Flashback, February 1878: Leo XIII Begins Surprising Papacy

For years, Gioacchino Pecci, Cardinal Bishop of Perugia, had hardly seemed papabile (“pope-able”—i.e., a plausible candidate for Roman Catholic pontiff). 

He wasn’t a member of the Curia, the Vatican’s administrative unit; he had so botched an early diplomatic posting to Belgium that he had been withdrawn at the urging of that country’s royal family; he had run afoul of the powerful papal Secretary of State, Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli. 

And now, after being elected pope on the third ballot on February 20, 1878, Pope Leo XIII appeared, in his frail, 67-year-old body, unlikely to be more than a caretaker for a venerable but embattled institution.

Instead, Pope Leo surprised everyone by lasting for 25 years, advancing scholarship within the Roman Catholic Church, soothing the Church’s troubled relationship with rulers and activists in the streets, and, most important, kick-starting the social-justice movement within the Church through a series of encyclicals.

As the College of Cardinals prepares to gather for another conclave to elect a pontiff in the wake of Benedict XVI’s unexpected resignation—the first pope to resign in six centuries—speculation has run rampant over possible candidates and whether the eventual winner might change the Church. 

Leo’s tenure offers one possible scenario of how an evolution can occur in an institution that, to the frustration of many, often reacts to events and new schools of thought at a snail’s pace.

Leo was hardly a radical; indeed, one doesn’t exist for years in the Church hierarchy without absorbing its basic assumptions. Moreover, a number of his positions were not out of step with those of his predecessor, Pius IX. 

All the way into his 90s, for instance, Leo believed that he would recover the Papal States, the territories under direct sovereign rule of the popes for an entire millennium before they were lost in the midcentury drive for Italy's unification. 

In addition, disturbed by continued anti-clericalism in Europe, he launched an unnecessary pre-emptive strike against the “Americanism heresy” of separation of church and state—a move that the most prominent American prelate of the late 19^th century, James Cardinal Gibbons of Baltimore, regarded as a slap at the faithful in the growing United States.

With that said, the reign of Leo represented a welcome change from that of Pius. Recently, columnist E.J. Dionne noted that Benedict XVI was “a kind of neo-conservative — not in his foreign-policy attitudes but in sociological terms,” a moderate progressive who ended up recoiling not just from the student rebellions of the late 1960s in his native Germany but also from nearly any deeper examination of Church theology. 

In a sense, Pius was the Church’s neocon prototype—only he turned away from what he perceived as the nationalist, secularist excesses of Europe in the late 1840s. 

By the end of his reactionary three-decade period as the Vicar of Christ, he had refused to accept his diminished temporal power (even to the point of becoming a rather farcical "prisoner of the Vatican") and pushed through the doctrine of papal infallibility. 

In the process, he encouraged Protestants who believed Catholicism was, by its nature, antithetical to any notions of democracy, republican government or, scientific, philosophical or even theological innovation. His was the longest pontificate in history, and it did some of the worst damage.

With a culture that stresses tradition, the Vatican is slow to change, even in those instances where it is clearly perceived, even at the time, that a mistake has been made. 

For one thing, the pope who made the initial move has already stacked the Church hierarchy with his own appointees; second, the work culture of the Vatican reflects the la dolce vita lifestyle of Italy as a whole (recall Pope John XXIII’s wisecrack when asked how many people work at the Vatican: “About half”); and third, an immediate admission of an error obviously calls into question papal infallibility.

For this reason, popes advance the Church incrementally, in ways often not immediately apparent to casual observers. 

Favorites of the last pontiff find themselves sidelined to less conspicuous positions; those previously in disfavor see their thinking and achievements recognized at last; canon law is tinkered with at the margins; rhetoric is recalibrated, to a notably less fevered pitch; and new initiatives are launched.

Leo was not about to undo everything Pius did; in fact, the centralizing tendencies of his predecessor would prove crucial in his attempt to steer the Church in a different direction. But his elevation to his new office unleashed an unanticipated burst of energy in the aging cardinal, so much so that within hours of his election he cried out, "I want to carry out a great policy!"

The papacy under Leo, then, offers a good example of the type of evolution we might expect to see in a pontiff of the near future with conservative, but not reactionary, instincts:

*Henry Cardinal Manning, who had used his position as an ally of Pius to undercut fellow Catholic convert John Henry Newman, saw his rival become a cardinal himself in 1879.

