Farewell to a Beloved Face

Oh, of course I was going to see him again a thousand other times after that -- every hour of every day, in fact. I was going to see him again with the eyes of faith. And, of course, with the eyes of my heart and my memory. I was going to keep feeling his presence, too, though it would take a different form from the one I had been used to.

But this was the last time I would see his face -- how shall I put it? -- physically. Humanly. It was the last time I would see the man who had been a father and a teacher to me. The last time I would see his body, his hands, and, most important, his face. And his face reminded me of how he would look at you. In fact, that was always the first thing that struck you about him: his gaze.

And so I didn't want this moment to end. I did everything slowly, trying to stretch it into an eternity.

Until, all of a sudden, I felt a pair of eyes staring at me. And then I realized what I had to do.

I took the white veil and laid it gently over his face. I was almost afraid of hurting him, as if that piece of silk could actually bother or annoy him.

I found strength in the prayer of the veiling ceremony: "Lord and Father, may he now behold You face-to-face; having departed this life, may his face contemplate Your beauty."

He was at home with the Father now and could finally see Him face-to-face. His earthly adventure was over, and he had put in at port.

So I started attending to the words of the prayer myself. And as I was praying, I began to remember. I began to relive the forty years that I -- an insignificant man almost accidentally touched by the "mystery" -- had spent at Karol Wojtyla's side.

Narrator's Preface

The "Mystery" of John Paul II

Of all images of Karol Wojtyla, the one that has stuck most vividly in my mind's eye and in my heart comes from his first papal visit to Poland, in June 1979, and, in particular, from his now famous meeting with the university students.

It was morning. The Vistula was in the background and the sun was just barely up. Warsaw was bathed in an extraordinary atmosphere of calm. As soon as the Pope started speaking, the whole crowd was seized with excitement. And at the end of Wojtyla's speech, his thousands of young listeners, as if on cue, simultaneously raised their little wooden crosses toward him.

At the time, I grasped only the political implications of what was happening. I realized that things had changed, that the rising generations of Poles were by now inoculated against communism, and that before long Poland would be rocked by an earthquake.

But that sea of wooden crosses contained the seeds of something much greater than a popular revolution. They held a "mystery," which I wasn't completely aware of at the time. I saw this mystery again twenty-six years later in the endless throngs that came to say their last farewell to John Paul II. This second time, I knew what I was seeing.

These crowds revealed, I think, the profound meaning of Karol Wojtyla's legacy. He showed the face of God, God's human visage, if you will. He displayed the features of God incarnate. He thus became an interpreter and instrument of God's Fatherhood, a man who narrowed the gap between heaven and earth, transcendence and immanence. And in so doing, he laid the groundwork for a new spirituality and a new way of living the faith in modern society

So in the midst of that crowd in Warsaw, there was a mystery -- a mystery at whose side Father Stanislaw Dziwisz spent forty years of his life. In what follows, we -- he as witness and I as narrator -- will attempt, if not to unveil the mystery, then at least to tell its story.

Part One

The Polish Years

The First Meeting

It all began on an October day in 1966, which was the start of something like a new life for Stanislaw Dziwisz. Because it was on that day that he was asked by the archbishop of Krakow to become his personal secretary. Wojtyla had decided that the young priest would make an outstanding assistant, one whom he could entrust not only with the management of his appointment calendar but also with his confidences, his thoughts, and even -- why not? -- with a bit of his heart.

He looked right at me and said, "I'd like you to come live here . . . and give me a hand."

Stanislaw was born in 1939 in Raba Wyzna, a village in the foothills of the Tatras, Poland's principal mountain chain. So it was logical that he would learn to ski as a child and would become a connoisseur of snow and ski slopes. He was the fifth of seven children, five boys and two girls.

His father, Stanislaw Dziwisz, Sr., worked for the railroad. His mother, Zofia, took care of the household and the upbringing of the kids. It was she who taught them what it means to live out Gospel charity. The doors of the Dziwisz home were always open to the poor and the needy. If you visited them in the evening, you could always be sure of a hot meal and a place to spend the night.

But World War II was raging. The Germans had invaded Poland from the west and the Soviets had marched in from the east.

