White Eagle, Black Madonna: One Thousand Years of the Polish Catholic Tradition 9780823271733

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White Eagle, Black Madonna

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White Eagle, Black Madonna one thousand ye ar s of the p olish c atholic tr adition

Robert E. Alvis

for dh a m u ni v er sit y pr ess New York 2016

Copyright © 2016 Fordham University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher. Fordham University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Fordham University Press also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books. Visit us online at www.fordhampress.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Alvis, Robert E., author. Title: White eagle, Black Madonna : one thousand years of the Polish Catholic tradition / Robert E. Alvis. Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Fordham University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2015042063 (print) | LCCN 2016003335 (ebook) | ISBN 9780823271702 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780823271719 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780823271726 (ePub) Subjects: LCSH: Catholic Church—Poland—History. | Poland— Church history. Classification: LCC BX1564 .A63 2016 (print) | LCC BX1564 (ebook) | DDC 282/.438—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042063 Printed in the United States of America 18 17 16 5 First edition

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for Magda and Leo

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Contents

List of Illustrations and Maps

viii

Preface

ix

A Timeline of Poland’s Political and Ecclesiastical History

xv

1 Baptized into Christendom (966–1138)

1

2 Chaos and Consolidation (1138–1333)

24

3 Baptized into Power (1333–1506)

49

4 The Promise and the Peril of Liberty (1506–1648)

77

5 Deluge and Illusions (1648–1764)

106

6 Reform, Romance, and Revolution (1764–1848)

130

7 The Gospel and National Greatness (1848–1914)

160

8 From Captivity to Cataclysm (1914–1945)

188

9 From Stalinism to Solidarity (1945–1989)

218

10 From Triumph to Turmoil (after 1989)

251

Acknowledgments

279

Notes

281

Bibliography

315

Index

337

Illustrations Martyrdom of Saint Vojtěch

6

Saint Andrew’s Church, Kraków

21

Statue of Saint Hedwig, Wrocław

25

Blessed Wincenty Kadłubek’s Church, Jędrzejów

36

Bas-relief depicting King Kazimierz III and Bishop Bodzęta

52

Byzantine-style frescoes in the Royal Chapel of the Holy Trinity, Lublin

73

Union of Lublin by Jan Matejko

79

Zygmunt III Vasa Column, Warsaw

81

Corpus Christi Church, Poznań

116

Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden, Masuria

127

Golden Chapel, Poznań

154

Students who participated in the school strikes in Września, 1901

166

Funeral procession in honor of Stanisław Wyspiański, Kraków, 1907

168

Unveiling of a war monument in Ząbki, 1924

191

Procession of the relics of Saint Andrzej Bobola through Warsaw, 1938

195

Outdoor Mass at Jasna Góra on May 3, 1966

232

Church of the Divine Mercy, Kalisz

247

AWS election campaign billboard, 1997

257

Couple waiting to wed at Holy Trinity Church in Stęszew

263

Maps Poland, tenth–twelfth centuries

5

Poland and Lithuania, fourteenth century

51

Poland-Lithuania, seventeenth century

90

The Catholic Church in the Polish lands, ca. 1900

162

The Catholic Church in Poland, ca. 2004

266

Illustrations Martyrdom of Saint Vojtěch

6

Saint Andrew’s Church, Kraków

21

Statue of Saint Hedwig, Wrocław

25

Blessed Wincenty Kadłubek’s Church, Jędrzejów

36

Bas-relief depicting King Kazimierz III and Bishop Bodzęta

52

Byzantine-style frescoes in the Royal Chapel of the Holy Trinity, Lublin

73

Union of Lublin by Jan Matejko

79

Zygmunt III Vasa Column, Warsaw

81

Corpus Christi Church, Poznań

116

Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden, Masuria

127

Golden Chapel, Poznań

154

Students who participated in the school strikes in Września, 1901

166

Funeral procession in honor of Stanisław Wyspiański, Kraków, 1907

168

Unveiling of a war monument in Ząbki, 1924

191

Procession of the relics of Saint Andrzej Bobola through Warsaw, 1938

195

Outdoor Mass at Jasna Góra on May 3, 1966

232

Church of the Divine Mercy, Kalisz

247

AWS election campaign billboard, 1997

257

Couple waiting to wed at Holy Trinity Church in Stęszew

263

Maps Poland, tenth–twelfth centuries

5

Poland and Lithuania, fourteenth century

51

Poland-Lithuania, seventeenth century

90

The Catholic Church in the Polish lands, ca. 1900

162

The Catholic Church in Poland, ca. 2004

266

Preface

In 1960 Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, the archbishop of Warsaw and primate of Poland, wrote a letter to Catholics of the Archdiocese of Warsaw on the occasion of the completed reconstruction of the city’s Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. Built in the fourteenth century, the edifice was demolished along with much of the city by German military units in the waning months of 1944, a spiteful and strategically senseless operation ordered by a Nazi regime approaching collapse. After fifteen years of painstaking rebuilding, Wyszyński was eager to celebrate the achievement. In the process, he invited his followers to see the structure as a symbol of the profound relationship between the Polish people and the Catholic religion. After cataloguing some of the many historical figures and events associated with the cathedral, the cardinal argued that “the history of St. John’s and the history of our country are so much of a piece that we cannot separate them.” The Germans methodically razed the church to the ground, he suggested, because “they knew that the strength of the nation was rooted in the Cross, Christ’s Passion, the spirit of the Gospels, and the invincible Church. To weaken and destroy the nation, they knew that they must first deprive it of its Christian spirit.” Wyszyński encouraged his readers to learn from their enemies. “Whatever our enemies attack, we should love and respect. If they pack the churches with dynamite charges, we should fill them with the love of hearts ‘faithful to God, the Cross, the Church and her pastors.’ ”1 Wyszyński’s argument is consistent with a set of assumptions that echoed throughout his writings, sermons, and speeches. He recognized Catholicism as a central component of Polish history, culture, and national identity. The Poles stood out from other nations on account of their fidelity to the church, and this faithfulness fortified them during times of trial and inspired much that was noble and good in their endeavors. Such an idealized portrait of the church is hardly surprising, coming from a

