Depression, Hope, War
Depression. Hope. War. Struggle: A conversation with Don Julián Carrón and Salvatore Martinez
“On the closing night of Macerata’s deSidera Festival, Julián Carrón and Salvatore Martinez sat down with philosopher Carla Canullo to talk through four words chosen for the evening: war, combat, depression, and hope. What follows is the full conversation, organized below for navigation — each word gets its own movement, building toward Carrón’s closing reflection on waiting and presence.”
Opening, welcome and introductions
Marco Caldarelli. Good evening, everyone, and welcome. There’s a reason we’re here tonight. That reason has a few names—people I need to thank. First of all, Dr. Caterina Seghetti, without whom none of this would have been possible and for whom a specific stipend should be set aside for upcoming events, especially for reservations; Dr. Manuela Morresi; Director Dr. Simone Ciattaglia; Professor Nazareno Morresi; Professor Guido Canavesi, who has made a swift recovery from last year’s flu; Dr. Luca Marconi and Lorenzo Bartolacci. Thank you.
Here are some images related to the theme of this final day of the deSidera Festival in Macerata. Setting: Florence, the Convent of San Marco, Palazzo Strozzi, Marc Rothko—a current exhibition I would describe as unmissable. In the first cell of the convent, a work by Rothko is displayed alongside a fresco by Beato Angelico, also known as Giovanni da Fiesole, dedicated to the “Noli me tangere” scene. The risen Christ walks through a garden ahead of Mary Magdalene. The French scholar Didi-Huberman, in a study on Angelico translated into Italian in 2009, notes that the flowers in the meadow aren’t placed there at random; they form more or less regular patches, created with “San Giovanni white”—a type of painting stucco—and overlaid with red. It is a vibrant color, a red earth tone that creates very subtle reliefs on the wall; these flowers have a textural quality. The rhythmic, scanning effect is heightened. It is a strange way to paint flowers, notes Didi-Huberman, who then also points out that the stigmata on Christ’s foot, resting on that meadow, are painted in exactly the same manner. Continuing his analysis, the critic notes that the flowers appear in groups of five, just like the stigmata. Beato Angelico employs what Didi-Huberman defines as a “shift in the iconic sign,” that is: I can certainly affirm that, according to Beato Angelico, Christ’s stigmata are the flowers of his body. But one could just as legitimately assert that Christ is depicted here in the emblematic act of sowing his stigmata in the garden of the earthly world. Near the hands and feet, clusters of five flowers are often visible: as I mentioned, an explicit reference to the five wounds of the crucifixion. Beato Angelico says that the wounds of the Risen One are flowers on his body; the blood of the Risen One is both seed and flower in the garden. Nothing is placed there by chance. The Risen One in the fresco is sowing his stigmata into the world, transforming the place of death—the tomb—into a new Garden of Eden. The blood of the sacrifice brings about a new creation.
This is the light emanating from the wound on St. Francis’s foot, also by Beato Angelico, also in the Convent of San Marco, in the great chapel of the Cloister. Light emanates from the wound. For those who are able to visit the exhibition, I also recommend looking for the light—or at least the darkness—in Rothko’s paintings. It is truly worth it.
Could what I’ve tried to highlight have anything to do with war? Is it possible that something might be born from a place of loss? We’ve chosen a few words for this evening, with one central one being precisely “war”—a word that, today, is emotionally and substantially present within each of us. It’s, in a way, the tonic note that defines the melodic line of the evening. Then there are other words: combat, depression, and hope—including hope as anticipation—which are the harmonics produced by the word “war.” We want to hear how Don Julián Carrón and Salvatore Martínez will address and explore these words in a discussion moderated by Professor Carla Canullo.
Carla Canullo. Thank you. It falls to me to begin, and I could say so much about Councilman Marco Caldarelli, whom I truly thank for the invitation and for organizing this event. We’ve been friends for many years; we studied together, so what he says is… not entirely true. But I can say this because of our long friendship. I join in the thanks, and I believe I speak also on behalf of Julián Carrón and Salvatore Martinez when I thank the organizers. These aren’t just polite thanks; we’ve truly been called together to discuss the four words you can see behind us: war, combat, depression, and hope. We won’t be addressing—at least, that isn’t the intent of our conversation—a geopolitical or economic analysis of war, of a war that’s so often discussed. Nor are we here to analyze, once again, what we mean when we speak of war, combat, and depression. These are, in a way, the words of our time—they come up often—and the analyses are indeed numerous and significant. Nor are we doing this to avoid repression, because sometimes too much pain, too much suffering, too much horror become unbearable, and so we seek distractions. We do this precisely as a response to a provocation: not the provocation of an analysis, but the provocation of a point of synthesis. What do I mean by “point of synthesis”? Councilor Caldarelli explained it very well to us by showing us those images. A light shines through the sores on the wounded foot. The wounds of our time—the wounds of war and depression—are also our own wounds, not just those of others. But it is precisely through these wounds of ours that a light shines: this is the point of synthesis. Therefore, we must not dwell on a “culture of suffering” that ultimately amounts to nothing, but rather look at ourselves through the lens of these experiences—which are also our own—and ask ourselves how they challenge us as men and women of our time. That is why the wound—which is also ours—the wound of war, of depression, of struggle, is also a wound that saves; it can also be a wound that opens us to a light. I say “wound that saves” to introduce another word that has not been mentioned tonight, but which is a great forgotten word of our time—one that is unjustly relegated solely to a religious and confusingly theological sphere, yet concerns all of us: the word salvation. That everything human may have meaning, may be reclaimed, and may have a purpose.
