I find good essays and articles on the life and writings of John Paul II far more interesting than prognostications and intrigues about who might succeed him, God help us.
One such good article by Harold Fickett, John Paul II: Profit of Freedom, is published over at Godspy, that refreshing website run by young traditionalist Catholics.
As Archbishop of Krakow, John Paul II was an architect of Vatican II’s Declaration on Religious Liberty. Drawing on the pope’s experience of terror and oppression under totalitarian regimes of the political right and left, and his leadership during Vatican II, Fickett meditates on the pope’s call for a “Day of Pardon” (March 12) during the year-long celebration of Jubilee in 2000.
With the aid of interviews and research, Fickett brings the passionate words of the young Archbishop of Krakow on religious liberty during Vatican II’s final session (in the fall of 1965) into conversation with the actions of the aging pope (on the first Sunday of Lent in 2000) in asking forgiveness for the Church’s sins of coercion, especially those of the past 1000 years (quoting just a snippet):
“‘Because of the bond which unites us to one another in the Mystical Body, all of us . . . bear the burden of the errors and faults of those who have gone before us,’” John Paul says, quoting from Incarnationis mysterium, the papal bull that called the Church to celebrate Jubilee 2000. “[W]e cannot fail to recognize,” he says, “the infidelities of the Gospel committed by some of our brethren, especially during the second millennium. Let us ask pardon for the divisions which have occurred among Christians, for the violence some have used in the service of the truth, and for the distrustful and hostile attitudes sometimes taken toward the followers of other religions. Let us confess, even more, our responsibilities as Christians for the evils of today…”
“Yes, man is the only creature on earth who can have a relationship of communion with his Creator, but he is also the only one who can separate himself from him.”
After John Paul’s homily, seven representatives of the Church, five cardinals and two bishops, join him in prayerful repentance for the historical sins of the Church’s sons and daughters. They step forward to offer prayers for sins committed in the service of the truth, such as during the Crusades and the Inquisition, the use of torture, the burning of heretics, and the forcible conversion of indigenous peoples; for sins against Christian unity; for sins against the Jews; for sins against love, peace and respect for cultures and religions; for sins against the dignity of women and the unity of the human race, and for sins related to the fundamental rights of the person, the rights of conscience being chief among them. After each cardinal and bishop offers a prayerful petition, John Paul replies with his own.
Cardinal Ratzinger, who heads the Congregation for the Defense of the Faith, the successor to the old Roman Inquisition, prays for sins committed in the service of truth. “Let us pray,” Cardinal Ratzinger says, “that each one of us, looking to the Lord Jesus, meek and humble of heart, will recognize that even men of the church, in the name of faith and morals, have sometimes used methods not in keeping with the Gospel in the solemn duty of defending the truth.”
To this, John Paul replies, “In certain periods of history, Christians have at times given in to intolerance and have not been faithful to the great commandment of love, sullying in this way the face of the Church . . . “
At the end of the prayers, John Paul approaches the 15th century wooden crucifix—a crucifix lovingly crafted in the time of Paul Vladimiri and the Council of Constance. He pauses to kiss the Crucifix and then looks up at its victim.
As the bright television lights catch John Paul’s upturned face, the aged pope looks transformed, absolutely vital. He looks up at Jesus and his eyes are filled with gratitude and satisfaction.
As I’ve explored the life of Karol Wojtyla and his actions as pope, I’ve come to see The Day of Pardon as a profound expression of John Paul’s inner drama—his spiritual formation. John Paul knows what it is to crouch in fear while mortal enemies knock at the door and pray for God’s deliverance. That was just a brief episode, yes, but it’s also an emblem for his deep and long-lasting experience of totalitarianism and its many uses of coercion. His life impressed upon him that the fundamental freedom that exists between God and humankind must never be compromised by any human agency.
In John Paul we once again see a Christian and a Christianity of the catacombs, and like the early Church Fathers, especially Tertullian and St. Cyprian of Carthage, he knows that the church, like its Lord, may employ only the means of witness, never power. “[T]hose who use power rather than charity pursue their own ends and not Jesus Christ’s,” as Paul Vladimiri wrote so long ago.