x

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cardinal. Others have offered more nuanced, if not negative, characterizations of its influence in Polish culture. More impervious to challenge is Wyszyński’s assertion of Catholicism’s seminal role in Polish history and culture. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the Polish lands were ruled by Russia, Germany, and Austria, these powers were reminded repeatedly that perceived attacks on Catholicism were liable to provoke Poles into rebellion. American bishops discovered the same thing when they tried to pry Polish Catholic immigrants away from their language and national customs in order to promote assimilation into the American Catholic mainstream. In the decades after World War II, Poland’s communist rulers learned to tread lightly around the church despite their ideological opposition to its tenets. Meanwhile, a host of survey data from the postwar era reveals that Poles have been much slower than their European peers to abandon Christian practice. For many years now, Poland has been the most religiously observant country in the region. The world had the opportunity to witness aspects of Polish Catholicism’s vitality during the long pontificate of the recently canonized John Paul II. He played a critical role in rallying the Polish people in opposition to communist rule in the late 1970s and the 1980s. Catholic symbols and institutions were integral to a resistance movement that ultimately broke the regime, and with the free elections in June 1989 Poland became the first domino to fall in the Eastern Bloc. The charismatic Polish pope inspired Catholics the world over, attracting untold millions to the rather traditional piety common in his homeland. One lasting measure of his influence is the global popularity of the Divine Mercy devotion, which originated in interwar Poland. Polish Catholicism’s recent moments on the global stage are but the latest chapter in a fascinating tradition stretching back more than a thousand years. This tradition has not been particularly well understood outside of Poland, and certainly not in the Anglophone world. Until quite recently, there has been relatively little English-language scholarship on Poland’s religious history. Happily that has begun to change in the quarter century since 1989, as Poland has reemerged as a substantial component of a more unified Europe. A growing number of quality studies have enriched our understanding of the various phases and aspects of this important subject. Significant gaps in this field remain, including more comprehensive treatments of Polish Catholic history. To date, the only

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xi

volume in English to attempt this is Jerzy Kłoczowski’s A History of Polish Christianity (Cambridge University Press, 2000). This is a very fine book written by a celebrated historian whose erudition and mastery of the subject are plain. It is not without its limitations, however. The book is a translation of a two-volume work originally published in Polish in 1987 and 1991, lightly revised to address more recent events. Written largely in the 1980s, the work does not take into account the fresh scholarship to emerge over the past three decades, and its treatment of the communist and early postcommunist eras does not benefit from the perspective that comes with a temporal remove from one’s subject matter. Originally written for a Polish audience, the work sometimes assumes too much familiarity with the basic outlines of Polish history and reflects certain blind spots commonly found in Polish historiography. The present volume offers a new resource for understanding the historical development of the Polish Catholic tradition. Each of those last three words merits some explanation. By Polish I mean two things: the people who have inhabited the series of duchies, kingdoms, and republics that constitutes Poland’s political history and the people who have belonged to the Polish linguistic and cultural sphere. Poland’s political history has been marked by substantial shifts in boundaries, not to mention extended absences from the map of Europe. The territory within its present borders certainly belongs to this account, but so do regions currently within neighboring countries such as Lithuania, Belarus, and Ukraine, which in earlier eras were enmeshed in the sphere of Polish culture. The Catholic populations within Poland’s past and present boundaries have not always been Polish in the modern ethnic or linguistic sense of the term, but they fall within the scope of this book by virtue of political affiliation. I also have sought to weave into my account Polish Catholics living outside of Poland, a population that has been rather substantial over the past two centuries. This account focuses on the Polish Catholic tradition. The Polish state that emerged from the ravages of the Second World War has been home to a population that has identified overwhelmingly as Catholic. From a historical vantage point, however, such religious homogeneity is actually rather novel. Throughout much of the country’s history, its Catholic population coexisted with large numbers of non-Catholics, including Jews, Orthodox Christians, Protestants, and other religious groups. My decision

