History and Presence

HISTORY

and

PRESENCE

ROBERT A. ORSI

The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS  •  LONDON, ENGLAND

2016

Copyright © 2016 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College

All rights reserved

Jacket design: Graciela Galup

Jacket image: Madonna of Loreto, c. 1606, by Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio. Chiesa di San Agostino, Rome, Italy. De Agostini Picture Library/Bridgeman Images

978-0-674-04789-1 (alk. paper)

978-0-674-96907-0 (EPUB)

978-0-674-96906-3 (MOBI)

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PRINTED EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

Names: Orsi, Robert A., author.

Title: History and presence / Robert A. Orsi.

Description: Cambridge, Massachusetts : The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015036422

Subjects: LCSH: Lord’s Supper—Real presence. | Catholic Church—Doctrines—History. | Catholic Church—Prayers and devotions. | Catholics—Religious life—United States—Case studies.

Classification: LCC BV825.3 .O76 2016 | DDC 234/.163—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015036422

To my wife, Christine Helmer

CONTENTS

Introduction: Real Presence

1  The Obsolescence of the Gods

2  Abundant History

3  Holy Intimacies

4  Printed Presence

5  The Dead in the Company of the Living

6  The Happiness of Heaven

7  Events of Abundant Evil

Epilogue: A Metric of Presence

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INDEX

INTRODUCTION

Real Presence

I HAVE never known anyone with a deeper devotion to Christ in the Eucharist than my mother. Her love was so great that she simply could not understand why anyone would ever be kept from the real presence of Christ in the Host—certainly not good people, but especially not those men and women who appeared to be the least deserving, from a human perspective, of eating Christ’s body and drinking his blood. In the late spring of 1998, she wrote a letter to a New York newspaper, her only published work as far as I know, sharply criticizing the city’s Cardinal John O’Connor for condemning President Bill Clinton and First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton, both non–Roman Catholics—she a Methodist, he a Southern Baptist—for receiving Communion that spring in a South African Catholic church, and the local priest for giving it to them. The action taken by the priest in South Africa, the cardinal had said, speaking from his pulpit in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City on Palm Sunday, however well intentioned, was legally and doctrinally wrong in the eyes of Church law and Church doctrine. This is the sound of a hammer, nailing down the law.¹

Holy Week is the time of year when Christians recall Jesus’s institution of the Eucharist at the last meal he shared with his apostles. It was at this supper that Jesus, aware that his death was drawing near, spoke the words take and eat and take and drink and do this in memory of me. Only in cases of grave necessity, the cardinal continued, is a non-Catholic permitted to receive Communion. His Eminence reminded his listeners of the reason for this prohibition: To receive Holy Communion in the Catholic Church means that one believes one is receiving, not a symbol of Christ, but Christ Jesus himself. The implication is clear: Protestants deal in symbols, Catholics in the really real.

From his perch on Fifth Avenue, Cardinal O’Connor was evoking and enforcing the ontological border between Catholics and others. My mother, from a less auspicious venue, protested against this, speaking out of a Southern Italian tradition of resistance to the presumptions of clerical authority. Who dares to keep anyone away from God really present in the Host? she indignantly asked the cardinal, fully ignoring his exalted status. This is the Church’s problem with the real presence: controlling access to it. Such control is one of the surest grounds of ecclesiastical and political power, not only over the laity but over the rulers of nations, too. Yet presence continually exceeds the Church’s efforts to contain it. In this story of the cardinal, the Clintons, and my mother, ordinary humans refused to be banned from approaching what they knew to be a powerful source of solace, hope, and companionship or to ban others from it. Everything at stake in this story—the cardinal’s authority; my mother’s dissent; the difference between Catholics and others, including other Christians; Catholic superiority; the distinction between the symbolic and the real; the global extension of the dispute; its implications in contemporary politics and in questions of Church-state relations—is rooted in the violent debates that exploded in sixteenth-century Europe over what Jesus meant when he said, this is my body, this is my blood, take and eat, and do this in memory of me.

