The earth did not move from its foundations when St Maximilian Kolbe died. Everyone else in the bunker had already died, so it only remained for the guards to inject him with carbolic acid, wait for him to die, then remove his body and burn it. End of story. Just one more death at Auschwitz, one more inconvenient opponent of the Nazi regime disposed of. With time, one might expect all the singularities of this man to be forgotten along with the manner of his death; but it proved not to be so. Today we recall his devotion to Our Lady, his championing of the latest and best technology in promoting his religious ideals, and, above all, his volunteering to die in the place of a stranger. In other words, that apparently hidden death is not forgotten, is not meaningless.
Many people struggle with the idea of death, with the sense of loss, especially if the death is of someone young or someone we love. Glib words about uniting our own death with the death of Jesus on the Cross tend to remain just that — glib words — unless or until we are given grace to see the love that lies behind the loss. In the case of St Maximilian, we tend to focus on his extraordinary power of love and self-sacrifice, but perhaps we should look at the love that drew him, the love of the Lord for him that enabled him to do what he did. His death was not an act of bravado, at its deepest level perhaps not even a response to God as we commonly understand that term, but acceptance of God’s invitation to be fashioned into an icon of his beloved Son. The initiative remains God’s always, and neither bang nor whimper quite fit; nor can death, with its promise of being united eternally with One who has loved us from the beginning, ever be meaningless.
Thank you for your prayers and good wishes. I am getting over the latest chemotherapy and can now see with both eyes, though it will take a few days longer for them to co-ordinate properly.