xii

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to focus on Polish Catholics is based not on the assumption that these other populations are somehow insignificant; on the contrary, their histories are too significant and complex to capture adequately in a single volume. I make repeated mention of Jews, Orthodox Christians, and Protestants in this book, but only insofar as they have had an impact on the Polish Catholic experience. In characterizing this as a study of the Polish Catholic tradition, what I mean to convey is that the book is more than a chronological account of what Polish Catholics have experienced and accomplished. As a religion, Catholicism takes its history very seriously. It considers its past to belong to a living tradition that continuously adds dimensions to the meaning of church and informs Catholic belief and praxis in the present. These same instincts have informed Polish Catholics. They have drawn from their ever-expanding past as they have endeavored to embody the faith in their own day. This book considers what Polish Catholics have chosen to remember about their past and sometimes what they have chosen to forget. My approach is genealogical insofar as I seek to highlight the origins and development of patterns of belief and practice. To a certain extent, it is also cumulative. This is reflected in the time frames of my chapters, which grow progressively narrower to accommodate the mounting complexity of the subject matter. In each of the book’s ten chapters, I weave together different dimensions of Polish Catholic history. I begin with political developments on the national and international levels, focusing in particular on their relevance to the Catholic Church. This helps form a context for understanding how and why the church evolved the way it did in a given historical period. I usually turn next to institutional developments within the church, including the personnel, organizations, and procedures it depended on to guide the faithful. I then consider the lived experience of Polish Catholics. I rely heavily on textual evidence to build my account, drawing mainly from secondary literature, but I also look to material evidence such as churches and artworks that allow the past to speak in powerful ways. I have endeavored to make this book at once worthwhile to scholars and accessible to the general reader interested in the subject. Scholars of Polish history no doubt will find much that is familiar in these pages, but I hope that they will also find material that is fresh and useful. In a time when the pressure to specialize is particularly intense, sometimes it can

pr eface

xiii

be helpful to take in the long view offered by books like this. Considering how rarely Poland surfaces in Anglophone studies of church history, it is my hope that this book might contribute to a greater appreciation of the country’s considerable relevance to the field. Throughout the book, I have sought to highlight how the Polish case either reinforces, nuances, or challenges dominant interpretations of the historical development of the Christian churches. Out of respect for the general reader, I do not assume a lot of prior knowledge of the subject. I have avoided scholarly jargon and a surfeit of footnotes, and I have privileged English-language sources when making suggestions for further reading. Regarding language, a few explanations are in order. Owing to the country’s shifting borders and the ethnic diversity of its population, the villages, cities, and regions historically linked to Poland or currently within its borders invariably have been known by multiple names. Choosing the most appropriate name to use is by no means straightforward. I have adopted a strategy that risks anachronism for the sake of consistency and the interests of readers unfamiliar with the linguistic complexity of Polish history. When there exists a dominant English-language variant of a placename, I use it. I write of Warsaw, for instance, even though Poles know the city as Warszawa. Otherwise, I use the name most commonly employed at the time of this book’s publication. I thus refer to Lithuania’s capital as Vilnius, even though for centuries prior to 1945 the majority of its inhabitants spoke Polish and knew their city as Wilno. In terms of personal names, I have generally eschewed using Latinized or Anglicized versions in favor of the original names by which the subjects in this book knew themselves. When describing King Bolesław I Chrobry, for instance, I use his Polish name instead of Boleslaus, its Latinized equivalent. I refer to the Bavarian-born Hedwig of Andechs by her German name rather than its Polish equivalent, Jadwiga. Exceptions to this rule include figures of international relavance or renown, such as popes, emperors, and luminaries like Nicolaus Copernicus. I have translated most Polish terms into English with a few exceptions. I use Sejm instead of Parliament, for instance, because the latter sounds too foreign to the subject. Likewise, rendering a periodical title such as Tygodnik Powszechny into its English equivalent, The Universal Weekly, strikes me as awkward.

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A Timeline of Poland’s Political and Ecclesiastical History Poland joins European Union: 2004 Polish constitution ratified: 1997 Round Table Agreement: 1989 Solidarity Trade Union founded: 1980 Władysław Gomułka in power: 1956–70 Bolesław Bierut in power: 1948–56 Katy‫ ش‬Massacre: 1940

Piłsudski’s May coup: 1926 Polish–Soviet War: 1919–21

Kulturkampf: 1871–78 January Uprising: 1863–64 Great Poland Uprising: 1848–49 November Uprising: 1830–31 Congress of Vienna: 1814–15 Duchy of Warsaw: 1807–15

Third Polish Republic (1989 to present) Polish People’s Republic (1945–89) Occupation (1939–45) Second Polish Republic (1918–39)

Partition Era (1795–1918)

May 3 Constitution: 1791 Partitions of Poland: 1772, 1793, 1795

Great Northern War: 1700–1721 Battle of Vienna: 1683 The Deluge: 1648–67

Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania (1573–1795)

Livonian War: 1558–83 Union of Lublin: 1569

Nihil novi constitution: 1505

Jagiellonian Dynasty (1386–1572)

