“The Church must bear witness to the mercy of God revealed in Christ, in the whole of His mission as Messiah, professing it in the first place as a salvific truth of faith...and then seeking to introduce it and to make it incarnate in the lives both of her faithful and as far as possible in the lives of all people of good will. Finally, the Church-professing mercy and remaining always faithful to it-has the right and the duty to call upon the mercy of God, imploring it in the face of all the manifestations of physical and moral evil, before all the threats that cloud the whole horizon of the life of humanity today…" –Dives in Misericordia

Auschwitz, February 3rd, 2008

Stillness. A certain expectancy hangs in the air. Or maybe it hangs in my heart, I can't tell. And the sun is shining. Why is the sun shining? It feels like it shouldn’t be, in this place. And I’m reminded what someone said to me yesterday: “I hope that it’s cold and rainy and gray tomorrow, don’t you?”

And how I had answered, “No. Because maybe the only way we’ll see God, is if the sun is shining. Maybe we’ll need that, to survive it.” And now I am torn between gratitude for the warmth of it and frustration because it feels so out of place, and sheds a sort of unreal quality over the whole thing.

And I try to realize where I am. And I stand in front of the gate that thousands stood before on the day that they were removed from themselves. They stood on this side of the gate, and they had a name and a history, and things to call their own: they were someone. And then they walked through this gate, and everything changed. They never heard their name again, because they became a number; and they forgot all they had been, because it no longer mattered; and they were stripped of all they had, because they wouldn’t need it. And I stand before this gate today, and I, another human person, walk through the gate that stripped so many of their identity, and I try to let this realization change me.

Silence. The old, innocent army barracks stripped forever of their innocence stand still in their precise rows. No one would guess, by looking at the solemn, orderly bricks, all that went on within those walls, all that those staring windows witnessed. And we are walked through exhibitions of suffering and death, before a wall against which so many were killed, through cells of torture. In one, a saint was made, and in another, an image of the Sacred Heart scratched into the wall, a testimony to hope in the Heart that was the first to have bled… yet all I can do as the tears pour down is to ask myself, “Why not me?” It feels so wrong to walk through this gate, to step through this door, to walk down these halls and past these cells where my brothers and sisters were tortured and died—and then walk out. Walk away. Why? Why, when so many walked through these doors never to walk out again, why am I able to walk away? How is it any different for me? Why not me? I don’t understand… It isn’t fair, Lord, it isn’t right, for me to be able to walk away, when so many died…

We keep walking, and we come before the exhibition of the largest factory of death that has ever been: and I see it all as it would have been, and the picture sinks into my soul… The train pulls up right beside the road, and unloads its human cargo, often the most despised and rejected of the world: the old, the weak, the children. And they are huddled in a mass on the road. And the captain stands there and he points: “You, over there, you, here, you, that way.” And some of them go one way, and some the other. And they are led into the long, low, rectangular buildings, all into one big chamber, perhaps with hooks along the wall. They are told to undress, to take everything off, and they will be able to bathe, to wash themselves, to be cleaned… they did not know that it was not soothing waters that waited them, but burning, choking gas, and afterwards, the flames… and I can see the women, and the clothes piled to the ceiling, and the smoke pouring from the chimneys, and the size of the ovens… and my heart is sick.

“It is precisely because sin exists in the world, which "God so loved...that he gave his only Son,"115 that God, who "is love,"116 cannot reveal Himself otherwise than as mercy.” ~ Dives in Misericordia

Quiet. A hush still fills the air, and I think it is bigger than my heart this time, as we finish singing the Chaplet begging for Divine Mercy, and all walk off slowly, cut off from each other, in our own worlds. There is a breeze in the trees, though, I can hear it. And it feels like a cemetery breeze, and the trees look like trees of a graveyard… and my heart is in mourning as at a funeral. It is a funeral, a funeral of millions, and I did not know that it was possible to mourn so deeply for so many… but it is all I can do, and it seems so insufficient, so useless, to witness so much death and pain, and have only sorrow to offer in return…

But if this were really a funeral, there would be something else here: I feel something missing, something that, in my memory, is always a part of funerals: the sound of a whistle or bagpipes sounding out a familiar hymn. And I can hear the sound, as from afar off, echoing slowly and profoundly in my head: “Amazing Grace…” as I pass by the rubble of the ovens that burned human persons… “How sweet the sound…” as I breathe in the dead silence of the place… “That saved a wretch like me…” as I follow the road that walked millions to death. “I once was lost, but now am found…” as I stand on the spot where their destiny was decided, and all that they were was stripped from them, “Was blind, but now I see…” and as I say it, I know it is true.

