Of course, behind his decision was not a generic subscription to a vague and abstract “let’s all just love one another,” but rather the determination to accelerate the process of communion between sister churches, in the desire, as he explained in the sermon from that day, to “dissipate a misunderstanding that still casts a shadow on relations between Catholics and Orthodox.” In fact, that meeting led to the establishment of a mixed commission with “the duty to explain, in the light of their shared faith, the legitimate significance and the legitimate scope of differing traditional expressions concerning the eternal origin of the Holy Spirit in the Trinity, expressions that belong to our reciprocal doctrinal and liturgical heritages.”
The fear on the part of the Orthodox that the Church of Rome might harbor ambitions to proselytize among their faithful proved entirely unfounded. The pope, especially during the time he was working on the encyclical Ut unum sint, in which he opened to discussion even the exercise of the Petrine supremacy, often repeated, as if it were a slogan: “With the Orthodox, what I want is communion, not jurisdiction.”
And in his quest to experience common gestures of communion and prayer, he did not hesitate to make use of minor subterfuges, such as the “trick” he played on the Orthodox bishop of Athens in the Vatican nunciature in Greece. During their brief, informal meeting, Wojtyła said to the bishop at a certain point that he would like to recite the Lord’s Prayer in the Greek language. Caught by surprise, the Greek religious authorities began reciting the Lord’s Prayer in their own language and the pope accompanied them, also in Greek.
One problematic issue, explored during the cause for beatification, was the Eucharistic Communion that John Paul II personally imparted on more than one occasion to Frère (Brother) Roger Schutz, the founder of the ecumenical community of Taizé, who was stabbed to death by a schizophrenic woman on August 16, 2005. Since Schutz was not formally a Catholic, but rather a Protestant, this was not technically legitimate. In reality, as Monsignor Gérard Daucourt, bishop of Nanterre, declared, “Frère Roger had converted to Catholicism and the pope, along with the bishops of Autun, knew that, even though they had not said anything about it publicly.” Others too have testified that, in spite of the absence of any formal transition to the Catholic Church from the ecclesial community in which Frère Roger had been baptized, there can be no doubt about his completely genuine faith in the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist.
Wojtyła and Frère Roger had first met during the Second Vatican Council, when Wojtyła was vicar capitular. Every morning when he went to the Basilica of St. Peter to pray in the presence of the Most Holy Sacrament, he would encounter Frère Roger in the chapel. Later, in 1964 and in 1968, Archbishop Wojtyła traveled to Taizé, knowing that Frère Roger, without breaking with his origins, had adhered in his heart to the Catholic faith. The first time that Wojtyła gave Communion to Frère Roger was in May 1973, when he was cardinal and Frère Roger was his guest in Cracow and they met with two hundred thousand Polish miners during the pilgrimage to Katowice. On that occasion, Frère Roger personally informed him that he had been admitted to the Eucharist by his bishop of Autun, Monsignor Armand-François Le Bourgeois, since September 1972.
“THERE IS NO PLACE IN THE CHURCH FOR A POPE EMERITUS”
As Pope Wojtyła grew older, he began to consider whether it might not be appropriate to submit his resignation in a situation in which he was manifestly incapable of performing his ministry. By now nearly seventy-five years old (that birthday would come on May 18, 1995), he undertook an informal consultation with the directors of the Secretariat of State and with his closest friends and colleagues, discussing with them as well whether it was right to apply to himself the regulation of Canon Law that calls for bishops to leave office when they turn seventy-five. The deterioration of his physical condition led him to take this possibility very seriously, although he was well aware of the problems that the presence of a pope emeritus could potentially entail.
He therefore had the subject studied from both a historical and a theological point of view, consulting in particular with then-cardinal Ratzinger, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. In the end, however, he put the decision in the hands of God. In substance, he did nothing more than confirm what he had already said in 1994 to the surgeon Gianfranco Fineschi, who had just operated on him for a fractured femur: “Doctor, both you and I have only one choice. You must heal me. And I must heal. Because there is no place in the Church for a pope emeritus.” The decision not to leave the throne of Peter found its roots in the spirituality of abandonment of self to God and in the faith in Divine Providence and in the trusty assistance of the Madonna. Summarizing its most essential passages, his mental process might have run something like this: I never expected to become pope. Divine Providence brought me to this point. Now it is not up to me to put an end to this task. The Lord has brought me here; I will leave it up to him to judge and decide when this service of mine should end. If I were to renounce the pontificate, I would be making that decision, but I want to perform in full the will of God: I leave the decision to him.
This is what the pontiff wrote in a text dating from 1994, and probably meant to be read aloud (to the College of Cardinals?), since on several of the words the accent was marked in pen to aid him in the pronunciation:
Before God, I have reflected at length about what the pope should do for himself when he turns seventy-five. In this connection, I will confide to you that when, two years ago, the possibility arose that a tumor that had to be operated on might prove malignant, I thought that the Father who is in heaven might have decided to solve the problem a little early. But that is not the way it went.