Thirteen Years’ War: 1454–66

2005: Death of Pope John Paul II 1993: Concordat between Poland and Vatican 1984: Murder of Jerzy Popiełuszko 1978: Election of Pope John Paul II 1965: Polish bishops’ letter to German bishops 1957–66: Millennium Novena 1941: Murder of Maximilian Kolbe 1905–1938: Faustina Kowalska 1925: Concordat between Poland and Vatican 1918: Catholic University of Lublin founded 1906: Feliksa Kozłowska excommunicated 1897: Polish National Catholic Church founded 1829–1916: Honorat Koঃmi‫ش‬ski 1865: Polish Pontifical College founded 1855: Felician Sisters founded 1798–1855: Adam Mickiewicz 1836: Resurrectionist Congregation founded 1750–1812: Hugo Kołłıtaj 1700–1773: Stanisław Konarski 1724: “Bloodbath of Toru‫”ش‬ 1701: Marian Fathers founded 1656: Mary declared Queen of Poland 1623: Josafat Kuntsevych murdered 1536–1612: Piotr Skarga 1596: Union of Brest 1573: Edict of toleration issued 1564: First Jesuit college in Poland 1504–1579: Stanisław Hozjusz 1473–1543: Nicolaus Copernicus 1458–1484: Kazimierz Jagiellon 1412: Archdiocese of Lviv founded 1386: Baptism of Jogaila

Battle of Grunwald: 1410 Reign of Kazimierz III Wielki: 1333–70

Angevin Interlude (1370–86)

Mongol invasion of Poland: 1240–41

Coronation of Bolesław II: 1076 Coronation of Bolesław I: 1025 Emperor Otto III in Gniezno: 1000

1364: University of Kraków founded 1224–1292: Kinga of Poland

Teutonic Knights invited to Poland: 1224

Poland divided by Bolesław III: 1138

1382: Pauline monastery at Jasna Góra founded

Piast Dynasty (900s to 1370)

1243: Death of Hedwig of Andechs 1222: First Dominican friary in Poland 1140: First Cistercian monastery in Poland 1079: Stanisław of Kraków murdered 1030s: Pagan uprising 1000: Metropolitanate of Gniezno founded 997: Vojt̍ch murdered 966: Baptism of Mieszko I

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1

Baptized into Christendom (966–1138)

On April 14, 966, Mieszko I, chieftain of a Western Slavic tribe known as the Polanians, allowed himself to be baptized according to the Roman Rite. Although the precise details of the event are not known, a missionary bishop named Jordan probably performed the ritual in a Polanian stronghold in either Gniezno (Gnesen) or Poznań (Posen). In the days leading up to the ritual, Mieszko likely fasted and listened to oral instruction concerning the faith. On the day of his baptism, Holy Saturday, he was called to renounce paganism, Satan, and evil. He then shed his clothing and entered a baptismal pool ringed with curtains, where the priest poured water over his head, pronounced the baptismal formula, and anointed him with oil. When he exited the pool, Mieszko donned a white garment signifying his purified state. According to an eleventhcentury chronicle, “Immediately, members of his hitherto reluctant people followed their beloved head and lord and, after accepting the marriage garments, were numbered among the wards of Christ.”1 Polish Catholics long have attached weighty historical significance to Mieszko’s ritual act. They recognize it not only as the introduction of Christianity to the Polish lands but also as the very birth of Poland as a nation. Catholicism, the argument runs, eased Poland’s entry into the family of Western Christian nations, and it supplied essential resources that enabled Poland to weather the vicissitudes of history. During the celebration of the millennial anniversary of Mieszko’s baptism on April 14, 1966, Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński observed the following: “Where would the Poles be, if Mieszko I had not baptized Poland? To answer this question, it suffices to look at the history of the pagan Prussians and other western neighbors of the Polanians who did not follow the path of Christianity. None of these tribes created a state that joined the European cultural mainstream. One after the other, they disappeared from the map of Europe. Christianity offered Poland a great opportunity for spiritual

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ba p tized in to chr istendom (966–1138)

and material development. Over the centuries, it remained the linchpin of national existence.”2 Such claims have considerable merit. At the time of his baptism, Mieszko presided over a preliterate tribe of modest technical ability by western European standards and an underdeveloped, unstable domain that was only as large as his warriors could defend. Poised on the margins of Christendom and rendered odious on account of their pagan practices, the Polanians were a tempting target for western missionary and colonizing zeal. Christianization removed the readiest rationale for a military invasion. Mieszko’s baptism placed his domain, soon to be known as Poland, on the map of Christendom, and it created pathways for the importation of literacy and the structures and expertise of western European civilization that strengthened this fledgling political entity. Pressured to cut ties with traditional pagan beliefs and practices and to adopt the new religion, the local population did so, though not without considerable resistance.

