Bishop J. Peter Sartain delivered this homily on the day of Pope John Paul II’s funeral April 8, at the Cathedral of St. Andrew.

In the early 1920s, the cobbled streets of Wadowice echoed with the soft young voice of a mother calling her son. “Karol … Karol … Karol …” It was time to come home, time to come inside, time to go to bed, time for prayers. How Karol cherished the way she called him, the family that embraced him, the father and brother who made his family complete. He would hear his mother’s sweet voice calling his name only until he was 9 years old, the year of her death.
Later he would remember in poetry his own voice responding to hers on those Wadowice streets:
My place flows by in memory. The silence
of those distant streets does not pass away,
held up in space like glass which limpid eyes
break into sapphire and light. Nearest
are the child’s words on which silence takes wing:
Mamma — mamma —
then silence falls again into the same streets,
an invisible bird.
There I have returned many a time to memories …
(“First Moment of the Glorified Body”)
It would be only three years later that he would lose his brother, 11 years later that he would lose his father, and then be alone. Alone? It is said that he knelt 12 hours in prayer the night his father died.
Karol Józef Wojtyla was planted firmly in the earth, in a country, in an age, and in a beloved family. The circumstances of his life determined, by the grace of God, who he was and who he was to be. He never forgot who had given him birth or who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him as fellow countrymen and women. More significantly, he never forgot that it was God who strengthened him in difficulty, God who showed him the “why” of his life, God who brought his life to flower. Faith had taken root in Karol at a young age, just as he had taken root in Poland. The two were inseparably joined in him, and both made him strong.
Karol was a man of the 20th century. Formed by the personal circumstances of his family, as others of his time had been formed, he knew poverty and loss. Molded by political forces beyond his control, gathered into a brotherhood longing for freedom, he knew oppression and tyranny. Sculpted by steadfast Catholic faith in Jesus Christ, and gifted with ears and eyes and heart for the things of God, he listened hopefully and confidently for a word from God. He rested peacefully in the compassionate heart of the Mother of God and put everything in her hands at the foot of the cross.
At an early age, God had planted in him the capacity to read the signs of the times, to suffer the aches of his sisters and brothers. He longed — intensely — for something better; he hoped — fiercely — that God would have his way; he loved — deeply — whoever had want; he believed – bravely — in a time and place where faith was not allowed. He grew, strong and graceful, as an eagle.
By grace he heard God’s call to be a priest, to love with all his heart the family God entrusted to him. Love them he did, calling their names in the streets of Krakow, listening as they called his in return. “Uncle,” they nicknamed him at his suggestion, and he smiled to think they were responding to God’s love. Thus it continued, the flowering of Poland’s son, and he was ordained a bishop of the Church.
At the Second Vatican Council, he looked down at the marble floor of St. Peter’s Basilica and remembered how he had lain prostrate on just such a floor at his ordination to the priesthood, a humble sign of his complete willingness to undertake the ministry. Again he expressed himself in poetry.
Peter, you are the floor, that others
may walk over you … not knowing
where they go. You guide their steps …
You want to serve their feet that pass
as rock serves the hooves of sheep. The rock is a gigantic temple floor,
the cross a pasture.
(“Marble Floor,” 1962)
He did not know that 16 years later he would take the place of Peter and become a rock for the sheep he was to feed and tend at the Lord’s behest. He explained the poem in his own words: “In lying prostrate on the floor in the form of a cross before one’s ordination, in accepting in one’s life — like Peter — the cross of Christ and becoming with the Apostle a ’floor’ for our brothers and sisters, one finds the ultimate meaning of all priestly spirituality.” (“Gift and Mystery,” pp. 45-46)
The cobbled streets of Wadowice and Krakow had once been filled with the echoes of his conversation and his prayer, but after 1978 the streets of all the earth would be paved with his Peter-like strength — the cross of Christ on his shoulders so that we could walk sure-footed in hope. The years of his pontificate were filled with clear words of Catholic teaching, courageous solidarity with the oppressed and poor, a common touch that touched us all, a youthful smile that inspired the young to follow Jesus, a hope that cancels fear.
Have you marveled at the pictures of those Roman streets swelling beyond capacity with the family that has come to bid him farewell? Have you noticed how they all — how we all — think of him as uncle, as father? Did you see the leaders of religions and nations who came to honor him? Have you realized that it is not just him we loved but most especially Christ in him? It was Christ who brought him to flower.
Less than a year ago, he wrote:
“The bishop is the sign of Christ’s presence in the world, going out to meet men and women where they are: calling them by name, helping them to rise, consoling them with the Good News and gathering them into one around the Lord’s Table … He becomes for these people a sign that their isolation is ended, because he brings them into fellowship with Christ …” (“Rise, Let Us Be On Our Way,” p. 157)
It is clear to me that the worldwide family members of Pope John Paul II who have packed the streets of Rome these past few days were drawn by Christ … whether they realized it or not. You and I must not fail to see that these millions were drawn by Christ, to Christ in John Paul II.
This man of the 20th century allowed himself to be so completely transformed by the Gospel that in him we saw the face of Christ. Billions throughout the world responded in respect, love, and faith. But make no mistake — even if they did not realize it, they were being drawn to Christ. That says something extremely important to you and me about the richness of our Catholic faith and about what Christ wants to do in and through us. We must not squander the extraordinary outpouring of grace springing from the life and death of John Paul II.
On the evening of Saturday, April 2, a different voice called out a familiar name. “Karol … Karol … Karol,” said the archbishop after the Holy Father died. But he received no response, so the announcement was made to the world that Karol Wojtyla had returned to the home of his Father. His voice still echoes through the streets of Wadowice, Krakow, Gdansk, Nova Huta, Mexico City, New York, Nairobi, Toronto, Paris, Denver, Jerusalem and Rome, calling us by name, reminding us that we are not alone, and bidding us to come home. The songs sung in those very streets, paved in stone and marble and the rock that is Peter, blend into one chorus of praise to Christ, the Redeemer of the world, who made Karol Józef Wojtyla who he was.
Do you have an intention for Bishop Sartain’s prayer? If so, send it to him at Bishop Sartain’s Prayer List, Diocese of Little Rock, 2500 North Tyler St., P.O. Box 7239, Little Rock, AR 72217.