Brother Albert—Adam Chmielowski—occupies a special place in my memory, or rather in my heart. He fought in the January Insurrection, during which a missile wounded his leg. It crippled him, and from then on he wore a prosthesis. He was an outstanding figure for me, and I was spiritually very close to him. I wrote a play about him entitled Our God’s Brother. His personality fascinated me, and he became a model for me: he gave up art in order to become a servant of the poor, of the “gentlemen of the road.” His example helped me to abandon the arts and the theater in order to enter the seminary. Every day I recite the Litany of the Polish Nation, which includes Saint Albert.
Among the saints from Kraków I would like to mention Saint Jacek Odrowacz, whose relics are housed in the church of the Dominicans, where I have often visited. Saint Jacek was a great missionary: from Gdańsk he went eastward all the way to Kiev.
The tomb of Blessed Aniela Salawa, which I often used to visit, is in the church of the Franciscans. She was a simple servant girl, whom I beatified on August 13, 1991, in Kraków. She proved that the work of a servant, fulfilled in a spirit of faith and dedication, can lead to sainthood.
I look to these saints of Kraków as my protectors. There are a great many of them, including Saint Stanislaus; Saint Hedwig; Saint John of Kecty; Saint Casimir, son of the king; and many others. I think of them and pray to them for my country.
The Martyrs
Cross of Christ, may you be forever praised, forever blessed; you are the source of strength and courage, our victory lies in you.” I never put on my episcopal pectoral Cross carelessly; I always accompany this gesture with a prayer. It has been resting on my chest, beside my heart, for more than forty-five years. To love the Cross is to love sacrifice. The martyrs are a model for this type of love, for example Bishop Michał Kozal.
He was ordained a bishop on August 15, 1939, two weeks before the outbreak of war. He never left his flock even though he knew what price he would have to pay. He died in the Dachau concentration camp, where he was a model and an inspiration to the priests among his fellow prisoners.
In 1999, I beatified 108 martyrs, victims of the Nazis, including three bishops: Archbishop Antoni Julian Nowowiejski of Płock, his auxiliary bishop, Leon
Wetmański, and Bishop Władysław Goral of Lublin.
Many priests, religious, and laity were raised to the altars with them. How eloquent the unity in faith, in love, and in martyrdom between the pastors and their flock gathered around the Cross of Christ.
The Polish Franciscan, Saint Maximilian Kolbe, is a widely known model of a martyr’s loving sacrifice. He gave his life in the Auschwitz concentration camp, offering himself in exchange for a fellow prisoner whom he did not even know—a father of a family.
There are other martyrs closer to our own times. It moves me to remember my meetings with Cardinal François-Xavier Nguyên Van Thuân, who preached the Curial retreat at the Vatican in the Year of the Jubilee. On March 18, 2000, as I thanked him for his meditations, I said: “A witness of the cross in the long years of imprisonment in Vietnam, he has frequently recounted the realities and episodes from his sufferings in prison, thus reinforcing us in the consoling certainty that when everything crumbles around us, and perhaps even within us, Christ remains our unfailing support.”
There were so many other strong, steadfast bishops who by their example showed the way for others. . . . What is their common secret? I think it was their courage to live their faith. They gave priority to their faith in their whole life and in everything they did; a bold and fearless faith, a faith strengthened by trials, a faith with the courage to follow generously every call from God—fortes in fide . . .
Saint Stanislaus
Standing out against the background of so many illustrious Polish saints, I see the towering figure of Saint Stanislaus, bishop and martyr. As I mentioned, I dedicated a poem to him, in which I spoke of his martyrdom, treating it as a mirror of the history of the Church in Poland. Here is a part of it:
1.
I want to describe the Church, my Church,
born with me, not dying with me—
nordo I die with it,
which always grows beyond me—
the Church: the lowest depth of my existence
and its peak,
the Church—the root which I thrust into
the past and the future alike,
the sacrament of my being in God
who is the Father.
I want to describe the Church,
my Church which bound itself to my land
(this was said: “Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven”),
thus to my land my Church is bound.
The land lies in the Vistula basin, the tributaries swell in spring
when the snows thaw in the Carpathians.
The Church bound itself to my land so that all it binds here
should be bound in heaven.
2.
There was a man; through him my land saw
it was bound to heaven.
There was such a man, there were such people, such always are—
Through them the earth sees itself in the sacrament
of a new existence. It is a fatherland,
for here the Father’s house is begotten and here is born.
I want to describe my Church in the man whose name was Stanislaus.
And King Boleslaus wrote this name with his sword
in the ancient chronicles,
wrote this name with his sword on the cathedral’s
marble floor
as the streams of blood were flowing
over the marble floor.
3.
I want to describe the Church in the name
which baptized the nation again
with the baptism of blood,
that it might later pass through the baptism of other trials,
through the baptism of desires where the hidden is revealed—
the breath of the Spirit;
and in the name which was grafted
on the soil of human freedom earlier than the name
Stanislaus.