I. War
In this context, I will pose a few brief questions, and the first concerns the very topic of war. There has been much talk of it—now in dramatic terms—for several years; it has returned even to a Europe that thought it had come to terms with and put an end to this experience. I’d like to begin with a great 16th-century humanist, Erasmus of Rotterdam, who argued that princes should be taught the art of peace and not that of war, because war, in reality,
“is sweet only to those who do not know it,” while it brings citizens nothing but suffering. And he pointed out that the true war, the best war, is the one fought against oneself—against one’s own vices, presumptions, and ignorance; today we might even say: against a certain pretense of perfection. That is why, as Erasmus said, “the arts of peace must be preferred to those of war, and the exercise of citizens’ freedom to the obedience of subjects.” The exercise of freedom.
It is striking that Pope Leo XIV, in his message written for this year’s World Day of Peace—recalling the experience of the Council Fathers of Vatican II, that is, a generation emerging from war—expresses himself in terms quite similar to those of Erasmus of Rotterdam, for he says that war now has an even more violent aspect, and the most violent aspect it is taking on is that political and military leaders are “delegating to machines decisions concerning the life and death of human beings.” There is also a depersonalization of war and death. But what is striking is that the Pope’s judgment is not ethical; rather, it is a judgment concerning reason and reasonableness, I would say, because it concerns our civilization: this war is undermining the legal and philosophical humanism upon which our civilization rests. It is this humanism that has also made possible this beautiful place that welcomes us this evening, that brings us here, and that helps us appreciate the beauty that surrounds us. But war does not merely threaten; it also strips things of meaning. It asserts that this beauty, this civilization, this humanism no longer has any significance and that, therefore, it can be destroyed without any consequences.
And so, finally, I come to my first question: what experience today can live up to this lucid judgment expressed by Leo XIV, who views peace as a defense—not of order, not of the economy, not of politics—but of humanity, of every human being? To the point that, quoting his beloved—and indeed our beloved—Augustine of Hippo, he says: “Whoever truly loves peace also loves the enemies of peace.” So I ask you: how can we not consider this statement a utopia or empty irenicism? By not giving credence, in this way, to the widespread sense of powerlessness and fear in the face of certain events, whose outcome is always uncertain and which threaten our daily lives?
Julián Carrón. Good evening. Thank you for inviting me to this dialogue, where we are addressing a topic that is close to all our hearts. The first thing that strikes me, in response to the professor’s question, is: why, even though we recognize that peace is more reasonable than war, do we feel this sense of helplessness? It would seem that we all consider peace reasonable, that we are all open to it, and yet our sense of helplessness is so powerful! Why? Because it is not enough for peace to be reasonable to make it possible. There is an Italian proverb that strikes me as very pertinent in describing this contrast between reasonableness and the sense of helplessness: “Between saying and doing lies an ocean.” A nice definition—even a reasonable one—isn’t enough to keep us from feeling so powerless in the face of war. That’s why I was struck by the fact that you began by quoting Erasmus of Rotterdam, who states that the problem lies within the individual; it is there, in fact, that we begin to feel that sense of powerlessness. Because, when faced with such enormous problems, it seems we can do nothing: they overwhelm us in a way so far beyond our capabilities that, in the end, we consider every solution utopian. In short, “let’s just stay calm” because it’s too disproportionate to our capabilities… If, on the other hand,
the starting point is what Erasmus of Rotterdam says, we cannot stop there, because the problem begins with ourselves: it concerns, first and foremost, us. The real question is understanding why we feel this sense of disproportion in the face of war. And we can do so only by looking at ourselves.
I am always struck by the paradox to which Pavese has accustomed us: “What man seeks in pleasures is infinity, and no one would ever give up the hope of attaining this infinity.” If man is unable to resolve this quest for the infinite—toward which he feels constantly driven from within, by his very nature—it will be difficult for him not to try to satisfy this desire for the infinite in many ways that ultimately lead him to violence. If a problem within the realm of human experience remains unresolved, we will ultimately always seek to attain fulfillment—which we all seek, in everything we do—through possession, violence, or whatever else is at our disposal. We cannot grapple with the desire for and the rationality of peace without starting from our own experience: “Why, when I observe myself living, do I find myself trying to solve the problem of my own fulfillment through accumulation, through the attempt to surpass others, to eliminate others?” Because, deep down, if we have not brought peace to the core of our “self,” we will respond to our dissatisfaction with war. It is not enough, therefore, to make a generic statement against war without identifying—and here lies the core of our powerlessness—the path to avoiding a war-like response to our quest. We all desire peace; we all feel that it is unreasonable to wage war to satisfy a desire, yet we end up waging war anyway.
It is not enough, therefore, to utter these words in the abstract. As Kafka says: “There is a goal, but no path.” Without proposing a path that allows us to resolve the problem that leads us to war, war becomes almost inevitable in the common human experience. And this is not a trivialization of major issues: it is also the key to major international scenarios, because a person may desire to achieve fulfillment through the conquest and invasion of a country, but this can never—absolutely never—satisfy the desire for fulfillment that lies within them. Ukraine, we might say with Leopardi, is too little for Putin’s desire. Iran is too little for Trump’s desire. If we do not resolve the problem of the individual—so as to understand that all of this is utterly inadequate as a response—we will ultimately all find ourselves powerless in the face of the situation. The people who unleash wars share our very nature; they have the same problems we do. Whether we quarrel with those close to us or wage war against one another, it is for the same reason that someone who has power seeks fulfillment by invading a country or creating turmoil on the international stage. Thus, at the root of war lies a war fought within oneself.
