Rise, Let Us Be on Our Way

by Walter Ziemba

  I have already mentioned that I usually made my retreats at the Benedictine Abbey of Tyniec, but I also often went to the Camaldolese at Bielany, to the Seminary in Kraków, and to the Gray Ursulines at Jaszczurówka (Zakopane). Since I came to Rome, I have made my retreat together with the Curia during the first week of Lent. Over the years, these retreats have always been led by different preachers, some of them magnificent from the point of view of quality of oratory and content, some even for their humor. This was particularly so, for example, in the case of the Jesuit Father Tomáš Špidlik, of Czech origin. We laughed a great deal during his conferences, and this too was beneficial. He knew how to present profound truths in an amusing way, and in this he showed great talent. That retreat came back to my mind when I conferred the Cardinal’s hat upon Father Špidlik during the last Consistory. As I said, the preachers have been varied and, in general, excellent. I personally invited Bishop Jerzy Ablewicz, who was the only Pole, apart from myself, to lead the retreat in the Vatican.

  When I preached the retreat in the Vatican, it was to Paul VI and his collaborators. During the preparatory phase, there had been a problem. At the beginning of February 1976, I was telephoned by Monsignor Władysław Rubin, who told me that the Pontiff would like me to preach the retreat in March. I had barely three weeks in which to prepare my texts and translate them. The title that I later gave to those meditations was: “Sign of Contradiction.” This had not been proposed to me, but it emerged at the end as a kind of synthesis of what I had wanted to say. In reality, it was not a theme, but rather a kind of key concept that tied together everything I had said in the various conferences. I remember the days dedicated to preparing the talks, twenty of them, which I had to choose and put together all by myself. In order to find the necessary peace and quiet, I went to stay with the Gray Ursulines at Jaszczurówka. Until noon I wrote the meditations, then in the afternoon I went skiing, and in the evening I continued writing.

  That meeting with Paul VI, in the context of the retreat, was particularly important for me, because it made me realize just how necessary it is for a bishop to be ready to speak of his faith, wherever the Lord asks this of him. Every bishop needs to be prepared for this, including the successor of Peter himself, just as Paul VI needed me to be ready and willing for the task.

  The Implementation of the Council

  The Council was a wonderful event, and for me it was an unforgettable experience. I returned greatly enriched. When I got back to Poland, I wrote a book in which I presented the insights that had emerged in the course of the conciliar sessions. I tried to capture, so to speak, the juice of the Council’s teaching. This volume, entitled Sources of Renewal: The Implementation of Vatican II, was originally published in Kraków in 1972 by the Polish Theological Association (PTT). The book was intended as a kind of ex-voto of thanksgiving for what God’s grace had given to me personally, as a bishop, through the conciliar experience. The Second Vatican Council, in fact, looks specifically at the responsibilities of the bishop. The First Vatican Council had addressed Papal primacy, but the Second gave particular attention to bishops. To realize this, it is enough to take a look at the documents, above all the Dogmatic Constitution Lumen Gentium.

  The Council’s profound teaching on the episcopate bases itself on Christ’s triple function (munus) as prophet, priest, and king. The Dogmatic Constitution Lumen Gentium examines this in paragraphs 24–27, but other conciliar texts also make reference to these three functions (tria munera). Among them, particular attention should be given to the decree Christus Dominus, which is concerned specifically with the pastoral office of bishops.

  On my return from Rome to Poland, the well-known issue of the Polish bishops’ message to the German bishops hit the headlines. In their letter, the Polish bishops, speaking on behalf of the nation, forgave the wrongs they had suffered from the Germans during the Second World War. At the same time, they asked pardon for any wrongs that the Poles might have committed against the Germans. Unfortunately, the message provoked great polemics, accusations, and calumny. This act of reconciliation—which in fact turned out to be decisive for normalizing Polish– German relations—did not go down well with the communist authorities. As a result they became more hostile toward the Church. Obviously this did not make for an ideal situation in which to launch the celebrations of the Millennium of the Baptism of Poland, due to begin at Gniezno in April 1966. In Kraków, the celebrations took place on the feast of Saint Stanislaus, on May eighth. Still today I can vividly recall the spectacle of that multitude of people walking in procession from Wawel to Skałka. The authorities did not feel up to challenging that massive and orderly gathering. During the Millennium celebrations, the tensions created by the bishops’ message were dissipated and almost disappeared, and it became possible to proceed with an appropriate catechesis on the significance of the Millennium for the life of the nation.

