by Tony Judt
All these habits of mind have now come together in the pope’s crusade for “family values” in general and against abortion in particular. Here, too, the pope has the makings of a case—you don’t have to be a conservative Catholic to worry about the texture of family life today, or to recognize that abortion or genetic engineering raises troubling ethical questions. But a genuine papal concern for our moral condition in these matters is vitiated for many by the insensitive way in which absolute authority is invoked in what are truly contested and painful debates. For this pope, marriage is not just a sacrament but a vocation. Condoms are not a “lesser evil” (an option with respectable antecedents in Christian theology) but forbidden. Abortion is a “holocaust.” Men and, especially, women who slip from the path of righteousness stand utterly condemned—the Bishop of Łowicz in Poland, Monsignor Alojzy Orszulik, announced in September of this year that anyone in his diocese “guilty of the crime of abortion” would be excommunicated. Karol Wojtyła has turned his back not only on “modernity” and on compassion, but even on the recommendations of a 1966 Vatican commission on contraception, which gingerly suggested that there was nothing in the scriptures to justify root-and-branch condemnation of birth control.
The pope’s obsession with sex—a subject on which he has written much, and in considerable graphic detail—curiously mirrors the concerns of those Americans whose culture he so scorns. And just as the abortion issue distorts large tracts of U.S. public life, so Wojtyła’s fixation has damaged both his image and his impact elsewhere, notably in South America. His reiterated condemnation of the abuse of private property, and his reassertion of the natural right of all to share in the use and benefit of worldly resources, had raised hopes that this pope would be a resolute foe of what a British Conservative prime minister once called “the unacceptable face of capitalism.” It was anticipated that even if he was not himself a committed proponent of social reform he would be consistently sympathetic to the victims of social and political repression. In a speech in Puebla, Mexico, in 1979 he reiterated the demands of the 1969 Medellín Conference, notably a “preferential love for the poor.” In recent speeches in El Salvador and in France he has placed a growing emphasis on his opposition to wars and conflicts of all kinds, civil and international, and only this year, in San Salvador, he visited the tomb of Óscar Arnulfo Romero, the Salvadoran archbishop killed during Mass in 1980 by a rightist death squad.
But the same Archbishop Romero, a year before his death, had expressed private disappointment at the pope’s lack of sympathy for the work of the Church in Latin dictatorships—“He recommended great balance and prudence, especially when denouncing specific situations. . . . I left, pleased by the meeting, but worried to see how much the negative reports of my pastoral work had influenced him.”10 By the end of the eighties the view seems to have become widespread among disappointed audiences and priests in Central and South America that papal sympathies for the victims of political repression were more easily aroused in the countries of Communist Europe. In Chile and Argentina, during visits in 1987, he devoted many hours of public speaking to attacks on proposals to liberalize the divorce laws, but refused to meet victims of Pinochet’s repression or the Mothers of the Disappeared in Argentina. His compassion for the unborn, it seemed, could on occasion exceed his sympathy for the living—or the dead.11
This makes a little more sense when we recall that the pope is not just a would-be universal pastor. He is also the head of a huge, ancient institution and carries three distinctive responsibilities. First, he has the duty of preserving and transmitting the Church’s doctrine. Where central doctrinal issues are not at stake, Wojtyła has been innovative and adventurous: He has visited synagogues, something no previous pope ever did, thereby acknowledging the legitimacy of other faiths; under his direction the Vatican has ceased to hold Jews responsible for the Crucifixion; and Wojtyła has been the first Catholic leader to offer some amends for the Church’s silence during the Shoah. In fundamental matters, however, Karol Wojtyła has a marked taste for what in another context might be called “Founder’s Intent”: If Jesus did not choose women to be his priests, nor should John Paul II. Accidental disputes may come and go, but fundamental propositions must be retained and enforced, whether they concern the perpetual virginity of Mary, the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, or the timeless validity of the properly doctrinal pronouncements of past councils and popes.
Secondly, the pope as head of the Church has administrative responsibilities which he, like many of his predecessors, sees primarily as issues of institutional discipline. In this respect, at least, there is a suggestive comparison between the Catholic Church and the erstwhile Secretariat of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (though it has been many centuries since the Catholic Church had the capacity or desire to engage in the physical persecution of heretics). John Paul II is at the center of a worldwide apparatus always at risk of splitting into heretical segmentation. “Eurocommunism,” “Socialism with a Human Face,” “Local Roads to Socialism,” and the like have their precise analogues in the modern Catholic Church.
