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March 9, 2003
Is the Pope Catholic...Enough?
By CHRISTOPHER NOXON
he first sign that something unusual was going on up the hill was the
appearance of a fleet of brand-new Volkswagen bugs, lined up on a muddy
bluff like a row of oversize Easter eggs. It was a local handyman who
spotted them while he was out on a walk through this little valley in the
mountains northwest of Los Angeles, near Malibu. Neighbors had already been
talking about the 16-acre property on the valley's south slope, and soon
word spread that a church group called Holy Family had purchased the site
with plans to break ground for a 9,300-square-foot Mission-style church
complex.
Among the neighbors who wondered about the new arrival was my father,
a recently retired documentary filmmaker who joined the local homeowners
association when he moved to the area two years ago. This latest project,
however, wasn't the usual commercial complex or instant enclave of luxury
homes that tended to attract the association's attention. It was a church,
that much was clear, but it didn't sound at all like your garden-variety
community parish. A representative for the property owner explained that the
church was Catholic, but it wasn't affiliated with the Roman Catholic
archdiocese. While the church building was relatively large, the
congregation was quite small, with about 70 members. And though religious
practices and rituals would be familiar to Catholics, there was one big
difference: Sunday Mass, it was reported, would be conducted entirely in
Latin.
Lest anyone get the impression that this band of spiritual seekers
might disperse if the collection baskets were to run dry, a church
representative assured the neighbors that the church was supported by an
unnamed individual congregant with ''tremendous financial viability.''
Would that explain the VW bugs? The handyman recalls posing the
question at an early community meeting. He was told that the congregant
financing the church ''had given them as gifts to his nieces and nephews,''
he says. ''I remember thinking, 'That's some generous uncle.'''
The person behind the unusually well-endowed chapel turned out to be
the actor Mel Gibson, star of ''Mad Max,'' ''Lethal Weapon'' and
''Braveheart.'' The church is operated by a nonprofit corporation; according
to public financial records, Gibson is its director, chief executive officer
and sole benefactor, making more than $2.8 million in contributions over the
past three years.
The fact that Gibson is building a church in the hills near Los
Angeles should come as no huge surprise. Gibson's Catholicism has never been
a secret, and in fact gives him a sort of reverse-exoticism in a town where
other stars dabble in Buddhism, kabala and Scientology. An avowed family man
still on his first marriage, with seven children to show for it, Gibson
smokes, raises cattle, publicly shuns plastic surgery and seems wholly
unmoved by most of the liberal-left causes favored by industry peers.
Recently, however, something beyond the impulse to entertain has been
showing up in Gibson's work. Last year he played a former minister who
rediscovers religion amid an alien invasion in ''Signs'' and a reverent
Catholic lieutenant colonel in the war drama ''We Were Soldiers.'' In these
films, but especially in a new movie, a monumentally risky project called
''The Passion,'' which he co-wrote and is currently directing in and around
Rome, Gibson appears increasingly driven to express a theology only hinted
at in his previous work. That theology is a strain of Catholicism rooted in
the dictates of a 16th-century papal council and nurtured by a splinter
group of conspiracy-minded Catholics, mystics, monarchists and disaffected
conservatives -- including a seminary dropout and rabble-rousing theologist
who also happens to be Mel Gibson's father.
Gibson is the star practitioner of this movement, which is known as
Catholic traditionalism. Seeking to maintain the faith as it was understood
before the landmark Second Vatican Council of 1962-1965, traditionalists
view modern reforms as the work of either foolish liberals or hellbent
heretics. They generally operate outside the authority or oversight of the
official church, often maintaining their own chapels, schools, seminaries
and clerical orders. Central to the movement is the Tridentine Mass, the
Latin rite that was codified by the Council of Trent in the 16th century and
remained in place until the Second Vatican Council deemed that Mass should
be held in the popular language of each country. Latin, however, is just the
beginning -- traditionalists refrain from eating meat on Fridays, and
traditionalist women wear headdresses in church. The movement seeks to
revive an orthodoxy uncorrupted by the theological and social changes of the
last 300 years or so.