*   *   *

Throughout the sixteenth century, Christians searched for new ways of conceiving and imagining the divine body in the Host. Or not in the Host. New knowledge about the natural world and the human body, profound changes in the arrangements of society, and the emergence of new schools of thought in philosophy all contributed to raising or reviving troubling questions about the nature of the Eucharist. Because of the momentousness of what was being debated—how the divine and human stand in relationship to each other—conflict over Christ’s real presence in the consecrated Host was implicated in other exigent human concerns, such as the relationship between spirit and matter, between the past and the present, between representation and reality, between one person and another, and between political leaders and those over whom they exercised different forms of authority.

The impassioned theological debates over the divine presence coincided with early modern European global adventures. As they went out to the rest of the world on missions of conquest and conversion, Europeans brought their metaphysical differences with them. Religious distinctions and racial taxonomies went hand in hand; as much as religion was racialized, race was religionized. From early modernity forward, men and women in other parts of the world and with skin colors other than white who lived with the gods really present to them on earth were termed savage and primitive. Their societies were scientifically said to be at an earlier stage on the timeline of human development and social and cultural evolution, on the basis of evidence in which religious practice loomed large. Later on in this history, people to whom the gods were really present might be institutionalized as psychotic, persecuted as socially disruptive, denigrated as feminine within the modern hierarchy of gender, or diagnosed as infantile. Neither are questions of religion absent from the domains of modern politics, psychoanalysis, developmental psychology, aesthetics, and anthropology; rather, all of these areas of knowledge, practice, and value were religionized from their foundations.

Modernity and religion as the objects of modern critical inquiry were co-constitutive, and modernity and religion have been good for each other. The result is that lived religious practices around the contemporary world inevitably become some variation of modernity, pre-, post-, anti-, proto-, or braided. This is the finger trap of the normative modern, of the modern that we may never have been, but that nonetheless retains its authority and currency. To move beyond the static paradigm of normative modern religion requires that we start with the Eucharistic debates of the sixteenth century, when the lineaments of the creation, modern religion, first began to appear. What horrified the reformers who came after Martin Luther, Huldrych Zwingli principally among them, was the doctrine of the real presence of God’s body; they had begun to distance themselves thoroughly from being able to conceptualize the divine in human form. Modern religion, both as the object of theoretical study and as the authoritative assertion of what religion itself is, arose within an intellectual and social environment shaped by the trajectory of these theological debates, in particular by the rejection of the Catholic doctrine of the real presence and its relegation to a (Catholic) past out of step with modernity. The study of religion is or ought to be the study of what human beings do to, for, and against the gods really present—using gods as a synecdoche for all the special suprahuman beings with whom humans have been in relationship in different times and places—and what the gods really present do with, to, for, and against humans. Instead, modern theories of religion were written over accounts of the gods really present, submerging them in a theoretical underworld, while on the surface the gods were reborn as symbols, signs, metaphors, functions, and abstractions. One of the aims of these theories, in scholarship, law, statecraft, and aesthetics, was precisely to take hold of the disruptive, dirty, smelly, raucous, irrelevant, and otiose presence of the gods, to disperse them, or else to control them for other ends.²

When the rulers and bureaucrats of modernizing states, for example, set out to extend the authority of the new centers of power over the peripheries, they established governmental offices, zoning regulations, educational institutions (including medical and scientific schools), legal codes, and customary law aimed at uprooting local religions of the gods really present within the borders of the emergent state and enforcing their absence in favor of national deities. They may have mobilized some gods as allies of the state, while criminalizing or marginalizing others that could not be so mobilized; or else they transformed these others by labeling them as culture or folklore destined for the tourist itinerary or the museum. Political officials very often had the assistance of religious elites in these projects, men and women with their own reasons for wanting to see local gods corralled.

