The event was newsworthy in and of itself: the secular leader of the free world meeting with the man who oversees the largest Christian sect in the world. After a brief encounter in which John Paul’s spirituality, sense of purpose and sense of humor all came through in a mere 15-minute span, it became apparent, however, why this pope was a man who could move mountains.

The two heads of state both arrived via helicopter for a closed-door meeting at the campus of Regis University, a 100-year-old Jesuit institution in northwest Denver. Amid airtight tight security, the president arrived first, shaking hands with those in the reception party. He moved quickly through the greeting gauntlet, perhaps mindful that on this day he was accorded second billing.

Minutes later as the pope’s helicopter hovered over the campus, many in attendance paced nervously in anticipation of meeting the Bishop of Rome. After landing, the pontiff slowly approached the group, as grown men and women wept openly. Cameras flashed and video recorders whirred as people thrust holy cards and rosaries toward the pope for him to bless.

As he moved along the receiving line, someone presented the pope with a wicker basket filled with religious medals. The pontiff dutifully blessed the basket, then peered closer at its contents. The basket was filled with medals of St. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus, the formal name of the Jesuit order. Flashing his famous wry grin, John Paul turned, and with a sweeping motion gestured across the tree-lined campus. "Jesuits, Jesuits everywhere," he said, making a gentle joke at the contentious history between the order and the papacy.

What struck an observer was the stark contrast between the two powerful men. Bill Clinton, a post World War II baby boomer was like America itself, young and hefty with a breezy air about him. Much older and diminutive in physical stature, John Paul headed a 2,000-year-old Church, the oldest institution extant on earth. Slightly hunched as if he had the weight of the world’s billion Catholics on his shoulders, the pope seemed frail in comparison, much like the weak and disenfranchised people whose causes he championed. He had lived in his native Poland under Nazi occupation and Soviet domination, two atheistic totalitarian regimes he was instrumental in bringing down.

Moved by John Paul’s galvanizing effect on the small gathering -- and how it was a microcasm for his influence in the world -- the reporter upon greeting the pope bowed and kissed the "Ring of the Fisherman," the very symbol of the unbroken succession to St. Peter. Glancing at the press credentials, the pope raised a quizzical eyebrow. "American news media?" he asked. "Yes, Holy Father," was the response. Sensing he was not about to be barraged with questions, he smiled and patted the reporter’s hand. "God bless your work," he said, words reporters seldom hear.

After John Paul died, in accordance with Vatican tradition, his papal ring was destroyed. The ring in its physical form may be gone, but like the soul of the man from Krakow, its meaning and significance endures.