* “The new pope does not…curse, he does not threaten…The form is sweet,” editorialized the Italian journal Riforma—and Leo used that tone to re-set the Vatican’s disastrous relationship with Otto von Bismarck, who had used Pius’ promulgation of infallibility as an excuse to push his policy of Kulturkampf, or subordination to the new German state. Within a few years after Leo’s ascension, Bismarck began to rescind the worst of the anti-Catholic legislation.

*Many in the Vatican bureaucracy had resisted opening its archives to historians, who they felt were prejudiced in favor of Protestants, if not secular. Leo would have none of it. “There are some of you who, if you had lived in the time of Christ, would have wanted to suppress the betrayal of Judas and the denial of Peter,” he answered. In 1881, Leo opened the archives to historians, including Protestants—a boon to research about Europe’s past.

*In the greatest paradox of all, Leo—though of aristocratic birth—decided to confront the twin specters of unfettered capitalism and socialism with Rerum Novarum (1891), one of 85 encyclicals—the most of any pontiff. (By comparison, the energetic John Paul II, in the same length of time, issued only 14.)

Consider this line from the encyclical: “A small number of very rich men have been able to lay upon the teeming masses of the laboring poor a yoke which is very little better than slavery itself.” Mainstream thought in the current Republican Party would regard that as unmitigated class warfare. 

The impact in its own time was revolutionary. “Leo’s attack on unrestricted capitalism, his insistence on the duty of state intervention on behalf of the worker, his assertion of the right to a living wage and the rights of organized labor, changed the terms of all future Catholic discussion of social questions…” wrote Eamon Duffy in his history of the papacy, Saints and Sinners. “Without being either a democrat or a radical himself Leo opened the door to the evolution of Catholic democracy.”

Quote of the Day (Pope Leo XIII, on "Helpless" Labor)

“…some opportune remedy must be found quickly for the misery and wretchedness pressing so unjustly on the majority of the working class: for the ancient workingmen's guilds were abolished in the last century, and no other protective organization took their place. Public institutions and the laws set aside the ancient religion. Hence, by degrees it has come to pass that working men have been surrendered, isolated and helpless, to the hardheartedness of employers and the greed of unchecked competition. The mischief has been increased by rapacious usury, which, although more than once condemned by the Church, is nevertheless, under a different guise, but with like injustice, still practiced by covetous and grasping men. To this must be added that the hiring of labor and the conduct of trade are concentrated in the hands of comparatively few; so that a small number of very rich men have been able to lay upon the teeming masses of the laboring poor a yoke little better than that of slavery itself.”—Pope Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum (Of New Things), May 15, 1891

The white collar might have replaced the blue collar in many instances, but the yoke around the neck remains similarly heavy 120 years after Pope Leo XIII wrote this deeply influential encyclical on the proper relationship between labor and capital. In its solid grounding in scripture, its understanding of the deterioration of the family created by adverse working conditions, and its ability to avoid the worst extremes of confiscatory socialism and unchecked capitalism, it did more than form the bedrock of modern Catholic social teaching. “Without being either a democrat or a radical himself,” writes Eamon Duffy in his history of the popes, Saints and Sinners (1997), “Leo opened the door to the evolution of Catholic democracy.”

Recall the position of labor in the United States only five years before Leo sent this open letter to the upper echelon of the Roman Catholic Church. Chicago’s Haymarket Riot in May 1886, in which seven policemen were killed, not only set back the movement for an eight-hour workday, but proved the undoing of the Knights of Labor, who were blamed for the incident.

The pontiff who issued this clarion call for the dignity of the worker could easily have furthered or deepened the reactionary tendencies encouraged in the Church by his predecessor, Pope Pius IX. Anyone at the 1878 papal conclave who voted for Leo in the hope that the already aged man (68) would not have time to exacerbate the kind of mischief created by Pius were already finding themselves in for a rude shock: Leo would occupy the papal throne for 25 years and live to be 93, issuing 86 encyclicals—a record no other pontiff has approached.