The Deeds of the Princes and Prelates of the Poles The earliest history of the Polanians and other Western Slavic peoples is the stuff of legend and conjecture, and ultimately it lies beyond the concerns of this volume. The story of Polish Catholicism originates in Mieszko’s day, when the Polanians were one of a number of tribes settled in the lands that would come to be associated with Poland. Their heartland lay between the Oder and Vistula Rivers, a region known as Great Poland. Their tribal neighbors included the Pomeranians to the north, the Masovians to the east, the Vistulans to the southeast, and the Silesians to the south. These tribes inhabited small settlements and sustained themselves through primitive farming, animal husbandry, fishing, hunting, and gathering. Archaeological evidence suggests that they also engaged in a measure of long-distance trade. Intertribal conflict was a perpetual fact of life, which required chieftains such as Mieszko to build fortified strongholds and to remain on a war footing. In addition to regional struggles for preeminence, the Western Slavic tribes had to contend with the missionary and military ambitions of more distant powers. The Byzantine Empire sponsored the missionary journeys of Cyril and Methodius, who introduced Orthodox Christianity

ba p tized in to chr istendom (966–1138) 3

to Moravia in the ninth century. The faith may even have registered at this time among the Vistulans and Silesians to the north, though little concrete evidence remains.3 Much more significant for Poland’s future was the planting of Orthodox Christianity in Kievan Rus’ in the tenth century. Poland would in time extend eastward into the heartland of Kievan Rus’, leading to a long history of Orthodox–Catholic coexistence. By the second half of the tenth century, Moravia and Silesia passed into the dominion of the Přemyslid dynasty centered in Bohemia. The Přemyslids had found their way into Western Christendom through the agency of officials linked to the Regensburg Diocese, and they in turn would help mediate Mieszko’s move in the same direction.4 In this period, the Saxon ruler Otto I (912–973) managed to stifle the Magyar threat, exert his dominion over much of central Europe, and reclaim the title of emperor. He encouraged German colonization and missionary work among the Slavic tribes dwelling between the Elbe and Oder Rivers, which brought an imperial presence to the edge of the Polanian domains. After a number of skirmishes, Mieszko entered into a formal relationship with the empire in 964. It seems that he recognized Otto’s authority as emperor, was recognized as duke of Poland in turn, and agreed to pay tribute. Around the same time, Otto won papal approval for the establishment of the Magdeburg Archdiocese, with a missionary mandate to extend the faith and its ecclesial authority eastward. The Polanians stood in the trajectory of Otto’s ambitions. In 965 Mieszko married Dubravka (c. 940/45–977), daughter of Přemyslid ruler Boleslav I (c. 915–967/72), cementing an alliance between the two tribes. Bishop Thietmar of Merseberg (975–1018) mentions the marriage in his early eleventh-century chronicle, claiming that Dubravka was instrumental in leading her husband to Catholicism. Historians generally have assumed that political calculations factored in Mieszko’s thinking. Mieszko’s baptism and the Christianization of his people deprived the empire of justifiable cause for subjugating the Polanians. This also may explain the Dagome Iudex, a document from this period that notes how Mieszko placed his domains under the protection of Pope John XV. No rationale is given, but it could be that Mieszko was seeking to insulate himself from the authority of the empire and the Archdiocese of Magdeburg. The conversion of the Polanians was part of an impressive burst of Catholic missionary outreach eastward, touching populations that stretched

4

ba p tized in to chr istendom (966–1138)

from Poland to Hungary. Thereafter the advance slowed, leaving these newly Catholicized populations on the edge of Western Christendom and neighboring peoples with different religious commitments. These conditions eventually nurtured the idea that Poland was an eastern bulwark of the Catholic West, an enduring trope in Polish Catholic discourse. By the time of his death in 992, Mieszko had managed to extend his authority over a broad expanse that encompassed part or all of Great Poland, Little Poland, Mazovia, Silesia, and Pomerania. Power then passed to his and Dubravka’s eldest son, Bolesław I Chrobry (“the Brave”), who enjoyed a long and successful reign (992–1025). His prodigious military achievements and interest in social, economic, and ecclesial development strengthened Poland considerably and enabled it to withstand future travails.5 Early in his rule, Bolesław forged a relationship of lasting consequence with Vojtěch (Wojciech, Adalbert), the bishop of Prague. Born to a prominent Bohemian family, Vojtěch studied in Magdeburg and established important connections in the German imperial court. He was appointed to lead the newly created Diocese of Prague in 982, but entrenched pagan practices and rivalries between leading clans made for a rocky tenure. He eventually abandoned his post and set his sights on missionary work among the pagan tribes beyond the boundaries of Western Christendom, including the Prussians living northeast of Poland. He met Bolesław while passing through Poland, and the duke showed him hospitality and sent troops to accompany him on his dangerous venture. Vojtěch eventually reached his destination, only to be murdered by hostile Prussians on April 23, 997.6 An account of the killing is preserved by Jan Długosz, a fifteenth-century cleric, who authored a massive chronicle of medieval Polish history that ranks as a signal achievement of medieval historiography. As Vojtěch was preparing to say Mass for the conversion of Prussia, Długosz notes, the Prussians interpreted the ceremony “as a casting of spells and charms intended to destroy them and their gods,” so they fell upon him, cutting off his head and hanging it in a tree for three days. Bolesław agreed to ransom the bishop’s body for its weight in silver. His agents ventured to Prussia, and the corpse was placed on the scales. It had lost so much weight that “only a handful of silver [was] required to level the balance,” which the Poles recognized as a miracle. They returned home with the body and most of their silver, leaving the Prussians “feel-

