BY STACY ST. CLAIR
PHOTOGRAPHS BY BRIAN HILL

The Rev. Janusz Mekarski hears confession from 14-year-old Agnes Waclaw of Aurora in the hallway of Montini Catholic High School, which doubles as a place of worship for the Divine Mercy Polish Mission. Mekarski, from Szczecin, Poland, spent the past year serving Mission parishioners in Lombard.

SZCZECIN, Poland - The Rev. Janusz Mekarski understood the challenge long before he landed in America.

He had to build a church.

But not just any church.

A large $3.9 million Catholic sanctuary that would serve suburban Chicago's burgeoning Polish population.

Mekarski considered the job more than a religious obligation. It was a cultural debt, an opportunity to save immigrant families from what he describes as a liberal American church and the pitfalls of capitalism.

He had done it before, in this Polish fishing town near the Baltic Sea. He and his fellow priests outwitted poverty and consumerism to revive a rundown sanctuary riddled with bullet holes from World War II.

Mekarski relied heavily - in both Szczecin and Lombard - on one of the most enduring tenets of Polish faith: Despite deprivation and persecution, Catholic tradition perseveres.

"The more someone tries to take away our religion," he says, "the more we cling to it."

Mekarski has been back from Lombard for less than a month when yet another project to improve the impoverished Holy Ghost parish in Szczecin begins. Masons are setting the bricks for a new courtyard.

The priest stops to watch the workers as he goes out for an afternoon walk. He nods in their direction and points proudly at the circular design.

When they finish, Mekarski will have a $10,000 courtyard in front of his 100-year-old church. It'll go beautifully with the new altar and refurbished pews inside.

He has no plans, however, to fill the bullet holes in the walls, scars from World War II. He likes parishioners to stare at them, poke their fingers inside and remember how much this church has survived.

As they reflect on the country's trying history, Mekarski wants them to stand in a superlative courtyard. The masonry work, which cost more than most parishioners make in a year, will be his testament to the Catholic Church's triumph over adversity.

The bricks were a major fund-raising project for parishioners, most of whom make less than $6,000 a year and live in public housing. They spent months dropping 50-cent donations into the collection plate, money that could have been used to buy two loaves of bread.

The priests say they never demanded the money, never shook down parishioners for donations. They trusted the parish, in keeping with centuries-old Polish tradition, would make the Catholic Church a priority.

"We would never ask them for a certain donation amount," Mekarski said. "We know these people are poor."

Mekarski knew financial obstacles also existed when he agreed to go to DuPage County to minister to Polish immigrants. As part of his 10-month stay, he would help build a church for the growing number of Poles foregoing traditional Chicago neighborhoods for the suburbs.

The Rev. Janusz Mekarski passes in front of Holy Ghost Catholic Church, which is in the midst of a $10,000 courtyard renovation.

Divine Mercy Polish Mission plans to build a $3.9 million sanctuary near Lombard. Though the Joliet Diocese will help secure a low-interest loan, the congregation must have a two-thirds down payment before it can begin building.

So far, they've reached only 15 percent of their goal. They still have another $3.3 million to raise.

It's a daunting task, but a necessary one for the mission's 440 families. Living in a foreign land without a religious and cultural touchstone would make the arduous immigration process even tougher, members say.

Anna Czynska, 80, gave up much of her Old World comforts when she moved to Glen Ellyn from Chicago four decades ago.

Her new town had only three Polish-born families, one Polish restaurant and absolutely no Polish Masses.

She and her husband, who had immigrated to the United States a few years earlier, willingly surrendered the compatriots and the delicacies of their old South Side neighborhood. But they refused to sacrifice services in their native tongue.

They drove into Chicago each Sunday for Mass, reciting prayers they learned as children in Warsaw.

"It's important to me," Czynska says in perfect English, "because when I speak to God, I always speak in Polish."

The trek began to wear on Czynska, a working mother who wanted a parish closer to home. She and a half-dozen other suburban families met at a Villa Park restaurant and decided to do something about it.

In 1977, they received the bishop's blessing to open the Divine Mercy Polish Mission in Lombard.

The first major challenge was finding a home. Three decades later, it's an obstacle that still haunts the ever-growing flock.

The mission is now trying to build a church after 27 years of worshipping in high school gyms and chapels.

The new sanctuary will seat 700 people, giving worshippers much-needed elbow room. Masses currently are said in the Montini High School auditorium, which no longer can hold the growing congregation.

The services have become so popular, overflow crowds regularly spill into a hallway filled with sports trophies and prom fliers. After Mass, volunteers dismantle and store religious supplies in a locker.

"As you can see," the Rev. Adam Bobola says as worshippers clog the hallways after the mid-morning service, "we need our own church."

Church members have raised money through special collections and fund-raising events. Many parishioners, however, are middle-class immigrants who can't afford to write a big check to the building fund.

Instead, they donate their time and talents to the project. They cleared the construction site on their own, chopping down trees and moving brush.

"These people give what they can. They are young families, young people," Mekarski said. "They are still trying to raise themselves up."

The mission - a Catholic term for an exploratory congregation that has not yet become an official parish - has become a social outlet for many of the families. Their kids attend the same Polish school, where they learn the history of their motherland and study the language.

There are social clubs and activities, all run by parents. The Polish Boy and Girl Scouts also have church-based troops.

"Our homes and our lives are in the suburbs," said Barbara Musial, an Addison resident who runs the Polish school. "Families want a way to keep the culture alive closer to their homes."

That includes having a priest they can regularly talk to. During Mekarski's stay in Lombard, hundreds of parishioners went to him for help. Some asked him to bless their homes, others wanted him to mention a sick relative's name during Mass.

