Before I begin I have a confession to make: it was not I who chose the subject of this address. It was understood, at first, that I was to speak about Faith, a task quite beyond my power. Then, without asking me, the organiser of this gathering changed from this high theological theme to the simple question: ‘Is the Christian of this earth'?’ At first I was disconcerted by the apparent simplicity of this question which demands the obvious answer: ‘Of course the Christian is of this earth. We have only to look at ourselves’. But, this first reaction over, it occurred to me that those who chose the question had not mistaken its importance, and the urgency of an adequate answer which it requires of us. It brings us, in point of fact, into the very heart of our own personal history, and the history of the Church. To have to give my answer to this question in the presence of your Eminence is an honour of which I am well aware, an honour which would certainly alarm me if I did not know that here we are all of one family and that I stand beside the most indulgent and most understanding of fathers.

If I begin by considering myself, and start with my own case, as one always should, then it is only too true that I am of this earth, as also the Académie Française ‘is of this earth, the Légion d’Hon-neur is of this earth, the theatres, the big newspapers, the editors are of this earth, my house, my lands and my loves are of this earth.

Peter Maurin was 72 years old when he died on May 15th, 1949. He was born in a small French community, 200 miles from Barcelona, one of a family of 28 children. His own mother died after giving birth to five children, and his father married again and there were eighteen more children. Amongst them now there are four teachers, three carpenters, some farm hands. Some of his sisters are nuns and some of his brothers are members of religious orders.

Some years ago Peter gave the following facts:

‘My mother’s name’, he said, ‘was Marie Pages. She died in 1885. Of her five children only I and Celestin, a brother who was eighteen months younger than I, and my sister Marie, two years younger than my brother, were left. My whole name is Aristide Pierre. Pierre was my grandfather and my godfather. He died at the age of ninety-four and he was never sick. He worked in the fields until he was eighty-five, and after that he could not because of his eyes. So he stayed home and made baskets and recited his rosary. He liked to work. He knew it was good for him.

‘The last I heard of my brother he was the, head of a school in Paris, St Clotilde’s, a parish school. He had been a Christian Brother, but when they were secularised they no longer wore the garb but went on teaching just the same. One of my half-brothers taught for the Christian Brothers’ school and he was married to a school teacher who taught in the public school.

When two societies which are only materially distinct from each other come into collision neither is to be sacrificed to placate the other, but the interests of each are to be catered for in a rigidly fair manner.

This principle is based on the fact that these two societies are of equal standing, enjoy therefore identical rights and have neither of them any legal advantage over the other; neither in fact is obliged to waive any of its rights in favour of the other. On this account a balance in no way derogatory to either must be struck as accurately as is possible between the conflicting rights; for example, by dividing up the disputed matter (granted it is divisible) or by making compensation. At times indeed the right claimed on one side may be a putative one only, and that on the other side clearly unimpeachable (objective); or at least one rather than the other may have a greater interest at stake or stronger grounds on which to quarrel. But even in situations such as these, peaceful methods of settling the issue must take precedence over all others.

First of all, therefore, every effort should be made to establish the existence of whatever right is being claimed; then an attempt should be made to compose differences amicably; finally, should this fail, war must not be declared without first trying out certain coercive measures which, though of less consequence than war, may be equally effective in the circumstances.

A well-known picture by Fra Angelico shows the meeting at Rome, in the year 1216, of St Francis and St Dominic. They were men of very different experience and temperament; yet they were one in heart; and between them they gave to Christianity a new form of apostolic ministry that still, over 700 years later, is operative in the world. Francis and Dominic were the founders of the friars. And a friar—the word simply means ‘brother’—a friar is one who combines elements of the earlier monasticism—its dedicatory vows, its communal life, its daily round of praise of God in church—with the manifold works of the pastoral ministry. For the friar, contemplation of divine things issues in activity outside his monastery: he is, as it were, both monk and missioner—‘revivalist’, if you like . . . Dominic was a Spaniard by birth; and in the south of France in the early years of the thirteenth century he was faced with the ravages of a doctrine that was both false in the abstract and vicious and anti-social in practice. Moved by intense compassion for those who erred in ignorance, he saw that what was wanted was intelligent presentation of the truths of Christian faith by men who lived really in accordance with those truths—a real ministry of the word and of example. And so he brought into being the Order of Preachers or Black Friars.