Growing up during the pontificate of John Paul II, it was easy to fall in love with the figure of the pope. His warm, sincere smile, his grandfatherly presence, his constant words of encouragement, and his admonitions to create a culture of life were all extremely attractive to a young, conservative Catholic like me.
My pastor, a kind, elderly man (may he rest in peace) who incorporated great reverence into his Masses at an otherwise run-of-the-mill post-conciliar parish, sent me to World Youth Day with John Paul II in Denver in 1993. Not so secretly, he hoped that I — one of his head altar boys — would be a priest. (He used to ask me if I liked ice cream. If I said yes, he would smile and say it was a sign I had a vocation.)
My experience in Denver was eye opening, and not in the way Father hoped. It was the first time I came face to face with how distorted post-conciliar Catholicism had become, and I‘ve written about the experience at some length. But even so, I couldn’t even conceive of blaming it on John Paul II. I just figured it was the fault of the organizers of the event.