After praying and meditating at length on my responsibilities before God, I believe that it is my duty to follow the provisions and example of Pope Paul VI, who, when the same problem arose, judged that he could renounce the apostolic mandate only in the presence of an incurable illness or an impediment that would prevent him from performing the functions of Successor to Peter.
Therefore, I too, following in the footsteps of my Predecessor, had already put in writing my intention to renounce the sacred and canonical office of Roman Pontiff in the case of an infirmity that is judged to be incurable and that prevents me from exercising [adequately] the duties of the Petrine ministry.
This eventuality aside, I see as a grave obligation in my conscience the duty to continue to perform the duties to which Christ Our Lord has summoned me, for as long as he, in the mysterious designs of his Providence, shall wish.
The text by Pope Paul VI to which Pope Wojtyła refers was dated February 2, 1965, and was also cited in Pope Wojtyła’s earlier unpublished manuscript (the “already put in writing” document) dated February 15, 1989, which reads:
Following the example of the Holy Father Paul VI (see the text dated February 2, 1965) I declare:
—in the case of a long-term infirmity that is judged to be incurable, and that prevents me from exercising adequately the duties of my apostolic ministry,
—or else in the case that another grave and prolonged impediment prove to be an equivalent obstacle,
—that I will renounce my sacred and canonical office, both as bishop of Rome and as head of the Holy Catholic Church, to the hands of the cardinal dean of the Sacred College of Cardinals, entrusting to him, in collaboration at least with the cardinal in charge of the dicasteries of the Roman Curia, along with the cardinal vicar of Rome (provided that they can be duly summoned; otherwise, to the cardinals who are the heads of the orders of the Sacred College), the faculty of accepting and implementing this resignation of mine
—in the Name of the Most Holy Trinity,
Rome, February 15, 1989
Ioannes Paulus PP II
John Paul II considered with lucid self-awareness the progressive deterioration of his health: “Do you think that I can’t see myself, and the shape I’m in, on television?” was his reaction to one close colleague who was tryi
ng to cheer him up. When he was forced to use a cane to walk, John Paul II felt slightly embarrassed. It was painful for him to appear in public with such an unmistakable sign of his physical frailty, to the point that he had begun leaving his cane behind the door before walking onto the stage of the Paul VI Audience Hall. But he soon serenely accepted this new state, as we can see from the playful way he swung his cane in front of millions of young people on the eve of World Youth Day in Manila in January 1995.
There were also times when he tried to undercut the drama with his customary irony. On March 29, 1998, improvising during a speech, he said, “Let me ask you a question: Why does the pope carry a cane? … I thought you’d answer: Because he’s old! Instead, you gave the right answer: Because he is a ‘shepherd!’ A shepherd carries a cane, to lean on and to take care of the sheepfold.” On another occasion, during a trip to Latin America, he found himself in the presence of a cardinal who had suffered a mishap and had to walk with a cane. “My Dear Eminence,” he said to him with a smile, “we’ve both been caned!”
Once he passed the age of eighty, in the year of the Great Jubilee of 2000, John Paul II abandoned himself once and for all to the hands of God. As he confided that year in his will, “I hope He will help me to recognize how long I must continue this service to which he called me on 16 October 1978. I ask him to deign to call me to Himself whenever he wishes. ‘If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then … we are the Lord’s (see Rom. 14:8). I hope that as long as I am granted to carry out the Petrine service in the Church, God in His Mercy will grant me the necessary strength for this service.”
THE FATHER’S RETURN HOME
In the last month of his life, Karol Wojtyła manifested in all its transparent fullness the essence of a life spent under the auspices of “Totus tuus,” a complete abandonment of self in the arms of the Father and the Madonna.
After undergoing a tracheotomy on February 24, 2005, to resolve an acute respiratory insufficiency, John Paul II had grave difficulty speaking. He tried to express himself with gestures to a bishop friend of his. Then, as this bishop recalled, “with a great effort he managed to say a few phrases. One was: ‘It is all in the hands of God.’ He was clearly serene, at peace with the situation, and aware of his condition, because he was unquestionably suffering.”
During the last days he spent in the hospital, he often repeated that St. Peter had been crucified head downward. At the Gemelli Polyclinic, he had meditated daily on the death of Christ, in preparation for Holy Week. One day, the nun who was assisting him heard him ask, “What time is it?” and she replied, “Three o’clock.” Whereupon the pontiff murmured, “Oh, the Lord Jesus is already dead upon the cross, he no longer suffers,” and he visibly relaxed.
On March 13, he insisted at all costs on returning to the Vatican in the hope of finding some way of celebrating the rites of Easter, but he was unable to preside over any of the ceremonies. It was a harsh blow for him. Only the previous year, when a close colleague ventured to suggest that he reduce his commitments during Holy Week, he had replied, “As long as I am alive and the Lord gives me the strength to do so, I will neglect none of the celebrations of the Mass scheduled for Holy Week and for Easter.”