Classical theories of religion treated the gods as fairly trustworthy agents of social organization and order. But the perspective of this book is otherwise. While the gods have been agents of conformity and submission in certain contexts at particular times, they have also flouted social norms, disrupted political agendas, and disappointed the expectations of the powerful. One reason for the subversive potentiality of the gods is precisely their relative invisibility and illegibility to modern critical theory. If the gods were destined to disappear from the earth, as modern theorists anticipated, there would be increasingly little to see of them or to say about them, and so it was. This expectation gives the appearance of the gods an almost inherently subversive quality in the modern world. Presence is real, but not necessarily good, not necessarily bad, and it is rarely either good or bad, as these words are understood in ordinary social discourse. It is a dreadful thing to be in relationship with the gods really present. Painful and unexpected consequences may ensue. It is not safe to be so raw and vulnerable to real presences, to make desire and need so transparent. This equivocal nature of real presence is one of the governing assumptions of the book.

*   *   *

The research for the chapters ahead has spanned three decades, the earliest dating to 1988 (the story of the shrine of the dead child); the most recent is ongoing (the religious practices of survivors of clerical sexual abuse). Throughout, I also cite historical and ethnographic research I conducted in the early 2000s, primarily in rural Nebraska, southern Indiana, New Orleans, New York City, urban New Jersey, and South Phoenix, Arizona, on growing up Catholic in the mid-twentieth century. In all cases but one I have explicit permission to relate the stories my interlocutors told me about themselves and to quote them. In the one case in which I was unable, despite sustained effort, to contact relatives of the persons involved, who are now deceased, I took special care to change any details that would permit identification. I did so for all my interlocutors, with the exception of my mother and father. All persons are identified pseudonymously. Everyone I spoke with understood I was doing research that I would eventually present in written and oral forms. In the ethnographic research for this book, I adhered to the written and unwritten protocols regarding research on human subjects, first at Harvard University and then at Northwestern University. A more detailed account of my ethnographic method is given at the start of the notes.

Many of the stories I tell in this book have been foundational to how I think about religion in history and culture. I have thought about these stories for many years and I have spoken and written about some of them in other contexts. In the case of events that happened decades ago, I drew on notebooks and journals I kept at the time to refresh my memory. When possible, I consulted people involved in particular incidents to confirm what I wrote then and remember today. If I put quotation marks around a comment someone made to me, it means I am reporting exactly what he or she said. None of the persons that appear in these pages are a composite; there are no fictional details in any of the stories I tell, other than small changes introduced to protect anonymity.

*   *   *

When I have talked about this project over the years in different contexts, colleagues and friends have challenged my emphasis on the presence of the gods. They inevitably remind me that absence is also a religious category. Presence necessarily entails absence, they say. God’s absence is a powerful trope of Christian theology, moreover, at once both ancient and modern. I know this. Some of the most beautiful writing in the Christian tradition has to do with the silence of God, with God’s hiddenness, and with the dark nights to which humans may come in their search for this God. Absence and presence, in theory and theology, are twinned. The same impulse that leads me to sing of God, contemporary poet Christian Wiman writes, leads me to sing of godlessness.³

That said, I am inclined to believe that presence is the norm of human existence, including in religion, and absence is an authoritative imposition. Infants are oriented at birth toward faces. They grow as persons through relationships with others, who themselves carry within them, consciously and unconsciously, the histories of their relationships, along with their parents’ histories, and so on and so on, into the deep past where memory exists only in genetic traces. Moreover, it is the fundamental assumption of the social sciences that humans are born into already existing social worlds. There is evidence that parental languages are recognized in the womb, so that neonates at birth have strong preferences for the surrounding linguistic group. To speak the languages they are born having already heard is as much a matter of recognition as it is of learning. And as they speak, they are situated in the way of being in the world that this language effects. There is no outside of all of this.

