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 museum was the National Holocaust Museum, but we were told that the group from my school could go to another museum that we wanted to go to—yet, when we pulled up to the Holocaust Museum, things changed. We were told that we had to stay with the larger group, and that my school couldn’t separate. Then, we had to stand out in the cold January air for 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.

In my last blog, I began by saying that sometimes, things seem to strangely come up in our lives again and again, with seemingly no sort of provocation. Well, for the past week, it’s been happening to me again. Part of the transition to a new seminary has been getting used to new professors. At my old seminary, as is the case here at my new school, we have the same professors for several different courses. Coming from having professors every day for 3 to 4 years to suddenly a whole new faculty was quite the adjustment. Yet, one thing that will still be odd for a while is not having a certain class: German. That’s what’s been 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 initially to take a couple of classes to fulfill the university’s language requirement and to move on to “more important things.” Yet, within that first semester, I was hooked. I kept taking classes—and they’re more useful that you would think. Eventually, I declared a German minor, and if they had a major at my university, I probably would have done it. But, why was I hooked?

First of all, I was hooked because my professor was outstanding.

Words can’t begin to give justice to her hard work, her dedication, her love for what she teaches, and the care that she shows to her students. It’s simply inspirational. But, I was hooked on this German thing because of more than a professor whose classes I enjoyed—I came to discover that learning German was about more than the language. Yes, this was foundational—but it was equally important for us to immerse ourselves in the culture, to learn about and experience what Germans like to do for fun, to learn how they think, to eat their food, to watch their movies, to celebrate world cup victories over the summer and send texts to classmates reading “DEUTSCHLAND IST WELTMEISTER!!!” and to learn about their history—even the dark parts of it. Learning German helped me become a more well rounded person. I’m convinced it played a role in making me who I am today. It has helped me to find my place as a citizen of the world, to appreciate the beauty of cultures besides my own, and to realize the profound role that we all have to play in this adventure called life as we not only learn history, but write with the pen of our very lives the pages that future generations will call history.

In my German classes, we, of course, learned 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 me 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.

My interest in the happenings of the Holocaust ultimately led to my senior year of college. As with most universities, I had to write a senior paper, and decided that I wanted to integrate my studies of philosophy and German, not only because it made sense in my mind to do so, but because, if I’m being honest, banging my head into a brick wall interested me more than writing a paper on philosophy alone. With the help of my philosophy advisor and my German professor, I studied the writings of the German and Jewish philosopher turned American reporter Hannah Arendt, specifically regarding the 1960 trial of Adolf Eichmann, a prominent member of the Nazi regime, which took place in Jerusalem. After writing the paper, I had the opportunity to present my research, and in a way, to give it more focus, at a conference at my university. My main finding was this: philosophy is more than a gen-ed at a liberal arts college or something that the Church, for some reason, thinks that seminarians should “suffer” through. Philosophy can be dangerous. An example is seen in Eichmann and his Nazi colleagues—both at the Nuremburg trials and Eichmann’s own trial fifteen years later, they continually claimed that they did what they did because of their commitment to a Kantian sense of duty. The Holocaust of Nazi Germany ultimately showed the world that a philosophical ideal, such as Kantian deontology, when taken out of context (and in some cases, misinterpreted) and injected into a culture (in the case of the German culture of the day, one that was already anti-Semitic), the results can be, and were, catastrophic. Anyhow, this post isn’t supposed to be about my research, but if you’re interested, feel free to read it here.

My interest in all things German and learning about the Holocaust has persisted past my graduation and moving on from college. Partially, it’s because it still boggles my mind. Yet, even more than that, it is because it keeps popping up in my life over and over again. Last semester at my ministry assignment, I discovered one of the residents of the nursing home is originally from Germany, and was able to speak to her a little bit in her own language, which she loved, and in turn opened her up to talking about what it was like to be in, and leave, Germany during the time of the Second World War.

But, there’s been something about this past week. During this past week, the world observed the international Holocaust Remembrance Day. It had me thinking back to me as a snobby high schooler during my first visit to our own national museum. It had me thinking about how much has changed since then. I’ve grown up, I’ve immersed myself in the study of this, and last January, had the opportunity to visit that 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, which allowed 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 the people—I recognized Sophie Scholl and the White Rose movement—I recognized the names of the people and the cities—I looked at the photos of the people in so much pain and remembered learning of the horrors that they would face—at one point, I even recognized a photo of Adolf Eichmann, the man who, during the previous semester, I had spent so much time studying. Walking through the museum this time took me at least a couple of hours, because in so many places, I stood in awe—yet, in front of his photo, I could only stand a few seconds. I knew the terrible things he had done, and I didn’t want to dedicate any more time to him.

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, throughout this past week, I’ve been thinking of how many positive examples came from this horror—really, how these examples are of particular prevalence during this Jubilee Year of Mercy. Maybe it’s an attempt to find the silver lining in the tragedy, but I think it’s something more.

I immediately think of examples like the aforementioned Sophie Scholl, who along with her brother and their friends, fought the ideology of the Nazi regime—how they stood up for, to the point of giving their own lives—for what was right. (There’s a fantastic German movie about this, by the way.)

Yet, I also think of others, as well. Being in seminary, I can’t help but think of priests. There’s Saint Maximilian Kolbe, of course. His story is well known.

When a man who was to be killed cried out for mercy because he had a family, Kolbe, without hesitation, stepped up and volunteered to take his place. While 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 Mass.

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 referred to as “the biggest monastery in the world” because of the number of ministers and clerics. Dachau was the place of imprisonment for nearly 3,000 clergy, 95% of whom were Catholic priests from Poland.

In thinking of Dachau, I cannot help but think of Father Jean Bernard. 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 (really good) 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.

This past week, though, I’ve learned about someone I haven’t heard of before. He was also a priest, and he was also a prisoner at Dachau. His name was Fr. 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 publically preaching against the Nazi regime and their treatment of the Jewish people. He was only 30 years old, and had only been a priest for two years, yet had such bravery. The story of his time in the camp (which I am pulling from this article) 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, along with 18 other priests, risked their health and their lives to care for those struck with the fever 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 demise on March 2, 1945, just a few weeks before the camp was liberated by the Americans on April 29. He was declared venerable by Pope Benedict XVI on July 3, 2009, and just recently, on January 21 of this year, was acknowledged by Pope Francis as a martyr, paving the way for his beatification and furthering him on the path toward canonization.

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 a common thread—love.

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

I’m convinced it was love that caused Maximilian Kolbe to immediately volunteer his life for the sake of a total stranger.

I’m convinced that it was love that caused Fr. 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 Fr. 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, which if you want to read in its entirety, can be found here. Love is something that is spoken of again and again throughout this document, specifically, 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 us 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 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, I’m convinced, that was shown by Scholl, Kolbe, Bernard, Unzeitig, and so many others.

As I said earlier, the love that these people showed 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 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 Fr. Unzeitig sent to his sister while imprisoned at Dachau:

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.