Lyon
September 6, 1942
The cardinal arrived at the church and took his place on the throne. That morning the nave was full to bursting. Nazi occupation had a direct impact on the people: the reigning uncertainty had become a great ally to the faith, or at least to gullibility.
When the deacon took the address from the cardinal’s outstretched hand, Gerlier held his breath. He was deeply concerned about how the people would react. At the end of the day, the people were the only ones with the power to end the tyrannies of men.
The deacon cleared his throat before reading, seemingly aware that this was a pivotal moment in his life and career. History was about to be made.
“‘The deportation measures currently being carried out against the Jews lead to scenes throughout our region that are so painful that we have the imperative and painful duty to voice the protest of our conscience. We are witnessing the cruel breakup of families from whom none are spared, neither due to age, weakness, nor illness. The heart aches at the thought of the treatment suffered by thousands of human beings and aches still more so thinking of the treatment they are yet to face.
“‘We do not forget that the French authorities have a problem to solve, and we can appreciate the difficulties the government faces.
“‘But who could reproach the church for, in this dark hour and in the face of that what is imposed on us, clearly and loudly affirming the inalienable rights of the human person, the sacred nature of family ties, the inviolable right to sanctuary, and the imperious demands of charity made by Christ to be the distinctive mark of his disciples? It is the honor of Christian civilization, and should be the honor of France, to never abandon such principles.
“‘It is not on violence and hatred that we can build the new order. We will only build it, and peace along with it, on the respect for justice, on the beneficial union of minds and hearts, to which the great voice of the marshal calls us, and through which the centuries-old prestige of our homeland will flourish once again.
“‘May Our Lady of Fourvière help us hasten its return!’”
A long, uncomfortable silence followed the reading. Eventually a well-dressed man toward the front stood up and started clapping. A frumpy-looking woman a few rows away joined him, and within seconds the entire congregation was on its feet giving an ovation to their pastor, Cardinal Gerlier.
He stood, too, and approached the pulpit. As he spoke, the crowd of the faithful quieted and took their seats again.
“The wise Solomon says that there is a time to speak and a time to remain silent, a time for war and a time for peace, a time to scatter and a time to gather. There is a time for everything. Today it is time to shout to the four winds from all the parishes of France that what makes us great is our love for truth and justice. The church has often erred by attempting to impose its creed on others; it has erred when it has attacked the Jewish people, who are God’s chosen people through whom the Messiah and Savior of our souls came. It is time for men and women, children and adults, poor and rich—all of God’s children—to refuse to collaborate with evil. It is time to ask those who rule over us not to make us choose between our conscience and their unjust laws, between good and evil, because we will choose to follow our conscience and will choose the good.”
The people got to their feet once again. It had been a very long time since they heard such valiant words, words that put love before hatred, honor before the cowardice into which the French government had sunk. Tears on many faces bore witness to how deeply the cardinal’s message moved them. It was a message to reconnect France with its soul. The cardinal continued.
“We ask the government of Marshal Pétain to return to the path of the right and the good. If not, it will be judged by history and by the supreme tribunal, which will serve justice to each man and woman for the good and evil they have done or allowed in this world. The court of God brooks no appeals, and we will all give defense in it. We cannot look away, nor do we wish to. The children of France are our children. Their innocent faces will not see the camps of Germany; they will not succumb to the ignominious curse of hatred that besieges Europe. Leave the children in peace! Jesus told the children to come to him because the kingdom of heaven belongs to them, and no one can be saved without first becoming like a child. The authorities want to rob us of France’s greatest treasure, a treasure to which nothing in the Louvre, the halls of Versailles, or any of our towns compares: it is the treasure of our freedom and brotherhood. Yet since these are intangible, they can never be taken from us, though our very lives be destroyed. We are not afraid of the authorities. We fear only what can take eternal life from us, but the authorities can do nothing against the reign of peace, love, and truth.”
The cardinal was drenched with sweat when he stepped away from the pulpit. He staggered to his throne, and a priest helped him settle into the seat. Then he looked up and saw the enlivened congregation. It had been quite some time since the French had felt proud of being French. The cardinal had returned some of their dignity to them. With that, he intuited something had changed. He wondered if it might be the beginning of the end. It may yet require time and blood, but the Germans and their accomplices had at least suffered a sizable moral defeat.