The words of the ancient Psalm¹, rise from our hearts: "I have become like a broken vessel². I hear the whispering of many - terror on every side - as they scheme together against me, as they plot to take my life. But I trust in you, O Lord: I say, 'you are my God."'

In this place of memories, the mind and heart and soul feel an extreme need for silence. Silence in which to remember. Silence in which to try to make some sense of the memories which come flooding back. Silence because there are no words strong enough to deplore³ the terrible tragedy of the Shoah.

My own personal memories are of all that happened when the Nazis⁴ occupied Poland during the war. I remember my Jewish friends and neighbours, some of whom perished, while others survived. I have come to Yad Vashem to pay homage⁵ to the millions of Jewish people who, stripped of everything, especially of human dignity, were murdered in the Holocaust⁶. More than half a century has passed, but the memories remain.

Here, as at Auschwitz and many other places in Europe, we are overcome by the echo of the heart-rending laments⁷ of so many. Men, women and children, cry out to us from the depths of the horror that they knew. How can we fail to heed⁸ their cry? No one can forget or ignore what happened. No one can diminish its scale.

We wish to remember. But we wish to remember for a purpose, namely to ensure that never again will evil prevail, as it did for the millions of innocent victims of Nazism⁹. 

How could man have such utter contempt for man? Because he had reached the point of contempt for God. Only a godless ideology¹⁰ could plan and carry out the extermination¹¹ of a whole people.

The honour given to the 'Just Gentiles' by the state of Israel at Yad Vashem for having acted heroically to save Jews, sometimes to the point of giving their own lives, is a recognition that not even in the darkest hour is every light extinguished. That is why the Psalms¹² and the entire Bible, though well aware of the human capacity for evil, also proclaims that evil will not have the last word.

Out of the depths of pain and sorrow, the believer's heart cries out: "I trust in you, O Lord: 'I say, you are my God."'

Jews and Christians¹³ share an immense spiritual patrimony¹⁴, flowing from God's self-revelation. Our religious teachings and our spiritual experience demand that we overcome evil with good. We remember, but not with any desire for vengeance¹⁵ or as an incentive¹⁶ to hatred¹⁷. For us, to remember is to pray for peace and justice, and to commit ourselves to their cause. Only a world at peace, with justice for all, can avoid repeating the mistakes and terrible crimes of the past.

As bishop¹⁸ of Rome and successor of the Apostle Peter, I assure the Jewish people that the Catholic Church, motivated by the Gospel law of truth and love, and by no political considerations, is deeply saddened by the hatred, acts of persecution¹⁹ and displays of anti-Semitism directed against the Jews by Christians at any time and in any place.

The church rejects racism²⁰ in any form as a denial of the image of the Creator inherent in every human being.

In this place of solemn remembrance, I fervently²¹ pray that our sorrow for the tragedy which the Jewish people suffered in the 20th century will lead to a new relationship between Christians and Jews. Let us build a new future in which there will be no more anti-Jewish feeling among Christians or anti-Christian feeling among Jews, but rather the mutual²² respect required of those who adore the one Creator and Lord, and look to Abraham as our common father in faith.

The world must heed the warning that comes to us from the victims of the Holocaust, and from the testimony²³ of the survivors²⁴. Here at Yad Vashem the memory lives on, and burns itself onto our souls. It makes us cry out: "I hear the whispering of many - terror on every side - but I trust in you, O Lord: I say, 'You are my God."

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