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Recently, I was in Paris, where I had the joy of spending time in one of the cities I love most. My love for Paris is deeply connected to my love for French culture, its Catholic tradition, and the musical heritage that France has offered to the world.
Alongside all this, I had the chance to visit the many bookshops scattered throughout the streets of Paris, and this too brought me profound joy—as I am a passionate bibliophile. In one of these shops, I purchased a recently published book titled Abbé Pierre: La fabrique d’un saint. The book was written by journalists Laetitia Cherel and Marie-France Etchegoin.
I must admit that while I was familiar with Abbé Pierre by reputation, I had never explored his story in depth. I also tend to be wary of books that aim to tear down public figures, especially those regarded as having a reputation for sanctity. I don’t know the authors personally, nor their perspective on the Catholic Church, but when faced with the documents presented and even official Catholic statements, one is forced to concede.
Henri (or Henry) Grouès (1912–2007), known in religion as Abbé Pierre, was a central figure in the French Catholic Church, the inspiration behind important charitable works for society’s most marginalized, and founder of the Emmaus community. Many desperate people owe their new beginning, their home, their work, to Abbé Pierre. From 1988 onward, and for seventeen consecutive years, he was voted the most beloved public figure in France. In short, he was a true icon, seen by many as a model to follow.
But there is another Abbé Pierre: one who took advantage of several women who turned to him, in order to satisfy his uncontrollable sexual impulses. There is the young Abbé Pierre who fell in love with a boy chorister and later with a fellow friar during his time with the Capuchins. There is the Abbé Pierre who, during a 1955 trip to the United States, was forced by the French ambassador—none other than the famous philosopher Jacques Maritain—to cut his visit short due to repeated sexual misconduct that embarrassed his country.
In short, there is a kind of mystery surrounding a man who soared so high in some ways, and fell so low in others. Surely, some of his sexual relationships may have been consensual, but many—according to witness accounts—were coerced, and often involved minors.
During a press conference on his return flight from Singapore, Pope Francis was questioned by a Le Monde journalist and admitted that the Vatican had known of Abbé Pierre’s “misconduct” at least since his death in 2007. Yet the Pope also said he did not know whether the Vatican had been aware of this before then.
The book, supported by detailed documentation, offers an answer: the Vatican had known about Abbé Pierre’s private behavior for decades—as did many French bishops. And while there were attempts to stop him, they were ultimately ineffective. This situation reminds me of the phrase used in economics: too big to fail. Indeed, Abbé Pierre was far too prominent a figure to be touched.
This naturally raises some serious ethical questions—not only regarding Abbé Pierre’s personal reputation, but also that of the Catholic Church, which in effect covered up for what I believe can rightly be called a predator, allowing him to continue his sexual abuse.
One question asked by a victim in the book struck me deeply. It’s so important that the authors chose to place it on the book’s back cover: How can a man who did so much good also have done evil?
To start with, we must say the question is not quite right. Even the holiest of people can commit unjust acts, can “do evil.” Even the holiest must wrestle with Original Sin.
I believe the better question is this: How can a man who did so much good also have done so much evil?
Because Abbé Pierre’s case, according to testimonies, is not one of an isolated fall from grace, but of decades-long, repeated predatory behavior—often inflicted on people who had approached him believing him to be a man of great holiness.
So, how are we to interpret the undeniable good he did, in light of what we now know about him?
In a statement dated July 17, 2024, Emmaus International acknowledged that Abbé Pierre committed acts of sexual abuse from 1970 to 2005—a span of thirty-five years. But the book suggests that incidents occurred even earlier. It’s hard to believe that those closest to him were unaware. The same statement claims that the accusations were known to them only since 2023, and that this revelation changed how the founder was viewed within the organization.
I understand how difficult it is to navigate such a painful and scandalous situation, but I believe the question of how this was handled must involve not only Emmaus, but the entire Church, which knew of this priest’s behavior—his uncontrollable impulses that even led to a stay in a Swiss clinic.
Abbé Pierre’s sexual problems seem to have been not just a voluntary pursuit of intimacy, but a pathological compulsion. Even so, it remains gravely serious that he was not prevented from causing further harm.
This issue calls for serious reflection: How is it possible that a man of such fame acted in this way for over fifty years?
Now let’s see the problem from the victims’ perspective. Many of them describe the inner battle between the disgust they felt at what they were experiencing and the near-mythical aura that surrounded Abbé Pierre. They were caught in an emotional conflict that often resulted in silence.
It may seem strange that this is how people react to such abuse, but it’s hard to understand unless you’ve lived it. The emotional conflict often renders one incapable of taking action in either direction.
On the other side, there are the organizations involved (the Catholic Church, Emmaus, etc.)—institutions that should have acted to prevent such abuse from occurring. Clearly, in this case, there are no easy absolutions.
I believe I understand that those who chose not to act did so with the intention of protecting the good work built by Abbé Pierre. Was this the right decision? Probably not—but acting in such cases is always very complicated.
Still, it’s deeply disturbing to think that so little was done to stop this man from abusing so many women.
Here too, we face another emotional conflict: on the one hand, our attachment to the Catholic Church; on the other, the clear evidence of her human failings.
Sadly, the story of Abbé Pierre is far from unique. The Church must confront the unworthiness of many of its children. And the successor of Peter finds himself steering a boat in a storm—one made even harder to manage by the betrayal of some of his closest collaborators.
Photo by Diogo Fagundes on Unsplash