Canada,

Those were terrible years for everybody, and we were no exception. There were so many mouths to feed, but it wasn't easy to find food. And on top of that, my family was hiding a Jewish man. That was dangerous, given the risk of detection. Who knows where we might all have ended up if the Nazis had found out.

Not too far away from us, in Rokiciny Podhalafiskie, the Gestapo had arrested the superior of the Ursulines, Sister Maria Clemensa Staszewska, because she had given sanctuary to some Jewish women in the convent. Sadly, she ended up in Auschwitz.

The only thing we knew about the man hiding in our house was his name, Wilhelm. Actually, we kids called him "Wilus." He was from Wadowice. He had escaped from the Nazis, though how he ended up at our house was something of a mystery. He was a likable man. He stayed with us until the end of the war, and would do little odd jobs around the house to help out. He bid us all a tearful good-bye before he left. But we completely lost track of him after that.

After the end of the war, Poland began to breathe a little more easily, although storm clouds were glowering threateningly on the horizon. The "liberators" from the east did not seem particularly interested in leaving. And at the Dziwisz home, there was a terrible tragedy.

It happened on a typical morning while my father was on his way to work. He was struck by a train as he was crossing the tracks. He was only thirty-nine. When they came to break the news to us, I immediately went totally cold, realizing I would never feel his hand on my shoulder again. My mother was a woman of great faith and courage. Despite the huge grief she was carrying in her heart, she showered us with love. And she managed to raise the seven of us, magically multiplying her modest pension.

Stanislaw was going on nine when his father died. He had to grow up in a hurry, but he did his part. After finishing elementary school, he started attending high school in Nowy Targ. Meanwhile, though, another vocation was budding inside him: He wanted to become a priest, a minister of God. So after graduation, he entered the seminary. It was 1957. And it was then that he first met Father Karol Wojtyla, who at that time was a professor of moral theology at the seminary.

He immediately made a big impression on me. First of all because he was so devout and learned, plus being an outstanding lecturer. But also because he had an easy way of relating to people. On one hand, my classmates and I felt that he moved in a higher sphere than we did because of his deep interior life and his amazing intellectual qualifications. On the other hand, it was obvious to us that he took a close interest in our lives, and we saw how easily he opened up to other people and entered into human relationships.

*****

The year 1956 inaugurated a time of major change in Eastern Europe. In February, Khrushchev used the XXth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union as a platform to denounce Stalin and condemn his grisly crimes. In June, there was a workers' revolt in Poznan, instigated by revisionist backers of Gomulka, the chief spokesman of a national way to communism. Cardinal Wyszynski was released after thirty-seven months of confinement, and other bishops were let out of prison, as well.

Admittedly, there were completely opposite signals, too, such as the Soviet tanks that bloodily suppressed the October uprising in Hungary. And yet, at least in Poland, there was more breathing room, even for the Church. In December 1956, Father Wojtyla was finally appointed to the chair of ethics at the Catholic University of Lublin, where he was already teaching. Despite his new position, he also continued teaching at the Krakow seminary.

I remember that in the third year he taught us the principia that is, the fundamental philosophical principles of moral theology. Although those lectures were pretty hard for us, he prepared them extremely carefully. In fact, I'd have to say perfectly. It was in those lectures that we got the philosophical background we needed to go on with further studies in moral theology. But Father Wojtyla had a lot of responsibilities, and he was increasingly absorbed by them. He was only thirty-eight when he was named auxiliary bishop of Krakow. And being a bishop was something he took really seriously. By the time we entered the sixth year, he stopped teaching completely, because he no longer had the time to lecture at the seminary. The archbishop, Eugeniusz Baziak, had died, and Wojtyla became the capitulary vicar, which meant that he had to take over responsibility for the whole diocese.

The great day arrived. On June 23, 1963, Stanislaw received Holy Orders from his former moral theology professor. He had become a priest. Shortly afterward, he was sent as associate pastor to the parish of Makow Podhalanski. It was one of the best parishes in the diocese: It was modern, well-managed, and had a lot of ministries -- for example, for the sick, for children, and for families.

Canada,

I'm really glad to talk about that, because it was an unforgettable experience. The pastor was an excellent priest by the name of Franciszek Dzwigonski. He had divided the parish community into several sectors and appointed someone in each sector to keep him informed about what was going on -- for example, who was sick, who was having problems or was out of work, or if there were neglected children. Could there be a better apprenticeship for a young priest?