Courland Poland under Mieszko I, c. 990

Samogitia Pomerania P

Kołobrzeg K Kamień

s ru

si

Poland at its greatest extent under Bolesław I, 992–1018

a

Lithuania

Catholic diocesan see Catholic archdiocesan see

Kuyavia Lubusz

Poznań

G re

Magdeburg El

an d

Gniezno a i Mazov

st

ul

be

H o l y

Si

Prague

R o m a n

Bohemia

Kie van

Płock

le

P l sia Polesia Polesi

Vi

at Pol

Włocławek

a

Rus’

Wrocław Od er

sia

Mo raa v i a

Ukraine Little Poland Volhynia hy Vo hy Kraków

Galicia Ga alii ia G Dn

Da

nub e

Podol

E m p i r e Hungary Poland, tenth–twelfth centuries

iest er

ia

6

ba p tized in to chr istendom (966–1138)

The martyrdom of Saint Vojtěch, as depicted in one of the panels of the Gniezno Doors.

ing cheated.”7 Bolesław had the body installed in honor before the altar of the church in Gniezno. Two years later, Pope Sylvester II canonized the martyred bishop. In this manner, Poland gained its first patron saint, and his sacred relics enhanced the young country’s stature throughout Christendom.8 Bolesław’s military prowess earned the respect of Emperor Otto III (980–1002), who envisioned the Polanians as allies in his political designs to enlarge and unify Western Christendom. Toward that end, he ventured to Gniezno in the year 1000 and made gestures of lasting consequence for Poland. With the blessing of Pope Sylvester II, he affirmed Gniezno as the seat of an independent ecclesiastical metropolitanate that would encompass new dioceses at Kraków, Wrocław, and Kołobrzeg.9 He tapped Vojtěch’s half-brother Radim to serve as Gniezno’s first archbishop, and Bolesław and his successors won the authority to invest future bishops in the metropolitanate with symbols of their office. Otto seems to have honored Bolesław by placing the imperial crown on his head and raising him to the status of patricius. The meaning of these gestures long has been disputed, but it appears likely that the emperor signaled his recognition of Bolesław as more than just a tributary duke, but short of a peer. This budding alliance unraveled when Otto died prematurely just two years later.10

ba p tized in to chr istendom (966–1138) 7

Bolesław continued to enjoy considerable military and political success. He extended his authority west of the Oder River at the empire’s expense. In 1003 he defeated a Bohemian army, captured Prague, and exercised control over Bohemian domains for a time. In 1015 he launched a victorious invasion of Kievan Rus’. In 1025, during an imperial interregnum, he dared to crown himself king, an action sanctioned and legitimated by Pope John XIX. This marks the start of Poland’s status as a kingdom, the Kingdom of Poland. The descendants of Mieszko who ruled it belonged to what is known as the Piast dynasty. After Bolesław’s death, the kingdom passed to his son Mieszko II Lambert (990–1034), crowned in the Gniezno cathedral by Archbishop Hipolit on Christmas Day, 1025, thus perpetuating the royal pretensions of his father. Emulating his father’s military success proved much more difficult. He had to contend with scheming brothers, aggressive neighbors, and Polish elites opposed to a strong central government. The combined effects of foreign invasion and internal rebellion, including a popular pagan uprising against a Catholic order imposed from above, led to the virtual collapse of the Polish state in the second half of the 1030s. A description of the carnage is found in The Deeds of the Princes of the Poles (Gesta principum Polonorum), an early twelfth-century chronicle that constitutes the oldest surviving history of Poland.11 Its author, known traditionally as Gallus Anonymous, notes: “Serfs rose against their masters, and freedmen against nobles, seizing power for themselves, reducing some in turn to servitude, killing others, and raping their wives and appropriating their offices in most wicked fashion.”12 The leading towns of Great Poland suffered destruction, and the central government essentially ceased to exist. Mieszko’s son and successor, Kazimierz I Odnowiciel (“the Restorer,” 1016–1058), gradually pacified much of Poland’s core territories. In light of the heavy damage inflicted on Great Poland, he moved his capital to Kraków, where it was destined to remain for centuries to come. Succeeding Kazimierz was his son Bolesław II Śmiały (“the Bold,” 1041/42–1081/82). He earned his moniker through his ambitious and generally successful foreign policy and military exploits, including interventions in the affairs of Hungary, Kievan Rus’, and the Duchy of Bohemia. During the Investiture Controversy, a titanic clash between Holy Roman Emperor Henry IV and Pope Gregory VII over control of the appointment of bishops in the empire, Bolesław allied himself with the pope. In gratitude,