It is a subtle, but significant, modification of these assumptions, however, if we say that human beings are born into relationships, into relational histories, and into extensive webs of relationships, real and imagined, and that over a lifetime and beyond, into succeeding generations, human beings exist by virtue of each other. Such a perspective shifts attention away from what is already always given socially, linguistically, and historically, to what may happen in the intersubjective worlds humans are born into, then make for themselves with the tools they find and craft. It introduces creativity and unpredictability into what would otherwise be determined. Humans struggle with their languages; they reach beyond what they are able to say toward what they desire to say; they push to the edges of the sayable and the known. In relationships, they encounter what they had not expected, what they may not have wanted, what they fear. Desire and fear themselves are not singular and transparent, so that one may fear what one desires and desire what one fears.

These are questions of human development and relationality, framed in psychological language, but this does not mean they are individual matters. To say that humans are born into and live their lives within and through circles of relationship, that we cannot exist without addressing the other and without being addressed by the other, is immediately and intimately to situate persons in the social world. So, throughout this book, I will be analytically moving among various levels and contexts of existence, from the most intimate to the most public, and I will be using different languages—historical, anthropological, psychological, and theological—to describe and analyze them. But I always understand these levels, contexts, and languages to be implicated in each other. In what social, political, and religious circumstances do relationships among humans and the gods become the motivation for particular behaviors and ways of being in the world? What is it in the gods who come and the humans who receive them that so often leads to enmity and destruction on earth, but that also may be the source of social cohesion, compassion, and generosity? Such critical reflection can take place only if the outcome is not assumed, meaning only if presence / absence are freed from the normative modern constructions of them.⁴

Absence may be imposed and enforced by authorities and powers of various sorts that are made anxious by presence. It may arise out of the quotidian doubts and anxieties of the human condition. It may open up within relationships. Sometimes humans struggle against absence; at other times they sink beneath its weight; sometimes they embrace it. Absence has had its poets and theologians, its theorists and mystics; the dark nights of the human soul have been well illuminated. I am asking readers not to make the move to absence, at least not immediately, not to surround presence with the safeguard of absence, but instead to withhold from absence the intellectual, ethical, and spiritual prestige modernity gives it, and to approach history and culture with the gods fully present to humans.

*   *   *

There is a double nomenclatural ambiguity in the term real presence, vis-à-vis real, and vis-à-vis presence. The word real carries a heavy evaluative charge in ordinary speech as well as in Western philosophical traditions. To say that one of two or more things being compared is real seems to be asserting or implying that the others are not, that they are unreal, possibly deceptive, inauthentic, fake, nonexistent, and so on. Moreover, just as the word pain has a huge semantic range that covers everything from minor physical discomfort to excruciating agony, so, too, the word presence may refer, in one context, for instance, to the sense of a greater-than-human power in the awesomeness of nature and, in another, to the presence of a saint in his or her image or a chip of bone. To use the term real presence, as I do throughout, is to court misunderstanding at best; it may also give offense because of what appears to be its presumptive claims on what is real and what is not.

As real presence became more sharply delineated and ever more exclusively associated with Roman Catholics following the sixteenth-century disputes among Christian theologians, the term would not be used to refer to that feeling on the beach or at the summit of a mountain, nor to the encounter with Jesus in the words of the Gospels, nor to the solitary meeting of God in the silence of human interiority. Rather, among non-Catholics, it meant the disgusting idea that Jesus’s actual body was there to be crunched on in the Host, his blood guzzled from the chalice, and, among Catholics, it meant the reality of the Catholic supernatural as opposed to the empty simulacrum of the Protestant holy. Catholics became the people of real presence par excellence, in their Eucharistic theology and in their devotional practices, as I will describe in the pages ahead, practices that included eating holy cards, rubbing holy dirt on the place where the body of a loved one hurts, having the dead arrive back home, and so on. Kissing the finger-bone of a dead human (more likely a goat’s bone)—how ridiculous!! Calling the Host a symbol—how empty and decadent!! So the two divisions of Western Christianity have represented and reviled each other.

