A Separate Faith

When Pope John Paul II died this past weekend, my first thought—as a Catholic and a writer—was to write about it. But in those first days, my thoughts were hard to pin down and harder to explain.

For as long as I’ve been conscious of Vatican policy, I’ve opposed many of the Pope’s decisions. I’m in favor of women as priests; he not only opposed the idea but also banned all debate on the topic. I believe that use of a contraceptive is no different than natural family planning; the Pope has fought against contraceptives. I support acceptance of homosexuals, liberation theology, and pro-choice politics—all things that the Pope has spoken against.

Yet, for as long as I’ve been conscious of John Paul II as the Pope, I’ve admired him and considered him to be a holy man. I’ve always thought of him as a man of great faith, strength, and wisdom. I was devastated by his death, as if I had lost a grandparent.

How could I reconcile such opposing views—disagreeing with much of what the Pope espoused but still respecting him as a holy and wise man? I’m not alone in feeling this way. The family, friends, and even strangers with whom I’ve spoken in the past few days feel very much the same way; they don’t always like the institution, but they love the man. And, really, this is the experience of many American Catholics today. We love our faith, but we don’t always like our religion. We like our church, but we don’t like our Church.

As an American Catholic, I have become adept at splitting hairs and creating dualities to bridge my contemporary life with my traditional faith. I am pro-life privately but pro-choice politically. I accept homosexuality, but I’m not sure we want homosexual marriages, at least not in the church. I believe in intelligent design, but I want schools to teach evolution. I know I should follow the Ten Commandments---and I feel guilty when I don’t---but I don’t want them posted in schools or courthouses.

So it is with Pope John Paul II. I believed that he was too conservative, too traditional, and too shut off from the contemporary world. But I also saw the good that he did. Pope John Paul II energized a flagging faith, reached out to the youth, and embraced a larger vision of faith that included not only Protestantism and Judaism but also Islam, Buddhism, and other Eastern religions. He took strong stances against war and the death penalty. (Liberals aren’t the only ones who pick and choose in faith; Republicans laud the Vatican’s positions on abortion and euthanasia while conveniently ignoring those on the death penalty and unjust war.) He was an outsider---the first non-Italian Pope in centuries---and he traveled beyond the Vatican walls more than any other Pope in history. And for a generation, he was “Papa,” the only Pope that I and many other young Catholics know. For me, he was like a grandfather: traditional, conservative, and out of touch with the modern ways, but always wise, generous, and loving.

So how do I reconcile my love for the man with my opposition to his policies? I think it comes down to the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have done unto you. As a liberal American Catholic, I hope that God gives credit for good intentions. I hope that faith can transcend rules and that I can be forgiven for being human. I hope that God sees my struggle to maintain my faith in a modern world and has compassion for me.

Likewise, I give Pope John Paul II credit for his good intentions and recognize the struggle that he must have had to stay faithful to Christ’s teachings in a world that roundly rejects them. I can see that he was a good, faithful, holy man even if I disagreed with his interpretation of those teachings. I know that he did what he thought was right and best.

Mostly, I know that although we’re from different generations and cultures, Karol Wojtyla and I are both humans, stumbling toward heaven. He’s made it there. I hope I’ll join him someday.