Mercy in the Midst of Horror

Just a few years ago, I was a snobby high school student. A group from my school was in Washington, DC, and part of the trip was going to a museum. The selected place was the National Holocaust Museum, but we were told that the group from my school could go to a different one, especially since none of us really wanted to go to the Holocaust museum. Yet, when we pulled up, things changed. We were told that we had to stay with everyone else, and that my school couldn’t separate. Then, we had to stand in the cold January air for well over an hour in a separate line at the back of the building, since we were with a group. It sucked. Having a lack of maturity didn’t help the situation. When we finally made it out of the chilly air, instead of just giving the museum a chance, we quickly walked through a couple of parts, not really paying attention, and made our way back to the lobby to sit and sulk until we could leave.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes, things keep coming up again and again in our lives, with seemingly no provocation? Well, that happened to me not too long ago. Part of my transition to a new seminary this past year was getting used to new professors. At my old seminary, as is the case at my new school, we have the same professors for multiple courses. Coming from having professors every day for three to four years to suddenly having a whole new faculty was quite the adjustment. Yet, one thing that still is odd is not having a certain class: German. That’s what was coming up again and again.

Yes, German. I know, you’re thinking, “what use is German?” Trust me, I’ve heard it all. The story of why I decided to initially study German is long, complex, and to most people, not that interesting, so I’ll spare you. My intention was to initially take a couple of classes to fulfill my university’s language requirement, and then move on to “more important things.” Yet, within that first semester, I was hooked. I kept taking classes—and they’re more useful than you would think. Eventually, I decided to declare a German minor, and if the university had a major, I would have done it.

In my German classes, we learned, of course, about the Holocaust. It’s that dark part of history that the world never will, and never should, forget. This is where my interest really spiked. I couldn’t believe what I was learning. It was hard for be to believe that there was a time in our world where we as a human race came face to face with the very presence of evil. It was hard for me to believe that a government systematically orchestrated an attempt to exterminate not only an entire race of people, but anyone whom they deemed unfit to share the earth with—including Catholics.

I’ve been thinking about how much has changed since that trip to the museum. First, I’ve grown up quite a bit. But even more—I’ve immersed myself in the study of all of this. My senior year of college, I had the opportunity to visit the museum again.

It was an experience that words couldn’t describe. I was able to read the awful propaganda for myself. I was able to listen in on tours being given in German, allowing me to catch some extra details. Yet, the most profound aspect of it all was that I recognized all of this—I recognized the lie cast in iron—“Arbeit Macht Frei”—work will make you free—as I passed through a casting of the Auschwitz gates—gates that so many would never pass back through. I recognized images of people I had studied in my classes—both heroic individuals who fought for freedom as well as faces of evil who oppressed and killed millions.

The Holocaust of Nazi Germany, and the Nazi governmental system in general, resulted in the gruesome and systematic slaughter of millions of innocent people. But, recently, I’ve been thinking about how many positive examples came from this horror—really, how these examples are of particular prevalence during this Extraordinary Jubilee Year of Mercy. Maybe its an attempt to find the silver lining in the tragedy, but I think it’s something more.

I immediately think of examples like Sophie Scholl. (There’s a fantastic German film about this young woman and her story, by the way.) Sophie, along with her brother, Hans, and their friends, started the White Rose movement—a peaceful movement intended to fight the ideology of the Nazi regime. They anonymously typed and distributed anti-Nazi leaflets on university campuses, because they knew that the only way the Nazis would truly be defeated was if their ideology was defeated. When they were caught, they still stood up for what was right—which ended up costing them their lives. Before she was taken to her death, Sophie’s last words were: “How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause? Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”

Yet, I also think of others, as well. Being in seminary, I can’t help but think of priests. Of course, there is Saint Maximilian Kolbe, whose story is well known. When a man who was to e killed cried out for mercy because he had a family, Kolbe, without hesitation, stepped forward and volunteered to take his place. While he was waiting to die, he encouraged the others to remain hopeful, surely helping them through such a terrible situation. The man who Kolbe volunteered to die for survived, and years later, was able to attend his canonization.

Saint Maximilian Kolbe died at Auschwitz, the camp that had the highest death toll. Yet, the majority of priests were imprisoned and killed at Dachau, a place that has been refereed to as “the biggest monastery in the world” because of the number of ministers and clerics imprisoned there. Dachau was the place of imprisonment for nearly 3,000 clerics, 95% of whom were Catholic priests from Poland.

