After Pope John Paul II
Apr 7th 2005
From The Economist print edition
A new pope must think differently about how to preserve life in places where it is most at risk
WE SHALL not see his like again. In the case of Pope John Paul II, that is not merely a platitude; it is a hard statement of fact. As the world bids farewell to a titan of the 20th century, people already sense that, in the coming decades, things will be different. Not only because the challenges facing mankind, and the church, are more diffuse than before, and at least as formidable—but also because John Paul's charisma, even if it could be reproduced, would not suffice to tackle them.
For hundreds of millions of Catholics, their spiritual leader's huge role in history is a source of legitimate pride. Having endured the worst tyrannies of the century—Nazism and Communism—he epitomised the possibility of prevailing in the direst situations. He lived long enough to see, and brilliantly exploit, a moment when Europe had a chance to slay the totalitarian beast; and his careful, pivotal intervention in Eastern Europe proved, to many, that moral and spiritual forms of power can win out against political tyranny.
As a celebrity of the electronic age, he used its devices with skill, while turning the logic of stardom upside down. Having stepped on to the world stage as a figure who impressed by his good looks and athletic prowess, he abandoned it in a state of deliberately publicised enfeeblement and pain. This sent two signals, both hard to understand except in the context of the highest Christian ideals: first, that “God's strength is made perfect in our weakness”, and second, that death is merely the gateway, never to be feared, to a different and more abundant life. These messages can sound repulsive on the lips of a person who is materially and physically secure, preaching to people who are neither. John Paul seemed vulnerable enough to speak with integrity, whether or not you agreed with him.
Hardening the edges
For some Catholics, the unrepeatable quality of this papacy may also be a source of quiet relief. That is an understandable sentiment in regions where the Vatican has lent support to dictators or their clerical apologists, and in places where the church seems to have ignored or even exacerbated the problems of the most vulnerable, especially women.
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What of those who are neither Catholic, nor Christian, nor believers in any religion? Is it possible for those who regard the popes' claim to be the representatives of God on earth as wrong, or simply nonsensical, to view with some respect the papacy of John Paul, and the church he remoulded?
In many new ways, the pope did reach out to other religions, and to mankind as a whole. Compared with centuries past, his church has taken a kinder view of people outside its ranks. Yet it could not be said that he blurred the boundaries between belief and non-belief. He taught that man's principal woe was not poverty, or war, but the abandonment of the divine. That is a controversial view, to put it mildly. To the secular mind, the pursuit of happiness and liberty consists mainly of removing every obstacle to their enjoyment; for the likes of John Paul, all that is an illusion, and freedom lies in doing the will of God. Such differences can hardly be air-brushed away.
In democracies, communities with varying beliefs about ultimate questions can live together in a spirit of respect, if not always in amity—even when different beliefs imply different individual choices. If you see life as a gift from God, you will probably not make the same choices about the reproduction of life, and its termination, as you would if you saw existence on earth as your own to regulate as far as possible. Even here, the possibility of mutual respect exists.
In practice, though, belief also has intractable implications for public policy, and the high salience of religious faith—in the uncompromising form which John Paul professed—has lent a new rancour to the politics of many democracies. States have to decide whether to allow euthanasia; whether to accord same-sex unions the same rights as traditional ones; and whether to allow and fund the termination of pregnancy. Though stable democracies have transparent ways of resolving such disputes, arguments about them are often held in a spirit of mutual demonisation. The church, an undemocratic institution with uncompromising views, has not helped their peaceful resolution, especially in the United States.
A force for good?
In the developing world, questions about the role of John Paul's church—about whether it is, on balance, a force for good or the opposite—are even harder to finesse. In the slums of Brazil or the war zones of Africa, the way the church works is a huge and sharp question, because so little else works. Therein lies a contribution to human welfare which non-Catholics can admire. In rural Congo, where government barely exists, the church often acts as sole provider of medicine and schools. In Zimbabwe, where government is murderous, the church has resisted tyranny. Yet the vast influence of the church in poor countries obliges people to look critically at how that influence is used. To non-Catholics, and to many Catholics, it seems obvious that the rigid application of the church's teaching on contraception has contributed to many deaths.
The church would enhance its moral authority if it could accept the common-sense proposition that sexual acts with a high and avoidable chance of transmitting HIV are a worse evil than the use of condoms, even if it continues to defy secular common sense in insisting that the use of condoms is wrong. To say this would not imply endorsing promiscuity or abandoning the Christian ideals of chastity and fidelity.
The church can retort that its concern is with intrinsic right and wrong, not with a mathematical calculus of effects. But in arguing thus, the church is unfair to itself. Its armoury includes powerful moral and intellectual tools, designed to distinguish greater evils from lesser ones, at times when no solution is easy—and the consequences of each option must be weighed. In the case of AIDS, the horror of the consequences is obvious to believers and secularists alike. That is why everyone who cares about humanity, whether in God's name or in the name of reason, will rejoice if, under a new pope, the church seeks new ways to affirm the sanctity of life.