In both instances reformers have occasionally harbored the illusion that they had a friend at the center who sympathized with their efforts to update ideology and governance—only to discover that the men at the top were in the end more concerned with power than popularity, more worried about preserving authority than discovering or disseminating justice. Under John Paul II the powers of local bishops have been contained and, like any local Communist Party secretary, they have been pressed to explain and justify their past actions, their present failures, and their future efforts. The bitter conclusion of Leonardo Boff, a Brazilian priest who left the service of the Church in 1992 after being condemned for deviations, echoes the disabused sentiments of countless former Communists: “Ecclesiastical power is cruel and merciless. It forgets nothing. It forgives nothing. It demands everything.”12
Thirdly, the pope is only a temporary incumbent of the permanent chair of Saint Peter. He is above all responsible for ensuring continuity and the survival of his Church. Whatever his gestures to others—encounters with Jewish and Muslim communities, recognition of the State of Israel, ecumenical outreach to other Christians—the pope is not engaged in their concerns. The Catholic Church, as an institution about to enter its third millennium, plays for different stakes, and its concessions to any passing worldly considerations are at best tactical. Its overwhelming strategic objective is self-preservation. Much of what preoccupies contemporaries is thus of only contingent significance to the pope. That is why, from his own perspective, he is very properly deaf to the pain and anger aroused by the pronouncements of his pontificate. If he is right, and he is not a man given to doubt on that score, then not only is it good that he should pursue his chosen path, but he has no choice.
It has become commonplace to compare Karol Wojtyła, in the twilight of his reign, to Pius IX, the liberal cardinal who ascended to the papacy in 1846 at the young age of fifty-four. Disillusioned with liberalism after the experience of the revolutions of 1848, he retreated into deep conservatism and promulgated the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Mary in 1854 and the doctrine of Papal Infallibility at the Vatican Council of 1869-70. In his Syllabus of Errors of 1864 he listed eighty errors of modernity, the last of which reads “that the Roman Pontiff can and should reconcile himself to and agree with progress, liberalism, and modern civilisation.” By the end of his papacy, which lasted over thirty years, Pio Nono had made the Catholic Church synonymous with obscurantism and reaction.
Yet the very opposition that the hard-line Church aroused among the secular authorities of Europe helped save it. As a contemporary British diplomat noted: “The pope had made his Church ridiculous by the proclamation of the Immaculate Conception, of the Syllabus and of his own Infallibility, but these dogmas were of interest only to the faithful and in no way concerned or stood in the way of those who chose to ignore them. . . . Bismarck�
��s anti-Church policy has compelled the German bishops to rally around the pope and suffer martyrdom for discipline’s, obedience’s and example’s sake, and the Church that was ridiculous is becoming interesting to the religious and conservative population of Europe.”13
Wojtyła’s tragedy, of course, is that he began by benefiting from the popularity born of resilience in the face of persecution, and only later proceeded to expose his Church to ridicule for its moral intransigence. But there is an earlier comparison which is more to the point. In 1198, at the even younger age of thirty-eight, an Italian, Lotario de’ Conti di Segni, became pope Innocent III. Energetic and authoritarian, Innocent set about centralizing power in the medieval Church. He proclaimed himself the Vicar of Christ (the title was not used before then), preached and organized an unsuccessful Fourth Crusade against the Infidel in 1204 and a brutal and utterly effective crusade against the Albigensian heretics of southwest France. At the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215, in the year before his death, he defined the modern doctrine of the Eucharist and the subordination of the bishops and the congregations to papal authority.
In between these professional duties he found time to bring down one medieval German emperor (Otto IV), raise up another (Frederick II), and give the French king his vital support in a conflict with the German Empire that resulted in the first great French military success (at Bouvines in 1214) and the definitive establishment of France as a power in Europe. With Innocent III the medieval papacy attained the zenith of its secular influence and theological authority. Yet the same man, by the very extent of his claims and rulings, was also the last of the great medieval popes and contributed to setting in motion those forces—secular and spiritual—that would lead to the downfall of the universal Church.
Karol Wojtyła’s Church is no longer universal even in name. But the logic of his origins, his thought, and his circumstances has led him to stake out claims that no pope since Pius IX has asserted so aggressively, and no pope since Innocent III has ever been able to secure. Like Innocent, he has been a powerful but uncomfortable ally to a succession of secular partners, all of whom have some cause to regret their dealings with him. His successes are now behind him. The problems that he has bequeathed to his Church lie ahead.
This review of His Holiness, by Carl Bernstein and Marco Politi, first appeared in the New York Review of Books in October 1996. My (one) reference to Karol Wojtyła’s “Mariolatry” provoked a certain discomfort among some Polish correspondents.
NOTES TO CHAPTER IX
1 The book resembles nothing so much as a five-hundred-page Time magazine piece—as well it might, since it was in Time that Carl Bernstein, in 1992, first revealed the hitherto secret material on which the present book is based.
2 Especially when the authors appear to be engaged in mind reading, as on page 487, where we are told what the pope was purportedly thinking while addressing an unappreciative audience in Kielce, Poland. Nothing in the sources for that speech suggest privileged authorial access to papal thoughts on the podium.
3 There is some discussion of the hypothesis that it was the Soviet secret services who set up the unsuccessful attempt to kill the pope in 1981, but the authors of this book are no better informed than previous investigators and conclude rather lamely that the charge is credible but “not proven.”
4 The papers given at these encounters have been published in German, edited by Professor Krzysztof Michalski, the director of the Institute for Human Sciences in Vienna, which organizes the discussions.
5 Things were probably a little different in earlier days, before the pontiff’s present illness. But according to Czesław Miłosz, no hostile witness, matters were much the same at a Castelgandolfo “conversation” he attended in 1987. See Czesław Miłosz, A Year of the Hunter (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994), 21-27.
