In a question-and answer-session with the Polish bishops during his recent visit to that country, Pope Francis made some striking observations about the role of the parish in the Church’s life. He said that parishes are irreplaceable. “The parish cannot be touched,” he said. “It has to remain as a place of creativity, a reference point, a mother, all these things.” In other words, the structure of the local Church, which dates back at least to the time of the Council of Trent, if not before, is not in need of fundamental change.
But the Pope did have some trenchant criticism for those, such as some parish secretaries, who fail to welcome people. It was clear from the Pope’s remarks that he envisages better parishes, but is committed to the maintenance of the current system. We may need to work with what we have inherited, but it does not need a radical overhaul.
Given that many have seen Pope Francis as “the Great Reformer” (the title of one of his biographies) his position on the status quo when it comes to parish structures is not what one might expect.
In parts of Latin America, the continent he knows best, the parish system is not ideally suited to some local conditions, and the same is true of Africa. In places where people live a nomadic or pastoralist life, the clergy need to follow the people, and celebrate the sacraments for them wherever they may be. They cannot expect them to come to a fixed parish church. As the people move, the Church must move with them.
In a densely populated urban environment, parishes, each with a distinct territory, may well seem a good idea. But in large modern cities, such as Rio de Janeiro, London or Nairobi, people are able to move around, thanks to modern means of transport, and choose not only where they shop, but also where they worship. Some may decry this as religious consumerism, but as long as people go to Mass and participate in a worshipping community, why should they not pray in the church they feel is best suited to their needs?
The Pope spoke in Poland of the necessity of keeping the confessional light always on, and this highlights another challenge to the parish system. A parish has to provide a range of basic services, and many smaller parishes may be pressed to do this. It simply may not be possible for the priest to be constantly available to hear confessions when he has so many other things to organise, and so few people to help him.
But larger parishes have more resources and are able to specialise. A big parish in London may have a professional choir, for example, and those who find the riches of the Church’s musical tradition a great help in worship may well be drawn to these larger churches. And why shouldn’t they?
The parish system in Britain is under strain, and not only because of the shortage of priests. It would be good for the Church to recognise this and to work out more effective ways of enabling the faithful to come together for worship.
It’s tempting to imagine how different cinematic history would be if Martin Scorsese had completed his priestly training. Fr Scorsese – a Jesuit, surely, with a sideline in film criticism – might have been one of the great communicators of the post-Vatican II Church. A shy version of Archbishop Fulton Sheen, perhaps, or a forerunner of internet evangelist Bishop Robert Barron. Cinema buffs, meanwhile, would never have heard of such classics as Mean Streets, Taxi Driver or Raging Bull.
But the former altar boy, who specialised in funeral Masses, was expelled from seminary in 1956. The Church’s loss was cinema’s gain: at 73, he is regarded as one of the world’s master film-makers.
It’s possible to detect powerful Catholic themes in almost all Scorsese’s films: from his debut, Who’s That Knocking at My Door? to the gaudy Wolf of Wall Street. But his new film, Silence, is his first to feature priests as protagonists. The movie, which could be released as early as November, is based on the 1966 novel by Japanese Catholic convert Shusaku Endo. Scorsese was given a copy in 1988; he has tried to turn it into a feature film ever since. His 28-year struggle has finally come to fruition.
The novel follows two Portuguese Jesuits sent to Japan in 1639 to investigate reports that their mentor has renounced his faith. They witness a wave of persecution in which Christians are forced to recant by trampling on fumie, images of Christ or the Virgin Mary. If they refuse, the faithful are hung upside down over a pit and slowly bled to death. As the title suggests, Endo’s book raises searching theological questions: where is God amid his followers’ torment? Why does he appear to remain silent?
It is not clear if Scorsese is a practising Catholic today. (“I’m a lapsed Catholic,” he once said. “But I am Roman Catholic – there’s no way out of it.”) But he is the supreme example of what film historian Fr Richard Blake SJ calls the “indelible Catholic imagination”. After treating the themes of sin, suffering, martyrdom and redemption indirectly for the past 50 years, Scorsese is finally confronting them head-on.
Silence could soon be joining The Mission, Into Great Silence and Of Gods and Men as one of the great Catholic films of modern times.
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