  Another good opportunity for preaching was the annual Corpus Christi procession. Before the war, the great procession in honor of the Body and Blood of Christ made its way from Wawel Cathedral as far as Rynek Główny, across the streets and squares of the city. During the German occupation, the governor Hans Frank prohibited it. Later, during the communist period, the authorities allowed it once again, but with a shorter route: from Wawel Cathedral around the courtyard of the royal castle. Only in 1971 was the procession once again allowed to go outside Wawel itself. At that time I tried to base the themes of the addresses I would give at each of the various altars not only on Eucharistic catechesis, but also on different aspects of the great question of religious liberty, so very topical at that moment.

  I believe that in these multiple forms of popular piety lies hidden the answer to a question that is sometimes raised concerning the significance of such manifestations of local tradition. The answer is simple: when hearts are united, the result is a great force for good. To be rooted in what is ancient, strong, profound, and, at the same time, dear to the heart, gives an extraordinary interior energy. If this rootedness is then joined by a bold and strong intellectual dimension, there is no need to fear for the future of the faith or the prospect for human relationships within the nation. Amid the rich humus of tradition, in fact, culture is nourished and this unites the citizens, enabling them to live together as a great family, sustaining and strengthening their convictions. Our great task, especially today, in the age of so-called globalization, is to cultivate sound traditions so as to promote a bold consensus in thought and imagination, an openness toward the future and at the same time an affectionate respect for the past. It is a past that endures in human hearts in the form of ancient words, ancient signs, memories, and customs inherited from previous generations.

  The Polish Bishops

  During my ministry in Kraków, I had particularly friendly relationships with three bishops of Gorzów: Wilhelm Pluta, now a Servant of God, Jerzy Stroba, and Ignacy Jez. I regarded them as real friends and so I would seek them out, even aside from official business. Stroba and I had known one another in Kraków, where he had been rector of the Silesian Seminary. I had been a professor in that seminary myself, teaching ethics, fundamental moral theology, and social ethics. Of the three, only Bishop Ignacy Jez. is still alive. He is gifted with a lively sense of humor, which he demonstrates, for example, by making jokes about his own surname (“Jez.” in Polish means “hedgehog”).

  As a residential bishop, I had some auxiliary bishops in my archdiocese: Julian Groblicki, Jan Pietraszko, Stanisław Smoleński, and Albin Małysiak (the last two, as I have mentioned, I ordained personally). I appreciated Bishop Małysiak’s energy. I remember him when he was still a pastor in Nowa Wieś, a district of Kraków. Sometimes I liked to call him Albin the Zealot. Bishop Jan Pietraszko was a magnificent preacher, a man who could generate real enthusiasm in his listeners. In 1994, Cardinal Franciszek Macharski, my successor as archbishop, was able to begin the process of his beatification. Now the process has arrived in Rome. I have happy memories also o
f the other two auxiliaries: for years we worked together in order to serve our beloved Church of Kraków, in a spirit of fraternal communion.

  In nearby Tarnów, there was Bishop Jerzy Ablewicz, whom I have already mentioned. I often went to see him. We were close in age; he was just one year older.

