Though they lead different branches of the Christian Church, there is a
peculiar synchronicity between the Windsors and the popes.
When Britain was
mourning Diana, Princess of Wales, in 1997, the Vatican was grieving for its
own icon, Mother Teresa of Calcutta, who had died a few days after her.
The
funeral for Pope John Paul II in 2005 clashed with the wedding of Prince
Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles, and caused the latter event to be
delayed.
And now the marriage of the future head of the Church of England,
Prince William, has taken place just two days before the beatification – the
final step before sainthood – of John Paul.
While in Britain there is no doubt which of the two gripped the public's imagination, globally it was a more evenly matched contest.
Over a million pilgrims, plus 22 world leaders (including HRH the Duke of Gloucester, hot foot from Westminster Abbey), gathered Sunday in and around St Peter's Square to see John Paul declared "Blessed".
There was – as with the royal wedding – symbolism aplenty. Some of it was straightforward – Pope Benedict XVI wearing John Paul's vestments as he led the ceremony. And some of it was peculiarly Catholic.
The Polish pontiff's coffin, disinterred after six years from its resting place beneath the main altar of St Peter's, was on display on the platform.
That may have appeared ghoulish to the secular, sceptical world, but for Catholics, whose beliefs lead them to conclude that death is not the end, the presence of John Paul's remains symbolised the continuing presence of his spirit amongst us.
Indeed it was his intervention from beyond the grave that cured one of the crowd – 49-year-old French nun, Sister Marie Simon-Pierre – from Parkinson's Disease. This was the miracle that Vatican rules require for the beatification to take place at all (a second is now needed for canonisation).
What of the broader significance of the two events?
Much has been written about how the wedding of William and Kate Middleton brought us together as a nation, emphasised what we have in common, and of the enduring place in our national life of tradition and authority.
Something similar can be said of John Paul's beatification.
At times the world's 1.2 billion Catholics can seem like a deeply divided
family.
The absolute authority the papacy continues, in theory, to command –
popes can speak infallibly on certain matters of faith and morals – does not
always translate into practice. Surveys carried out around Benedict's visit
to Britain last September, for example, revealed again how far many
Catholics dissent from the papal teaching on issues such as abortion,
homosexuality, sex before marriage and contraception.
The official line on such matters could not have found a more eloquent or
industrious exponent than Pope John Paul II. Yet even he did not win over
the dissenters in his flock, but that didn't stop him commanding attention
and respect.
The paramount role of the popes in Catholicism – a status
unique in major world religions – may be questioned, resented occasionally,
but as the scenes in Rome conveyed, it is still potent.
And not just for a passing generation of the elderly, as is sometimes
suggested by the critics of religion.
At the vigil on Saturday night which
preceded yesterday's set-piece in St Peter's Square, the striking feature
about the 200,000 who gathered was how many of them were youngsters.
Many had travelled from eastern Europe, especially John Paul's native Poland.
They believe that the freedoms their countries now enjoy owe much to the
courage of the Catholic Church in holding out against communist control
during the decades of Soviet rule, and in particular to John Paul himself
for being, as some have put it, "the spark from heaven" that
ignited the fires in 1989 that destroyed the Iron Curtain.
They regard
Catholicism, in Benedict's words, as "a religion of hope".
Set against such a legacy, two main criticisms of the beatification have been
voiced.
The first is that it has happened too soon after John Paul's death.
One of the features of the Church is its preference for taking decades, if
not centuries, to make up its mind on important questions.
But the rule that
requires a pause of five years before any "cause" (candidacy for
sainthood) can be launched was waived in the case of John Paul.
The official explanation is that the Vatican is simply bowing to popular
demand. At John Paul's funeral in 2005, a cry went up from the vast crowd
that gathered then of "santo, subito" ("saint, quickly").
The presence of a million people in Rome yesterday appeared to vindicate
Benedict's decision to abandon the usual period of due diligence. If it were
also a precedent for responding to the experience of ordinary Catholics on
other contentious questions, it would be doubly welcome.
The second complaint was that John Paul had done too little as Pope to tackle
the tide of complaints of sexual abuse of children by priests.
Most came
into the open on his "watch", yet his critics say he swept them
under the carpet, hardly the conduct of a saint.
There was little sense in Rome that the beatification was another
exercise in covering up the abuse scandal.
Even if it was intended as such,
the reverberations – in the lives of the individuals who have been
traumatised, and in the trust that Catholics now hesitate to place again in
the clerical elite – are just too great to be silenced by a single pageant.
No, what yesterday was all about was a resounding reminder that Catholicism
continues to play a role in spiritual and temporal matters, a claim
exemplified by the life and witness of Pope John Paul, and one he can
continue as Blessed John Paul to promote.
For the saint-making process has
always had that political dimension. John Paul himself made more saints
(450) in his 27 years as all his predecessors in the previous 400 had
together.
He understood well the power of saints as role models and "signs
of contradiction" (a favourite phrase of his) in the modern age.
He has
now become just such a sign.
Peter Stanford's latest book is 'The Extra Mile: a 21st Century Pilgrimage'
(Continuum).