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Gregory supported the Polish leader’s royal coronation, which took place on Christmas Day in 1076 in the Gniezno cathedral. A papal legate looked on as Gniezno’s Archbishop Bogomił crowned Bolesław king. While reaping certain advantages that a close alliance with the church could bring, Bolesław also paid heavily for running afoul of the institution. In the late 1070s he clashed with Stanisław (1030–1079), the bishop of Kraków, for reasons that are not entirely clear. Gallus Anonymous suggests that the king believed the bishop was involved in a plot to depose him: “For this harmed [Bolesław] much, when he added sin to sin, when for treason he subjected a bishop to mutilation of limbs. For neither do we forgive a traitor bishop, nor do we commend a king for taking vengeance in such a shameful way.”13 Later medieval historians Wincenty Kadłubek and Jan Długosz argue that the conflict began when the bishop accused the king of various moral offenses and ultimately excommunicated him. Whatever the true source of the dispute may have been, in 1079 the king seems to have arranged for Stanisław’s murder. More dramatic accounts aver that Bolesław personally murdered the bishop while he celebrated Mass. Outrage over the bishop’s death undermined the king’s position, forcing him into permanent exile.14 Stanisław emerged in Polish historical consciousness as a martyr for religious principles, foreshadowing the moral significance of the more famous Saint Thomas Becket. He was officially canonized in 1253. With Bolesław’s exile, power shifted to his brother Władysław I Herman (1079–1102), whose ineffective tenure was reflected in his submission to the overlordship of the Holy Roman emperor and refusal to claim the royal crown. Under pressure, in 1098 he divided his domains between himself and his sons Zbigniew (1070/73–1112/14) and Bolesław III Krzywousty (“the Wry Mouth,” 1086–1138). An indication of the church’s growing political influence can be discerned in the description by Gallus Anonymous of how Archbishop Martin of Gniezno helped ameliorate the poisonous rivalry that simmered between the sons after Władysław’s death: “And for five days Archbishop Martin with the chaplains celebrated the funeral rites in the city of Płock, not daring to bury him because he was waiting for the sons. When they came, before their father was even in his grave a bitter quarrel nearly broke out between the two brothers about the division of the treasury and the kingdom. But by the grace of God and the faithful old archbishop’s mediation, they kept the instruc-

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tions their father had given in life while he lay dead before them.”15 In short order this power-sharing arrangement broke down. Bolesław eventually drove his brother from power, reunited the kingdom, and reasserted Polish control over much of Pomerania.16 Gallus Anonymous devotes the majority of his chronicle to celebrating the virtues, piety, and accomplishments of Bolesław. The night before launching a siege of Kołobrzeg, for instance, “Bolesław had mass celebrated in honor of the holy Mary, which afterwards he kept as his normal practice in devotion.” He then offered his soldiers the following advice: “Just trust in God and in your weapons, and have no care.”17 Such details were designed no doubt to secure the reader’s sympathy for the chronicle’s protagonist, but they likely illuminate a core reason for the unwavering loyalty of the Piasts to the church: Engaged in almost perpetual warfare, they recognized the Christian God and the saints as invisible yet powerful allies on the field of battle.

A Fledgling Church After Mieszko’s baptism in 966, the church as an institution gradually took shape in Poland. From the relatively few historical traces that survive, it is clear that the church suffered its share of setbacks in this tumultuous era, but in some respects it proved more durable than the state. It benefited from the patronage of sympathetic rulers, and it aided the cause of Poland’s stability and development. This fledgling church greatly increased in stature in the year 1000 with the establishment of Gniezno as an archdiocese charged with overseeing newly minted dioceses based in Kraków, Wrocław, and Kołobrzeg. The Metropolitanate of Gniezno spanned much of Great Poland, Little Poland, Silesia, and Pomerania, and it served as an essential source of unity and continuity for the Polish state during the first two centuries of its history. The pagan uprising of the 1030s was especially pronounced in Pomerania, and the Kołobrzeg Diocese collapsed under the strain. A diocesan structure was reestablished later in the century at Kruszwica, but it proved ephemeral. In contrast, the coalescence of Polish Catholic life in Mazovia justified the organization of the Diocese of Płock in 1075. In 1124, papal legate Gilles of Paris visited Poland in order to oversee the establishment of two new dioceses to govern church life and promote missionary

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work in Poland’s northern domains. The Diocese of Włocławek encompassed much of eastern Pomerania and Kuyavia, while the Diocese of Lubusz (Lebus) included parts of western Pomerania. One would assume that the early bishops of Poland took steps to build the bureaucratic structures required to administer their dioceses, though there is little hard evidence to support this. Gallus Anonymous notes that during a Prussian raid on Gniezno in the early eleventh century “the bishop, priest, and archdeacon were terrified and driven to despair for their temporal life.”18 This is the first known reference to an archdeacon in Poland, and it points to the existence of a multilayered clerical hierarchy. Gniezno was the undisputed capital of Polish Catholic life in the early decades of the Polish state, both on account of its archdiocesan status and its possession of Saint Vojtěch’s shrine. The unrest of the 1030s compromised its authority somewhat. Bohemian invaders ravaged Gniezno and captured what they believed to be Vojtěch’s relics, depositing them ultimately in a new shrine in Prague. Polish sources have disputed this ever since, arguing that the true relics were hidden from the invaders and remain in Gniezno. Whatever the truth may be, church officials in Gniezno now had to contend with the rising prestige of the Diocese of Kraków, which benefited from Kazimierz’s decision to transfer the central government there. Gniezno temporarily lost its status as a metropolitanate in the 1130s, owing in part to the efforts of Norbert of Xanten (c. 1080–1134; canonized in 1582), the archbishop of Magdeburg, to subject the church in Poland to his jurisdiction. He presented Rome with documents, apparently forged, that supported Magdeburg’s claims. He found a sympathetic audience in Pope Innocent II, who was smarting from the support that Polish leaders had been showing to his nemesis, Antipope Anacletus II. The pope formally subjected Gniezno to Magdeburg in 1133. Bolesław III subsequently acknowledged Innocent as pope, and Gniezno’s Archbishop Jakub of Żnin led the successful campaign to reverse the pope’s decision. On July 7, 1136, Innocent published Ex commisso nobis, also known as the Bull of Gniezno, which restored Gniezno to its former status.19 The earliest priests and bishops who ministered in Poland hailed from various corners of Europe. Many came from neighboring Germany, including a Thuringian named Poppon, who served as Kraków’s first

