And by disbelief I do not mean some sort of brave rejection of the doctrine, some defiant
demand flung at heaven for possession of one's own
soul; I mean merely the impotence of an imagination that finds the very notion of sin incomprehensible, the conscience of a man who is sure that, whatever sin might be, it surely lies lightly
upon a
soul as decent as his own, and can be brushed off with a single casual stroke of a primly gloved hand; I mean an habitual insensibility to the illuminations and chastisements of beauty, a condition of being wholly at home in a world from which mystery and sin and glory have all been banished, and in which spiritual wretchedness has become material contentment.
Francis Bernadone wanders into a church in Assisi, stands under the crucifix over the high altar, looks
upon that body impaled, cadaver - like, before him — stark, simple,
demanding — thinks he hears it speak, and feels his very
soul pierced by the force of it all.