If we cannot find something that can so abundantly fulfill our desire for fulfillment, we will think that by accumulating possessions, money, or power over others, we can bring about peace. Yet the only thing we generate in this way is even more violence against those who suffer it, as Erasmus says. This makes us aware that the problem of war concerns us all; it is not just a problem of the powerful. If each of us, within our own sphere of life, does not seek to discover what brings us peace—to the point where we have no need to unleash war in our relationships—then we may well be shocked by what happens on the international stage, but it is exactly what we experience within our own limited sphere of influence. Here we are faced with a crucial issue to address, and without understanding its scope, we will speak of war in the abstract, as something that does not directly concern us—for now. Yet the daily “wars” in our relationships—between husband and wife, with our children, with colleagues, and with neighbors—do concern us. It is truly a struggle that, as Erasmus of Rotterdam says, concerns us first and foremost.
Canullo. We’ll return to the topic of this struggle. I’ll now turn the floor over to Salvatore Martinez. Thank you.
Salvatore Martinez. Good evening, and thank you to Marco, to those who organized this gathering, to our moderator Carla for the points for reflection she has prepared, to Father Julián for what he will share with us, and to each one of you. I’d like to take just a moment to offer a preamble. We have just heard about the desire that animates us, the desire that inspires our lives. DeSidera. It is now late in the evening, and it seems to me that a Gospel image is being reenacted here in some way: the encounter between two rabbis, between two teachers, Jesus and Nicodemus. And Nicodemus has a taste for questioning. Our secularism hinges entirely on this taste for questioning—that is, on the ability to ask ourselves the fundamental questions. You see, the words we are now bringing up—and will continue to bring up—should truly fall upon us like boulders; we should feel their full weight. In reality, these words—war, peace, combat, and the others we will hear—must be rethought; they must have an ethical and spiritual applicability that is currently sorely lacking. So, thank you, because if you are here, there is a desire that drives you, and it is a desire for meaning. There is no consensus around the fundamental words that define our lives: a beautiful life, a just life, an orderly life,
a life of peace—that is what the world lacks, because we fail to ask the fundamental questions of meaning.
Given this premise, it seems to me that the choice of Erasmus of Rotterdam is truly significant. Now, I do not wish to dwell on introducing this monk, this theologian, but certainly, in the history of the Church, we owe the birth of a theology of peace to him. We must acknowledge it; we must say it: we are children of Magna Graecia; ours is a Mediterranean humanism, a warmongering humanism. For the Hellenes, for the Greeks, as for the Romans, war is not only just, not only inevitable, but it is the only way to guarantee order, to guarantee peace. This idea also permeates the thought of the Church Fathers and the development of early Christian theology—the so-called concept of bellum iustum, or just war. Augustine—and it is difficult to untangle his thought—will say: “Yes, war for the sake of peace, provided it is not accompanied by a lust for glory.” Therefore, if we wage war out of a lust for glory, it is unacceptable. If it is for the sake of peace—and you will recall that the Romans used to say, “If you want peace, prepare for war”—then it may be permissible. Erasmus of Rotterdam breaks completely with this line of thought. There is an interesting work of his called Querela Pacis, in which he personifies peace and sends her out into every social setting. And peace finds nothing but conflicts, discord, and violence everywhere: in homes, in universities, in monasteries, on the streets. Peace finds no peace. It is a bit like, as we were told, the human heart—a heart that finds no peace.
It seems to me that we must return wholeheartedly to a way of thinking that comes from Jesus, who tells us very clearly why there is no peace and why war prevails. Jesus says: “It is not history that defiles the human heart—in the Gospel of Mark, chapter 7—but it is the human heart that defiles history.” It is in the human heart that wars, strife, and factions arise. It is in the human heart. We should carry out “ethnic cleansing” in our hearts. We’ll see this more clearly when we discuss combat, but it is in the heart that all evil intentions lurk. So, while the word “peace” is sweet, as Erasmus of Rotterdam always says sarcastically,
“war is sweet only to those who have not experienced it.” In my travels and encounters, I have had the grace—and at the same time the sorrow—of encountering the faces of those who yearn for peace and bear the scars of war: in children from sub-Saharan Africa, as well as in Ukrainian women, forced to flee to save their children while their husbands go off to war. This desire for peace lies in the human heart, but there will be no peace until the human heart of man is reconciled. It seems to me that our gathering this evening is providential, because 45 years ago today, that great saint, John Paul II, taught us that an assassin is not to be disarmed as he was by the Vatican gendarmerie immediately after the attack, but through that monumental gesture of entering the prison and bringing peace. Pope Leo is not a slogan-maker like Francis. Pope Francis has filled his pontificate with slogans, but Leo gave us one on May 8 of last year: “An unarmed and disarming peace.” John Paul II teaches us how to disarm hearts.
And there is this incredibly powerful word—whose social and political significance is yet to be fully discovered, yet to be fully articulated and rearticulated—which is the word “forgiveness,” the word “reconciliation.” Look, until this movement of the Spirit takes place in people’s hearts—let’s not delude ourselves—there will be no peace. Erasmus of Rotterdam is very stern when he says: “It is the powerful, the princes, who want war. The people do not want it. It is those who want money who wage war. The poor and the peasants will know only hunger.” Erasmus of Rotterdam is therefore the focus tonight of a rethinking of the word “peace,” which—as you understand—is not the absence of war; that is a truce. The absence of war is an armistice; it is a truce. The word “peace” is something more complex; it is not a feeling, nor is it an orientation. It is something structural, yet it is lacking in language—our language has become violent, it has become vulgar—and it is lacking in our emotions: discord, strife, and resentment. In how many ways does war have these poisoned roots that poison the spirit, that poison the ethics of a people? So, if it is true that many wage war—and almost everyone today justifies it—it is equally true that making peace is far more difficult. It is easier to wage war; it is harder to make peace.
