“I never took my religious instruction seriously,” Alessandro told them, “because it was delivered in the language of reason.  I asked everyone you can imagine, from the nuns when I was a child, to bishops, philosophers, and theologians later on, why do you speak of God in the language of reason?  And they said it was because God has burdened those who believe in Him with the inability to prove His existence except in the language of His enemies, which is a language in which you cannot prove His existence.  Why bother? I asked.  Their answers showed me that they believe in God no more strongly than you do.  Can you see a group of people on a beach in a storm, deafened by the surf, their hair blown back from their foreheads, their eyes tearing, trying to prove the existence of the wind and the sea?

          “I want nothing more than what I have, for what I have is enough.  I’m grateful for it.  I foresee no reward, no eternal life.  I expect only to leave further pieces of my heart in one place or another, but I love God nonetheless, with every atom of my being, and will love Him until I fall into black oblivion.”

          “You’re grateful for what you have?” they asked, their lips curling into bitter smiles.  The leader said, “You’re a piece of sh** in a dungeon.  You live on potatoes and salt, and you’re a servant to the dying scum of a dying world.  For this you’re grateful?”

          Alessandro thought for a moment, and then he said, “Yes.”

          “Why?”

          “I know what I was, what I had, what I lack.”