Fr. Roger J. Landry
The Anchor
Putting Into the Deep
October 3, 2008
On September 28, the Church marked the 30th anniversary of the death of Pope John Paul I, bishop of Rome for a stunningly brief 33 days. In a Church that thinks in centuries, his tenure was too short to have had a major practical impact on ecclesiastical structures. It was enough time, however, for him thoroughly to change the Church’s mood and image.
It all began right after he was elected. Cardinal Albino Luciani, the Patriarch of Venice, went to the conclave never expecting to be elected. Most journalists were speculating that the next pope would be Cardinal Siri of Genoa or Cardinal Benelli of Florence, both of whose candidacies seemed very strong. Most were expecting either that one of them would muster the necessary votes early or that the conclave would be deadlocked for days. When the white smoke arose from the Sistine Chapel on the evening of the second day, after only four ballots, everybody anticipated seeing either Benelli or Siri walk out in white to St. Peter’s Loggia della Benedizione. But God’s ways and not our ways. Papa Luciani came out instead — and debuted for the world the warm smile that would soon indelibly endear him to everyone.
The day after his election, he told the crowd of 200,000 assembled for the Angelus, that he was more surprised than they were. In the colloquial style that always characterized him, he said, “Yesterday morning I went to the Sistine Chapel to vote tranquilly. Never could I have imagined what was about to happen. As soon as the danger for me had begun, the two colleagues who were beside me whispered words of encouragement. One said: ‘Courage! If the Lord gives a burden, he also gives the strength to carry it.’ The other colleague said: ‘Don’t be afraid; there are so many people in the whole world who are praying for the new Pope.’ When the moment of decision came, I accepted.”
Cardinal Villot’s next interrogative concerned what he would be called. That too caught him off guard. “Then there was the question of the name, for they also ask what name you wish to take, and I had thought little about it,” he told the crowds with a smile. “My thoughts ran along these lines: Pope John had decided to consecrate me himself [as a bishop in 1958] in St Peter’s Basilica; then, however unworthy, I succeeded him in Venice on the Chair of St Mark, in that Venice which is still full of Pope John. Then Pope Paul not only made me a Cardinal, but some months earlier, on the wide footbridge in St Mark’s Square, he made me blush to the roots of my hair in the presence of 20,000 people, because he removed his stole and placed it on my shoulders. Never have I blushed so much! Furthermore, during his fifteen years of pontificate this Pope has shown, not only to me but to the whole world, how to love, how to serve, how to labor and to suffer for the Church of Christ. For that reason I said: ‘I shall be called John Paul.’”
It was the first time there was ever a compound name in the history of the papacy. The new pope felt himself totally unworthy of it. “I have neither the wisdom of the heart of Pope John, nor the preparation and culture of Pope Paul, but I am in their place. I must seek to serve the Church. I hope that you will help me with your prayers.”
In only seven minutes, he had demonstrated a new style of the papacy with his joy, his smile, his simplicity and even his language. Whereas Popes had been accustomed to use the royal and papal “we” in their discourses, John Paul used the “I” throughout, a change that thankfully has stuck. He spoke to the people as a beloved parish priest would, not as a distant theology professor. He would keep that tone throughout his pontificate.
A few years prior to his papacy, he had distinguished himself for a series of “letters” he wrote in the Italian St. Anthony’s Messenger to some of the most famous personages of all time. The series was eventually published as a collection in English with the title Illustrissimi, which is one of the most enjoyable books of spiritual reading I’ve ever gotten my hands on. Among the 40 addressees of the letters were great saints like Bernard, Therese Lisieux, Bonaventure and Francis de Sales; literary giants like Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, G.K. Chesterton, and Goethe; fictional figures like Pinocchio and Figaro; there was even one to Jesus. In these letters, the future Pope took up something that each recipient said or did and entered into a dialogue with them, to praise a truth they gave us or to question them about what he sees was in error. This was the way he would dialogue with the world, praising whatever was good, and correcting what could be better.
In his four Wednesday catechetical addresses thirty years ago — which this master catechist did without notes —he continued to pass on the truths of the faith through the use of stories taken from the Bible, from literature, from magazines and from self-help literature. He even used the unscripted insights of a boy from a Maltese choir school who happened to be present. He employed whatever he could to make the truths of faith relevant, so that people would see the wisdom of the faith, and grow to know, love and live it. He said he wanted to engage in a catechesis “adapted to the modern world … in the hope that I will be able, somehow, to help people to become better.”
But his greatest catechetical lesson, according to the opinion of his successor Pope Benedict, was his humility. Benedict reminded us during his Sunday Angelus address that John Paul I’s papal motto was “Humilitas.” This single word, he emphasized, “synthesizes what is essential in Christian life and indicates the indispensable virtue of those who are called to the service of authority in the Church.” He said that, above all, “humility can be considered his spiritual legacy.”
30 years ago, during one of his four catecheses, John Paul asked the whole Christian people to be humble. “I will just recommend one virtue, so dear to the Lord. He said, ‘Learn from me who am meek and humble of heart.’ …The Lord recommended it so much: be humble. Even if you have done great things, say: “We are useless servants.” On the contrary the tendency in all of us, is rather the contrary: to show off. Humility, Humility: this is the Christian virtue that concerns us.”
In a pre-papal “letter” to St. Thérèse of Lisieux, praising her for her little way of spiritual childhood, he gave us a window into his humble soul. “Love in little things,” he wrote, “often this is the only kind possible. I never had the chance to jump into a river to save a drowning man, but I have been very often asked to lend something, to write letters, to give simple and easy instructions. I have never met a mad dog; instead I have met some irritating flies and mosquitoes. I have never had persecutors beat me but many people disturb me with noises in the street, with the volume of the television turned up too high or unfortunately with making noise in drinking soup. … To remain calm and smiling as much as possible in such occasions is to love one’s neighbor without rhetoric in a practical way.”
He who was faithful in these “little things” was, as the Lord once promised, “set over much” (Mt 25:21) — but the “much” didn’t alter his humility. Though his tenure was one of the “least” in his history, we pray that the Lord will soon exalt this humble servant to the altars, where his “spiritual legacy” can be enhanced and this great fruit of his pontificate perdure.