4.
At that moment, the Body and the Blood being born
on the soil of human freedom were slashed by the king’s sword
to the marrow of the priest’s word,
slashed at the base of the skull, the living trunk slashed.
The Body and the Blood as yet hardly born,
when the sword struck the metal chalice, and the wheaten bread.
5.
The King may have thought: the Church shall not yet be born from you,
the nation shall not be born of the word that castigates
the body and the blood;
it will be born of the sword, my sword which severs
your words in midflow,
born from the spilled blood—this the King may have thought.
The hidden breath of the Spirit will unify all—
the severed words and the sword, the smashed skull
and the hands dripping with blood—and it says:
go into the future together, nothing shall separate you.
I want to describe my Church in which, for centuries,
the word and the blood go side by side,
united by the hidden breath
of the Spirit.
6.
Stanislaus may have thought: my word will hurt you
and convert,
you will come as a penitent to the cathedral gate,
emaciated by fasting, enlightened by a voice within,
to join the Lord’s table like a prodigal son.
If the word did not convert you, the blood will.
The bishop had perhaps no time to think:
let this cup pass from me.
7.
A sword falls on the soil of our freedom.
Blood falls on the soil of our freedom,
And which weighs more?
The
first age is at a close,
The second begins.
We take in our hands the outline of the inevitable time.27
The Holy Land
I have made many pilgrimages all over the world, but the one I have longed to make for many years now is a pilgrimage in the footsteps of Abraham. Paul VI visited those holy places during his first journey.
I wanted to make my pilgrimage during the Jubilee Year. It would have begun in Ur of the Chaldees, in present-day Iraq, from where Abraham, following God’s call, set out so many centuries ago (cf. Gen. 12:1–3). Then I wanted to continue toward Egypt, in the footsteps of Moses, who led the Israelites out of that country and received the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai as the foundation of the covenant with God. Then I would have completed my pilgrimage in the Holy Land, beginning with the site of the Annunciation, then to Bethlehem, the city of the birth of Jesus, and to other places connected with His life and mission.
The journey I made was not exactly as I had originally hoped. I could not follow in the footsteps of Abraham because the Iraqi authorities would not allow me. It was the only place where I was not able to go. I went in spirit to Ur of the Chaldees during a special ceremony organized in the Paul VI Audience Hall. I did go to Egypt, to the foot of Mount Sinai, where God revealed His name to Moses. The Orthodox monks who welcomed us were very hospitable.
Then I went to Bethlehem, Nazareth, and Jerusalem. I visited the Garden of Olives, the Upper Room, and, of course, Calvary, Golgotha. This was my second visit to these holy places. The first time I went there was as archbishop of Kraków during the Council. On the last day of my Jubilee pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I concelebrated Mass at the Holy Sepulchre with Cardinal Angelo Sodano, Secretary of State, and other officials of the Curia. What more can be said? This journey was a wonderful, magnificent experience. Without a doubt, the culminating moment of the pilgrimage was the visit to Calvary, the mount of crucifixion, and to the Sepulchre, that same Sepulchre which was also the scene of the resurrection. My thoughts returned to the emotions I had experienced during my first pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I wrote at the time:
Oh, Holy Land, holy place, what depths you fill within me! That is why I cannot walk on you, I must kneel. So I declare today that an encounter has taken place in you. I kneel—and I set my seal upon you. You will remain here with my seal—you will remain, remain—and I will take you with me, I will transform you in myself into a place of new witness. I leave as a witness who will offer testimony down through the centuries.28
The place of redemption! It’s not enough to say: “I am glad to have been there.” There is something more here: the sign of great suffering, the sign of a redeeming death, the sign of resurrection.
Abraham and Christ: “Here I Am; I Come to Do Your Will” (Heb. 10:7)
The primacy of our faith and the courage that it generates once led each of us “to obey the call of God and to set out, not knowing where we were to go” (cf. Heb. 11:8). The author of the Letter to the Hebrews uses these words in relation to the vocation of Abraham, but they apply to every person’s vocation, including the one that is fulfilled in episcopal ministry: the call to primacy in faith and in love. We have been chosen and called to set out, but it is not for us to determine the destination of our journey. He who ordered us to set out will determine that goal: our faithful God, the God of the Covenant.
I recently returned to Abraham in a poetic meditation. Here is an extract:
Abraham, the One who entered the history of man
wants, through you, only to unveil this mystery
hidden from the foundation of the world,
a mystery older than the world!
If today we go to these places
whence, long ago, Abraham set out, where he heard the Voice,
where the promise was fulfilled,
we do so in order to stand at the threshold—
to go back to the beginning of the Covenant.29
In the present meditation on the bishop’s vocation, I would like to return to Abraham, our father in faith, and especially to the mystery of his encounter with Christ the Savior, who, according to the flesh, is the “son of Abraham” (Matt. 1:1), while at the same time He exists “before Abraham because he is eternal” (cf. John 8:58). This encounter sheds light upon the mystery of our vocation in faith, and above all, upon our responsibility and the courage that we need in order to fulfill it.
