A century separates the death of one great pope from the death of another. Both Leo XIII and John Paul II were remarkable men, but their pontificates could scarcely have been more different. John Paul travelled the world, visiting more than 100 countries. Leo regarded himself as the “prisoner in the Vatican”. He had become pope in 1878, only eight years after the union of Italy was completed by the annexation of Rome; he still considered himself the rightful sovereign of the city and refused to recognise the Italian state.
Yet Leo and John Paul had much in common, despite this difference. Both men were poets — John Paul writing in Polish, Leo in Latin — and, significantly, both men sought a distinctively Catholic middle way between socialism and capitalism.
In 1891 Leo published the encyclical De Rerum Novarum, in which he attacked “the callousness of employers and the greed of unrestrained competition”, and spoke of the “manifest injustice” which made it possible for “a small number of very rich men” able to lay upon the masses of the poor a “yoke little better than slavery itself”. Church and state, he said, must protect “the poor and helpless”. John Paul, in his criticism of globalisation and his concern for the poor of the world, followed the Leonine tradition.
At the same time Leo, in this encyclical and in other writings, was every bit as critical of socialism as John Paul was of the communism imposed on his native Poland and eastern Europe.
Yet there was one important difference: Leo was revered by his fellow Catholics and his social teaching inspired the political philosophy — in theory anyway — of Catholic parties, but he had almost no influence beyond his own church. Protestants still regarded the papacy with intense suspicion, and often hostility.
In contrast John Paul, partly on account of his charisma, established himself as the spokesman for Christianity worldwide. It is not too much to say he made himself the leader of Christendom and was recognised as such by all but the most extreme Protestant churches. That the whole attention of the Christian world has been focused on Rome this past fortnight is evidence of his achievement. Even the millions who no longer attend church, though reared in Christian tradition, seem to feel and think that a great and good man who spoke for all of us has departed. It is inconceivable that the death of any previous pope would have evoked such sentiments.
This is remarkable. It is also in another sense odd, for in some ways John Paul deepened the divide between the Roman church and other Christian denominations, and between his church and the secular world. He did this by his insistence on certain dogmas, particularly in the sphere of sexual morality and sexual practices, which may seem to many, not only old-fashioned, but almost indefensible. Some within his own church believe that he laid-up troubles for his successor. Though John Paul himself was prominent in the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council 40 years ago, which committed the church to modernisation, he came, in his time as pope, to symbolise reaction.
His refusal to countenance the ordination of women — now practised in all Protestant churches — may be seen as a matter that concerns only his own Roman Catholic Church. But his absolute rejection of birth control by means of contraceptives has consequences that go beyond his own flock. Many who agree with him in his fierce criticism of what he called the evil of abortion are dismayed by his inability to recognise that his opposition to the use of contraceptives has facilitated the spread of Aids, especially in Africa and Asia.
In this he parted company with the mainstream Protestant churches, as well as dismaying many of his own priests. Next month the general assembly of the Church of Scotland will hear a plea for what its own HIV/Aids project calls “a pragmatic response to tackle the growing Aids crisis around the world”. The authors of the report say: “The vulnerability of women and girls to HIV infection stems from their pervasive disempowerment. Most women around the world become HIV infected through their partner’s high-risk behaviour, over which they wield little, if any, control. The plight of women and children in the face of Aids underlines the need for realistic strategies that address the interplay between inequality — particularly gender inequality — and HIV.”
“High-risk behaviour” implies not only promiscuity, which all Christian churches and many secularists condemn, but also refusal to use contraceptives, a stance now peculiar to the Roman church alone. In this respect the Pope, who made himself the champion of the poor of the world, seemed to condemn growing numbers of the poorest to disease and early death.
The longer his reign lasted, the more conservative the Pope seemed and the more dismayed liberal Catholics in Europe and America became. Declining attendance at Mass, and the drastic fall in the number of young men entering the priesthood, are only two of the most obvious consequences.
John Paul was fiercely critical of the materialism and secular- isation of modern Europe, but many of his critics, while agreeing with him in deploring this, would hold that his own policies have contributed to the development he abhorred.
Of course there is much in the modern world that any committed Christian must reject. Again it must be argued that the mainstream Protestant churches, which have tried to accommodate themselves to the changes in social ethos, have been no more successful than the Roman church in stemming the outflow of worshippers. Yet this doesn’t alter the paradox: that John Paul, whose personality, evident holiness and absolute commitment to world peace and to the world’s poor won him the love and admiration of millions, even among those who did not belong to his own church, should have presided over that church’s inexorable decline in its European heartland.
It seems probable that his successor will have to be a reforming pope, prepared, in matters of dogma and personal morality, to inch towards an accommodation with certain aspects of the modern world.
He will surely have to do so in order to retain the primacy, the recognition as leader of Christendom which John Paul won for himself; and it will be all the more necessary to make such accommodation if, as seems probable, he is a lesser man than this remarkable pope.
If he fails, he will not be like Leo XIII, the “prisoner in the Vatican”, but he will be the prisoner of the past — and of his immediate predecessor. Should he succeed, then John Paul’s reluctance to act in this way will seem of less importance and he will be remembered like Leo XIII for his social teaching and for the example of personal holiness which he offered the world.