Beginning in early modernity as a dispute among Christians, divergent conceptions of presence became a point of absolute division between Catholics and Protestants, and then it evolved into one of the normative categories of modernity. This was the work over time of missionaries, lawyers, explorers, colonial administrators, armies and navies, poets, theologians, and finally of scholars of religion. The internecine controversy among Christians about the nature of the Eucharist turned into the theoretical lens for the modern study of religion. Just as masculine and feminine as cultural signifiers need not (and often do not) refer to biological men and women—we say, she is very masculine, he has a feminine side, for example—so presence in the Catholic sense slipped the bounds of confessional specificity and became a category of religious analysis and religious otherness not exclusive to Catholics.

This is what I mean by real presence. The adjective real allows me to make a distinction within the broad semantic field of presence, by way of enriching the critical vocabulary for talking about presence, and, more broadly, about religion itself in history.

*   *   *

Two days before Christmas in 1923 the wooden church of the Immaculate Conception in the north Bronx burned down. Ground had already been broken on a recently purchased lot across the street where a new church would rise. But the destruction of the old building was traumatic. The three-alarm fire required eight fire engines and four hook-and-ladder companies from the Bronx and Manhattan to subdue the flames. Then, while the wood of the old structure was still smoldering, three priests from nearby parishes pressed their way through the fire lines. Firemen shouted at them that they were in danger from falling timbers, but the priests ignored the warning and rushed into the smoking ruin. A teacher from the neighborhood, Harry O’Grady, who had been the first to spot the fire, followed them. After a few minutes of tense and anxious silence, bystanders witnessed a sight that would have been strange elsewhere, but here, in this Catholic neighborhood, became the subject of local lore. O’Grady emerged from the ruins, carrying a lighted candle—had he lit it from a burning ember?—followed immediately by the three priests, walking in solemn procession, bearing the unharmed Blessed Sacrament. They had covered their hands with cloth so as not to touch the vessel that bore Christ’s real body and blood. Women knelt and police and firemen removed their helmets, the New York Times reported, as O’Grady and the priests made their way to the rectory, where the church’s pastor, Father Raymond Tonnini, a venerable [friar] with [a] long white beard, waited for them in the doorway, his face soaked in tears. Almost before the smoke had faded from the scene, the Times’s unnamed correspondent reports, members of the congregation were told that services tomorrow would be held somewhere. A police officer suffering from smoke and burns was rushed to the Catholic Fordham Hospital.⁵

Stories of the rescue of the Host from disaster were a familiar genre in mid-twentieth-century Catholic children’s literature, including comic books, and long before that in Catholic popular narratives of the miraculous and the holy. So this Bronx tale was an enactment in real life of what must have seemed like a memory or a dream. Not long after this, the new church rose incongruously huge above the city streets and surrounding homes, and not long after this, my mother’s family, displaced from the Lower East Side by real estate development, moved into the neighborhood. The sculptor who fashioned the two marble angels that stood in the doorway of the Immaculate Conception with seashells full of holy water in their arms to greet parishioners used my mother’s young body as the measure of the statues’ proportions.

One

THE OBSOLESCENCE OF THE GODS

THE 1933 novella Tony, written for Catholic youngsters by Father Thomas B. Chetwood, SJ, tells the story of a deeply troubled Catholic boy in an unnamed American industrial city laid waste by the international economic crisis. Ten-year-old Tony is a tough mick from the vile and unsightly quarter of a great city. Abandoned by his parents, when we meet him, Tony is roaming the streets and gutters in filthy clothes, cruelly abusing other children and terrorizing shopkeepers. He is a coward and a traitor, too, who rats out his friends for money. Even Father Chetwood seems not to care for the boy. He refers to Tony early on as an unregenerate bit of humanity who would pull the keystone out of the arch of civilization if his small hands could reach it.¹