Pope Francis—I would even say in contrast to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which still puts forward the idea of a “just war” under certain conditions, even simply when speaking of a war of defense—I am attacked, I defend myself—will reiterate that cry of Benedict XV: “Never again war!” The futility of war and the value of peace. Now, it seems to me that not only should these concepts not be pitted against one another, but that dialogue—which we must rediscover within the deepest roots of the word “peace”—imposes upon our collective conscience... And I believe that this conscience is mistaken, because conscience seeks truth, conscience seeks justice, conscience seeks the good, and the conscience of a people, the conscience of nations, the conscience of countries is mistaken; it needs to be reformed. The word “peace” today is confronted with a lack of conscience, and the unease of conscience also becomes the unease of consistency. This challenges Christians and believers today more dramatically than ever. Do not forget that Bush is a Christian; do not forget that Putin is a Christian. Without going into the Gospel “in depth,” just one of Jesus’ eight Beatitudes would suffice—he considers “blessed” not those who do not wage war, but those who make peace.
Canullo. Thank you very much for this introduction to the concept of war in our conversation, which does not analyze but rather brings us back to ourselves, to the heart. You have done so, in fact, in different ways, but by affirming the centrality of conscience, of the heart, of human desire—which is a desire for truth. And so the problem of war is not a problem that concerns others, but one that first and foremost affects us, and which therefore challenges our humanity.
II. Combat
And this allows me to move on to the second term: “combat,” which has already been touched upon, but I’d like to approach it from another angle. Erasmus was rightly mentioned as well, because, of course, it is a combat with oneself, with one’s vices, and so on. But there is also a struggle that is specific to our time. It is the struggle of those who ask themselves: why is it worth it? You have already introduced the question of fulfillment, of desire, of meaning. So, here it is: why is it worth working, why is it worth building, why is it worth planning, when everything around us calls for destruction? When the situation is precisely the one we are describing. Instead, you’ve already opened us up to another perspective—precisely this wound that saves. But beyond this “why?”—which, after all, is everyone’s “why?”—the question with which each of us enters reality every day… I was struck by a student who recently said to me: “But when will our time come, our moment?” Why did I interpret this question in terms of struggle? Because, while war isolates, separates, and focuses on a satiety that will never come—since, in fact, it is not what truly satisfies—true struggle—which asks “why?”: why do we work, why do we live, what is the point?—is a struggle we experience together. I would say this: while war, in a way, is a destruction of oneself and others, the struggle, on the other hand, is for oneself—because each person asks a question about their own life—but “for” others and “together” with others. So, here is the question I pose to you: how and why should we invite others to this struggle? But why am I asking you this? Because, today, there’s a tendency to view fragility and destruction solely in a negative light. I, on the other hand, always recall the beautiful etymology of “fragility” given by Isidore of Seville: “Fragile is that which can be easily broken.” What do we describe as fragile? That which can be broken. When we move, we write “fragile” to protect something precious. How can we invite and support others in this struggle for what is worth defending because it is precious? And the most precious thing is precisely that which, as you have already told us, concerns us.
Martinez. Let’s return to our Erasmus of Rotterdam, because this idea of the struggle of the self against the self is his. In a military treatise of his own, which focuses on the soldier, Erasmus says: “It is easy to aim a rifle at an enemy. It is harder to aim a rifle at oneself”—not to commit suicide, but to defeat the enemies within us, those enemies we were just talking about. So, the word “combat” must be rediscovered. Even in antiquity, this expression was erroneously attributed to Heraclitus, but in the sense that combat is the father of all things: everything is earned, conquered like a trophy, if it comes from a struggle, from a battle. Life is an arena; that is the meaning. In reality—and this is the point of the question being asked—in this sense, the word “combat” does not mean fighting “against,” but fighting together “for.” Combat is sustained by that idealism, for example, which Christians, religious people, and spiritual people embody. The great ideals, the great passions—those that drive history, the civic passions—these are what drive us to fight together, to stand together. It is not fighting against, but fighting together. So, in this sense, the struggle becomes the opposite of war. To give you a vivid illustration: “two” in Latin is “duo.” So, in war there are two and it is a duel, and in music, for example, there is a duet—there, too, there are two. In a duel, one of the two must be eliminated; only one can remain; one must win. In combat, the other is necessary; by definition, there cannot be a “duo”—we must resonate together. You see, combat is not a duel; combat is a duet, where our voices harmonize, can resonate together, and can earn that ideal, fundamental alliance needed to give voice to the great passions and ideals—those that drive history. So, let us fight together, above all so that—as we said a moment ago—this wound, this sore that is increasingly taking root in the heart of humanity, in the heart of institutions, may become—to borrow a beautiful image from a dear friend, Don Tonino Bello—a slit, a slit of light, of grace, of healing, of consolation, of restoration. And we do this—we can do this—for example, in movements as well as in purpose-driven associations, where we understand the meaning of striving, of committing ourselves, of fighting for a shared ideal, for a shared passion. This is how an ethos is founded—a grammar of living together, of communal life. Indeed, John Paul II and Habermas, in the 1980s, called for a global ethos for humanity—that is, this surplus of passion that drives us to fight, to be together, to struggle. In some way, we should strive tirelessly until this word “peace” is put into action—and not merely understood in its deepest meanings, which we have already discussed: it is not the absence of war, but the construction of a social order, of a new moral order. This is precisely what deserves—just as it does this evening—a concerted effort, so that together we may strive to build peace, to build a new social order, and to give rise to a new humanism, where the dignity of the person is restored to the center. Today, historical processes are all geared toward the dehumanization of reality; all processes are dehumanizing, and I believe that, today more than ever, Christian ethics, Christian humanism, and the spirituality that derives from Christianity are fundamental for healing, for retuning—to return to the metaphor of the duet—the out-of-tune, slackened strings of our passion and our commitment.
