Toxic sainthood
An environmental watchdog group says it has detected lead in the paint used on some statues of St. John Paul II now being sold by religious craft stores and sidewalk vendors.
The EcoWaste Coalition said lead is a toxic metal that is reputed to have harmful side-effects on health. Lead was found in five samples of “SJPII” statues donning different liturgical vestments and costing between P200 and P650. The levels of lead, the group said, were “way above the regulatory limit.”
The thought of religious images of a man whom many Filipinos revere, and who, said one young man, “was the only Pope I have known in my life,” posing a threat to the health of the most devout and loyal followers, is indeed ironic and unfortunate.
But it can also be used as a metaphor for what St. John Paul II represents to Catholics around the world, and to the Church as a whole. Even after his canonization last Sunday, critics are still vocal about his “unfitness” for the honor, saying the “fast-track” process imposed by Pope Benedict XVI left little room for a more thorough study of the new saint’s life, and a deeper examination of his papacy and the policies and teachings he had implemented and imposed on the faithful.
If these critics are to be believed, beneath the veneer of accessibility (he was the most traveled pope in history) and kindliness lay a pope who was a social and theological conservative at heart and who sought to turn back the Church from the liberalizing tendencies ushered in, ironically enough, by his brother in sainthood, Pope John XXIII.
Indeed, there are those who theorize that Pope Francis, in letting the canonizations of the two pontiffs push through and transpire at the same time, was seeking to balance two tendencies that are tearing at the Roman Catholic Church: the tendency to preserve and conserve Church teachings and values amid a rapidly changing world; and the desire to adapt and adjust, making the Church move with the times, and remain relevant despite the speed and nature of the change.
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I had written in the past that my own “personal favorite” among the popes was John XXIII, and not just because he was the pope I had known from childhood.
Still fresh in my memory is the general image of “good Pope John,” who looked like a Santa Claus without a beard, always smiling. But the reason I favor him were the changes he ushered in by convening the Second Vatican Council. I lived through those years of transition, when the distant, remote Church of priests celebrating Mass with their backs turned to the congregation, mumbling unintelligible prayers, morphed into a friendlier, more open Church of Sunday Masses where the priest faced the community, spoke to us in languages we understood, and where music and song were welcome, indeed encouraged, with the guitar and tambourine
replacing the sonorous tones of the organ.
In less than a decade, we went from blind obedience to active participation, saw the Church and its rituals shuck off the stultifying air of incense and mystery, and don the raiment of the present day, most notably among nuns who stepped out of their dark, forbidding habits to dress like the rest of us, albeit with ugly shoes.
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But this isn’t a contest between the two papal saints. They were leaders and symbols, inspirations and visionaries for their times. Each in his own way sought to bring the Church on track with the “signs of the times,” to bring the institution on either of two contrasting,
contradicting directions: fidelity to the past and readiness for the future.
One issue in particular has been used to call into question John Paul II’s fitness for sanctity. That is his supposed lack of concern and action on the issue of clerical sexual abuse. Survivors and families of victims had decried the pope’s and the Vatican’s stance of “saying” it sympathizes with the victims, but “not doing” anything to punish the accused perpetrators or ensuring that they no longer posed a threat to children or even adults under their spiritual care.
Still, clergy sexual abuse is hardly a new phenomenon (read Rizal’s novels), and who knows if even John XXIII during his time received reports of such abusive behavior. John Paul II’s misfortune was being pontiff at a time and season of full disclosure and glaring media coverage. As such, he could no longer hide behind the Vatican’s walls or adopt an attitude of dignified silence.
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Perhaps Pope Francis’ apology to the survivors of clergy abuse will go a long way toward soothing the hurt of those who felt ignored or merely patronized. But he would need to go beyond platitudes and apologies and embark on a serious investigation of the allegations. This should include as well a deeper study of the “culture” within the Church which made the exploitation of the innocent by its ordained ministers possible, defensible and deniable.
One woman recalls that when she confessed to her parish priest about being sexually abused by another priest, her confessor assured her: “God forgives you.” She remembers feeling almost physically repelled, astonished at how the priest—the Church!—could consider her the sinner when she was the one who had been sinned against.
Multiply this woman with the hundreds, perhaps thousands of other victims and we see a full picture of the pain caused not just by the sexual abuse and exploitation, but also by the institutional indifference that confronted them even after the victims had found the courage to finally speak out and demand a response.
