I ran into a little trouble getting to the Lagiewniki Sanctuary, otherwise known as the Basilica of the Divine Mercy, in Krakow’s Lagiewniki district. Every Pole I met suggested a different route and almost no one knew how to get there by train.

Of all of the countries in which I’ve traveled, Poland wins every possible award for warmth and hospitality. If you’re lost on a Polish street, just open a map. Poles will flock around you with offers of help. At times I would have sworn they were being paid by their local chambers of commerce to give foreigners a good first impression. But Poles really are that friendly.

And the trains really are that confusing and unreliable, even to the locals.

Anyway, I finally got directions and made my way to Lagiewniki (pronounced wag-yev-NEE-kee).

I found the structure’s postmodern architecture a bit off-putting, especially after admiring the magnificent medieval buildings I’d seen throughout Krakow on my way here. I later learned that the Polish people had the same difficultly accepting the design. Like them, I put aside my reservations as I remembered whose precious body is inside.

I slipped into the basilica and was amazed at the crowds. Like all Polish churches, this one was packed. My Polish is limited to “Hello,” “How much is this?” and “Where’s the bathroom?” but, as I considered the scene before me, I gathered that Mass had just begun. Such timing! St. Faustina Kowalska, whose sanctity permeates this place built in her honor, must have been praying for my arrival. I found a free seat and settled in.

The original Divine Mercy painting St. Faustina commissioned hangs above the altar. Like millions of other Catholics, I had seen reproductions of the image. But I found the original overwhelming. I was mesmerized by it. This modern icon of the Lord’s grace depicts Christ as he appeared in a vision to the Polish mystic in 1931. Red and white beams of light issue from his heart. Beneath is St. Faustina’s simple prayer: Jezu Ufam Tobie (“Jesus, I trust in you”).

I don’t speak Polish and the Holy Spirit hadn’t bestowed upon me the gift of tongues just for this occasion. So, throughout Mass, I concentrated on the image of the risen Christ, whose wounds are signs of the Passion through which we might all be healed, sanctified and saved. There is a holiness and warmth about this image that defies description.

‘Ocean of Graces’

Pope John Paul II surprised many on April 30, 2000, when he instituted the feast of Divine Mercy on the occasion of St. Faustina’s canonization. The first Sunday after Easter is now Divine Mercy Sunday. This was done in response to one of Christ’s admonitions to St. Faustina, recorded in her diary. She wrote that Jesus told her:

“I desire that the Feast of Mercy be a refuge and shelter for all souls and especially for poor sinners. On this day the very depths of my tender mercy are open. I pour out a whole ocean of graces upon those souls who approach the fount of my mercy.”

John Paul also decreed a plenary indulgence for those who attend Mass and receive the sacraments of reconciliation and Eucharist on this day, and who dedicate themselves to personal acts of mercy toward others. The indulgence is based on an entry in St. Faustina’s diary stating that the faithful who celebrate this devotion are assured by Jesus of the full remission of their sins.

After Mass, I visited the relics of St. Faustina, which are housed immediately below the Divine Mercy painting. There I offered my prayers. I looked up at the painting once again and remembered a reference in the saint’s diary:

“My mercy is so great that no mind, be it of man or of angel, will be able to fathom it throughout all eternity. Everything that exists has come forth from the very depths of my most tender mercy.”

I stepped out into a beautiful, sunny day and walked over to a tiny chapel used by the Congregation of the Sisters of the Virgin of Mercy. When Pope John Paul II was a young worker at the Solvay factory, situated only 300 feet away from the basilica, he used to pray in this chapel. No wonder he went on to develop a strong devotion to St. Faustina and the Divine Mercy.

I sat in the silence of the chapel and prayed the Divine Mercy chaplet. A beautiful sense of calm overtook and refreshed me.

Later, when I stepped back outside, I found a flurry of children in their first Communion finery posing for photos. Each new communicant was surrounded by doting parents and other family members. (If you want to find grandparents in Poland, look for children. The two go together like kielbasa and babka.)

I stopped to admire the scene and, suddenly, found myself putting two and two together. The key to accepting Christ’s Divine Mercy, I realized, is humility.

When the apostles asked Jesus who is the greatest in the Kingdom of heaven, probably arguing among themselves over the right answer, the Lord called a small child to stand in front of them. “Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the Kingdom of heaven,” Jesus told them. “Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the Kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3-4).

Mercy, even incomprehensible, all-encompassing Divine Mercy can only work its effect on our souls if we humble ourselves before its source. When we realize we aren’t in control, accept our place in the universe, willingly and gladly forgive others and rejoice in God’s Fatherhood, we can be saved by Christ’s mercy.

Watching the jubilant scene before me, I realized that thinking this thought would be the easiest thing that I would undertake that day. I had to go forth and live Divine Mercy, not just cogitate on it.

Meanwhile the hardest part of the day still lay before me. I still had to negotiate the Polish rail system to see more of Krakow and get back to my hotel. St. Faustina, keep praying for me!

Angelo Stagnaro is based in
New York City.