A quote from Leo XIV was recalled in the presentation, and I believe this should truly strike a chord with us today, because not only do we risk ceasing to fight, but we also risk delegating to machines the art of choosing, discerning, and deciding. “We are inventing,” says Leo XIV, who is preparing an encyclical, Magnifica humanitas, on the great digital revolution, just as Leo XIII addressed the industrial revolution in Rerum novarum. Leo XIV says: “We are delegating to machines the power to decide over life and death.” So, not only are we ceasing to fight, but we are delegating to machines the ability to decide whether to give life or to take it. I was favorably and positively impressed—and I hope you were as well—by the refusal issued to Trump by the owner of Anthropic, who turned down a multimillion-euro contract; a refusal directed at the U.S. administration and the U.S. Department of Defense to make machines—that is, artificial intelligence—capable of replacing humans in deciding where to wage war, how to wage war, how to use weapons, and where to use weapons—thus ceasing to fight and letting a machine fight for us and decide for us. Hans Jonas said, in a sort of evolution of Kant’s thought regarding the moral law: “Act in such a way that your actions result in the reflection of a life that remains authentically human. Act so that everything remains authentically human, and your actions are authentically human.” You see, a machine cannot be endowed with consciousness; a machine cannot fight for us; “a machine,” says Leo XIV, “cannot decide on life or death.”
Carrón. It seems to me that the struggle—which, as you said, can often seem futile—is a fact of life; it imposes itself. I am very surprised that an observer as astute as Charles Taylor acknowledges that, in these times when it seems as though everything is falling apart, there are so many people who are searching—he calls them “seekers”: that is, people who are not content, who, even though they do not identify with any religious or associative group, cannot renounce the irreducible need for meaning that is constantly reborn within them. Despite all the objections, all the attempts to annihilate it through every kind of conspiracy, the irreducibility of the person continually comes to the surface, revealing the true nature of humanity. For this reason, it is striking that the Pope says: “A culture in crisis is necessarily a culture in search.” In a society like ours, where everything seems to be falling apart, there are many people who, despite their differences and their varied approaches, are united precisely by this search, of which the Pope speaks: “The men and women of today have the same thirst for God—if not a greater one—than in past eras. In the contemporary world, questions are growing about the meaning of human existence, the destiny of history, and transcendence.” So, this struggle exists: it is a fact.
I’m always reminded of a phrase by Fr. Giussani: “I can find no other sign of hope except the multiplication of these people [like those we’re talking about] who are a presence” and an “inevitable affinity” among them. They come together to defend the most precious thing in life! They do not waste time, but come together to defend what they bear witness to one another that they are seeking. Therefore, this struggle cannot be waged without this “affinity” toward others who are also searching. Each of us, in our own sphere, can see where we find these people. It seems to me that the most crucial question is: where do we encounter these “fighters” for meaning? These “seekers of meaning” who, even in ways different from our own, never cease to bear witness to their struggle—and for whom we feel a sense of kinship? They help reawaken in us the desire to fight for a life that is truer and more in tune with human needs—and thus, with the totality of the universe. I think this is decisive, because it is the only thing that can truly prevent the manipulation or replacement of humanity from actually taking place, since there are always people who care deeply about this human “generation,” so that they can fight for this life that we see at risk, which is fragile. We recognize ourselves in this shared desire—each according to the gifts we have received, according to our own sensibilities and ways—to preserve the preciousness of life for ourselves and for others.
Canullo. Thank you, because at a time when “being together” is supposed to be nothing but a symbol of hostility, you have instead offered us insights in which what truly saves and protects the individual is, in fact, being together. Exactly the opposite. The “duet” is beautiful; I had so many beautiful ones in mind, where music truly weaves a path together—this counterpoint that grows together. Even in dialogue, like that between Nicodemus and Jesus: “How can a man be born again?” That’s it—we are born again together. And this “precious” gift is safeguarded by people and moments in their lives that we must observe. And so, amid total destruction, there are points of light that penetrate the wounds we carry in our lives.
Martinez. And that’s why we’re saved together.
Canullo. But that’s why I love the term “salvation” so much, because unfortunately no one talks about it anymore; it seems almost like a pious, mystical concept. Whereas salvation is about all of us being restored to our true selves. Once, someone told me, “But that’s too simple!” It’s too simple to say that being saved means that everything about our existence has value. And yet, that’s precisely the point. But not alone—together. And while war is this enmity, peace and struggle are for this friendship.
