One of my all-time favorite films is the 2014 drama “Calvary.” It follows a week in the life of a Catholic priest, Fr. James (played by Brendan Gleeson), who pastors a small town parish in rural Ireland. The movie provides a very dark look into fallen human nature. The characters of the town are about as broken and sinful as they come. As we follow Fr. James in his ministry, the movie deals with heavy issues like suicide, sexual abuse, domestic violence, adultery, alcoholism, atheism, homicide, prostitution, and even cannibalism. (Perhaps you’ve inferred that this is NOT a family-friendly film.) Other than Fr. James, the people of the town of Sligo approach faith as something—at best—nominal, and—at worst—foolish and contemptible. Each character lives out his or her own kind of despair.
This darkness is more than just individual despair. A major issue in the film is the clerical sexual abuse crisis in Ireland and the failure of the Church to respond. References are made to it throughout the film and even though Fr. James is innocent of any sort of abuse, he endures cruel, lewd remarks, unfounded suspicions, and even a death threat. The hierarchy of the Church is portrayed as disconnected from the concerns of real people and more interested in maintaining a status quo. Despite Fr. James’ seeming impotence in the face of human brokenness (even his own), we see him faithfully, quietly, and humbly serving the people around him.This film has been on my mind in the wake of the current crisis in the Church. As news began breaking earlier this summer, anger, sadness, and disgust filled me by turns, as well as questions of why, how, and who were involved. I have felt helpless and frustrated and betrayed. I oscillate between a desire to bury my head in the sand and the urge to be responsibly informed.
I will be the first to admit that I am not as knowledgeable about our current crisis as I could be. I have avoided social media and most news outlets because they seemed to show such reactionary, political, and divisive accounts. I find myself overwhelmed by questions of who to trust and what to do. In answer to the doing part of that question, the example of the fictional Fr. James—the silent, faithful ministry of presence—has been edifying.
My first response, too, is silence. Not silence in the sense of remaining unresponsive, but silence as I listen mournfully to our brothers and sisters who have been betrayed—listening without pretensions of an easy fix through human effort. For me, this has not meant seeking out every testimony of abuse that I can get my hands on, but rather has meant keeping informed and truly mourning and standing with victims.
My second response has been fasting and penance. Jesus commands this, and even says that some evils can only be cast out with these weapons. If the Church is truly the Body of Christ, then the things that we do (for good or ill) impact her. We are so profoundly instrumental in the life of the whole. This is why this scandal hurts so much; members of this body have done harm in a very real way. It has reminded me in a sobering manner that my sins, too, harm this sacred body in a real way. And yet it has also given me great hope. While sins and failings cause harm, fasting, prayer, and penance can heal. I am not powerless in the healing of the Church.
When news first broke about former Cardinal McCarrick, I felt a quiet invitation from the Lord at daily Mass to fast that day, and to offer my fasting specifically for him. I have felt that invitation deepen as this period of the Church’s suffering continues. This, by no means, is something great and heroic on my part, but I do believe it to be an invitation to take part in something real and powerful, by the grace of God. Nor does my participation in the Church’s process of spiritual conversion need to be purely invisible.
My husband and I had the opportunity to attend a prayer service for the victims of abuse, organized by a grassroots young adult group. We knelt at the steps of our Cathedral with dozens of other Catholic young adults, petitioning God for healing and guidance. The atmosphere of unity and peace among that group of young adults invoking the graces of the Holy Spirit, was another testament to the power of God working in even the weaknesses of His Church, bringing renewal out of brokenness. That experience of His Spirit at work in a physical gathering, a physical ministry of being present, was another note in the fullness of being Catholic in difficult times.
Perhaps the most comprehensive response to the scandals (so far) has been, for me, to live out my Christian vocation to the best of my ability. To love the people God has put in front of me at each moment. To seek holiness through my marriage, my teaching, my relationships. To glorify God in the little moments of opportunity that He gives me, through little acts of love. To sanctify my small corner of the world, and to till my garden.
The end of the movie “Calvary” is a silent montage of all the various characters, before the movie leaves them to their own devices. Much like real life, the loose ends of all these characters’ stories are not neatly tied up—the issue is still in doubt. There is not a clear moral of the story, and the viewer may be left to wonder if Fr. James made any impact at all. The only hint of his influence is found in one brave person who silently struggles to imitate his example, with what success or sense of fulfillment, we do not know. And yet, it seems to me that his steadfast, quiet presence in the midst of great sin and despair, opened up the possibility of redemption to all those he met. He opened up for them the possibility of selflessness, of finding oneself in giving oneself away, and the possibility of hoping even against apparent hopelessness. As Fr. James says to one despairing penitent, “God is great and the limits of his mercy have not been set.” The decision to receive that mercy or not would remain their own.
Throughout the film, the stunning cinematography pans the rocky crags of Ireland, holding out with the gray waves tirelessly beating against them, a powerful image of God’s mercy on a stony heart, while a few souls venture out to surf the depths. Words attributed to St. Augustine appear on the screen: “Do not despair; one of the thieves was saved. Do not presume; one of the thieves was damned.” The mercy of God still beats on our hearts, and in receiving Him, we can be one more instrument of His besieging of the hearts of the cold, the hurt, the broken, the sinner.
Christ still lives in His broken earthly body. Christ wants to live in you and me.
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