When I first came to England, I was 22 and believed I had a good command of English, as my school grades seemed to attest. I quickly discovered, however, that Shakespeare, Elizabeth Gaskell and Yeats were hardly representative of everyday British speech. Ten years later, although I can understand people perfectly well and hold a conversation, I still would not claim to understand the English language entirely.

When a cashier calls me “lovely”; when people part with “we must have tea soon”, yet that cup of tea never materialises; or when someone says “that’s fine” and appears to mean quite the opposite, I cannot help feeling that the British possess a secret code, one that allows them to decipher what lies beneath the words themselves. Yet for someone who studies literature, it is a constant delight. Everything seems to be built upon understatement, ambiguity, irony and nuance.

By contrast, the French are reputed to be more direct – some might even say rude. We do not tend to beat about the bush; we do not shower strangers with terms of endearment – quite the reverse, at times. We are not renowned for our queuing etiquette, and the volume of our conversations can reach impressive heights.

I often say that, as Catholics, we are called to live differently from those around us. In this respect, we are invited to cultivate virtue. Anger is a vice; indeed, it is counted among the seven deadly sins. The choleric among us may be quick to invoke Christ’s righteous anger when He drove the merchants from the Temple, but we should be honest enough to acknowledge that our own anger rarely bears the same marks of holiness.

More often than not, when we are angry, we are governed by our emotions rather than guided by reason. In such moments, our words and actions can wound those around us. At times, we go so far as to assault the very dignity of another person, hurling insults or uttering words whose cruelty exceeds even what we ourselves intended. St Francis de Sales is renowned for his meekness, yet this gentleness was not simply a matter of temperament. On the contrary, he had to struggle tirelessly against a naturally fiery disposition in order to attain such mastery of himself. On one occasion, after a man had behaved with remarkable insolence towards him, a bystander expressed astonishment that the saint had remained so calm and had not put the offender firmly in his place. Francis replied that he would not allow a single moment of anger to destroy what had taken him many years to acquire.

We should strive for the same self-mastery: the ability to hold our tongue when provoked and, more than that, to show genuine kindness to our neighbour out of charity. Such meekness is not weakness but strength brought under the rule of virtue. As Our Lord reminds us: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

If this attitude reflects something of the French temperament, the fire that animates such souls need not be squandered in anger or pride. Rather, it can be inspired by the Holy Spirit and placed at the service of our Christian vocation. Zeal, after all, is not the same thing as wrath, as we learn from St Paul: “Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord” (Romans 12:11). In France, Catholics often use the expression “en vérité” – to love in truth, to live in truth, to speak in truth. By this, we do not merely mean refraining from falsehood. Rather, we seek to place ourselves at the service of Truth itself, which is to say, at the service of God. To live in truth is to conform our words and actions to His will. This is the spirit in which we are called to practise fraternal correction.

Each of us, with our own cultural heritage and personal temperament, is called to bear witness to the truth. There is certainly no great harm in calling a stranger “lovely”, nor in describing a rather unusual name bestowed upon a newborn child as “interesting”. Courtesy and consideration make the world a more pleasant place in which to live. Yet there is a difference between politeness and dishonesty. To avoid conflict at all costs, to say yes when we mean no, to remain silent when charity requires us to speak, or – worse still – to smile and nod in agreement only to criticise a person once they have left the room, can hardly be considered virtuous.

Yes, speaking the truth can be difficult. We may fear expressing an unpopular opinion, causing offence, or wounding someone we love. Yet if we take care to speak in the right way – and, for my part, I always ask my guardian angel to prepare the ground with the guardian angel of the person I need to speak to – the other person is more likely to recognise that our words spring from love and from respect for their dignity.

If anger can wound the dignity of our neighbour, so too can a lack of courage in speaking the truth. I am thinking particularly of those closest to us: the teenage godchild whose behaviour requires gentle correction; the adult child facing a life-changing decision who may need encouragement to discern more carefully; the daughter who is now a mother herself and might benefit from a different perspective as she navigates the challenges of parenthood; or an ageing parent whose practice of the Faith has begun to waver. These need not be grave matters. Yet if we never encourage those we love to grow in faith and virtue, if we notice things that ought to be said and remain silent, are we not, in some measure, failing in our duty towards them? Are we not choosing superficial pleasantness over genuine charity?

The Catholic response, then, is neither to be rude nor to be insincere. Rather, we are called, insofar as we are able and according to our particular gifts and temperament, to stand up for what is true with humility and charity. Whether at home among those dearest to us, in the workplace, or in the wider world, we should not be afraid to bear witness to the truths we hold sacred: God, our faith, the dignity of every human life, and all those things that a Catholic is called not merely to cherish, but to defend.

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