The whole world has reacted to the death of Karol Wojtyla, Pope John Paul II. We remember the deaths of Pius XII, John XXIII, Paul VI and John Paul I. But nothing could match the outpouring of emotion that occurred when John Paul II went to God.

I do not remember anything like the coverage on television, radio or the print media on the occasions of the demise of other popes. I remember the customary messages of sympathy from heads of state and other religions. But never, in history, has there been such a mass expression of grief from the human race as a whole as for this one man.

We could say, “Well, of course, this was huge. After all, Pope John Paul II was seen and heard by countless millions on every continent. He was a media star.”

We could also say, “No other pope spoke so many languages, touched more people and was even physically able to reach out to the world.”

And we could add, “No other pope involved himself in so many issues and problems—political and religious—as did this man. He was a giant figure—a man of power.”

Consider the popes we have known. Pius XII was like a distant God on Mount Olympus—a mysterious impressive presence—remote, revered and awesome.

John XXIII was a complete change from anyone who had gone before. He was a rotund, humorous, and loveable father figure. For the first time in history the Catholic people were joined by non-Catholics in taking this spiritual leader to their hearts. And he opened the Church to change in ways that we never dreamed of before.

Pope Paul VI, however, was a tragic figure. As I write this I have before me the picture of his funeral. He lies on the floor of Saint Peter’s in a plain wooden box with the solitary Paschal candle before it. It is a picture of stark reality.

Paul VI endured the perfect storm. The bark of Peter was almost swamped. In Europe and America, sex, drugs, and rock and roll sucked the youth into all sorts of excesses. In the United States, civil disobedience and anti-war riots rocked the country. In the Third World, revolutionary fires were tearing countries apart and communists stoked the flames while proponents of Liberation Theology in South America helped them.

Paul VI bore an internal strife that was ripping the Church to pieces as theologies conflicted, liturgies were changed, priests and nuns abandoned their vocations and many people just stopped listening to the voice of the shepherd. It was chaos and opposition that besieged him on every side. Truly, the bark of Peter was caught in a tempest. It pitched and rolled almost uncontrollably.

John Paul I came and went in a flash. We hardly knew that gentle man.

Then this big, broad-shouldered, tough yet loving figure arrived with his message. “Be not afraid,” he said. He became an anchor in a stormy sea. He was a steady rock amid the waves of discontent.

The entire world looked and marveled. “This is a man,” they said, as they watched him teach and preach.

Now the ship is more steady. The storms are not over. But his steady hand at the helm has given the ship direction again.

Rest in peace, John Paul. The strife is over for you —the battle won. And the entire world stands applauding as you cross the finish line into eternal life. You have achieved the crown. We all have felt your presence. We all lament your going. But the Church will pick up and move on. We await the next shepherd and the next saga in the eternal story of Salvation History. And we will always hear the echo of that deep voice with a Polish accent—“Be not afraid!”

Msgr. Gilchrist is pastor of Holy Cross Parish, Harrison.

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