Moreover, Leo was insistent on his privileges as head of the hierarchy. You can see it in the anecdotes about him (e.g., not allowing Catholics having an audience with him to sit at any time during the interview), and even more in the rhetoric in Rerum Novarum that mixed eloquent appeals for the betterment of workers with the assurance that any solution was useless “apart from the intervention of religion and of the Church”:

“It is We who are the chief guardian of religion and the chief dispenser of what pertains to the Church; and by keeping silence we would seem to neglect the duty incumbent on us. Doubtless, this most serious question demands the attention and the efforts of others besides ourselves -- to wit, of the rulers of States, of employers of labor, of the wealthy, aye, of the working classes themselves, for whom We are pleading. But We affirm without hesitation that all the striving of men will be vain if they leave out the Church. It is the Church that insists, on the authority of the Gospel, upon those teachings whereby the conflict can be brought to an end, or rendered, at least, far less bitter; the Church uses her efforts not only to enlighten the mind, but to direct by her precepts the life and conduct of each and all; the Church improves and betters the condition of the working man by means of numerous organizations; does her best to enlist the services of all classes in discussing and endeavoring to further in the most practical way, the interests of the working classes; and considers that for this purpose recourse should be had, in due measure and degree, to the intervention of the law and of State authority.”

In the light of this triumphalist tone, it amounts to a kind of miracle that Leo offered to the world a document that advocated a living wage and union rights, attacked conscienceless capitalism and called on the state to take steps to assure the dignity of labor.

Duffy locates the inspiration for the encyclical in Leo’s meetings with pilgrims led by the industrialist Lucien Harmel, who had tried unsuccessfully to enlist other Catholic employers in his enlightened practices of model housing, saving-schemes, health and welfare benefits, and workers’ councils.

But it might be that the seeds for his vision were planted a full five decades before his encyclical, when, appointed papal delegate (and later archbishop) for Perugia, Leo began a small savings bank that provided small tradesmen and farmers with loans at low interest. The conditions he observed led him to cry out, even before becoming pope: “And does not the sight of poor children, shut up in factories, where in the midst of premature toil, consumption awaits them—does not this sight provoke words of burning indignation from every generous soil, and oblige Governments and Parliaments to make laws that can serve as a check to this inhuman traffic?”

Over the years, subsequent popes revisited the issues raised by Leo, and these have not always been greeted with hosannas. (Of Pope John XXIII’s 1961 encyclical, Mater et Magistra , or “Mother and Teacher”, William F. Buckley Jr. announced, in the pages of his National Review: “Going the rounds in conservative circles: 'Mater si, Magistra no.'")

Yet, across the span of more than a century, it was the critique of the conservative Leo that remains the most challenging to today’s conservative Catholics. They will have to answer if even the slightest step taken to assure the health and lives of workers is truly, as so many right-wingers contend, the onset of socialism; if the hand of God exists in corporations that move functions outside their host countries; if sidelining 50-and-over able-bodied workers really recognizes the ongoing worth of people; and if enormous differences in compensation between the highest- and lowest-paid at corporations are truly authentic parts of Catholic social teaching.

This Day in Religious History (Riots Drive Pope Pius IX From Rome)

November 24, 1848—Toward the end of a year of revolution, nationalist sentiment, riots and assassinations, Pope Pius IX was forced to flee in disguise from Quirinal Palace, the longtime papal summer residence, to Gaeta, a city in central Italy, where he would remain, along with several cardinals, for nearly a year. The experience so embittered the pope—who had enjoyed a reputation as a reformer upon his elevation to the papacy—that he became the most reactionary pope of modern times for the rest of his 31-year reign, the longest of any pontiff.

Cardinal Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti assumed the tiara in 1846 as the best hope of modernizing and liberalizing the Vatican in at least a generation. He possessed connections to Italian liberals; believed strongly in missions to Latin America because of his own service there as a young priest stationed in Chile; and, at 54, possessed an energy, friendliness, sense of humor, and relative youth that would not be seen in the heir of St. Peter until Pope John Paul II.

And if that wasn’t enough to convince an increasingly restless Italian population, there was this: a dove had even sat on the roof of his carriage as it neared Rome. If that didn’t indicate he was blessed by the Holy Spirit, many of the most devout of his time felt, then what did?

The expectations surrounding Pius were staggering. Unfortunately, they were soon outweighed by the challenges facing him.

