A Reflection as we remember Maxilian Kolbe

Remembering Maximilian Kolbe (whose feast day is 14th August), and his sacrifice, took my thoughts towards Auschwitz where he died.

Few could fail to be moved by much that happened there and it is important for us to keep remembering the people who died or whose survival was perilous.  Auschwitz, has come to symbolise the totality of evil and, for the human race, its lowest ebb.  I remember Tony Blair once reminding us that it was not just human life that was destroyed but ‘human essence’.  It showed us the depths to which humanity can sink.

In our blame culture it is easy to lay all the blame on those who perpetrated the evil—not only the Nazi hierarchy but the ordinary Germans who carried out the orders.  They may well be blameworthy but recrimination has a habit of rebounding. 

The Jews we mourn, as a race suffered for centuries the guilt and blame laid on them by the Christian Church for the death of Christ. ‘Collective guilt’ has been visited on many nations in the world’s history.  The trouble is that it is always safe to blame others.  It places the spotlight on a more comfortable place.  But sometimes we need to look nearer to home.  Prejudice and hatred, fear of the different, the loss of respect and tolerance: these are the seeds of Auschwitz.  These are what destroy the human essence and they are, sadly, present in many people, if not all. 

Jonathan Sacks, former Chief Rabbi, suggested that those who suffered in the death camps bore no hate or desire for revenge.  We are challenged to take heed of the lessons Auschwitz and the suffering there includes forgiveness – maybe even for ourselves.  This is powerfully brought home in a prayer found on a piece of wrapping paper when Ravensbrück Concentration Camp was liberated:

O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will
but also those of ill-will.
But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted on us:
remember the fruits we bought, thanks to this suffering;
our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility,
the courage, the generosity,
the greatness of heart which has grown out of this,
and when they come to judgement,
let all the fruits that we have borne be their forgiveness.

As Jonathan Sacks says: ‘May these words light a flame in our hearts so that never again shall the cry of the afflicted go unheard’. 

Pangur Bán

Pagli | photo Lynn Hurry

Pagli, learned as she is, suggested this old Irish poem of the 9th Century.
Though anonymous it was thought to have been written by an Irish monk.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat,
‘Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
‘Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will;
He, too, plies his simple skill.

‘Tis a merry thing to see
At our task how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
Into the hero Pangur’s way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

‘Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
‘Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den.
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade ;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning Darkness into light.’

The Long Silence

At the end of time, billions of people were seated on a great plain before God’s throne. Most shrank back from the brilliant light before them. But some groups near the front talked heatedly, not cringing with cringing shame – but with belligerence.

“Can God judge us? How can He know about suffering?” snapped a young brunette. She ripped open a sleeve to reveal a tattooed number from a Nazi concentration camp. “We endured terror … beatings … torture … death!”

In another group a black boy lowered his collar. “What about this?” he demanded, showing an ugly rope burn. “Lynched, for no crime but being black !” In another crowd there was a pregnant schoolgirl with sullen eyes: “Why should I suffer?” she murmured. “It wasn’t my fault.” Far out across the plain were hundreds of such groups. Each had a complaint against God for the evil and suffering He had permitted in His world.

How lucky God was to live in Heaven, where all was sweetness and light. Where there was no weeping or fear, no hunger or hatred. What did God know of all that man had been forced to endure in this world? For God leads a pretty sheltered life, they said.

So each of these groups sent forth their leader, chosen because they had suffered the most: a Jew, a black person, someone from Hiroshima, a women who was arthritic, and others besides. In the centre of the vast plain, they consulted with each other. At last they were ready to present their case. It was rather clever: before God could be qualified to be their judge, He must endure what they had endured. Their decision was that God should be sentenced to live on earth as a man.

Let him be born a Jew.
Let the legitimacy of his birth be doubted.
Give him a work so difficult that even his family will think him out of his mind.
Let him be betrayed by his closest friends.
Let him face false charges, be tried by a prejudiced jury and convicted by a cowardly judge.
Let him be tortured.
At the last, let him see what it means to be terribly alone.
Then let him die so there can be no doubt he died.
Let there be a great host of witnesses to verify it. 

As each leader announced their portion of the sentence, loud murmurs of approval went up from the throng of people assembled. When the last had finished pronouncing sentence, there was a long silence. No one uttered a word. No one moved.

For suddenly, all knew that God had already served His sentence.

Anon