In Nomini Patri

Born Karol Wojtyla in 1920 in a small Polish town near Krakow, the Pontiff led a difficult and often sorrow-filled life: his mother died when he was eight years old, his elder brother died of scarlet fever a little over three years later, and his father succumbed to the ravages of old age before seeing his son enter the priesthood. He narrowly escaped deportation to Germany during the Second World War, and Communist domination forced him to go to an underground seminary. For a long time, his life seemed destined not for greatness, but rather for anonynimity.

In moral matters, the Pontiff was not a man given to seeing complexities, fine distinctions, or shades of gray. His refusal to compromise on matters such as contraception, abortion, euthanasia, and homosexuality seemed something out of another age. Many thought—and still think—him to be an out of touch relic: the leader of an old and superstitious faith who will soon be forgotten by a more sophisticated society.

But they were wrong; this is a man who will never be forgotten. He has touched too many lives throughout the world to ever completely depart from our thoughts. His role in ending communism over a decade ago will certainly be remembered by even the most secular. The bells ringing in mud brick churches in Africa and in grandiose cathedrals in Europe, the muffled prayers of illegal congregations in China, and the tears pouring from the faces of tens of thousands in St. Peter’s Square bear testament to the massive impact he and his passing have had on so many; it raises hope that all things in this world are not passing and that true goodness and beauty can survive.

But was his advice always heeded? Did Catholics worldwide always obey his exacting religious and philosophical demands? Absolutely not, but that is our own failure and not his. As Christians should know, humanity does not always act kindly when confronted with harsh or absolute truth. The Pope’s philosophy of life, like Christ’s, was above all else this: it is difficult. It is not easy to do God’s will, it is not easy to pray every day, it is not easy to master your own base personal desires, it is not easy to confront death without fear, and it is not easy to care for the poor, meek, and lowly; yet that is what we are called to do. The pieces of advice that Pope John Paul II offered to the world varied wildly in their popularity, yet he never once tried to sugarcoat his beliefs or to craft them in a more popular form. John Paul II saw truth in this world of nuance, gradation, and compromise and was not afraid to make it known.

Particularly instructive, though, is a message he gave to us using actions more than words: his behavior during his final days. In a society in which personal convenience is paramount and pain is something dealt with as quickly as possible, the sheer grace with which he accepted his demise is breathtaking. John Paul II suffered greatly in his time on this earth, yet he did not seek to die with “dignity” by having a needle stuck in his arm—as many “ethicists” now compel us to—but by accepting God’s will.

There is not a single doubt in my mind that history will judge John Paul II kindly. His achievements—a modernized papacy, a reinvigorated church, clarified teachings, millions of new followers, and a decisive end to Catholicism’s shameful history of anti-Semitism—will greatly outlast the detractions that will inevitably be heard over the next several weeks. He reminded a self-important and pleasure-obsessed culture not to neglect the care of the weak, when what it may have wanted was an affirmation of its lifestyle. Though he had his detractors, without a doubt he earned a public reverence that had not previously been seen and may never be witnessed again. He was the conscience of our age. May the “son of Poland who became the bishop of Rome” rest in peace among the angels and saints whose company he now keeps, and may we be so lucky as to exhibit even a small measure of the humility, determination, conviction, and grace with which he lived his life on this Earth.

Mark A. Adomanis ’07, a Crimson editorial editor, is a government concentrator in Eliot House.