III. Depression
I’d like to turn to another word from our discussion this evening: depression. There is a clinical, medical aspect to it—which we won’t address here—that has its own seriousness and gravity, but that is not the context in which I’d like to ask you to discuss this together. Rather, I’m referring to a form of depression also linked to war: not because these images cause depression, but because war—in addition to destroying—threatens even where it does not destroy. I believe there is a close connection between this feeling of depression and the threat itself, because the threat makes us realize that precariousness we normally do not perceive. Right now, understandably, we do not feel our own precariousness, but we are together, we listen to one another, and we are on this journey together. The threat, on the other hand, what does it tell us? That we are precarious, that we are vulnerable, that we are exposed. It struck me that, in various sociological analyses, it is precisely young people who describe themselves as depressed, vulnerable, and exposed. But why? Because they are held back by this threat, which is as if it were robbing them of time, as if it were robbing them of life. And so depression becomes the name for the fear of living, for this deprivation caused by fear. And vulnerability—this state of being exposed—becomes a prison. In reality, precariousness and vulnerability are, like the fragility we’ve already discussed, the essence of what it means to be human; so, it’s as if something that is human—that defines us as human beings in our consciousness—instead becomes a burden for us, our very own prison. How, on the other hand, can depression—this state of melancholy, of unease, of time slipping away—become, especially in young people, a glimmer of hope? How can it, too, become that essence of humanity from which to start anew, rather than something to be denied or viewed as a prison?
Carrón. In my view, this is a crucial issue today, because often all these words you’ve used—depression, vulnerability, malaise, unease—are reduced, especially when it comes to young people, to a pathological issue. Obviously, there can always be a psychological aspect, but even that, in my view, says something about the depth of the person. Two things amaze me: the first is that Leopardi, who had experience with these things—who felt that “everything is small and insignificant compared to the capacity of the human soul”—felt boredom and unease, but for him—and there’s no better place to say this—all of this was not a psychological problem, but the greatest sign of human nature. What if we could view all these discomforts from this perspective? As indicators of human greatness? What if what young people lack is precisely the ability to look at themselves with this capacity to embrace their own fragility and discomfort as signs of their greatness?
Even more than Leopardi, I am struck by St. Augustine: “You show [addressing God] quite clearly the greatness You have chosen to bestow upon the rational creature; [for] nothing less than You is sufficient for its blessed peace.” What if this unease they feel is because they cannot find that something without which life is a source of unease? Because without You [with a capital “You”], “everything is small and insignificant,” says Leopardi. So, in my view, what is at stake here is a cultural issue: a perception that can become the great opportunity, the great opening, the great crack through which a person can truly understand the true nature of their unease! That the unease isn’t because you’re “sick,” it isn’t because you have some kind of illness, but because you’re meant for something more! An excess that, until you find it, nothing is enough for you. As the Spanish writer Beatriz Serrano says: “I was surrounded by very unhappy friends, thirty-somethings with good careers but who were dissatisfied. They complained constantly, and many of them were taking medication. They could blame the exorbitant rents or the low salaries, but that wasn’t enough to explain that state of mind. A general boredom, a melancholy, a discontent, a non-clinical distress,” which she sums up in a question: “But is that all there is? Will life always be like this?” When I read this, I was reminded of an episode that happened to me many years ago in Barcelona. While talking with two high school students in the family that was hosting me, at one point I asked them: “But you two—at the end of your high school studies—do you have anything you can say with certainty about math?” They replied, “Oh yes, we have something to say.” I asked again, “And about life?” Silence. Nothing to say with certainty. As we were talking, their mother came in and told us, “Do you know what my youngest daughter asked me a few days ago? ‘Mom, is life always like this?’” It’s the same question the writer asks herself as an adult. It’s a question that speaks to the depth of what we’re discussing. This isn’t a pathology, but rather what St. Augustine says: “You have made us [Lord] for yourself, and our hearts are restless [are uneasy, we might say] until they rest in you.”
If young people don’t have people around them in whom they can see this greatness, and from whom they can find light or guidance to understand their own unease, then they begin at that very moment to feel misunderstood. That is where their loneliness begins. It then erupts in all those news stories that leave us stunned: “But how is that possible?!” Ah! Because, so often, we ourselves have been unable to understand the true nature of that unease, which holds within it a need for meaning, a search: “But who am I?” I’m amazed by people like Marracash, in whom we see that—after going from absolute poverty to success, after filling their time with things without managing to fill the void—the question arises: Who am I? This unease runs at this level of depth: “Who am I? And what do I want?” I hope that, when we encounter others—whether young or not so young—people who are experiencing the unease and fragility we’re talking about, we can understand them and make them feel understood, so that they can view their own fragility and unease not as something to be discarded, but as a resource for discovering their true nature, their greatness as human beings.
Canullo. We can see them this way if, in looking at them, we rediscover it for ourselves.
Carrón. We cannot do this unless we have rediscovered it for ourselves. In the end, we often project our own shortcomings onto others. I always remember an adult who spoke to me about her difficulties. At one point, she told me that her eight-year-old daughter had said to her, “Mom, I’m sad!” I had tried to help this mother understand her own distress as an adult, but I hadn’t grasped it myself—so much so that she had replied to her daughter: “But, my daughter, will you never be satisfied?!” Instead of celebrating her, because even as a child she was beginning to perceive the greatness of her humanity—for whom sadness was not a pathology but a sign that “everything is small and insignificant compared to the capacity of the soul,” she scolds her: “Will you never be satisfied?!” I understand that an adult might not comprehend a daughter’s sadness. Imagine, then, a young girl who begins to feel misunderstood and to harbor within herself, in solitude, what will eventually—at times—explode. For this reason, what a responsibility we have—each on our own personal journey as adults—to be able to grasp the value of what the children and young people we deal with are experiencing. Because, without this, deep down, we are the ones who reduce their distress to a pathology, instead of helping them discover the true nature of the greatness for which God created them.
