IN 1980 THE FRENCH PRESS publishes and discusses at great length a sensational news item. No doubt to underline his philosophy, rather than his theology, of openness, Pope John Paul II has appointed a converted Jew of Polish origin as archbishop of Paris. Jean-Marie Lustiger rapidly becomes one of the most mediatized and popular personalities of France. Charming but sincere, endowed with a rare gift of communication, he has a knack for finding the right tone, not just from the heights of his cathedral pulpit but also on television, in the newspapers, and in addressing varied communities.
Interviews, declarations, commentaries—his stands on issues are well received in all kinds of circles. Academics and ministers praise his erudition; his words are quoted; the depth of his convictions is recognized and his tolerance appreciated. His trajectory is transparent, his speeches without a false note. The new prelate does not conceal his Jewish roots: On the contrary, he never fails to claim them. He repeats that his Jewish name is Aaron, that he is of the Jewish people. A proud Christian, he assumes his Jewishness, and does so without the slightest complex. In fact, he describes himself as a “fulfilled Jew,” which arouses in me—understandably—a certain uneasiness. If he, a Jew-turned-Christian, is “fulfilled,” does that mean that he is a better Jew than those who have remained Jews?
I think of the tensions and conflicts that over centuries have marked the relations between our two religions: the hateful writings of the church fathers, the massacres during the Crusades, the Inquisition, the pogroms, the public humiliations. I think of the silences of Pius XII; his intercessions with Third Reich authorities were restricted to converted Jews. Only they mattered to him. I cannot forget this deplorable aspect of Holocaust history.
I try to imagine a conversation with the archbishop. What could I tell him? What can I say to a converted Jew? And how would he respond? Sure, I know some Catholic priests. But none claims to be a Jew. I also recall my Master, Saul Lieberman, telling me about his resolve never to shake the hand of a meshumad, a renegade. On the other hand, the Talmud states that “Israel af al pi shekhata, Israel hu.” A Jew, even a sinner, remains a Jew. How is one to classify Aaron Lustiger?
“Try to meet him,” is Marion’s advice. “Then perhaps you will know.” I decide, for this special occasion, to revert to my former profession. I ask my French publisher’s press person to inform the archbishop’s secretariat that I wish to write a piece about him, perhaps for the New York Times. His reply reaches me within the hour: He will receive me, but only “off the record,” meaning not for an article. Just to meet; two Jews who wish to make acquaintance, what could be more natural? A date in March 1981 is set, since I plan to be in Paris to participate in a colloquium organized by Jack Lang for François Mitterrand, the Socialist candidate in the presidential elections.
I owe it to my Christian friends to say how I really feel. It is complex and not likely to arouse religious hope. In the past, both distant and recent, their ancestors inflicted suffering on ours because of our faith. That is a fact. But there is more. The master killers of the twentieth century, were they not all, or almost all, born in and baptized by the church? True, there were Christians who sacrificed themselves to save Jewish lives, in Italy as well as in France, Poland, and Holland. But they were so few. Then, of course, there was John XXIII, but doesn’t his humanism represent a moment of exception rather than a prevailing tendency in the Vatican’s recent history?
My own relationship to the Catholic Church? As a child, I feared it. As an adolescent, I had no reason to give it my attention. Still, I could not disregard it, for it was a time when between the Christian world and my own there existed only ties of violence and exclusion. For me, a Christian was the hostile stranger, the false avenger. “You killed Christ” was one of the insults hurled at me by my schoolmates. I didn’t understand: I hadn’t killed anyone; throughout history, Jews have been victims and not assassins. The Christians that surrounded me were wrong in believing in anti-Jewish stereotypes, and I was wrong in oversimplifying.
After the war, I discovered the complicity of the Catholic and Protestant churches, both German and Austrian, with Hitler’s regime. The documents I read about Pius XII only reinforced my distrust. François Mauriac was the first to denounce his silence. Historians were providing mostly devastating evidence. I still can’t understand why Adolf Hitler was not excommunicated. And why the Vatican or one of its agents helped Adolf Eichmann, Stangel, and Mengele escape from justice. I cannot forget that 22 percent of the SS were Catholics and that some of them regularly went to confession.
It is only when I reached adulthood that I understood the importance of dialogue between people of different religions. I understood the danger of living in a world made of stereotypes. During the war there were devout Christians who helped. I overcame my inhibitions and suspicions. Diversity—the word of the moment is pluralism—is part of the Creator’s design. If all human beings spoke the same language, dreamed of the same happiness, belonged to the same tribe practicing the same religion, the history of mankind would have been short-lived. Adam was neither Jew nor Christian, and yet he is the father of us all.
