A tale of two papal visits: Memories of John Paul, the rock star, contrast with Benedict, the rock in times of trouble
Commentary
By James P. Gannon
In October 1979, when I was the newly installed Executive Editor of The Des Moines Register, I had the privilege of accompanying Pope John Paul II to a tiny, rural parish of St. Patrick in Cumming, Iowa, during the pope’s historic first visit to the United States.
John Paul came to Iowa, the agricultural heartland of America, to recognize and celebrate the important work of American farmers and to urge them to conserve God’s great gift of the land. “You are the stewards of some of the most important resources God has given the world….conserve the land well,” he said at a Mass celebrated in a farm field amid 300,000 spectators on the outer suburban edges of Des Moines.
At St. Patrick’s–a white, steepled country church even smaller than the St. Peter’s Catholic church that we attend outside Little Washington each Sunday–the charismatic Polish pontiff greeted farm families personally, hugged the children, and praised the community values of small-town and rural life.
As moving and spectacular as John Paul’s visit to Iowa was, as I watched the visit this week of his successor, Benedict XVI, I came to the conclusion that Benedict’s pilgrimage to the United States was even more necessary, significant, and important to the future of the American church than John Paul’s 1979 trip.
John Paul came early in his long papacy to introduce himself to America, in a visit that established his rock-star image as a man of enormous charm, human appeal and vitality. Benedict came, at the age of 81, as a lesser-known quantity, a somewhat shy German scholar who had acquired a cartoonish image as “God’s Rottweiler,” the enforcer of orthodox doctrine in his previous Vatican job as Defender of the Faith.
If he had come to lecture and scold America for its wayward ways, nobody would have been particularly surprised. But he came instead as a healer, with a message of hope. It was precisely the message needed in the American Catholic Church, delivered with humility, compassion and a plea for forgiveness of the church’s own sins.
The Church in America has walked through the valley of the shadow of death for the past six years, since the scandal of sexual abuse by priests came to light in 2002, first in Boston and then nationally. Benedict knew, before he arrived on American soil, that this was the boil he must lance–that the only way to deal with a great evil is to face it squarely and to acknowledge the Church’s complicity in perpetuating this evil by attempting for so long to cover it up.
By honestly addressing this scandal on every day of his five day visit, and by meeting personally with Boston victims of abuse, Benedict practiced what the Church preaches to faithful Catholics–that sins must be confessed, and forgiveness sought. It was a powerful example for Catholics particularly and for Americans generally, in an age that culturally denies sin, ridicules shame, and treats guilt as a lack of self-esteem.
Benedict touched the wound, sought forgiveness, and promised never to forget or let it happen again. His healing gestures continued during his visit, as when he personally greeted victims of the September 11 tragedy at Ground Zero in Manhattan on Sunday morning and when he met with representatives of other faiths including Muslims who were offended by one of his speeches, and when he became the first Pope to attend a Jewish synegogue in America.
In his reaching out to people and his evident joy at his enthusiastic reception, Benedict destroyed the charicature of him as a stern enforcer of Vatican doctrine. He came across as a shepherd keenly aware of a flock that has been distressed and wandering. He came with words of hope, perhaps the most desperately needed virtue in the Church today, when so many have lost hope that the hierarchy is listening.
I watched his papal visit from a greater distance than I watched John Paul’s in Iowa nearly 30 years ago. Perhaps it was a better perspective, though more removed from the stirring enthusiasm of the events. What struck me was Benedict’s ability to touch people personally–the vast throngs at Nationals Stadium in D.C. or Yankee Stadium in New York City, the thousands lined up along motorcade routes, the silent witnesses and grieving victims at Ground Zero.
Benedict did it in a quieter way than John Paul, less centered on himself than on those he encountered, but with a grandfather’s wisdom and gentleness. The Catholic Church in America needs less a rock star than it needs a healer and a shepherd, and it has found one in this white-haired pastor who follows in the footsteps of John Paul, and Peter, the rock on which the Church was founded.
The time of the rock star may be over, but the church has a rock, and his name is Benedict, and in the midst of the storm we will cling to the rock.
-- James P. Gannon
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