Martinez. Yes, this is a topic that opens up possibilities for reflection and discernment, which I’d like to continue in the vein of Fr. Julián. We’ve had the grace to accompany and meet thousands upon thousands of young people over many years—now even in university classrooms and within our movements. This darkening of the horizon… What is depression? Certainly, it is this inner sadness, this sadness of the soul. John Chrysostom defines it as “the exhaustion of the soul,” which, using a word that is now forgotten and not very expressive, we call acedia. But, in reality, it is the darkening of the horizon of life. And when a young person lacks that restless heart we were talking about—the one Augustine spoke of—you can see it: there is a light, there is joy, there is a desire for life, not merely to exist. Oscar Wilde says: “Many exist, but do not live.” Many believe they are living, but in reality they merely exist; paradoxically, they survive a dream that eventually fades, a stroke of luck that comes to an end, a state of well-being that runs out. But there is something deeper.
Speaking of young people, I recall two dramatic experiences. The first involved a young man—we were at one of our large gatherings in Rimini—who moved quickly toward me and, calling me by name, began to curse at me. I didn’t understand why he was angry with me; I didn’t even know him. Then, well, the whole thing turned tragicomic. He was someone who had undergone a sex change: the search for an identity, a restless heart—until one discovers why we were created… What does it mean to be saved? Sometimes from this mistaken idea we have of ourselves. Figuring out life. T. S. Eliot says that, generally speaking, people understand the value of life fifteen minutes before they die. There are so many people who ask themselves this existential question: “What body am I in? What gender am I? What is my life?” And this person told me: “You ruined my life, because, after having the sex-change surgery, I realized who I am, I realized what I am. And now I’d like to go back: I no longer accept myself, I no longer recognize myself, I’m ashamed of myself, others make fun of me because it’s obvious I’m a transvestite. And I’d like to go back.” So, there are those who have this grace, this chance to overcome depression, this darkening of life’s horizon. And then there are those, like Lorena, who at sixteen experienced the tragedy of suicide. Now, we don’t need to cite statistics, but worldwide, among those aged eighteen to twenty-four, this depression—this sadness of the soul, this inability to grasp the value of life—leads either to taking the life of the person who is making life difficult for you, or to taking your own life. To rid oneself of the burden of living, and perhaps also of being a burden within a family context. Lorena, sixteen years old, from a wonderful family of believers, left this note before taking her own life: “Thank you, Dad; thank you, Mom. You’ve given me everything, but you haven’t taught me how to love. That’s why this life seems unbearable to me.” Teaching the art of living today is truly a massive challenge. Thinking about our times and depression… Imagine twenty streetlights: nineteen are on and one is off. You can see the difference. Even if the lit streetlights tried to shine brighter, they could never shine in place of the one that’s off, nor can the unlit streetlight shine by reflected light. And this is the tragedy that many young people—even many children and teenagers—are experiencing. It seems unbearable to me—and I imagine to you as well—when we hear that a child is depressed. But how can a child have already exhausted all their vital energy? It’s like a flower that’s just beginning to bloom, yet is already rotten, even before coming to life, before coming into existence. We’re looking at this issue of depression in connection with war, but let’s try to imagine: I have friends—people I talk to—who live in Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv is one of the most modern, most advanced cities in the world; it’s unimaginable that people would look up—not to see the stars, the starry sky, or their hopes—but to see if a bomb is falling on them. A darkened sky. Depression is this darkening of the horizon of life. What can we possibly say to a young Israeli? And to any other young person caught in a war zone? There are at least 50 war zones right now—not just those closest to us. How can we even conceive of a horizon of life within a culture of death?
It is interesting to consider the reflection offered by Byung-Chul Han, a German-Korean philosopher, who wrote an essay on The Society of Fatigue, in which we are growing weary of hoping, weary of dreaming, and weary of nurturing the reasons for living. The Second Vatican Council, in Lumen gentium, states that this idea can be considered legitimate: that the future of the younger generations depends on those who will be able to give them—that is, us—reasons for life and hope, reasons for life and not of death. You see, we are fueling this depression, which is truly becoming a disease of the soul. There is a thinker very dear to me, Jan Patočka, who says that Europe is fading away; it is a weary continent. During a private audience, Pope Francis asked me point-blank: “What do you think of Europe?” For a year, he never once spoke of Europe. I replied, “Everyone says it’s an old continent; I think it’s a weary continent,” and he looked at me and said, “That’s it—Europe is weary.” Tired of living, tired of bringing forth life, tired of generating hope—especially with regard to the younger generations. Patočka says this: “We need a new care for the soul; otherwise, it is oblivion.” We need a new dimension of the spirit, because these issues can only be discussed within this spiritual framework.