In thinking of Dachau, Father Jean Bernard comes to mind. He was a Catholic priest from Luxembourg who was imprisoned at the camp, and for nine days in February of 1942, was released and allowed to go home, which he detailed in a book which later became the (excellent) German film Der neunte Tag. He was tasked with getting fellow priests to publicly state the Church’s support for the Nazi regime—when he refused, he was sent back to Dachau.

Recently, I learned the story of another priest from Dachau. His name was Father Engelmar Unzeitig. He was a Czech priest serving in Germany and Austria, and was arrested and sent to the concentration camp on April 21, 1941 for publicly preaching against the Nazi regime and their treatment of the Jewish people. He was only thirty years old, and had only been a priest for two years, yet he had such profound bravery. The story of his time in the camp is astounding

Fr. Unzeitig noticed that there were many Eastern European prisoners in the camp, so he learned Russian in order to minister to them. He, unlike many prisoners, had good health. Yet, when typhoid fever hit the camp, he joined eighteen other priests in risking their lives to care for the afflicted in the typhoid barracks. He bathed them, prayed with them, and offered them last rites. It was this exposure to typhoid fever that would cause him to meet his own demise on March 2, 1945, just a few weeks before the Americans liberated the camp on April 29. Pope Benedict XVI declared him venerable on July 3, 2009, and just recently, on January 21 of this year, Pope Francis acknowledged him as a martyr, paving the way for his beatification.

The list could go on and on, because, unfortunately, the list of those who were either tortured and imprisoned, or killed by, the Nazi regime goes on and on. Yet, in looking at these people, in addition to so many others, although their stories are unique, they all share one common thread—love.

I’m convinced that love for the truth and justice is what prompted Sophie Scholl and her accomplices to start the White Rose movement, to battle the horrendous ideology of the Third Reich, and ultimately, give up their lives.

I’m convinced that it was love that caused Maximilian Kolbe to volunteer, without hesitation, to die in the place of a total stranger.

I’m convinced that it was love that caused Father Jean Bernard to refuse to aid the horrors of the Nazis, even knowing that it meant going back to the concentration camp.

I’m convinced that it was love that compelled Father Unzeitig to preach against the Nazis—that it was love that compelled him to volunteer to take care of the ill, even to the point of succumbing to the illness himself.

All of them loved, and all of them loved in a radical way. They all loved in a way that gives us an example of love in a world that so desperately needs it. This is where the Year of Mercy comes into the picture. In proclaiming the Extraordinary Jubilee Year of Mercy, Pope Francis issued a Papal Bull, Misericordiae Vultus. Love is something that is spoken of again and again throughout the document—in total, the word is used fifty-four times.

When speaking of some of the details of the Holy Year, Francis mentions that the Holy Door would be opened on the fiftieth anniversary of the closing of the Second Vatican Council, an event in which Francis states, “the Church sensed a responsibility to be a living sign of the Father’s love in the world.” (MV 4) That love of the Father is something that was surely seen before the Second Vatican Council—it is love that can be seen, to me at least, in the examples given to u s by these witnesses of love amongst the horrors of the Holocaust. In a way, it’s because their love was so concrete.

This concrete aspect of love is something that Pope Francis also speaks of, “…the mercy of God is not an abstract idea, but a concrete reality with which he reveals his love as that of a father or mother, moved to the very depths out of love for their child.” (MV 6) The love of God is something that is at work within our world and within our lives, and is the same love, in my opinion, that was shown by Scholl, Kolbe, Unzeitig, and so many others.

As I said earlier, the love shown by these people was really a radical love. They loved boldly. It was truly the love of Christ, the Church’s “first truth” (MV 12) whose mission “was that of revealing the mystery of divine love in its fullness.” (MV 8) This mission of love was ultimately shown on the Cross, when He, although He had done no wrong, died for us. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

During this Year of Mercy, let’s love boldly. Now, I’m not saying that we have to go out and look for ways to die, but let’s look to these examples of people who loved boldly in such a dire situation. Let’s look to them and be inspired to think about someone other than ourselves in a world that tells us its wrong to do so. Let’s look to them and be inspired to work for truth. Let’s look to them and be inspired to console others who are in need of consoling. Let’s look to them and be inspired to be hopeful. Let’s look to them and be inspired to love, because in the end, love is what this Year of Mercy is all about, because to experience God’s mercy is to experience His love.

To end, I’d like to share a bit from a letter Father Unzeitig wrote to his sister while imprisoned at Dachau. He says:

“Whatever we do, whatever we want, is surely simply the grace that carries us and guides us. God’s almighty grace helps us overcome obstacles…love doubles our strength, makes us inventive, makes us feel content and inwardly free. If people would only realize what God has in store for those who love him!”

In all things, may God be glorified.

Amen.