Today’s Christian is not responsible for what his ancestors did long ago. I believe that a synergy of religions is both possible and necessary, but only in total honesty. My Master, Saul Lieberman, often warned me against the adverse impact of comfort, spiritual as well as material: “Remember,” he would say, “that our people has lost many more souls through seduction than through persecution.” Our sages quote Scripture: When Esau embraced his brother Jacob, the latter began to weep. Why did he weep? Because, they answer, Jacob understood that Esau’s embrace was a trap more dangerous than his hate.
In accordance with my tradition, I wish to convert no one, just as I don’t wish anyone to convert me. A Jew’s aim is not to convert another to his faith, but to help him become more fully who he is.
Those were my thoughts on the way to the archbishop’s residence. The debate I hoped to open was at once simple and painful: Can one be Jewish and Christian at the same time? Can one continue to belong to the Jewish people while opting for another religion?
The archbishop is waiting for me. His welcome is warm but tense. What am I to him, a reminder, a reproach? And he to me? A lost, estranged brother?
He speaks kindly of my work. The encounter makes me think of the disputations of medieval times, when Jews and Christians debated the merits of their religions. Except that our meeting takes place with no audience or constraints. In medieval times the rabbi fasted on the day he went to meet the prelate, and the entire community fasted as well, as a token of solidarity.
We are alone in the drawing room, alone in the house. I dispense with preambles and go straight to the heart of the matter: “Who are you? Are you our emissary to the Christians, or theirs to us?” It is not in my nature to wound or provoke, but the tone is set. It seems to me that the archbishop has blushed. He does not respond. He speaks to me of his childhood, his secular parents, his meeting in the Latin Quarter with a student chaplain at a moment when he was yearning for spirituality, religiosity. Had he met instead with a rabbi, I might have found myself today face to face with a rabbi. I ask him searching questions on his relationship with his new faith. His evident sincerity makes him seem vulnerable and profoundly disarming. I question him about his attitude toward his people, which judges severely those who abandon their religion. I ask about his father’s reaction in March (his mother died in Auschwitz), when he attended his investiture in the crowded, illuminated cathedral. That last question elicits a smile: “He was happy … he who was not a believer was proud that his son had succeeded in his chosen religion.” I persist: “But what about your great-grandfather, who surely would have chosen death rather than kiss the cross, what would he have thought as he saw you wearing the silver cross on your chest?” Again it appears to me that he has blushed. He lowers his voice: “To me, what matters is grace; it is the only thing that matters.”
Around 1 p.m. he stands and says: “Let’s have lunch, shall we?” In truth, neither one of us feels like eating. We continue the conversation, talking about current events as well as the past. Owing to its nature, much of our exchange shall remain confidential. Again and again we come back to his ambiguous, not to say ambivalent, attitude toward Judaism. Who are the “real Jews”? Could they really be those for whom faithfulness to Moses, Isaiah, and Rabbi Yehuda Ha-Nasi is obsolete and the laws of Torah are abolished?
True, the archbishop is not the first to have converted to Christianity, but those who preceded him never claimed to be good Jews, “fulfilled” Jews. But he insists that having been born a Jew, he will die a Jew. I try to explain to him why this stand seems untenable to us; I cite laws and customs. Then I use a concrete argument: His example may well encourage those who call themselves “Jews for Jesus” and whose proselytizing takes advantage of many young people who, in the absence of any spiritual bonds, have lost their way.
Abraham had already understood that Judaism means separation and choice. One cannot belong to two religions. True, it is the same God who governs our lives, but the paths that lead to Him are different.
“And yet I feel Jewish,” the archbishop responds. “I refuse to renounce my roots, my Jewishness. How could I betray my mother’s memory? It would be cowardly. And humiliating.” He goes on to make the point that his Jewishness annoys anti-Semites and that this does not displease him. Why should he make them happy by turning his back on the people they execrate?
There is something about him that moves me. Is it his yearning for purity? Or his need to unite his Jewish past with his Christian future? I plead with him: “At least, cease defining yourself as a ‘fulfilled Jew.’”
