A Story About a Man

You have heard this story before.  It is a story about a man.  He is an average man in all the ways to measure except the most important.  He is a man of integrity and purpose.  He is a man of dignity and heart.  He is a man of faith, the universal faith in human equality and freedom.  He is a man of vision, a vision that allows him to speak the truth, to bring others to his cause, and to band people together against cruelty and intolerance.

Heroes are not born in times of peace.  
They are born of struggle, oppression, and violence.  This man was born into such a time.  His country that he loved, the country of his home and birth, was in the hands of men who believed that his ideas were dangerous.  They were men of power and fear. Powerful men are afraid of one thing, losing power, and they only know one way to hold it.  They know the club and the truncheon, the boot and the tank tread, the butt of a rifle and the knife in the dark.  This is how men without faith keep power, and for a long time the only way to wrest control from them was to fight on their terms.  This average, ordinary man knew different.

But he was not alone.  Power never changes quickly, or quietly, or without opposition.  It takes a movement, a seismic shift.  Only when the ground is shaken under their feet by the marching of hundreds of thousands of the faithful will they relent.  This man’s words of truth drew people to him as the sun draws out the flower.  Simple words that planted themselves in their hearts and warmed them, gave them courage.

When you’re hit in the schoolyard you have two choices; hit back or do nothing.  These are our prevailing instincts, but this man saw another option.  He saw a way to fight without hitting back, a way to retaliate against the powers-that-be without violence.  It was simply this.  Stand up.  Be counted.  Use your voice.  Fight their hate with love.  Smack down their oppression with the open hand of forgiveness.  This man, this seemingly inconsequential man, spoke to his people and gave them courage.  It fed through him from his universal faith in them.

They stood up.  They were counted.  They made their voices heard.  And a miracle happened.  It worked.  It wasn’t easy, or quick, or without tragedy, but in the end it worked.  No matter how many guns or tanks or bullets the powers had they could not withstand the wave of truth that swept them away.  And the man?  In the end he got what he wanted, freedom for his people, but it was bittersweet.  He never saw it come to fruition.  He paid the ultimate price for his words of peace and truth. 

You’ve heard this story before, but you haven’t heard this man’s name.  It is not Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  It is not Mohandas K. Gandhi, or Nelson Mandella.  This man, this average man, was a skinny Polish priest.  His name was Jerzy Popieluszko. 

This is his story.