Somehow, I feel what cannot be seen, and know instinctively that there is more to the story. I have seen the Crucifixion, but where is the Resurrection? Because I know that the Resurrection always follows the Crucifixion… but where is it here, Lord? How can I sing “I was lost, but now am found,” and it be true here? And, somehow, the answer wells up in my heart: you are their resurrection: they came and died here: they sacrificed their lives, so that all of you today could walk away. And what are you going to do about this? How is this going to change your life? How are you going to be different? How are you going to live for them? You must not forget, and you must not let the world forget or make void what happened here.

And I do not fully understand how this is all to be, what I am to do, how I am to remember this, but I know I must: because I owe it to them, and I carry this in my heart as I walk away…

“It is obvious that the Church professes the mercy of God, revealed in the crucified and risen Christ, not only by the word of her teaching but above all through the deepest pulsation of the life of the whole People of God. By means of this testimony of life, the Church fulfills the mission proper to the People of God, the mission which is a sharing in and, in a sense, a continuation of the messianic mission of Christ Himself.” –Dives in Misericordia

Lourdes, April 3rd, 2008

Stillness. The quiet of exhaustion after a long day before, and the silence of slowly coming back awake. The sky is clouded over with rain. Why is it cloudy, in a place of so much beauty and peace? But then, maybe thick, gray skies are not always oppressive: perhaps here, in this place belonging to Our Lady, they are her mantle, the sign of her solicitous care and constant presence, and the gentle rain is the mercy of God.

And I stand before the gate of St. Michael, where thousands of pilgrims have stood before, and found themselves. So many have stood on this side feeling lost and alone and afraid. Unsure of who they are, and what they came from, and why they came. But when they walk through this gate, everything is changed: they discover that who they are is a child of Mary, and what they have come from is the Heart of the Father, and all they have are the needs they bring with them. And I stand before this gate, another pilgrim, and as I walk through, I am overwhelmed by all it means, all this gateway stands for. And I feel that I will be changed forever.

Peace. The hush of a new morning. All the buildings of the sanctuary stand in solemn, welcoming formation, the hospitality and reconciliation wards lining the walk, and leading, drawing one’s feet and eyes right to the Basilica that looks like a glistening castle, with two arms outstretched to welcome all who come and stand beneath the crowned Virgin. We are led down the walk where processions have trod for a hundred and fifty years; through exhibitions of the miracles witnessed, past the wall of the healing spring, where numerous faucets are flowing for all to answer the command of the Lady to wash and drink; past the Grotto where so many have found healing. And I ask myself, why? Why would anyone ever want to leave this place? Why can’t we stay forever and ever? Why would we need to go anywhere else?

We keep walking, and we reach the site that is the greatest place of healing the world has ever known. And I see the thousands who come here everyday, and the image of the place sinks into my soul… the trains pull up daily, and unload their cargo—among them so often the most despised and rejected, the weak and the old and the handicapped and the children. They sit for hours outside the low, rectangular building…and it all looks so strangely familiar, and yet I know I have never seen it before. We are ushered in, and given tags with our names on them, and a bright sticker to show our nationality. At least we are given a name… strange thought: why wouldn’t we be?

We are walked up the stairs, to a narrow hall with walled off compartments to one side, lined with hooks holding blue aprons. All the walls are a glaring white, the floor is tile. We all tie on one of the large, flattering blue aprons. We are led downstairs, and into the room lined with baths. The walls are all of a grey tile, and the floors as well. I think perhaps it is marble. So simple, it seems stark. Large, thick blue and white striped curtains separate off the baths, one from the next. They all have a small room in front of the bath, with two walls lined with chairs, and hooks above the chairs. It is silent and solemn, and we stand, waiting to be instructed.

We nervously watch the demonstration and try to take it all in. “The women come in, and you tell them to undress, to prepare for a bath…” and I can’t put my finger on it, but my heart begins to turn, because it is reminding me of something, sounding far too familiar, of another room, and another command to undress, and a promise of bathing that was not fulfilled… and I don’t know why I think of this…

The woman in charge walks in. A bell is rung. The sound of the Salve Regina echoes in the lonely place, as everyone faces the statues of our Lady at the head of every bath, and offers their day and their work to her. And then the woman in charge begins to count and point: “You, there,” “You, over there…” in a language of sounds foreign and unsettling to my ears.