6 On the pope’s Thomism, and his theological leanings more generally, see George Huntston Williams, The Mind of John Paul II (New York: Seabury Press, 1981), especially chapter 4, “Mystic, Underground Seminarian, and Thomist.”
7 Nearly all Poles today are at least nominally Catholic. But it doesn’t hurt to recall that this convenient conjunction of religious and secular identity, which served the Church so well in its struggle with Communism, is partly the work of the devil—or at least of his servants. It was Hitler and Stalin who gave Poland its present shape—until 1939 some 30 percent of Polish citizens practiced other faiths, and of those one third were Jews. His untroubled, innocent Polishness is a side of the pope that has always disturbed some of his more thoughtful compatriots and admirers, notably Miłosz.
8 It may be that a gap has opened up between the Poles and their pope, a gap of which he has only recently become aware. Until the overthrow of Communism, the mere act of collective Catholic worship in Poland represented not only an expression of faith but also a widespread form of passive resistance to the authorities—hence the pope’s own sense, shared by many outside observers in the time of Solidarity, that the country was solid in its obedient Catholicism. In the years since 1989 Polish citizens have gone their own way, increasingly deaf to the moral requirements and criticisms of the Catholic hierarchy—in recent opinion polls well over half those questioned favored legalized abortions. The image of Poland that Wojtyła shared with so many of his countrymen in times past, that of a land imbued with a collective Christian mission, may be on the wane.
The Poles were not alone in their national messianic complex. There are comparable strains in Russian nationalist thought, where there is a particular emphasis on an “alternative” Russian path. But although this strain in Russian thought is similarly imbued with symbolic religiosity, it is of course distinctly non-Catholic.
9 The pope’s first engagement on his recent visit to France was to pay homage to Saint Louis Grignion de Montfort, the eighteenth-century missionary author of A Treatise on True Devotion to the Holy Virgin.
10 From Archbishop Romero’s Diary, quoted in Tad Szulc, Pope John Paul II: The Biography (New York: Scribner, 1995), 326.
11 Liberation theologists in particular were soon disillusioned with the new pope, for whom salvation can come from but one source, and who, in his own words, regards social questions as best left to sociologists. See His Holiness, p. 201.
12 John Paul II is an ardent supporter of Opus Dei, the secretive society of influential lay Catholics founded in Spain before World War II and committed to a combination of modern secular influence and traditional conservative religion. He would probably not dissent from the claim of Opus Dei’s founder, Monsignor Escrivá y Balaguer, that God asks of his servants “holy intransigence, holy coercion and holy shamelessness.” See Joan Estruch, Saints and Schemers: Opus Dei and its Paradoxes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 262. The latest study of the administrative and institutional practices of the Vatican is by Thomas J. Reese (Inside the Vatican: The Politics and Organization of the Catholic Church, Harvard University Press Cambridge, MA, 1998).
13 Odo Russell to Lord Derby, April 1, 1874, in The Roman Question: Extracts from the Despatches of Odo Russell from Rome, 1858-1870, ed. Noel Blakiston (London: Chapman & Hall, 1962), xxxvii. A few weeks earlier, on March 4, 1871, Russell had observed to his correspondent that “the Roman Church has always derived strength from persecution, but is impotent against the power of freedom and its blessings.”
CHAPTER X
Edward Said: The Rootless Cosmopolitan
When Edward Said died in September 2003, after a decade-long battle against leukemia, he was probably the best-known intellectual in the world. Orientalism, his controversial account of the appropriation of the East in modern European thought and literature, has spawned an academic subdiscipline in its own right: A quarter of a century after its first publication it continues to generate irritation, veneration, and imitation. Even if its author had done nothing else, confining himself to teaching at Columbia University in New York— where he was employed from 1963 until his death—he would still ha
ve been one of the most influential scholars of the late twentieth century.
But he did not confine himself. From 1967, and with mounting urgency and passion as the years passed, Edward Said was also an eloquent, ubiquitous commentator on the crisis in the Middle East and an advocate for the cause of the Palestinians. This moral and political engagement was not really a displacement of Said’s intellectual attention— his critique of the West’s failure to understand Palestinian humiliation closely echoes, after all, his reading of nineteenth-century scholarship and fiction in Orientalism and subsequent books (notably Culture and Imperialism, published in 1993). But it transformed the professor of comparative literature at Columbia into a very public intellectual, adored or execrated with equal intensity by many millions of readers.
This was an ironic fate for a man who fitted almost none of the molds to which his admirers and enemies so confidently assigned him. Edward Said lived all his life at a tangent to the various causes with which he was associated. The involuntary “spokesman” for the overwhelmingly Muslim Arabs of Palestine was an Episcopalian Christian, born in 1935 to a Baptist from Nazareth. The uncompromising critic of imperial condescension was educated in some of the last of the colonial schools that had trained the indigenous elite of the European empires; for many years he was more at ease in English and French than in Arabic and an outstanding exemplar of a Western education with which he could never fully identify.