Pius’ long reign was shaped indelibly by the events of 1848. I’ve long wanted to write a post on an event in Europe in this tumultuous year. For readers who want a sense of what it was like to live then, think of 1989, when Communism fell all over Eastern Europe and even the Communist government of China appeared on the brink of collapse.

The “Springtime of Nations,” they called it. Wherever you turned in Europe, nationalist and democratic forces were rising against governments suffering from arteriosclerosis as the post-Napoleonic order established at the Congress of Vienna began to come apart: Germany, Poland, Austria, France, and Italy. (Even in Ireland, where people were still coping with the aftereffects of the Potato Famine, a revolt planned by the “Young Ireland” group was planned but quickly failed.)

Revolution was coming to Italy, too. Milan and Venice were revolting against their Austrian rulers; Naples, Tuscany and Piedmont imposed constitutional constraints on their sovereigns. The Papal States were broiling over with their own ferment, partly because Pius’ predecessor, Gregory XVI, and the ultramontane faction within the Vatican had been so insistent on the need of the Pope to be a temporal ruler.

Within a year and a half after taking over, Pius signaled that things would change under him, with such measures as:

* A general amnesty for all political exiles and prisoners;
* An advisory council consisting overwhelmingly of laymen, presided over by a cardinal;
* A Roman Civic Guard; and
* A Cabinet Council.

But Pius began to get cold feet not long after these acts, and he grew even more cautious when faced with calls for his blessings on plans to expel Austria by force.

Of all the ironies of this whole year, this might have been the greatest. At the time of his election by the College of Cardinals, Pius was considered so hostile to Austrian interests that there was a real question whether a voting bloc would prevent a favorable vote for him.

But Pius could not abide a war waged against another Catholic country. Nor did he want any part of a federal Italy led by a pope, telling Italians to be faithful to the princes who then ruled the land. When he finally made that position unequivocally clear, chaos ensued:

* Two of Pius’ chief ministers resigned, exhausted from trying to tamp down anti-coup sentiment;
* A third chief minister, the layman Pellegrino Rossi, was stabbed to death as he arrived to open the new parliament;
* The radicals presented Pius with a list of demands he rejected out of hand, including the abolition of all papal temporal power;
* The following day, Pius—transformed almost overnight from an object of near-veneration to one of hatred—was besieged in the Quirinal by an armed mob, which shot Monsignor Palma, the secretary for Latin letters, as he stood in a window.

Nine days ensued in which the Pope, watched over by the Civic Guard, sweated out what to do. Finally, he made it out with the help of two diplomats: the Bavarian Minister, Count Spaur, and the Ambassador of France, the Duc d’Harcourt.

The account of the escape offered by Nicholas Cheetham in Keepers of the Keys certainly has its comic-opera elements. The way the envoys effected the escape was ingenious: Harcourt paid a formal call on the pope. It seemed to be going on for an awfully long time. But what was really happening was this: the diplomat was reading aloud passages from a newspaper—the same kind of time-wasting trick that U.S. Senators possessed of iron lungs and kidneys perform when they decide to mount a filibuster.

Meanwhile, the pope’s valet was frantically helping his boss into an ordinary priest’s dress. When that process was completed, the two slipped down a back passage into the courtyard, then into a waiting carriage, and finally to an arranged meeting with Spaur. Then they made it into a larger vehicle before reaching Gaeta in the Neapolitan region. It would take another nearly another two years before Pius, with the help of French and Austrian troops, re-entered Rome.

But it was the beginning of the end of the longtime temporal power of the pope, and the increasingly secular trend of one of the prime forces behind Italian nationalism, Count Cavour, only further hardened Pius’ opposition to the new order in Italy and Europe as a whole.

Eamon Duffy paints a tragic picture of the pontiff in Saints and Sinners, noting the anomaly of a man who, though possessed of undeniable personal friendliness, wit and warm, became increasingly tied to intolerant forces that insisted on papal supremacy. Two of his acts were particularly egregious in later years: his 1864 Syllabus of Errors, in which he flatly denied the chance that any pope could “reconcile himself with progress, liberalism, and recent civilization”, and the proclamation of papal infallibility when speaking ex cathedra as visible head of all Christians.

The statements provided years of talking points to anti-Catholic bigots in America and Britain. It would take a century for the damage to begin to be undone with the Second Vatican Council—and in certain ways that work is still incomplete.