We resolve to remain in touch, to continue our discussions. And in fact we meet often, and the friendship that binds us has become deeper. He no longer uses the formula “fulfilled Jew” but is determined to remain a son of the Jewish people. He acts accordingly; anyone who requests his assistance in defending a Jewish cause can count on his support. In fact he participates in all the battles for human rights. He is an ally of all those who militate against fanaticism and injustice wherever they are found. No matter what the risk, he raises his voice in defense of the weak, the dispossessed, the victims. With his elevation to the rank of prince of the church, his influence continues to grow.
We sometimes smile as we evoke this extraordinary trajectory. “Admit,” I say to him, “that Jewish history has a rare power of imagination.” He admits it. But does he, as I do, have a sense of the surreal when we come face to face—he, the son of Polish immigrant Jews revered by millions of Catholics, and I, the talmudic student, the Jewish chronicler? One day he may be called to assume yet greater responsibilities. He is certain that he will not. I am not so sure.
How do his peers feel about him? I know many who greatly admire him and are devoted to him. But I am told that at the annual gatherings of French bishops he appears to be something of a loner. Though he is close to the Pope, he is sometimes at odds with one or another stance of the Curia. During the scandalous affair of the Carmelite convent at Auschwitz, for example, his interventions must have raised a few eyebrows in Rome. As must his sympathy for the State of Israel, of which he is the most devoted defender inside the Catholic Church. He is a courageous, loyal man, profoundly bound to his faith but respectful of that of his father.
Our friendship will endure.
Upon publication of a book by the archbishop, I am asked to review it for Le Monde. I accept on condition that the archbishop agrees. Concerned about his reaction, I show him my article in advance. I am not prepared to modify it, but I am willing to withdraw it, if that is what he wishes. Although the article is not uncritical, he voices no objection. In the piece I speak of my great affection for him, but also of my sadness at his conversion, which has deprived the Jewish people of a great spiritual figure. I reaffirm my conviction that a Jew can only fulfill himself from within his Jewishness. Some Catholic readers found my attitude disrespectful and did not hesitate to insult and curse me in their letters, both private and public.
In the article I said:
Cardinal Lustiger disturbs. That is no secret for anyone. He disturbs the Christian extremists because he still considers himself Jewish, and he disturbs the Jews because he became a Christian. He also worries and perturbs the secularists by preaching humanism through the faith and tolerance that are part of him. Whoever heard of a priest who is both a humanist and a liberal?
And I concluded:
… And so, Cardinal Jean-Marie Lustiger and I continue to be friends and allies. He has chosen, or “God has chosen” for him, a path different from my own, but both deserve to be illuminated by the same light, for they lead to the same truth, whatever that truth may be.
What matters is that like myself, Cardinal Lustiger proclaims that God alone is alone and that God alone is God and that He is everywhere, in what unites men but also in what keeps them apart. And also that even after the coming of the Messiah, son of David, mankind will not become Jewish, but simply more human, more generous, more tolerant with one another.
In an old volume of midrashic commentaries and tales, I discovered a strange story that is said to have taken place in the Middle Ages. It is the tale of a Jewish child from Mainz, the son of Rabbi Shmuel, a wise man whose star had shone in faraway places. The boy was a prodigy, and when he was very young a priest took him from his parents and baptized him so that the church might benefit from his extraordinary intelligence. The child grew up in an atmosphere of piety and prayer and chose to become a priest and devote his life to God. Before long he was appointed bishop and was summoned to Rome, where he became secretary to the Pope and eventually succeeded him.
That is when he received a touching letter from the old priest in Mainz, requesting, at the end of a long life of devotion, to be appointed bishop. He argued that, after all, it was he, the humble country priest, who was ultimately responsible for his having risen to wear the papal tiara. He also told him the truth about his origins.
The Pope answered immediately: Yes, he would name him bishop. But first he was requested to inform the Jewish community that beginning immediately, all circumcisions and observances of Shabbat would be prohibited except if a delegation of scholars were to come to Rome to convince him, the Pope, that his decrees were unjust. And he insisted that Rabbi Shmuel be part of that delegation.
Rabbi Shmuel and his colleagues remained at the Vatican three days. They explained certain biblical laws to the Pope, who declared himself satisfied and immediately voided his decrees. When the time came for the delegates to take their leave, the Pope asked Rabbi Shmuel to postpone his departure by a few days so that they might discuss a topic related to the Kabbalah. Once they were alone, the Pope revealed his true identity to the visitor. Father and son embraced, never to leave each other.