It was important, Mekarski says, that they make the extremely personal requests in their native tongue.

"It's tradition," says the 70-year-old priest, who retired in July. "When you lose language and religion, you lose everything."

Without the trappings of Polish Catholicism, Mekarski worries immigrants will join U.S. parishes and become like the American Catholics for whom he holds little esteem.

He fears they'll grow lax in their religious beliefs and question the church's authority on issues like birth control, abortion and homosexuality.

"It seems that religion has generally lost its spiritual character (in the United States)," he says.

Mekarski's hard-line positions reflect a culture that integrates its faith with more fervor than most European nations. More than 95 percent of the country has been baptized Catholic. Only Italy, with a 97 percent baptism rate, has more followers per capita.

Poland ordains more priests than any nation in the world. And only Ireland, India and the Philippines have more active foreign-born priests working in the United States, according to the latest figures provided by Georgetown University's Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate.

The country has identified itself with Catholicism for more than 1,000 years. Even as wars and occupations have erased Poland's borders and killed its people, Polish faith persevered.

Their religious resilience, for example, was tested on Sept. 1, 1939, when German tanks rolled in from the west to signal Poland's inclusion in World War II. Seventeen days later, Soviet troops attacked from the east.

Divine Mercy Polish Mission also runs a weekend school where 750 children learn the Polish language and history. Earlier this year, it honored high school seniors with a graduation ceremony during Sunday Mass.

The country was under total occupation as Poles struggled through atrocities such as genocide and ethnic cleansing. Mekarski's father died in the Katyn massacre, in which the Soviet Army killed 4,000 Polish military officers and buried them in mass graves.

When the war ended in 1945, political tensions prevented him from finding out what happened to his father.

Yet the tragedy did nothing to shake Mekarski's faith. If anything, his ordeal made it stronger. A few years after his father's death, he entered the seminary and became a priest.

"Poles are like springs," he said. "The more you try to push us away from our religion, the stronger we bounce back to it."

When the war ended, the Soviet Union dropped the Iron Curtain and discouraged religious worship in accordance with Communist philosophy.

Since the Catholic Church was one of the only institutions to own its own property, government officials regularly checked collection plates to make sure the church wasn't profiting from its parishioners.

Religion also was outlawed in the public school system, forcing churches to teach religion classes. Catholic priests railed against the Communist regime from the pulpit, brazenly predicting its collapse.

Mekarski ridiculed the Soviet Union, often telling jokes about Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev and U.S. President John Kennedy during Mass.

Khrushchev, without exception, was the butt of every joke. Kennedy, the capitalist Catholic, was the forever hero.

"Some of the jokes were pretty bad," he says. "We used Mass to express our views."

After Communism's fall in 1989, Catholicism seemingly replaced it as a governing philosophy. Religious education is now mandated in public schools and practices forbidden by the Church, such as abortion, have been similarly outlawed by the state.

As the Church shifted from a political refuge to a freely accepted institution, Poles began to turn away. Though 95 percent of the country has been baptized, only 75 percent practice the religion regularly.

Mekarski has seen the changes in his home parish. When he first arrived in 1978, there were more than 200 children in the First Communion class. Today, there are only 80.

He sees attendance at Sunday Mass dwindling as the neighborhood around him has grown. Even the basilica where Pope John Paul II was baptized has an Adidas billboard plastered across the square.

"When there's a materialist culture it drives people away from the church," Mekarski said. "They tend to say, ŒOh, the Lord isn't going anywhere.' But it depends on who we're talking about; stronger personalities won't be affected."

He tried to draw them back into the parish, raising more than $60,000 to refurbish the church and make it a point of pride in the run-down community. He succeeded in getting the poorer members to donate money and remain in the fold.

The fishermen, the neighborhood's wealthiest residents, have rejected his overtures. Mekarski says they would rather be netting their fortunes on Sunday morning than attending Mass.

"Materialism blinds people to what's important," he says. "It's like that all over the world."

As priests address a declining membership in Poland, several religious orders are now working to ensure Polish immigrants in the United States maintain their Catholic roots. Their work is particularly important in the Chicago area, where 50 percent of Polish immigrants are leaving the old neighborhoods - and therefore the traditional Polish parishes - for the suburbs.

To deal with the suburban migration, the Joliet and Rockford dioceses have established informal relationships with missionary priests.

Anna Czynska of Glen Ellyn leads a rosary prayer session in the rectory of the Divine Mercy Polish Mission in Lombard. Divine Mercy parishioners hope one day to build a $3.9 million church nearby.

The priests usually are provided by either the Archdiocese of Chicago or religious groups such as the Society of Christ. The Polish order, known as the Chrystusowcy, is charged with helping Poles worldwide.

The order recently purchased 3 acres next to Divine Mercy's Lombard site and is considering moving its U.S. headquarters there. In the mission's case, the priests are left to carry on their work without much diocesan involvement.

Both Mekarski and Bobola, for example, were assigned to DuPage County to help build a church. Mekarski also believes he was sent to ensure the resettled Poles remain true to their religion and culture.

As he recites the temptations of immigrants, his thoughts drift back to the Lombard mission. He pictures the half-dozen altar boys available for each Mass and the youth choir on hand to sing Polish hymns. He sees the fathers and their teenage sons clearing brush at the construction site.

And he thinks maybe these migrant souls haven't been lost after all.

Maybe the Church - one practiced in their language and steeped in their traditions - will continue to offer them comfort and inspiration 4,600 miles from their homeland.

"Maybe they'll want this for their children, too," he said. "God willing."

Daily Herald Staff Writer Jack Komperda contributed to this report.

Continue: Religious needs shift as Poles migrate from city neighborhoods to the suburbs