We could describe it as a dual mystery. Above all, it is the mystery of what God’s love has already accomplished in human history. At the same time, it is the mystery of the future—that is to say, of hope. The mystery of the threshold we are all called to cross, supported by a faith that never draws back, because we know in whom we have believed (cf. 2 Tim. 1:12). This mystery embraces all that was from the beginning, that was before the creation of the world, and that is yet to be. In this way, our faith, our responsibility and our courage take their place within the mysterious fulfillment of God’s plan. Our faith, our responsibility and our courage are all necessary if Christ’s gift is to manifest itself to the world in all its splendor. Not just the kind of faith that safeguards and keeps intact the treasure of God’s mysteries, but a faith that has the courage to open and reveal this treasure in constantly new ways to those to whom Christ sends His disciples. And not just the kind of responsibility that limits itself to defending what has been handed down, but the kind that has the courage to use its talents and multiply them (cf. Matt 25:14–30).
Beginning with Abraham, the faith of each of his sons represents a constant leaving behind of what is cherished, familiar, and personal, in order to open up to the unknown, trusting in the truth we share and the common future we all have in God. We are all invited to participate in this process of leaving behind the well-known, the familiar. We are all invited to turn toward the God who, in Jesus Christ, opened Himself to us, “breaking down the dividing wall of enmity” (Eph. 2:14) in order to draw us to Himself through the Cross.
In Jesus Christ we see: fidelity to the Father’s call, an open heart for everyone He meets, a constant journeying that provides “nowhere to lay his head” (cf. Matt. 8:20), and finally the Cross, through which to attain the victory of the Resurrection. This is Christ—who goes forward boldly, allowing nothing to stand in his way until all is accomplished, “until He ascends to His Father and our Father” (cf. John 20:17), the One Who is “the same yesterday, today, and for ever” (cf. Heb. 13:8).
Faith in Him, then, is a ceaseless opening up to God’s ceaseless overtures into our world, it is our movement towards God, Who for His part leads people towards one another. In this way, all that is mine comes to belong to everyone, while what belongs to others becomes mine also. This is essentially what the father says to the elder brother of the prodigal son: “Everything I have is yours” (Luke 15:31). It is significant that these words occur also in the priestly prayer of Jesus, as the Son says to the Father: “All that is mine is yours and all that is yours is mine” (John 17:10).
As “His hour” is approaching (cf. John 7:30; 8:20; 13:1), Christ Himself speaks of Abraham in words that surprise and startle His listeners: “Abraham your father rejoiced to see my day—he saw it and was glad” (John 8:56). What is the source of Abraham’s joy? Is it not the prophetic vision of the love and courage with which his Son according to the flesh, our Lord and Savior Jesus, would fulfill the will of His Father to the end? (cf. Heb. 10:7). It is in the events of the Passion that we find the most powerful reference to the mystery of Abraham, moved by faith to leave his city and his homeland and set off for the unknown—the same Abraham who, in anguish of heart, leads his long-awaited and dearly beloved son to Mount Moriah to offer him in sacrifice.
When “His hour” had come, Jesus said to those who were with Him in the Garden of Gethsemane, to Peter, James, and John, His closest disciples: “Rise, let us be on our way” (cf. Mark 14:42). Not only He must “be on his way” to fulfill His Father’s will: they, too, must go with Him.
That invitation, “Rise, let us be on our way,” is addressed particularly to us bishops, His chosen friends. Even if these words indicate a time of trial, great effort, and a painful cross, we must not allow ourselves to give way to fear. They are also words of peace and joy, the fruit of faith. On another occasion, to the same three disciples, Jesus said: “Rise, and do not be afraid!” (Matt. 17:7). God’s love does not impose burdens upon us that we cannot carry, nor make demands of us that we cannot fulfill. For whatever He asks of us, He provides the help that is needed.
I say this from the place to which the love of Christ Our Savior has led me, asking of me that I should leave my native land so as to bring forth fruit elsewhere through His grace—fruit that will last (cf. John 15:16). Echoing the words of our Lord and Master, I too say to each one of you, dear brothers in the episcopate: “Rise, let us be on our way!” Let us go forth full of trust in Christ. He will accompany us as we journey toward the goal that He alone knows.
NOTES
1 Gift and Mystery: On the Fiftieth Anniversary of My Priestly Ordination, New York, 1996. (back to text)
2 “L’Osservatore Romano,” English edition, October 22, 2003, p. 3. (back to text)
3 The Roman Pontifical, “Ordination of a Bishop,” Prayer of Consecration. (back to text)
4 Saint Irenaeus, Adversus haereses, III,18,3; PG 7, 934. (back to text)
5 Cf. The Roman Pontifical, “Ordination of a Bishop,” Investiture with the Miter. (back to text)
6 Sources of Renewal: The Implementation of Vatican II, London, 1980, p. 190. (back to text)
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