In 1978, I was a freshman in college, away from home for my first-ever extended absence, and still learning to fit into my new world. The dormitory where I lived was a temporary building, built to handle the influx of students following WWII, when the GI Bill swelled the ranks of America’s colleges and universities. In my alma mater’s case, “temporary” apparently means about 50 years, because it was only in the last decade that my old dorm was finally torn down.
At any rate, the dorms were divided into wings, and there were maybe 10-12 rooms per wing. In these rooms lived 20-24 freshmen women, and one senior, who was our Resident Assistant (R.A). We were from all over, but had a heavy concentration of mid-westerners, due to the college’s Midwestern location. Mostly Protestants or agnostics, but one of our dorm-mates was a devout Catholic.
One day, she came into the room and announced: “The Pope is dead.” This meant nothing to me, although it obviously meant a lot to her. With the others, I followed the news about the Papal funeral, and the election of a new Pope. Several days later, she came into the room and announced again: “The Pope is dead.”
We told her that was old news, but she said no, the *new* Pope was dead, and they would be selecting another one.
This was different. This was interesting. And then the newest Pope, only the third Pope that I had ever really known about in my life (and the knowing had only begun with her original pronouncement) was elected. A Polish Pope.
Since I was near Chicago, this was BIG news. There’s a large Polish community in the Chicago area, and this was one of their own. For my entire lifetime, up to that point, being Polish meant being ridiculed, the butt of “Polack” jokes. Nothing good ever came from Poland. (We loved telling those jokes, because otherwise we would be the butt of the jokes, since we were hillbillies)
But now there was a Polish Pope. I’ll spare you the jokes that were told, and instead wonder at the marvel of it. Poland, a country deep under Soviet control. Poland, home of the most notorious Nazi death-camps. Poland, a country that had been divided and sub-divided by conquerors throughout the centuries, had now given the world a Pope. And what a Pope.
Others have written, in the past weeks, of his legacy. They’ve written of his travels, and his faith, and his courage. Of his steadfast stand in the face of opposition. Of his grace & mercy after the assassination attempt, when he insisted on meeting with his assailant. They’ve written of his reconciliation efforts, his apology to the Jewish people for the Church’s centuries of anti-semitism.
They’ve written, also, of his failings. Of his non-response to the abuse scandals. They’ve said he was out of touch with modern society, because he would not jump on the bandwagon of their pet causes.
But they do not deny that he was a Pope unlike any other. A pope who in 26 years helped change the face of the world, and the tide of history.
Peggy Noonan remembers him in her column today, and she remembers his visit to Poland, in the first year of his papacy. That visit, she contends, was the beginning of the end of the cold war. That visit, and his words during that week, were what began the groundswell that eventually led to President Reagan proclaiming “Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”
I am ashamed to admit that when I was younger, I paid little attention to the great events of our days. Peggy’s column made me wish I had watched more closely, listened a little harder. Peggy’s column reminds us of the power of God, and what can happen when that power is displayed by a person who is unafraid of human retribution.
Peggy's column reminded me that, while the Pope was a human being and subject to human failings, he was still a man who was used by God in a big way.
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