From The Economist print edition
A new pope must think differently about how to preserve life in places where it is most at risk
WE SHALL not see his like again. In the case of Pope John Paul II, that is not merely a platitude; it is a hard statement of fact. As the world bids farewell to a titan of the 20th century, people already sense that, in the coming decades, things will be different. Not only because the challenges facing mankind, and the church, are more diffuse than before, and at least as formidable—but also because John Paul's charisma, even if it could be reproduced, would not suffice to tackle them.
For hundreds of millions of Catholics, their spiritual leader's huge role in history is a source of legitimate pride. Having endured the worst tyrannies of the century—Nazism and Communism—he epitomised the possibility of prevailing in the direst situations. He lived long enough to see, and brilliantly exploit, a moment when Europe had a chance to slay the totalitarian beast; and his careful, pivotal intervention in Eastern Europe proved, to many, that moral and spiritual forms of power can win out against political tyranny.
As a celebrity of the electronic age, he used its devices with skill, while turning the logic of stardom upside down. Having stepped on to the world stage as a figure who impressed by his good looks and athletic prowess, he abandoned it in a state of deliberately publicised enfeeblement and pain. This sent two signals, both hard to understand except in the context of the highest Christian ideals: first, that “God's strength is made perfect in our weakness”, and second, that death is merely the gateway, never to be feared, to a different and more abundant life. These messages can sound repulsive on the lips of a person who is materially and physically secure, preaching to people who are neither. John Paul seemed vulnerable enough to speak with integrity, whether or not you agreed with him.
Hardening the edges
For some Catholics, the unrepeatable quality of this papacy may also be a source of quiet relief. That is an understandable sentiment in regions where the Vatican has lent support to dictators or their clerical apologists, and in places where the church seems to have ignored or even exacerbated the problems of the most vulnerable, especially women.
Advertisement
What of those who are neither Catholic, nor Christian, nor believers in any religion? Is it possible for those who regard the popes' claim to be the representatives of God on earth as wrong, or simply nonsensical, to view with some respect the papacy of John Paul, and the church he remoulded?
In many new ways, the pope did reach out to other religions, and to mankind as a whole. Compared with centuries past, his church has taken a kinder view of people outside its ranks. Yet it could not be said that he blurred the boundaries between belief and non-belief. He taught that man's principal woe was not poverty, or war, but the abandonment of the divine. That is a controversial view, to put it mildly. To the secular mind, the pursuit of happiness and liberty consists mainly of removing every obstacle to their enjoyment; for the likes of John Paul, all that is an illusion, and freedom lies in doing the will of God. Such differences can hardly be air-brushed away.
In democracies, communities with varying beliefs about ultimate questions can live together in a spirit of respect, if not always in amity—even when different beliefs imply different individual choices. If you see life as a gift from God, you will probably not make the same choices about the reproduction of life, and its termination, as you would if you saw existence on earth as your own to regulate as far as possible. Even here, the possibility of mutual respect exists.
In practice, though, belief also has intractable implications for public policy, and the high salience of religious faith—in the uncompromising form which John Paul professed—has lent a new rancour to the politics of many democracies. States have to decide whether to allow euthanasia; whether to accord same-sex unions the same rights as traditional ones; and whether to allow and fund the termination of pregnancy. Though stable democracies have transparent ways of resolving such disputes, arguments about them are often held in a spirit of mutual demonisation. The church, an undemocratic institution with uncompromising views, has not helped their peaceful resolution, especially in the United States.
A force for good?
In the developing world, questions about the role of John Paul's church—about whether it is, on balance, a force for good or the opposite—are even harder to finesse. In the slums of Brazil or the war zones of Africa, the way the church works is a huge and sharp question, because so little else works. Therein lies a contribution to human welfare which non-Catholics can admire. In rural Congo, where government barely exists, the church often acts as sole provider of medicine and schools. In Zimbabwe, where government is murderous, the church has resisted tyranny. Yet the vast influence of the church in poor countries obliges people to look critically at how that influence is used. To non-Catholics, and to many Catholics, it seems obvious that the rigid application of the church's teaching on contraception has contributed to many deaths.
The church would enhance its moral authority if it could accept the common-sense proposition that sexual acts with a high and avoidable chance of transmitting HIV are a worse evil than the use of condoms, even if it continues to defy secular common sense in insisting that the use of condoms is wrong. To say this would not imply endorsing promiscuity or abandoning the Christian ideals of chastity and fidelity.
The church can retort that its concern is with intrinsic right and wrong, not with a mathematical calculus of effects. But in arguing thus, the church is unfair to itself. Its armoury includes powerful moral and intellectual tools, designed to distinguish greater evils from lesser ones, at times when no solution is easy—and the consequences of each option must be weighed. In the case of AIDS, the horror of the consequences is obvious to believers and secularists alike. That is why everyone who cares about humanity, whether in God's name or in the name of reason, will rejoice if, under a new pope, the church seeks new ways to affirm the sanctity of life.
posted by Marco Parigi at 4:29 PM
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