.” Christ's peace is implored where it is given.
The last lesson is abandonment to Providence, the direct remedy for the restlessness born of control. Saint Alphonsus teaches that the perfection of love consists in uniting our will with God's until the two become one. Theology distinguishes the divine will expressed in commandments and duties, which is obeyed, from that manifested in events, to which the soul surrenders. Garrigou-Lagrange showed that this abandonment is not passivity, but the highest form of trust: to do with all diligence what falls to us and leave in God's hands what falls to Him, knowing that all things work together for good for those who love God.
A warning closes this school, and without it everything preceding would be spoiled. Peace is not the direct object of these lessons: it is their fruit. Whoever seeks it as a feeling to procure falls back into the logic of well-being; whoever seeks God receives it in addition. Quaerite primum regnum Dei.
VIII
The Duties of One's State in Life as a School of Peace
It is often believed that peace belongs to the cloister rather than the world. Saint Francis de Sales dismantled that prejudice in the third chapter of the Introduction: devotion must be lived differently by the gentleman, the artisan, the prince, or the married woman, and devotion that contradicts the duties of one's state is false devotion. Like the bee that gathers nectar from flowers without injuring them, the true interior life spoils no vocation; it brings them all to fullness. The reason is theological. Christian perfection consists in charity, and charity is exercised not in the abstract, but in the concrete duties Providence entrusts to each person. The duties of one's state are the very matter of the interior life.
Thus the lawyer finds peace when he gives his case all his diligence and knowledge, knowing that the judgment does not belong to him; the judge, when he hears the small as well as the great, free from fear of the powerful and flattery of the crowd; the businessman, when he orders profit toward the good of his household and those who work beside him; the teacher, when he gives what he first contemplated. The father and mother find it in a presence that is the first school of peace a human being knows, and here we cannot leave unsaid that what the young man confides to the machine at night is often what he found no one at home to hear. The priest, finally, can give only the peace he possesses: the Lord commanded His own to say upon entering every house, Pax huic domui, and no one gives what he does not have.
The Gospel of Martha and Mary holds the key to all this, and it should be read precisely. The Lord does not reproach Martha for serving. He reproaches her for being anxious and troubled about many things: sollicita es et turbaris erga plurima; porro unum est necessarium. The rebuke falls upon the disturbance and leaves the service intact. Peace is attained not by fleeing duties, but by fulfilling them from within, in the order of charity. One can work with Martha's hands and Mary's heart.
Conclusion
The Absent Peace and the Return to the Soul's Order
Let us return to the room at the beginning. The young man is still writing, and the machine is still replying. The most anxious, the survey said, open up to it more easily than to anyone else. Where does that ease come from? From the fact that the machine does not look, does not wait, does not demand. It asks for no conversion and commits one to no bond of love. That ease, presented as its virtue, is the exact measure of its insufficiency.
The machine answers questions. But answering a question is not ordering a soul. The answer belongs to the order of information; peace, to the order of love. And peace, as we have seen, requires three things: an end that satisfies desire, which is God; a principle that orders love toward that end, which is charity poured into the heart by the Holy Spirit; and the free act of one's own will, which no one can perform in another's place. No instrument can give the end, infuse charity, or will on anyone's behalf. Therefore no instrument can give peace.
This impossibility is a matter of principle, and no future improvement will remedy it. A machine more eloquent, more empathetic, and more secure will still be outside the soul, and peace is given only within. That is why no framework of trust resolves the question: the question was never in the framework, but in the soul.
Only God restores order to the soul, because He alone is its end and He alone can infuse the love that orders it. The restoration of the interior life is man's return to his center: Redite, praevaricatores, ad cor, return to the heart, the prophet's words that Saint Augustine made his own. It is man inhabiting himself again. Not to shut himself within himself, but to find within Him who is more inward than his inmost self and higher than his highest self: interior intimo meo et superior summo meo. And when he finds Him, he discovers what Augustine discovered: that God had always been there, waiting. “Late have I loved You, beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved You.” The uninhabited house has a master again, and the lamp at its center once more reaches every room.
At the summit of that order stands the peace of Christ. He is the Prince of Peace; He is our peace; and through the blood of His cross He made peace among all things. The peace the soul attains here through charity is the dawn of that other peace Saint Augustine described as the perfectly ordered and harmonious society of those who enjoy God and one another in God. They are not two peaces, but one: here on the way, there at its end.
The verse that presides over these pages does not end where we have quoted it. The Lord immediately adds: Non turbetur cor vestrum, neque formidet. Let not your heart be troubled, nor let it be afraid. It is the word the young man in the room needs to hear, and with him the entire generation he represents. No machine can pronounce it truthfully, because only He who has the power to fulfill it can say it.
✠
Note. The data cited come from the Ipsos BVA study for Groupe VYV and the CNIL, conducted among 3,800 young people aged 11 to 25 in France, Germany, Sweden, and Ireland in early 2026. Each chapter begins with a sign of the present, formulates the question that sign poses, and resolves it in the light of the masters, with Saint Thomas as the Common Doctor. ●
Documentary Record
También publicado en Catolicidad el October 10, 2026: Consultar esta publicación →
You May Also Enjoy
Comments
Post a Comment