Michael W. Cuneo, a sociology professor at Fordham University who
reported on right-wing Catholic dissent in his 1997 book, ''The Smoke of
Satan,'' wrote that traditionalists ''would like nothing more than to be
transported back to Louis XIV's France or Franco's Spain, where Catholicism
enjoyed an unrivaled presidency over cultural life and other religions
existed entirely at its beneficence.''
While traditionalists agree on the broad outlines of correct religious
practice, the movement is hardly united. Its brief history is the story of a
movement branching off into ever-smaller submovements. Today there are
approximately 600 traditionalist chapels, representing a number of
theological streams, including the more Vatican-friendly Society of Saint
Pius X, the more strident Society of Saint Pius V, the militantly
traditional Mount St. Michael's community and the Apostles of Infinite Love,
a monastic community in Quebec led by a onetime Catholic brother who claims
to be the incarnation of the one true pope. All told, there are an estimated
100,000 traditionalists in the United States.
Gibson's church may be the most comfortably endowed traditionalist
house of worship in the country, but in other respects it is quite typical.
Most of the congregation met while attending services held by a
traditionalist priest, whose church in the San Gabriel Valley was eventually
taken over by the Society of Saint Pius X. A group of congregants, including
the Gibson family, left in protest. They gained approval from Los Angeles
County to build their own church early last year after agreeing to a set of
operating guidelines -- covering such issues as parking, lighting, signage
and hours of services -- with the regional planning commission and neighbors
(including my father).
When I called the church elder who was Holy Family's representative at
the county meetings, he agreed to an interview and accepted my request to
attend a service, on the conditions that I not identify him or any member of
the congregation beyond Mel Gibson, and that I withhold details that might
invite the interest of fans or paparazzi. He also asked that I refrain from
speaking to the priest, the congregants or anyone else during my visit. He
told me that anyone seen speaking to me ''will not be welcome back at our
church again.''
After all the warnings, I was a little surprised to find Sunday Mass
at Holy Family an almost entirely ordinary experience. The service itself
was remarkably similar to what I remember from parochial school -- that is,
until a homily delivered near the end of the two-hour Mass. The priest read
a parable from St. Matthew about a farmer whose fields are raided in the
night by an enemy who spreads a noxious weed in his wheat. The evil in the
story, the priest said, is ''the modern church,'' whose wickedness will be
dealt with on Judgment Day.
''The wiping out of our opposition must wait until harvest time,'' he
concluded. It suddenly became clear why Gibson isn't worshiping with his
fellow Catholic Martin Sheen down at Our Lady of Malibu.
Gibson is widely known in traditionalist circles, and he has made no
secret of his religious affiliation. ''I go to an all-pre-Vatican II Latin
Mass,'' he told USA Today in an interview two years ago. ''There was a lot
of talk, particularly in the 60's, of 'Wow, we've got to change with the
times.' But the Creator instituted something very specific, and we can't
just go change it.'' More recently, the Italian newspaper Il Giornale
reported that Gibson made a ''scathing attack against the Vatican,'' calling
it a ''wolf in sheep's clothing.''
While many traditionalists can't abide some of Gibson's career
choices -- the onscreen baring of his bottom is a particular source of
concern -- most are content to overlook his occasional wild streak. ''Gibson
should get the tsk-tsk award for lowering his impressive acting talent on
occasion,'' wrote a priest known as Father Moderator on the Internet posting
board Traditio. Nonetheless, the priest continued, Gibson ''never ceases to
project his traditional Catholic faith to the public. Who else in such a
prominent position ever does?''
Mel Gibson is also known in traditionalist circles as the most famous
son of Hutton Gibson, a well-known author and activist who has railed
against the Vatican for more than 30 years. His books on the topic include
''Is the Pope Catholic?'' and ''The Enemy Is Here.'' (Precisely where is
indicated by a map on the dust jacket -- it's a cartoon of Italy, drawn by
one of his 49 grandchildren). Gibson père also publishes a quarterly
newsletter called ''The War Is Now!,'' which includes all manner of verbal
volleys against a pope he calls ''Garrulous Karolus, the Koran Kisser.''