Two years went by, and then Father Dziwisz left the parish because his superiors wanted him to pursue further studies: He consulted the rector of the seminary about which field he should choose -- patristics or Scripture. Finally, it turned out that there was need for a liturgist. He thus began to do the necessary research, first for the licentiate, then for the doctorate. The topic of his doctoral dissertation was the cult of Saint Stanislas in the diocese of Krakow up to the time of the Council of Trent. But, just twelve months into the project, Archbishop Wojtyla summoned him unexpectedly to the episcopal residence.

It was October 8, 1966, the day that would change Stanislaw Dziwisz's life forever. He was twenty-seven years old.

As soon as I came in to see him, he looked straight at me and said, "I'd like you to come live here. You can continue your studies and give me a hand." "When?" I asked. He replied, "Today will work." He turned toward the window and noticed that it was getting late. "Go to the chancellor and he'll show you the room." "I'll come tomorrow," I said. He watched me leave with a certain curiosity, but I noticed that he was smiling.

New Men

So far, Stansilaw had only known Wojtyla a bit distantly and superficially as a professor and as a bishop. He had some sense of Wojtyla's personal history and his religious journey, but that was all. However, now that he was Wojtyla's secretary and was living with him in the spacious episcopal residence on Franciszkaliska Street, Stanislaw got to know him well. He became familiar with the archbishop's pastoral ideas, his plans for the Church, and, above all, his profound spirituality, starting with how he celebrated Mass.

He never started Mass without a period of silentium beforehand. If we were driving to some parish for a pastoral visit or some church to say Mass, he would never talk or waste time chatting in the car, but would always be immersed in meditation and prayer. Since it was his job to celebrate Mass and the like, he tried to prepare himself as best he could. And when the celebration was over, he would always spend fifteen minutes on his knees, absorbed in thanksgiving.

****

Another striking thing was the attention with which he would say the words of the Mass and the seriousness with which he would perform the Eucharistic gestures. He was obviously trying to help people grasp clearly the message the words conveyed and the symbolic meaning the actions were supposed to express. He wanted the faithful attending the Eucharist to feel that they were experiencing a truly sacred moment.

He always made a point of not celebrating alone. Whether he was saying Mass in his private chapel or somewhere else, such as in a parish or in the cathedral, he always invited other people to celebrate with him, so that the Mass would always be a community event. In other words, he was trying to be faithful to the principle that the priest doesn't celebrate the Eucharist alone, but with the people of God, who also take part in it -- through Christ and with Christ.

Wojtyla's style of celebrating was already enough to make it clear why he followed the inspiration of the Cure of Ars, Jean-Marie Vianney, in shedding the attitude of the old-fashioned clericalist priest. It explained, in other words, why he didn't consider priesthood as membership in some class or caste, but as a way of being present among the people of God, in direct contact with his fellow Christians. The point, then, was that for him the priest was first and foremost a steward of the mysteries of God. And so the Mass came to be the center of his life and of his day.

His private chapel was his special meeting place with God. He tried to spend as much time in the chapel as possible. If he was at home, he would stay there until eleven in the morning. The chapel was where he would carry on a dialogue with God and listen to what the Lord had to say to him. Sometimes the sisters who looked after the residence would peek into the chapel out of curiosity, and they always found him in the same position: prostrate on the floor, immersed in prayer. He also used to work in the chapel when he had to draft documents, such as the texts of the Krakow Synod or his pastoral letters. He had an interesting way of marking the pages. Instead of using page numbers, he would write prayer verses. So you see, work was also a form of intense prayer for him.

Along with prayer, he placed a lot of emphasis on Confession. The most important thing about the sacrament for him wasn't the revelation of your sins, but God's forgiveness and remission of them. The main thing for him, in other words, was the grace Confession gives you, the strength it offers you to lead an upright and virtuous life. He himself would go to Confession once a week. He would also confess before major feast days and special liturgical seasons. Even after becoming a bishop, he would go to the Franciscan church for Confession and get in line with the other penitents.