  The bishop of Czecstochowa, Stefan Bareła, treated me with great kindness. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of his priestly ordination, I said the following during the homily: “The episcopate is like a further and, in some sense, a new discovery of priesthood. Both must be lived according to the same criterion: always focusing on Christ, the one Shepherd and pastor of our souls. A bishop must focus on Christ even more profoundly, more ardently, more resolutely. He carries out his mission by focusing also on souls, immortal souls, redeemed by the Blood of Christ. This focus on souls is perhaps not as immediate as it would be in the daily ministry of a priest in a parish, as pastor or assistant pastor. On the other hand, it is with a broader perspective, since it is the entire community of the Church that a bishop sees before him. We bishops of the Second Vatican Council recognize that the Church is the locus which gathers together the entire human family, it is the place of reconciliation, bringing people together no matter what, it is the place of convergence through dialogue, of convergence even at the cost of personal suffering. It may be that for us, Polish bishops at the time of the Second Vatican Council, it is more about suffering than about dialogue.”24

  In Silesia, there was Bishop Herbert Bednorz, and before him, Bishop Stanisław Adamski. Bishop Bednorz became his coadjutor. When I was made metropolitan, I went to see all the bishops of the province, and this included a trip to Katowice to see Bishop Adamski. He had with him Bishops Julian Bieniek and Józef Kurpas. I got on well with the bishops of Silesia. I used to meet them regularly on the last Sunday in May at the Shrine of Our Lady of Piekary, the day when the great pilgrimage of miners would arrive there. Bishop Bednorz would constantly invite me to preach. The last Sunday in May, in fact, was quite an occasion: this pilgrimage took on a particular character in the context of the People’s Republic of Poland. All those present would listen out for the homily and would strongly applaud every sentence that contained a challenge to any controversial aspect of government policy regarding religion or morals, for example the matter of Sunday observance. In this connection, a saying of Bishop Bednorz became popular in Silesia: “Sunday belongs to God and to us.” At the end of the celebrations, Bishop Bednorz used to turn to me with these words: “So we look forward to next year for another homily like that one.” The miners of Piekary, with their magnificent pilgrimage, remain for me a remarkable witness, something altogether extraordinary.

  A particular place in my heart belongs to Andrzej Maria Deskur, now President Emeritus of the Pontifical Council for Social Communications, whom I made a cardinal on May 25, 1985. He has often assisted me since the very beginning of my pontificate, especially through his suffering, but also with his wise counsel.

  As I recall these bishops, I cannot omit to mention my great patron, Saint Charles Borromeo. Whenever I think of him, I am struck by the coincidence of facts and responsibilities. He was a bishop in sixteenth-century Milan, at the time of the Council of Trent. The Lord called me to be a bishop in the twentieth century, at the time of the Second Vatican Council, and we were both entrusted with a similar task relative to those councils—their implementation. I must say that over the years of my pontificate, the implementation of the Council has constantly remained at the forefront of my thoughts. I have always been impressed by this coincidence, and what particularly fascinates me about that saintly bishop is his enormous pastoral zeal: after the Council, Saint Charles dedicated himself to pastoral visits in the diocese, which at that time included about eight hundred parishes. The archdiocese of Kraków was smaller, yet I did not succeed in completing the round of visits that I began. My present diocese of Rome is also large: it contains 333 parishes. So far I have been to 317: so there are another sixteen left to visit.

  GOD AND COURAGE

  “Here I am, I come to do your will” (Heb. 10:7)

  Courageous in Faith

  I remember the words spoken by Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński on May 11, 1946, the day before his episcopal ordination at Jasna Góra: “Being a bishop has something of the Cross about it, which is why the Church places the Cross on the bishop’s breast. On the Cross, we have to die to ourselves; without this there cannot be the fullness of the priesthood. To take up one’s Cross is not easy, even if it is made of gold and studded with jewels.” Ten years later, on March 16, 1956, he said: “The bishop has the duty to serve not only through his words and through the liturgy, but also through offering up his sufferings.” Cardinal Wyszyński returned to these thoughts again on another occasion: “Lack of courage in a bishop is the beginning of disaster. Can he still be an apostle? Witnessing to the Truth is essential for an apostle. And this always demands courage.”25

