Kyrie Eleison

""When we are frightened by the greatness of the universe, we are (almost literally) frightened by our own shadows: for these light years and billions of centuries are mere arithmetic until the shadow of man, the poet, the maker of myth, falls upon them."

-- C.S. Lewis

"It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little."

-- Merry Brandybuck, in The Lord of the Rings

In the winter of 1986, I traveled to Italy. While I was in Rome, on one of the several days that I spent exploring Saint Peter's and the Vatican Museums, I happened to be inside the Basilica when I noticed a certain bustle, a flocking of people toward a roped-off area, a quickening of excitement, and a chatter among different groups in languages which I did not understand. I was standing toward the back of the crowd, wondering what was up, when John Paul II came in, dressed in the simple white cassock that is familiar to us from hundreds of pictures and video clips. He addressed the group, which turned out to be Polish, in his (and their) native language and made a few remarks in Italian and English (of which I remember nothing). I remember thinking, at the time, "Wow, the Pope!" And I looked forward to my evening postcard writing, at which time I would be able to boast to the rest of my very Catholic family that I had seen the great man. At the same time, I understood that what I would take away with me from Rome -- what had made the deepest impression -- was the vastness of Saint Peter's Square, the view from the top of the dome, the quiet, devastating perfection of the Pieta, and the involuntary gasp that accompanied my first sight of Raphael's Transfiguration. I would remember stones, and structures and canvasses, not pausing to reflect that those materials had been transfigured for me because -- to use Lewis's terms -- the shadow of man had fallen upon them. And so, in the tradition of callow youth, I gave relatively short shrift to a man whose shadow had fallen quite impressively upon the latter half of the twentieth century.

The death of Pope John Paul II has taken me, emotionally, by surprise. I was a sophomore in high school when John Paul II became Pope. He was one of the towering moral figures of my early adulthood, yet, while I certainly thought about him favorably, I didn't really think about him often. It was only after the birth of my children -- after the deepening of my own faith and political commitment -- that I began to appreciate the significance of his life, which derived as much from the quality of the man himself as from his role as leader of the church. The two overpowering emotions in my reaction to the Pope's death have been regret and gratitude: regret that I had -- for the most part, and in a Jamesian sense -- "missed" the Pope while he was alive, and that I had only, in retrospect, begun to understand the beauty of his life and teaching; and gratitude, because even while I went about tending my garden in peace and ignorance, he stood courageously for the higher and deeper things (the sanctity of life, the importance of human freedom and human rights, the idea of faith and morality as a bulwark against tyranny) that ultimately guaranteed my peace.

I've never been very comfortable publicly expressing religious sentiments, but today, in honor of a courageous man, I've found the courage to overcome my reticence. God bless you, Karol Wojtyla. God, thank you for John Paul II. And for all of those who, like me, never paid close enough heed to the lesson of his life, Lord have mercy on us.