One day, in the company of his pal Emmings, Tony passes by the unfinished skeleton of a wretched Catholic church, a victim of the hard times. Surreptitiously, with an air of peculiar sullenness, Tony doffs his ragged cap. Emmings immediately jumps on him. Whadger do that for, Tony? he asks. Sign of the tribe er somethin’, ain’t it? Tony ignores him, but Emmings continues to badger him. They’s a lot of people that do the same. Tell me what yer do it for, will you? Somethin’ like politics, ain’t it? Politics nuthin’, Tony says, curtly. Emmings, obsessed with the demon of curiosity, is unstoppable. My ole man tole me that youse blokes wuz brought up to figger that there was someone livin’ in the church that could look out and see yer. Zat so? Say no if it ain’t so; and if yer don’t say nuthin I’ll take it fer yes. Tony runs off toward the city’s polluted river, where the two boys are planning to go for a swim. Yer ain’t said no, Emmings, with a shrewd look, taunts his friend, before he races after him.²

Horror follows. Tony ties a brick to a kitten’s tail for sport and goes to the water’s edge to drown the helpless animal, ignoring Emmings’s pleas to stop. The narrator intrudes here to say that a year earlier, under the guidance of an energetic young curate, Tony had made his First Communion. Will not some fleeting memory of that holy past hold his hand now and save a bit of innocent brute life? The narrative abruptly resumes. Tony hears a voice snarling from behind him. Don’t you drown that kitten, yer bum yer! It’s mine. The speaker is Tappy Skillen, leader of a gang of Protestant boys called the Swedes. Tony glances up contemptuously, then turns back to the river and let[s] the burden in his hands go and gloat[s] on the furious, struggling thing down below and on the bubbles as long as there [are] any to see. Retribution is quick. Laying their hands on Tony, the Swedes tie him up and hang him upside down over the greasy, rat-infested river, demanding that he declare himself a dirty yellow-faced Dago [Tony’s mother is Italian] an’ a Republican an’ a Protestant.³

But Tony cannot speak the lie I am a Protestant, not only because he is not a Protestant, but because, as he tells his tormentors, sputtering filthy water out of his mouth, Protestants say … that they ain’t no one there. Whereas I can’t say Y’ere not there, Tony moans over and over, I can’t say Y’ere not there. Here is the answer to Emmings’s spooked question about someone livin’ in the church that could look out and see yer. For Tony to identify himself as a Protestant would be to deny the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist and in the reserved sacrament in the tabernacle on the altar of the unfinished church in the city. This he cannot do. So, unlike the kitten, whose death was fast by comparison, Tony dies by inches. First came the terrible desire for air … it racked every inch of him up to the feet that were held above him. Over and over throughout this terrible ordeal, Tony says, I can’t say Y’ere not there. The repetition of these words, over and over, sustains and comforts him, until the moment finally comes when the boy’s soul and body are filled with a strength that was in no way his own. All the petty sordidness … slipped from him—the thieving, the cowardice, the cruelty, and the scurrile vileness—as the shadows slip from the hills in the growing dawn. The tortured body of this terrible child, hanging beneath a squalid urban overpass, is transformed by his martyrdom—as Chetwood explicitly calls it—into a tabernacle of the real presence. The God absent from Protestant imaginations becomes present in Tony’s death. On the autopsy table, Tony’s dead face shines with a pallid beauty.⁴

A native of New York City, Jesuit father Thomas B. Chetwood was a distinguished legal scholar, law school educator and administrator, novelist, and polemicist. From 1928 to 1931, immediately prior to the publication of Tony, Father Chetwood was regent of the Georgetown University School of Law. He presided over the significant improvement of the school’s graduate course, which he oriented toward the study of federal courts and legislation, to take advantage of what the law school catalog called the great laboratory for political and social experimentation, Washington, DC. Chetwood seems an unlikely author of such a grim tale of Catholic martyrdom in a hostile Protestant land.⁵