Millions of people around the world still cherish in their memories the image, broadcast on television, of the pope, seen from behind, in his private chapel, embracing the cross during the celebration of the Via Crucis—the Stations of the Cross—on Good Friday. Observing that scene, one privileged witness found himself remembering a similar scene, on July 17, 1991, in Comboé, in the Valle d’Aosta, during a hike: “The intense and prolonged embrace by John Paul II of a tall wooden cross standing at the edge of the alp. Watching from a respectful distance, silent and deeply moved, we saw an unexpected and disturbing sight: the pope’s face was drawn with the features of a profound inner suffering.”
During his last Holy Week, to a cardinal who was urging him not to strain himself excessively, he said, “Jesus did not descend from the cross, why should I?” It had already happened to him once, in Lourdes, during the pilgrimage of August 2004, that he felt himself pushed to the end of his resources. He was forced to interrupt his sermon several times, he asked his secretary for help in Polish, and when his secretary handed him a glass of water, he murmured, again in Polish, “I have to make it to the end.”
On March 27, Easter Sunday, Pope Wojtyła was not even able to pronounce the words of the Urbi et Orbi benediction from the window looking out over St. Peter’s Square, and instead was forced to do no more than make the sign of the cross with one hand. As he moved away from the window, profoundly aggrieved at his unmistakable feebleness, he uttered the most extreme words of submission to the divine will, “If I cannot perform the role of pastor, be with the people, celebrate the Holy Mass, then perhaps it is better that I die,” adding immediately afterward, “Thy will be done, Totus tuus.”
Around eleven o’clock on Wednesday, March 30, at the time of the customary general audience, he looked out of the window of the Apostolic Palace to bless the thousands of pilgrims present in St. Peter’s Square: this was his last public appearance. The following day, at eleven in the morning, he was helped by his secretary priests to celebrate Mass in his private chapel; he was barely able to finish. Immediately afterward he was put to bed, and his physicians ministered to him with appropriate therapies.
On Thursday afternoon, he recited, as he was accustomed to do on that day, the Holy Hour. Then he asked to be read a passage from his book Sign of Contradiction, in which he commented upon a phrase spoken by Jesus, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me,” writing that since Christ “shares to the full the mystery of God’s freedom, he knows that events do not necessarily have to take this course; but at the same time he shares God’s love, and so he knows that there is no other way.” He remained conscious throughout that Holy Hour and, while the litanies were being recited to Christ the priest, at the words “sacerdos et victima,” he raised his hand in a gesture of consolation for a nun who he noticed was particularly moved. A little later, the situation became still more serious, with the appearance of a urinary tract infection that provoked a septic shock and a general cardiocirculatory collapse.
On Friday, April 1, Mass was celebrated at his bedside at six in the morning, and John Paul II succeeded in speaking the words of the consecration. With the aid of Sister Tobiana, he recited the hours of the breviary and the other prayers, and also performed the adoration and the meditation. Then the pope asked insistently to hear a reading of the Via Crucis and the Gospel of St. John, of which Father Tadeusz Styczeń read nine chapters.
On Saturday morning, Mass was again celebrated at his bedside, but an initial deterioration of his state of consciousness was already perceptible. He breathed very laboriously, although he was being given oxygen. In the afternoon, the rosary and vespers were recited in his bedroom.
Around eight o’clock that night, Monsignor Dziwisz decided to concelebrate Mass at his bedside. The Mass was said by Cardinal Marian Jaworski, who administered to the pope the Sacrament of the Infirm. At the moment of Communion, Dziwisz placed on his lips a small spoon with a few drops of consecrated wine. John Paul II did not open his eyes again, and he was having growing difficulty in breathing. All those present knelt in thanksgiving after the Mass and remained kneeling until the end, when Karol Wojtyła turned his head slightly to the right and his face took on a serene expression. It was 9:37 P.M. on April 2, 2005, the first Saturday of the month and the first vespers of the Feast of Divine Mercy.
Immediately the news of his death spread through St. Peter’s Square. The thousands of individuals present were joined in grief, swept by the sad feeling of having just lost a beloved person who had been intensely bound up in their lives. In each of these people, however, the voice of faith recalled the extraordinary testimony that John Paul II had offered with his life, a life that was perfectly portrayed by the words of St. Paul: “I have fought t
he good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Timothy 4:7).
The image of the Book of the Gospel placed upon John Paul II’s coffin in St. Peter’s Square on the day of his funeral is now part of history: an impetuous wind, which tossed the ceremonial vestments of the cardinals at the height of the church courtyard, violently ruffled its pages. At the foot of the steps, in contrast, the air was still. The Holy Spirit was breathing around that altar. As one priest poetically commented, “At that moment I perceived not only the power of the Church orant, expressing its love and devotion to the Shepherd who had guided it for nearly twenty-seven years, but also the concrete manifestation of the Pentecost.”
Less well known is another significant episode, which took place in Mexico City. Just before the funeral, the “popemobile” that Wojtyła had used during his visitations to the country was sent away from the nunciature. Inside it was the throne that he had used in one Mass, and upon the throne was placed a photograph of him. The sorrowful procession moved through the streets of the city until it reached the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe, where tens of thousands of the faithful had gathered to watch the live television broadcast from Rome. The throne was placed at the entrance to the basilica and suddenly, just when St. Peter’s Square was being swept by wind, a dove landed upon it.
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