Now living in suburban Houston, Hutton Gibson invited me for a weekend
visit after an initial phone conversation. When I arrived, he was wrapping
up an interview with a syndicated radio program. Hutton Gibson is 84 but
seemed a good deal younger (which he credited to his abstinence from
drinking, daily doses of vitamins and ''never going near a doctor''). He is
energized by an abiding love of corny jokes and lively debate, and he
peppered a commentary on the scandals facing the Catholic Church with jokes
about Texans, the Irish and, inevitably, the pope.
He said he speaks to his son frequently and knows all about Mel's
chapel in the hills. ''Mel wasn't raised in the new church, and he wouldn't
go for it anymore than I would,'' he said. ''I've got to say that my whole
family is with me -- all 10 of them.''
While his rhetoric showed no signs of mellowing, the elder Gibson had
plenty of reasons to be satisfied. For one, he is a newlywed. His doting
bride, Joye, is a statuesque Oregonian who playfully addressed him as ''Mr.
G.'' Surrounded by ceramic knickknacks and photos of his grandchildren, he
seemed entirely at ease with himself and the world.
Which made it all the odder when he launched into one of his complex
conspiracy theories. On our first night together, he nursed a mug of
sassafras tea while leading a four-hour tutorial on so-called sedevacantism,
which holds that all the popes going back to John XXIII in the 1950's have
been illegitimate -- ''anti-popes,'' he called them. As Hutton explained it,
the conservative cardinal Giuseppe Siri was probably passed over for pope in
1958 in favor of a more reform-minded candidate. Hutton said Cardinal Siri
was duly elected, but was forced to step aside by conspirators inside and
outside the church. These shadowy enemies might have threatened ''to
atom-bomb the Vatican City,'' he said. In another conversation, he told me
that the Second Vatican Council was ''a Masonic plot backed by the Jews.''
The intrigue got only murkier and more menacing from there. The next
day after church, over a plate of roast beef at a buffet joint off the
highway, conversation turned to the events of Sept. 11. Hutton flatly
rejected that Al Qaeda hijackers had anything to do with the attacks.
''Anybody can put out a passenger list,'' he said.
So what happened? ''They were crashed by remote control,'' he replied.
He moved on to the Holocaust, dismissing historical accounts that six
million Jews were exterminated. ''Go and ask an undertaker or the guy who
operates the crematorium what it takes to get rid of a dead body,'' he said.
''It takes one liter of petrol and 20 minutes. Now, six million?''
Across the table, Joye suddenly looked up from her plate. She was
dressed in a stylish outfit for church, wearing a leather patchwork blazer
and a felt beret in place of the traditional headdress. She had kept quiet
most of the day, so it was a surprise when she cheerfully piped in. ''There
weren't even that many Jews in all of Europe,'' she said.
''Anyway, there were more after the war than before,'' Hutton added.
The entire catastrophe was manufactured, said Hutton, as part of an
arrangement between Hitler and ''financiers'' to move Jews out of Germany.
Hitler ''had this deal where he was supposed to make it rough on them so
they would all get out and migrate to Israel because they needed people
there to fight the Arabs,'' he said.
hether any of this has rubbed off on Hutton's son Mel is an open
question. A church elder at Holy Family says that while the two share the
same foundation of faith, Mel Gibson parts company with his father on many
points. ''He doesn't go along with a lot of what his dad says,'' he says.
And beyond claiming to have seen the plans for Holy Family and attended
services with the congregation, Hutton Gibson has no apparent connection to
his son's church in California.
Still, Mel Gibson has shown some of his father's flair for conspiracy
scenarios. In a 1995 Playboy interview, he related a sketchy theory that
various presidential assassinations and assassination attempts have been
acts of retribution for economic reforms that challenged the powers-that-be.