Nor did Tony reflect the circumstances of American Catholicism at the time. The Catholic population of the United States had grown substantially since the turn of the century. Educational standards at all levels of Catholic schools were improving, with better-prepared instructors, many of them graduates of the Catholic normal schools founded in this era, stepping into the classrooms. Catholic churches, seminaries, schools, and hospitals were rising everywhere on the American landscape, even in the hard times, and Catholic confidence and boosterism were getting stronger, as one historian describes the spirit of American Catholicism at the time. Catholics were so confident of their place in American society, as well as sufficiently prosperous, to produce massive public spectacles throughout this period to mark special occasions and anniversaries. One such event was the Twenty-Eighth International Eucharistic Congress, held in Chicago in 1926, the first time this event ever took place in the United States. The Eucharistic Congress drew hundreds of thousands of Catholics from Chicago and around the United States to newly built Soldier Field for the public worship and adoration of Christ really present in the sacrifice of the Mass and in the consecrated Host on the massive outdoor altar built specially for this celebration of the theology of I can’t say Y’ere not there.⁶

And yet this catalog of successes masks deeper currents of doubt and ambivalence. Within the living memory of Tony’s real-world contemporaries—or if not theirs, then surely their parents’ and grandparents’—was the eruption of anti-Catholic agitation across the United States in the paranoid and nativist 1920s. Sign of the tribe? Emmings had taunted Tony. The Ku Klux Klan, with its weird mimesis of Catholic ceremony and costume, rose to new popularity in these years, its anti-Catholicism nearly as virulent as its racism. State legislatures sought to restrict Catholic education, in some cases to prohibit it entirely. It was often said in the anxious decade after World War I—as it had been said in one way or another since the settling of New England—that Catholics did not belong in democratic, Protestant America. There were many reasons for this hostility against Catholics and Catholicism, their evident success in the nation being one of them. But tangled up with all other accusations and suspicions was Catholic metaphysics, in particular the way Catholics lived with the supernatural. This is why Tony was killed. Looked at from the perspective of the tribal twenties, perhaps Father Chetwood was giving voice to the bitter grievances that American Catholics were harboring in this period, as well as underscoring precisely the deep ontological difference that divided Catholics from Protestants in the United States.⁷

But another reading of the story is possible, too. Tony’s courageous martyrdom has an immediate and powerful effect on the non-Catholic Americans around him. Looking down on Tony’s transfigured body in the city morgue, police lieutenant Lester Bradley, an Episcopalian from a very exclusive family with influence, a graduate of one of the most aristocratic eastern universities, and, if this were not enough, a rattling good sportsman, too, is converted to Catholicism. By the end of the story, Bradley is worshipping in the still unfinished church before which Tony had tipped his hat. The Lutheran grocer, Gormer, whose store Tony had regularly raided, also converts, as does Emmings, who becomes a priest and is now working in the West Indies. The whole proletariat, not the "whole Catholic proletariat, of this great republic," Father Chetwood affirms at the close of the book, gave witness to Tony’s sanctity. By his death at the hands of Protestant boys, Tony has become an American saint.⁸

In a study of Cardinal John Henry Newman’s poetics, published a few years before Tony, Father Chetwood writes that the courageous deaths of the ancient Christian martyrs, standing fearlessly before the iron comb, the white heat of the fire, or the scalding oil of the cauldron and calling on the name of Christ, not as myth … or memory but as a living presence among them, accounted for the triumph of Catholicism over empire and for its endurance and strength over time. From this perspective, the church in Tony’s city, its construction halted midway, becomes a sign of a hopeful future for American Catholics after the Depression, a future to build toward. But it is a hope specifically premised on the faithfulness of Catholics’ bold witness to the truth of the Church’s sacramental theology in a Protestant land.⁹