  These words are also his: “The greatest weakness in an apostle is fear. What gives rise to fear is lack of confidence in the power of the Lord; this is what oppresses the heart and tightens the throat. The apostle then ceases to offer witness. Does he remain an apostle? The disciples who abandoned the Master increased the courage of the executioners. Silence in the presence of the enemies of a cause encourages them. Fear in an apostle is the principal ally of the enemies of the cause. ‘Use fear to enforce silence’ is the first goal in the strategy of the wicked. The terror used in all dictatorships depends on the fearfulness of apostles. Silence possesses apostolic eloquence only when it does not turn its face away from those who strike it. So it was in the case of Christ’s silence. But in that sign, he demonstrated his own courage. Christ did not allow himself to be terrorized. Going out to the crowd, he said courageously: ‘I am he.’”26

  Truly, there can be no turning one’s back upon the truth, ceasing to proclaim it, hiding it, even if it is a hard truth that can only be revealed at the cost of great suffering. “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32): this is our duty and our source of strength! Here there is no room for compromise nor for an opportunistic recourse to human diplomacy. We have to bear witness to the truth, even at the cost of persecutions, even to the shedding of our blood, like Christ Himself and like my saintly predecessor in Kraków, Bishop Stanislaus of Szczepanów.

  We will certainly encounter trials. There is nothing extraordinary about this, it is part of the life of faith. At times our trials will be light, at times they will be very difficult, or even dramatic. In our trials we may feel alone, but God’s grace, the grace of a victorious faith, will never abandon us. Therefore we can expect to triumph over every trial, even the hardest.

  When I spoke about this on June 12, 1987, at West-erplatte in Gdansk to Polish young people, I spoke of that place as an eloquent symbol of fidelity in the face of a dramatic challenge. There it was, in 1939, that a group of young Polish soldiers, fighting against the decidedly superior and better equipped forces of the German invaders, faced grave danger as they bore a victorious witness of courage, perseverance, and fidelity. I referred to that episode, inviting the young people to reflect, above all, on the relation “between being more and having more,” and I warned them: “Having more must never be allowed to win. If it did, we would lose the most precious gift of all: our humanity, our conscience, our dignity.” In this vein, I encouraged them: “You must make demands on yourselves, even if others do not make demands on you.” And I went on to explain: “Each of you, young people, will experience a ‘Westerplatte’ of your own: responsibilities that you must assume and fulfill, a just cause, for which you must fight, a duty, an obligation, from which there can be no withdrawal, no running away. A system of truths and values that must be ‘upheld’ and ‘defended’: a Westerplatte in you and around you. Yes, defend these things for yourselves and for others.”

  People have always needed models to imitate, and that need is all the greater today, amid such a welte
r of confusing and conflicting ideas.

  The Saints of Kraków

  Speaking of models to imitate, we must not overlook the saints. What a great gift it is for a diocese to have its own saints and its own blesseds. What a moving experience for a bishop to be able to present as models for the faithful specific individuals who have distinguished themselves through their exemplary lives of heroic faith and virtue. It is all the more moving when the people concerned lived in recent times. I had the joy of initiating the canonization process for outstanding Christians associated with the Kraków archdiocese. Later, as the bishop of Rome, I was able to confirm their heroic virtues and, once the entire process had been concluded, to raise them to the altars as saints and as blesseds.

  During the Second World War, I worked as a laborer in the Solvay factory, near the monastery of Łagiewniki. I often visited the grave of Sister Faustina, who at that time was not yet beatified. Everything about her was extraordinary, impossible to foresee in such a simple girl. How could I have imagined that one day I would beatify her and canonize her? She entered the convent in Warsaw, and was later sent to Vilnius, and finally to Kraków. A few years before the war, she had a great vision of the merciful Jesus, who called her to be the apostle of the devotion to the Divine Mercy, later to spread throughout the Church. Sister Faustina died in 1938. Devotion to the Divine Mercy began in Kraków, and from there took on a worldwide dimension. When I became archbishop of Kraków, I asked Professor Father Ignacy Rózycki to examine her writings. At first he didn’t want to, but later he agreed, and went on to make a thorough study of the available documents. Finally he said, “She’s a wonderful mystic.”