On April 2nd, we observed the anniversary of the death of Pope John Paul II. But for me, he didn’t die on April 2nd. He died, forever in my mind, on the eve of the vigil of Divine Mercy, on the eve of a feast that his life was intimately bound up with. He proclaimed St. Faustina, the messenger of Divine Mercy and a sister from his own Polish homeland, a saint; and he proclaimed for all the feast of Divine Mercy.
He was no ordinary Pope (if there is such a thing), and he did not die an ordinary death, in ordinary time. He died in liturgical time, which is God’s time, sanctified time, holy time – in a holy way, sanctified by his long-suffering in Christ, in patience and love, bringing the message of the love and mercy of God to the world. I do not think the timing of his death was any accident, and for me the real anniversary of his death is marked by the liturgical calendar by which he lived his life, though the world goes by the earthly calendar.
I have a story about the Divine Mercy, about when the Pope died. I told it on this blog once before; I’ll tell again now, in honor of the vigil of the feast of Divine Mercy, which is tonight.
My parish, where I worked as music director, did a big Divine Mercy event each year that Sunday, and I did the music for it. It was one of my favorite events of the year – people came from all over, the parish was packed all day, confession lines were 40 deep all over the church, the atmosphere of prayer and devotion was intense and palpable.
Well, that Sunday morning, grieving for my beloved Pope, I went to my car early in the morning to drive to my parish. I lived in the university area of town at the time, and was parked on a side street packed with cars from all the students.
As I approached my car, I saw to my shock that my car, alone of all the cars, was plastered with eggs. I have a small transparent image of the Divine Mercy on my windshield, in the corner by the steering wheel, so that I can look at it as I drive. The eggs were concentrated the most heavily on that image, the image of Christ with streams of water and blood, the mercy and grace of God, flowing from His side. The eggs were so thick I could barely see to drive, and I used up all my windshield wiper fluid trying to get it off so I could see to get to church. I left my car in the parking lot, covered as it was, until noon when I was able to get away for a little bit to take it through the car wash.
I don’t think it was a coincidence that this happened to my car, to that image, on the night the Pope died, on the eve of the Feast of Divine Mercy. There is a hatred in the world that is not human, a hatred of God that also hates humans, and wants to drag us down with it. But it will fail with all who love God.
Maybe it was just a few drunk students, but I believe it was an expression of frustrated evil that covered my car the night the soul of John Paul II was taken up to heaven. Frustrated, because thanks to his witness so many souls have been and are being taken up to heaven too, forever out of its reach, crushing its evil designs. I believe that the night the Pope died, evil was vanquished through the merits of his life in Christ, and many souls were released and taken up into heaven with him, in a great crowning triumph of his life. And many souls on earth were introduced to heaven, brought into communion with Christ in his Church. Just look at all the conversions that happened after his death, just through the witness of so many millions streaming to Rome for his funeral.
I saw a satellite image of Rome during those days, and it looked like a human heart. The streets were arteries filled with people from all over the world, converging on the heart of the Church, the mystical Body of Christ through whom His blood mystically flows. It was beautiful. And people converted – even the Abbey where I go sometimes for retreat, in a remote corner of Colorado, got calls from people who had watched the funeral, and wanted to enter the Church as a result. I watched it, sitting up in the middle of the night, and cried and prayed through it all, for the joy and the power and the beauty of it. I will never forget it. I felt like I was there.
For me, the death, and the life, of John Paul II was and always will be, in my opinion, a triumph of the Divine Mercy of God. And the Divine Mercy continues, and souls continue to be saved, and continue to be brought into the beautiful Church, to be washed clean and fed with the beautiful grace and life of Christ, flowing freely in and through the Church, for all who come to receive.