The ambiguity of Chetwood’s Tony—is it an expression of the most extraordinary confidence or the bitterest alienation among American Catholics?—captures the ambiguity of Catholic life in the United States at the time and more broadly in the modern world. Catholic history, locally and globally, pivots around the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, of the holy in the material, of the supernatural in the natural, in the modern Catholic body and mind. As Chetwood says, this is the ground of both Catholic alienation and Catholic efficacy, Catholic difference and Catholic connectedness. The destiny of Catholicism in the modern world, in other words, turns on the meaning of what Jesus said to his disciples at the Last Supper.

*   *   *

One of the greatest sources of violence in Western history has been the question of what Jesus meant when he told his apostles to eat his body and drink his blood and to do so always in remembrance of him. Is Jesus really present in body and blood, flesh and bones, in the bread and wine? Does Jesus become present at the moment when the priest, sealed by his ordination to this extraordinary power, lifts the Host and chalice above his head at the consecration of the Mass? What does is mean in the phrases this is my body and this is my blood? From Saint Paul forward, Christians have struggled to understand the meaning of God’s incarnation in the human being Jesus of Nazareth, in the political, philosophical, and scientific languages available to them in their respective times. In turn, how they answered their questions about the words of institution, as they are called, had implications for these other domains of knowledge and practice. But in the sixteenth century, as the divisions within Western Christendom deepened, conflict over what Jesus meant by take and eat erupted with visceral force.

Catholics and the various parties of their opponents who came to be known as Protestants did not just debate the meaning of Jesus’s words in that grim century. They tore at each other’s flesh in gory rites of violence in what appears at this distance to be an intimate and compulsive reenactment of the dismemberment of the unity of European Christian culture taking place at the same time, largely as the result of the raging theological disputes. It was as if Catholics and their opponents were endlessly compelled to perform upon each other’s bodies and blood their divergent understandings of how God became human and how Jesus remains present to his followers on earth after his death, resurrection, and ascension into heaven.¹⁰

The Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre in Paris in late August 1572 was one such enactment. The fury that so brutally erupted on this day had been building over a long period of time. Forty years earlier, on October 17, 1534, Catholics in Paris and other cities in France had awoken to the sight of placards posted on buildings and churches by evangelical Christians during the night, mocking the Mass as a cannibalistic ritual. The Affair of the Placards, as the event came to known, polarized what had been a heterogeneous Christianity [in France], between two viscerally opposed understandings of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist. On Saint Bartholomew’s Day, Catholics took their bloody revenge for this and other outrages. Eyewitnesses report that the waters of the Seine ran red with the blood of the hacked and dismembered bodies of Protestants thrown into it. The youngest daughter of a Huguenot couple, who were among the first to be slaughtered in the streets of Paris, was dipped naked into her parents’ blood in a perverse sacrament and warned not to convert to Protestantism or she would suffer the same fate.¹¹

Unholy alliances between theologians and churchmen fighting over the meanings of divine presence, along with political rulers who exploited doctrinal dissent for their nationalizing purposes, generated war and destruction across Europe. Catholics suffered agonies as horrible as those they inflicted on Protestants. Among the more than 300 Catholics martyred in England between 1535 and 1679 was the Jesuit priest Father Edmund Campion. Hung from a scaffold, Campion was disemboweled—his steaming entrails, flung by the executioner into a pot, splashed the crowd crushing close with gore and blood—beheaded, and quartered, and then pieces of his body were shown at the four gates of Tyburn to warn off other Catholics. All this because of the question of what Jesus meant when he said, this is my body, this is my blood, do this in memory of me.¹²

The theological destiny of the doctrine of the real presence in the sixteenth century and afterward was forged in technical language and bound up with people’s changing knowledge of the world and with their new experiences of themselves as bodies, minds, and souls. The presence / absence divide was also implicated in and inflected by Christian encounters with men and women of other races