I tell the Jewish cardinal this legend. He listens intently, without comment. I add that there are several versions circulating regarding the end of this strange Pope. Some say that he returned to Mainz, where he lived out his life as a good Jew. Others say that, fearing reprisal from the Christians, he had to go underground. Yet another story has it that he was assassinated.
One day on the telephone, my friend the cardinal addresses me with the familiar tu. I wonder if I’ve heard right. And I don’t know how to respond. That a prince of the church should address me in this manner strikes me as strange; but for a Jew like me to answer him in kind seems even more so. Using caution, I speak indirectly in a sequence of awkward circumlocutions. In the end I confess my embarrassment; he insists this is how he wants it. And so, during a television program moderated by Frédéric Mitterrand (the president’s nephew), we both eschew the formal vous, something that is not customary on television. “It would not be natural,” is the cardinal’s answer to my expressions of doubt. Repeated several times, the program reaches a sizable audience. The most beautiful compliment on it came from the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, first by way of the journalist Shlomo Malka, then in person: “It was kiddush hashem—you sanctified the Lord’s name.” In friendship, too, all is mystery for those who believe.
Our friendship endures. When fanatics in Israel insult him, I call to tell him how much it pains me. We often consult each other when confronted with problems related to Judeo-Christian relations.
One morning in 1987, I receive an invitation from the Vatican to meet the Pope. It comes at a time when the Jewish world is in an uproar over the Waldheim affair. It is my position that the leader of the Catholic Church should not have received the Austrian president, a former Nazi—in any case, not with such warmth.
Still, the cardinal encourages me to accept: “The Holy Father knows your work.” John Cardinal O’Connor of New York shares his view: A conversation between the Pope and me could be useful. The Vatican’s influential Cardinal Casaroli, whom I meet “somewhere” in Manhattan to avoid media attention, also agrees. I tell him that I am ready to go to the Vatican, but for a conversation, not an audience. Also, I would like it to be totally private and without strict time limits. My most important condition is that there be no publicity. Cardinal Casaroli tells me that he must consult Rome.
Eventually, I receive an affirmative response. I begin to prepare, which for me means reviewing as much as I can of all that is known of Judeo-Christian dialogue since the birth of Christianity and the first debates between talmudic sages and members of the new sect. I study the arguments of Flavius Josephus against Apion and those, in the twelfth century, of Rabbi Joseph Kamhi of Narbonne, the disputations between Nahmanides and a supposedly erudite convert in the cathedral of Barcelona. The sources are rich and varied. I uncover corroborations as I compare ancient and modern texts. Finally, in August, I am ready.
That is when the New York Times announces my upcoming meeting with the head of the Catholic Church. Who is responsible for the leak? I am told that someone at the Vatican wanted to sabotage the encounter. True or not, the meeting that was intended to be private loses all meaning as it risks turning into a media spectacle. Journalists start calling, asking for interviews. Many of them insist on accompanying me to Rome. I begin to have serious doubts; better to give up the project or at least postpone it.
And all during this time, a number of rabbis are calling me frantically. It seems they have obtained an “audience” with the Pope, to take place one week after my “conversation;” the nuance is significant, and they worry that for the press my visit will overshadow theirs. When I inform them of my decision not to go to the Vatican, they are overjoyed.
In truth, the Pope has troubled me for a long time. I reproached him for his first speech at Auschwitz, in which he never once used the word “Jew.” He then went on to celebrate a mass for the victims, all victims. Why did he not invite a rabbi and nine more Jews to recite Kaddish for the murdered Jews? Did he really believe that a Christian mass was the appropriate prayer to honor their memory?
Soon thereafter he came to the U.N. Once again he disappointed me. Israel was not mentioned in his address.
And yet.
As I record these memories I must admit that recently I have been pleasantly surprised by the Pope. Has he changed, or have I? I see him as more open, more tolerant. His visit to the synagogue in Rome, the concert in the Vatican commemorating the Holocaust, his warnings against anti-Semitism and, most important, his decision, however belated, to open diplomatic relations with Israel. It may well be that Jewish history will remember him as a benevolent and merciful Pope.
Sometimes it seems astonishing, not to say miraculous, when non-Jews understand the nature and intensity of Jewish anguish of the past and Jewish hope for the future. Some would like to understand. Some actually do.
The question is: Can one erase two thousand years of suspicion and persecution endured under the shadow of the cross? The answer is no, one cannot; nor should one. Only if we forget nothing shall we succeed in abolishing what divides us. Cardinal Lustiger knows this.
And I am his friend.