And then we stand in the separate baths, with the women we will be serving with for the day. “Notre Dame de Lourdes, Prie pour Nous…” and we all kiss the hard, marble floor. And then the work begins. The first women are coming in, and I am telling them the directions: “Take everything off,” and I am holding the blue cape around them like a tent, to cover and protect them. It is like a dream, somehow. Just minutes ago, we were watching, and now we are doing, and praying that everything goes well, and that our hands can somehow communicate well enough. We have watched, and now we follow, and there is a structure, a pattern to the way it goes—the shoes under the chair, all the clothes on the hook, the cape grasped in the left hand, then the right crossed over, and then they sit down to wait… the same over and over again, motions used where words fail over the rift in language. And I watch the older women, and their experienced hands and smiles. They are so sure, so gentle and loving, so strong and firm and confidant and soft. And I see how beautiful it is, how full of God, how much they have been taught by our Lady herself, until they move in very imitation of her own movements, as I would have imagined them to be…

And then my turn comes to serve inside the bath, and I go through the white curtain, and take my place with the white sheet in hand. It is another world altogether. Here the souls who have waited their whole lives just to be here are standing in the moment they have longed for. The first woman stands on the step, nervous and unsure, and as she looks around at us uncertainly, though her body is covered, she is left open and vulnerable before us: her heart laid bare in her face. We communicate through the body, but it is on the level of the spirit that we meet: soul to soul before our Lady, and suddenly, the world has shrunk in size, and everything outside of this small space has ceased to matter: it has all fallen away, and all that remains is the three of us serving, and the one being served, and the Lady in whose name we are doing all of this.

She stands and offers her intentions to our Lady, all the needs she has carried here in her burdened heart, over mountains and across seas, and she lays them all down. And the chemise, the experienced woman at the head of the bath who guides all the action, who sends them down into the waters, and receives them back from our Lady’s arms, lifts her arms gently, and in one deft movement, the blue cape falls and the white sheet is around her. And we have her firmly by the wrist and the arm, held just right, this way, and no other, as we have been shown, so that she cannot fall. And she gasps at the coldness, and draws back, but we lead her gently on, one on each side. She needs the support of both of us to reassure her, and to lead her physically onward. And our eyes and bodies can say all that our tongues are deficient in. But even with us leading her, she has to make a firm decision to keep going, on into the waters, down toward our Lady. And she bends to kiss her, and I place my hand on her shoulder, to indicate that she should sit down, and push her gently down, to sit back in the water.

It’s one, swift movement, and then we’re pulling her up, and she catches her breath as she catches our eyes, and we smile, as the Chemise is saying “Notre Dame de Lourdes, Prier pour nous, St. Bernadetta, prier pour nous…” and we whisper it with her, to ourselves, “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” And the tears are running down my own face as she is re-clothed in the blue cloak, and I feel as if it were me who was just renewed and transformed in our Lady’s waters, as the Chemise takes her face in her hands, and smiles our Lady’s smile over her, kissing her face. And I realize that I have just witnessed with these bodily eyes the Mother of God touch the life of her daughter.

I return to the outside, where the women are waiting their turn, all anxious to some degree. And the Madame points me over to an older woman in the corner, struggling with her stockings. She has a strong smell, and a haggard, wrinkled, hairy face, and I bend over her gnarled, twisted, wet feet to pull on the sticky stockings. But as I pull up the first one, I look down again in surprise, and ask myself, “Whose feet are these?” and it flows over me like a wave: “They are Christ’s feet. I am putting on Christ’s stockings.” And I have never known or felt something quite as certainly as I know this to be true, now. It is not a chore, then, to help her with her undergarments, and her pants, and shoes, and sweater.

And after I have completed the difficult task, and every last piece has been twisted straight, and buttoned right, and smoothed of wrinkles, I straighten up and catch her eye as she takes me by the arms. She is crying, and is speaking things in French that I do not understand, but the beauty of that glance is universal, and I know that she is more grateful and moved than she can communicate, that I had been willing to help her, and I realize all at once how humbling it would be to not be able to even do such simple things for oneself, but have to rely on others… And she takes my face in her hands, and kisses me, and I cry as I watch her depart, knowing I have seen Christ this day.