We Christians have something important to say as we look at our continent and our society. The processes of desocialization that lead to depression—and thus to this lack of will to live—are right before our eyes. But be careful: every process of desocialization brings with it profound consequences, such as demoralization. Today we live in a neutral society: it is no longer an immoral society; we live beyond good and evil. The processes of desocialization lead to a de-spiritualization of humanity; there is an enormous need for a new ethics of virtue. Vices are becoming entrenched in the social order, and we no longer even realize that we have lost the ability to choose the good or to stand on the side of the good. Thus, against this backdrop of desocialization, humanity is also de-culturalized: identities, memories, lines of thought, and dominant principles are crumbling. This is the context in which the new generations are growing up, and the word “depression” takes root far more deeply than we can imagine. In The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus essentially articulates an important truth: we must imagine Sisyphus as happy, but for Sisyphus to find happiness, we must try to explain to Sisyphus—to the Sisyphuses of our time—the toil of living, the meaning of the toil of living, of the toil of hoping, of the toil of choosing, of the toil of seeing, within this horizon of death, a possibility, a light, in a sky that seems gray, the stars that continue to shine. So, I believe this is our great responsibility. There is a crisis of authority, of leadership, of fatherhood: they are all receptive, they are all doubtful, they are all lacking. And, let’s not forget, only those who know how to provide reasons for living and for hope can create a future and introduce new generations to a vital horizon, completely different from the one we are living in.
IV. Hope
Canullo. Thank you very much for these answers. Picking up on this last comment, which also ties in with Julián Carrón’s remarks, I would say: in reality, this confusion we call depression is a lack of judgment. In practice, we withdraw from this judgment, from that point of synthesis that lets in a new light. To conclude, a brief thought on the final word given to us for this wonderful gathering—for which I thank you once again—hope. I’ll take it up by quoting Cesare Pavese from The Business of Living: “Has anyone ever promised us anything? So why are we waiting?” Hope, then, as waiting. So, I ask: how can the drama of waiting remain alive? I’d like to ask you for a closing remark, even though much has already emerged from this invitation: what keeps the drama of waiting alive?
Martinez. “Has anyone ever promised us anything?” You understand that Pavese’s answer is implicit, namely: “No.” This sentence was written three months after the end of World War II and five years before Pavese’s suicide. Well, we must say: “Yes, someone has promised us something.” For this reason, Bernanos would say, “hope is a risk,” but it is a calculated risk, and we can only hope. Why does the world despair? Because it hopes to have: hope of having and despair of being. We are hope for the world; we are bearers of an unyielding hope. The effort of hoping is already the ability to overcome the despair that grips us, that takes hold of us. I greatly admire Bernanos, who says that it is the little ones, the poor, who hold the secret of hope. The poor do not know how to despair; the rich despair because they are afraid of losing something. The poor know only how to hope. So, we hope in someone. St. Paul is very clear when he states: “Christ is our hope.” Christ is the hope of the nations. Dante would say that this hope is “the expectation of a future glory.” It is a certain expectation of a future glory. Therefore, it is easier to despair; it is harder to hope, but—I repeat—it is a calculated risk. Péguy states that this “younger sister,” hope, is capable of taking the other two by the hand. Indeed, it is capable of expanding all our acts of faith, of trust in God, in humanity, and in goodness: hope expands them. And hope also gives a face to love, so that it is not merely a superficial feeling or a direction we give to our lives.
I believe that, today, “hope” is a word that must be firmly rewritten into the ethical code of our societies. We have, moreover, left behind an entire year dedicated to hope: the Jubilee of Hope, which saw two Popes in the same year. We have been given many images, many occasions, many opportunities to reflect on this theme. However, it is crucial—and here Kant comes to our aid—to give hope a rational orientation, a profound rational foundation. Just as there is a reason for knowing, just as there is a reason for acting, there is also a reason for hope: the reasons for hope. Our lives are in safe hands; we know why we hope, in whom we hope, and in what we hope, and the narrative of hope in our lives should be unshakable. Teilhard de Chardin said that if the sum of all our dreams and desires were to become zero, then hope would come to a standstill. I do not believe this applies to us; I do not believe this can be the meaning of our presence here this evening. In reality, what we await, what we hope for, is what we have the grace to experience every day—even amid tribulations, difficulties, and trials from which we will never be spared. But hope carries the scent of glory; hope is the last word written in human language, a language that is, instead, increasingly marked by so many shadows, so many fears, and so many forms of despair. We can write this word; we have a duty to write it: faith tells us to continue this act of love, this act of faith, precisely through hope.
Carrón. It seems to me that Pavese’s phrase already contains the answer, not just the question.
“Has anyone ever promised us anything?” but he doesn’t stop there. Although he seems to say “no,” he cannot help but acknowledge that he is waiting. So, if no one has promised us anything, why are we waiting? There is a waiting that persists, even though we think no one has promised us anything: what if this were the deep root within us, corresponding to the very way in which we were made to wait, as a constitutive part of our being men and women? Because, after all, we were made with this waiting within us, because there is Someone who fulfills it. For this reason, St. Augustine is a genius when he helps us understand that we do not generate this waiting ourselves. Why are we the only beings who wait for something? If not because an Other is constantly reawakening this waiting within us! This could truly give us the ultimate reason to hope, because it endures despite all our doubts. The very fact that we find ourselves waiting is more fundamental than all our objections to waiting. As soon as we realize this, the waiting for something begins anew. And this tells us that there is Someone who is reawakening it within us. We would not wait if we were not constantly reawakened by this ultimate Presence that is making us who we are right now.
Closing
Canullo. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, because you have shown us how the words we know can be relearned when they are filled with life and experience. Thank you.
Caldarelli. We truly thank Don Julián, Salvatore, and Carla from the bottom of our hearts, recalling only that it is said that dawn is awaited above all by those who suffer from anxiety and by sentinels. Because, during the night, the most dangerous ambushes take place, in a space shrouded by the shadows of night. We truly hope that today Macerata can be that sentinel that will breathe a sigh of relief for having been the first to see the sunlight again. Have a safe trip home, everyone.