Besides, when he was an assistant pastor at Saint Florian years earlier, Father Karol had relied on prayer and Confession as the foundation of his -- at that time -- truly pioneering pastoral work with college students. Of course, he also cultivated close relations with the professors, being convinced that the future of Poland -- this was the mid-1950s and Communist domination was now in full swing -- would depend on the education and formation of academics. And that meant that a lot depended on faculty members doing their part.

• • •

That's right. When he was at Saint Florian's, Father Karol gathered together a group of college students and became their leader and spiritual guide. The first thing he taught the kids was the right way to pray. He urged them to participate in the sacraments, especially Mass. He gave them lessons in theological and philosophical anthropology, but also in how to live in community and how to respect others. He would take them on trips. They would go hiking in the mountains or camping. This came to be known as the "hiker's apostolate," and in order to avoid the watchful eye of the police, Wojtyla would dress in civil garb and the kids would call him "wujek" (uncle). So he managed to form a group of people united, of course, around the Word of God, but also around ideas, around a shared concern for their country, and around a desire to help one another grow up.

Wojtyla remained faithful to his commitment to young people even after becoming a bishop and a cardinal. During the year, he would meet with them for days of retreat, reflection, and prayer. He would join them on pilgrimages to the major shrines, such as Kalwaria Zebrzydowska and Czestochowa, where, as he put it, he would go to hear the Mother's "heartbeat." In fact, he accompanied them throughout the many stages of their lives: blessing their marriages, baptizing their children, spending time with their families, while always caring for them as a real pastor. He was a friend, of course, but he was first a father, a spiritual guide and pastor.

Well, this "milieu," or community of laypeople (the Polish name for it is Srodowisko, which doesn't mean quite the same thing), was made up of people who remained faithful to the path Wojtyla had shown them and the direction they'd received from him. And these people then went on to exercise important functions in society and culture, as university professors, doctors, engineers, et cetera. And today we're seeing a third generation of mature, committed Catholic citizens, living out the same spirit of love of God and neighbor as their grandparents who were part of the Srodowisko group.

The Srodowisko group also included holy people like Jerzy Ciesielski. Jerzy was an engineer. He had been teaching at Krakow Polytech, but he accepted a job in Africa, at the University of Khartoum. While he was sailing down the Nile, there was a terrible accident, and almost everyone on board his ship was killed, including Jerzy and two of his children. Only one of his daughters and a friend of hers escaped. It was a great loss. He was a young man, and he was upright, hardworking, and deeply religious. His life was, and still is, an example to others. In fact, the cause for his beatification has already made it to the Congregation for the Causes of Saints.

Jerzy was one of Wojtyla's favorite friends. When Jerzy died, the archbishop wrote that faith had been "the normal measure of his duties."

It was laypeople like Ciesielski whom, as archbishop, Wojtyla would involve in the major undertakings of the diocese. He was a big delegator and he gave the people he appointed for a certain mission or charge a lot of room to exercise responsibility. Of course, he would be the one to coordinate everything personally, to provide the guidelines, and to put new energy into the work of evangelization. This personal involvement enabled him to stay in immediate contact with people. His pastoral visits to the parishes -- especially those, in fact -- did so, as well. For him, these visits weren't just canonical visitations or official inspections prescribed by the administrative handbook; they were his way of entering into the life of a given parish community as its bishop and pastor.

That's why he always tried to stay as long as possible. So much so, in fact, that his visits would sometimes last for weeks. He would participate in the liturgical celebrations and in all of the parish priests' tasks. He visited the sick in their homes -- in fact, he was the one who took the initiative to set up a ministry for sick people in the diocese. He would visit the families, of which there were many, including the priests' families. When he said Mass, he would invite couples to renew their marriage vows. Actually, he wanted to stay separately with each family in order to see them up close and to pray with them. And then there were the young people. He couldn't visit them at school because the authorities wouldn't allow it. And so it was in the church that he would see the children receiving religious instruction and would talk with their teachers -- or at least the ones who were brave enough to show up. Not everyone was. Not everyone could risk losing the job they held.

At the time, Poland was still a land in chains. And God was a name that couldn't be spoken in public -- a forbidden name.

That's the brief citation explaining what Morgentaler's qualifications are. Notice anything missing? The man's name is synonymous with abortion; one doesn't drop into a Morgentaler clinic for a bad back. He does one thing, and one thing only, and yet Rideau Hall could not bring itself to even mention it.