We were stunned by his words, but less than two years later, we did, in fact, open a house in the heart of Paris. For the next twenty years, an essential part of our call in that house was to pray and fast for the Church of Paris and for its cardinal archbishop.

Much has been written recently, especially in Europe, about Cardinal Lustiger, retired archbishop of Paris, since his death from bone cancer on August 5, 2007.

Born in Paris in 1926, the son of Polish-Jewish immigrants to France, he was baptized into the Catholic Church at age 14 during World War II. His mother died at Auschwitz.

Ordained a priest in 1952, he served as chaplain at the Sorbonne, and then for ten years as pastor at a Parisian parish. In 1979, Pope John Paul II appointed him bishop of Orléans and 14 months later, archbishop of Paris.

For almost a quarter of a century, Lustiger served the Church in Paris and in France, developing a seminary, a theological school for laypeople, and a diocesan radio station.

He raised up a whole generation of priests who bore the stamp of his own theological orthodoxy, love of prayer, concern for evangelism, and intellectual rigour.

Like the pope, he believed the Church had a message of life for modern man and worked tirelessly to convey it.

Considered an apostate by some of the Jewish community, and a heretic by some Catholic traditionalists, he himself saw his Christian faith as the fulfillment of his Judaism.

Before his death, he asked that the commemorative plaque to be placed in Notre-Dame Cathedral read: "I was born a Jew. I received the name of my paternal grandfather, Aaron. Having become a Christian by faith and baptism, I have remained Jewish. As did the Apostles."

Catherine Doherty had a tremendous love for the Jewish people. In 1980, she had a dream that God was holding a crown over the head of a Jewish bishop, saying to him, "I will place you over great things."

She had no idea to whom the dream referred, but some months later, Theresa Davis, who was in France exploring the possibility of a Madonna House foundation there, wrote to Catherine about her encounter with the Jewish-born bishop of Orléans.

Lustiger had read Poustinia and very much wanted to meet its author. Since Catherine was already planning to visit France, the meeting was easily arranged. It took place, however, not in Orléans, but in Paris, where Jean-Marie Lustiger had just been appointed archbishop.

For both, it was a deeply moving encounter. When Catherine recounted her dream, a shock went through him. "God has sent you," he told her.

Shaken by misunderstandings and attacks from both Jewish and Catholic communities, Lustiger had begun to wonder if he had been right to accept the controversial appointment. "You have confirmed me in my decision," he said.

"I will pray for you as I have never prayed for anyone," Catherine promised. In the months before her death in 1985, his name was often on her lips. When Lustiger, now a cardinal, learned of this, his emotion was evident.

Celebrating a memorial Mass for Catherine in Paris, he recalled their meeting.

"It was a visit filled with joy and grace," he said, "and for me it was a great source of strength, for she assured me of her prayers and of the prayers of all those who, with her and like her, were offering their lives for the kingdom of God.

"I have always had the feeling that she was one of those women and men…who were like the inner heartbeat of the Church for the fulfillment of its mission."

Catherine would have liked us to have settled in Paris, and Lustiger would have liked to have invited us. However, it was too early—he was still getting his bearings in the diocese—and the decision was made to open the house in Avignon, in the south.

In July 1981, Réjeanne George and I stopped in Paris on our way to join Theresa Davis in Avignon.

A Jewish-Christian friend there had obtained for us an invitation to a private Mass at the archbishop’s residence.

As a Jewish-Christian, I already felt a deep identification with him and a personal call to carry him in prayer. As Réjeanne and I crossed the city on foot that day, I could hardly contain my emotion.

Arriving at his residence, we waited while Archbishop Lustiger finished talking with journalists. When he finally entered the room, he greeted us warmly and recalled his meeting with Catherine. Apologetically he told us we would have to begin Mass right away as he had another engagement afterwards. I was sure he realized I was Jewish.

Since his chapel was being renovated, the Mass was celebrated in an ordinary room. That only the three of us were present gave it a particular intimacy and intensity.

The Holy Spirit moved in my heart, giving me the answer to the seemingly insoluble dilemma of how I could remain part of the Jewish community while living as a Christian.

As the Jewish archbishop raised the consecrated host and prayed, "Through him, with him, and in him," I understood that the unity I sought was most fully and perfectly realized in the Eucharist.

The foundation in Avignon had been a prelude to a better-defined apostolate in Paris. The French translation of the book Poustinia had evoked widespread interest. People were used to making retreats in monasteries, but the opportunity to pray in silence and solitude for 24 hours in the heart of Paris, fasting and reading Scripture corresponded to a real need.

In June 1986, six months after Catherine’s death, the cardinal readily agreed to celebrate a Mass in her memory at the parish. In his homily, he observed that Catherine’s most remarkable quality had nothing to do with her considerable gifts or charisms, but with the fact that she knew God loved her.

"The outstanding witness of God’s love… is the one who discovers how much God loves him, and who says ‘yes’. Each of us is just as beloved by God, as uniquely, individually loved by Christ as she was."

Although I never had a long conversation with him, the cardinal was a model and a mentor for me in the integration of my own Jewish-Christian identity. His books were part of my formation.

In Paris, I took part in a Jewish-Christian prayer group that met in the crypt of our parish church, and occasionally I would meet the cardinal at Jewish-Christian functions.

Often, when I felt the need of spiritual support, I would brave the crowds at the Sunday evening Mass he usually celebrated at Notre-Dame Cathedral. The intensity of his faith and the depth and clarity of his preaching gave me strength and hope.

When I left the Paris house in 1993 for our new foundation in Magadan, Russia, I continued to carry him in my heart.

Last May, learning that the cardinal was terminally ill, those of us in Combermere who knew him, including those attending the local directors’ meetings, sent him a card assuring him of our love and prayers.

We were amazed and moved to receive in reply a handwritten note that read, "Thank you, each and every one. I know that Catherine’s prayers for me are not lacking in the prayer of all the saints. Ask the Lord to keep me in the peace where, to this day, he is leading me."

In September 2005, shortly before the closing of the Paris house, the cardinal, now retired, came to celebrate Mass and have supper with staff workers Noella de la Forcade and Shatzi Duffy.

His first words to them were, "This mission has been fruitful." As he left, he told them, "You know, it is rather heart-wrenching to see you go."

For all of us who served in Avignon and Paris and who loved Cardinal Jean-Marie Aaron Lustiger, it is heart-wrenching to see him go, as well.