I move on to the next person, repeat the words, “Take everything off,” hold up the blue cape for the fiftieth time, and yet the words still sound strange, and my soul is still troubled. I have just seen Christ, and I know He is here. I feel Him whenever I smile into the eyes of a frightened woman, and I grasp His Mother whenever I am splashed and doused in her waters. So why this disturbing memory, of stern faces, and foreign, harsh, jarring words of a foreign language… a low-lying building with chimneys sending dark smoke to the sky, and clothes piled to the ceiling, and women all huddled in one place… and the wind, and the silence in the trees… why the memory, the feeling, the association of this place of beauty and truth and hope and light and dignity with that place of ugliness and falsehood and despair and darkness and destruction? Why is it so chillingly similar, when I know it at its core to be so different?

And as I hold the cloak, the memory becomes clear, and it strikes me like a blow, deep and piercing, running clean through me… And they were herded into the large rooms, and told to undress—for what? For a bath. But instead, they faced the fiery furnaces, the choking gas. And they were marked with a number, not a name, and clothed in blue and white stripes, and unloaded on the trains… and why do these women come in so afraid?

What is it I am really doing here? Who is it that I am covering right now? The nakedness, the blue and white, the bath and the fire—and I almost drop the cape: I am undoing Auschwitz. Here is a cape to cover the shame of nakedness and to preserve and defend the dignity of the person. And here are the waters, given as promised, not denied: the truth to replace the lie, the reality to undo the counterfeit, the waters to quench the fires. And it all begins to make sense: because evil is never something entirely new: it is a perversion, a lack, the antithesis of an existing good. And so the devil takes what is good always and twists it. And what was going on a hundred years before Auschwitz? “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…”

But that was such a grave atrocity. What can it mean, “Undo”? How can such an evil ever be talked about being erased? And I remember the message of our Lady of Lourdes: Penance, penance, penance… and what is penance? A reparation for an evil committed. It is filling in the hole left by an evil act, replacing it with a positive act of good. Evening out the balance, making up for the wrong. And it was not just the individual dignity of those millions destroyed in the holocaust, it was an affront to all of humanity, because we are the Body of Christ, and it was He Who was attacked… “If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together…” (1Cor 12:26.) Millions were killed in Auschwitz: millions are cleansed and healed yearly in these waters—and who was it, who is it that I am serving, that I am covering? Who but the One Who suffered and died with each person in Auschwitz… Christ our Savior. His feet, His hands, His Body. I am covering His nakedness, I am preserving the dignity of His Body—the Body of Christ—the same Body that had been mutilated and destroyed in Auschwitz is here preserved, loved, saved…

“An act of merciful love is only really such when we are deeply convinced at the moment that we perform it that we are at the same time receiving mercy from the people who are accepting it from us… For this reason, the Church must consider it one of her principal duties-at every stage of history and especially in our modern age-to proclaim and to introduce into life the mystery of mercy, supremely revealed in Jesus Christ.” - Dives in Misericordia

Quiet. The hush of respectful silence still hangs in the air around the Grotto, as I walk back past the holy place at the end of the day, the powerful realization of mercy still washing over me. And we are all walking in our own worlds… And suddenly, I remember a breeze in the trees, and a song in my head, and the words echoing, resonating across the empty expanse… “I once was lost, but now am found…. Was blind, but now I see… Amazing Grace…” And suddenly, I understand: the resurrection. I understand how we can be their resurrection, how we can participate, share bodily and tangibly in the Resurrection of Christ: how we can walk away from the ovens and the crematoriums… because they are in rubble, but the baths still run in Lourdes; and the Body of Christ still proclaims to the lost and old and weak and ill and handicapped and unloved and despairing and unwanted: “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee…” And they leave without fear, and warmed with a smile, because they know that she does: she does pray for them.

And their hope has been renewed, because she has reminded them what Christ came and died and rose that they might know: that love is stronger than death. And I, who once asked “Why? Why am I able to walk away,” now can say that I know. Because here there is beauty, and truth, here I’ve found the answer to so much, the meaning behind all that I wanted to find. And now the rest of the world needs to know that Love is stronger than death. And the children of God need to be reminded that His mercy endures forever. Forever and ever and ever beyond all the Auschwitzes that have ever been or can ever be, because Lourdes was there first, and the Immaculata’s healing waters, and the forgiving hands of the Father were there long before. And to the end of the world, the Church, in that little corner of France, through the lips and the hands of those simple volunteers will be praying, “O Mary, Conceived without sin… pray for us who have recourse to thee.”

© 2008 by Siobhan E. C. Maloney.