''There's something to do with the Federal Reserve that Lincoln did, Kennedy
did and Reagan tried,'' he said. ''I can't remember what it was. My dad told
me about it. Everyone who did this particular thing that would have fixed
the economy got undone. Anyway, I'll end up dead if I keep talking.''
Perhaps nothing Gibson has done will serve as a more public
announcement of his faith and worldview than the project he's now completing
in Rome. ''The Passion'' is a graphic depiction of the last 12 hours in the
life of Jesus Christ, based on biblical accounts and the writings of two
mystic nuns. Gibson is returning to the director's chair for the first time
since ''Braveheart'' in 1995, but he will not appear on-screen. There will
not, in fact, be any big stars. Nor will there be subtitles, which might
prove a challenge for many moviegoers, since the actors will speak only
Aramaic and Latin. Gibson has said that he hopes to depict Christ's ordeal
using ''filmic storytelling'' techniques that will make the understanding of
dialogue unnecessary.
The idea came to him a decade ago, he announced at a news conference
last September, and he is soldiering on now without the backing of a studio
or a U.S. distributor. ''Obviously, nobody wants to touch something filmed
in two dead languages,'' he said. ''They think I'm crazy, and maybe I am.
But maybe I'm a genius.''
In Hollywood, the astonishment many felt upon hearing about the
project has been heightened by reports that his production company is paying
the film's estimated $25 million cost itself. Making a movie that has
anything at all to do with religion is risky enough -- remember ''The Last
Temptation of Christ''? But spending your own money to help pay for it?
''It's a very gutsy thing to do -- I certainly wouldn't do it,'' says
the veteran producer Alan Ladd Jr., who chose Gibson to star in and direct
''Braveheart.'' ''But he wouldn't do it if he couldn't it pull off, at least
in his own mind. He's obviously satisfying some deep personal need in
himself.''
Only Gibson knows the precise nature of that personal need, and he
declined numerous requests for an interview, limiting his public comments to
a January appearance on the Fox news program ''The O'Reilly Factor,'' in
which he complained about inquiries regarding his faith and suggested that
any reporter asking such questions might be part of a plot to undermine his
message of salvation. ''I think he's been sent,'' he told Bill O'Reilly.
''When you touch this subject, it does have a lot of enemies.''
Many traditionalists, meanwhile, hope the graphic approach Gibson is
taking -- production stills show the star, James Caviezel, beaten to a pulp
and drenched in blood, fresh from a flagellation -- will serve as a
big-budget dramatization of key points of traditionalist theology. After
waging a quiet war against what they see as the Vatican's overly
accommodating theology, traditionalists suddenly find themselves equipped
with a most unfamiliar weapon: star power. ''I'm delighted he's getting more
involved,'' says Bishop Daniel Dolan, founder of more than 30 Latin Mass
churches and one of the most influential traditionalists in the country.
''To put the weight of his Hollywood celebrity behind the truth that the
whole modern church structure is rotten to the core is excellent. I welcome
it.''
A friend of the Gibson family has his own ideas about how
traditionalist thought is informing ''The Passion.'' Gary Giuffre, a founder
of the traditionalist St. Jude Chapel in Texas, says Gibson told him about
his plans for ''The Passion'' on a recent visit. ''It will graphically
portray the intense suffering of Christ, perhaps as no film has done
before.'' Most important, he says, the film will lay the blame for the death
of Christ where it belongs -- which some traditionalists believe means the
Jewish authorities who presided over his trial and delivered him to the
Romans to be crucified.
In his conversation with Bill O'Reilly (who prefaced the interview by
disclosing that Gibson's production company has optioned the rights to
O'Reilly's mystery novel), Gibson was asked whether his account might
particularly upset Jews. ''It may,'' he said. ''It's not meant to. I think
it's meant to just tell the truth. I want to be as truthful as possible. But
when you look at the reasons why Christ came, why he was crucified -- he
died for all mankind and he suffered for all mankind. So that, really,
anyone who transgresses has to look at their own part or look at their own
culpability.''
Christopher Noxon is a writer living in Los Angeles.
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