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Blessed are the website developers, for they shall inherit the metaverse. And lo, a new age dawneth as the Catholic Church finally embraces the 21st century. No, not by allowing women to become priests, you silly sausage. Or by apologising for the millions of unbaptised babies buried in unmarked ditches for the supposed crime of ‘original sin’. Heaven forbid.
This week the Vatican canonised its first millennial saint. Carlo Acutis, a London-born tech bro, dubbed “God’s influencer” for creating a website about miracles, died of leukaemia in 2006 aged just 15. Since then Rome has credited him with two of his own miracles to add to the list. A Brazilian boy with pancreatic disease was apparently healed after his mum kissed a T-shirt belonging to Carlo, and a Costa Rican woman who bounced back Lazarus-like after a near fatal motorbike crash. Extraordinary isn’t it, for the humble son of wealthy Italian parents. There is no possible other explanation…
Today thousands of pilgrims trek to Assisi to see the “patron saint of the internet” lying in a glass tomb, clad not in robes but in jeans and Nike trainers, his face and hands moulded in hyperrealistic silicon. His organs, meanwhile, have been distributed across Christendom. And in London, at Our Lady of Dolours Church in Chelsea where he was baptised, the devout pray at a shrine containing a single strand of his hair. No one does ridiculous religious relics quite like the Catholics. “Behold, the holy hair! For whosoever toucheth it with faith shall forget no password, and thy Wi-Fi signal strength will be mighty, even upstairs in the box room.”
Yet it seems to me Carlo’s path to sainthood was a stroll compared to the old days of macabre martyrdom. All he did was learn how to use JavaScript and Adobe Photoshop. Compare that to St. Bartholomew, patron saint of leatherworkers, who was flayed alive and is forever pictured with his own skin draped around him like a stole. Or St. Lucy whose eyes were gouged out after turning down a randy suitor, and carries them on a platter like cocktail canapes. Or my favourite, St. Lawrence, the patron saint of comedians, who was roasted alive on a gridiron but still managed to see the funny side, joking: “Turn me over, I’m done on this side.” Pious and pithy. Now that's what I call a saint.