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bishop. Before long, leadership of the church in Kraków fell to Rachelin (d. 1046), who according to Długosz was originally from the Italian peninsula. Alexander and Walter, brothers from the Belgian city of Liège, served respectively as bishops in Płock and Wrocław in the twelfth century. They brought with them religious texts that rooted the church in Poland within Western Christian practice. Alexander is thought to have introduced the Pontificale Plocensis, for instance, which offered ceremonial guidelines according to the Roman Rite. By the early twelfth century, Kraków’s cathedral chapter maintained a library containing at least fifty-three manuscripts, including liturgical and juridical works, the encyclopedia of Isidore of Seville, and manuals for learning Latin. The steady stream of missionary priests and bishops to Poland illustrates how the young state had found a foothold in Western Christendom and benefited from its resources. At the same time, from a western European vantage it is clear that Poland qualified as a distant and poorly understood frontier. In the 1136 bull issued by Innocent II to the Archdiocese of Gniezno, the pope notes his concern for “the region of the Poles, situated in the farthest part of the world.”20 Missionaries no doubt regarded Poland as a difficult assignment and a spiritually meritorious sacrifice. Although the church in Poland depended initially on foreign missionaries, there were early efforts to develop indigenous clergy and religious. Records suggest that a number of Slavs belonged to the Benedictine hermitage established at Międzyrzecz (Meseritz) at the start of the eleventh century. A historical account of this community written not long after its founding notes the following: “And there were also . . . two who were brothers in flesh, one by the name of Isaac, the other Matthew, who were staying at the hermitage; . . . this pair arose from the land of the Slavs; and their sisters were serving in the monastery amongst the virgins of God.”21 Another local affiliated with the hermitage, Krystyn, served as a cook. Stanisław, who functioned as bishop of Kraków from 1072 to 1079, is thought to have been born in the village of Szczepanów in Little Poland, which would make him the first Polish-born bishop on record. There is evidence of a cathedral school founded in Kraków during the late eleventh century, which advanced the formation of a Polish clergy.22 The first two centuries of Christianity in Poland witnessed the gradual proliferation of churches in episcopal centers, royal strongholds, and the bases of regional lords. Judging from the few sources that survive from

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this era, little was yet achieved in terms of building a formal network of parishes. The inadequacy of pastoral care is reflected in a letter from Pope Gregory VII to Bolesław II in 1075. The pope expressed his regret that “there are so few bishops, and the dioceses (parochiae) of each are so large that the cure of the episcopal office can in no way be carried out or properly administered.”23 A brief, illuminating reference to the process of founding churches in Poland at this time can be found in the chronicle of Gallus Anonymous. The author notes that “a certain noble had built a church in the borderlands, and invited Duke Bolesław and his young companions to the consecration, though he was still little more than a boy.”24 What this passage suggests, and what later sources confirm, is that the emerging noble elite often were involved in founding churches in areas under their influence. These foundations presumably were intended to serve the religious needs and enhance the prestige of the founder’s family and dependents. The future Polish king was invited to attend this event, which reinforces the impression of a ruling dynasty eager to advance the spread of Christianity. The third party involved in this event was the cleric who presided over the church’s consecration. Monastic communities helped occupy the breaches in Poland’s patchy network of pastoral care. This was the tail end of what John Henry Newman famously referred to as the Benedictine Age, and Benedictine monks created the earliest monastic foundations on Polish soil. Following the precedent set by earlier generations of monks, they embraced the cause of spreading the Gospel on what was then the frontier of Christendom. The communities they established coalesced into centers of learning, order, and stability in an often chaotic environment. The first known monastic foundation emerged at Międzyrzecz, some sixty miles west of Poznań. The region was home to a pagan population and contested by Poland and the Holy Roman Empire. Otto III was eager to plant missionaries there, and he found two willing candidates in Benedict and John, Benedictine monks affiliated with a monastery at Pereum near Ravenna. Their abbot was Romuald (canonized in 1595), a monk renowned for his austerity. They no doubt understood that their mission would entail self-sacrifice and suffering. In short order, they would have their share of both.

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At the time, Bolesław I maintained a stronghold at Międzyrzecz to defend the western reaches of his dominion, and he welcomed the monks there in 1001 or 1002. They soon attracted Slavic Christians (identified as Poles in Polish historical memory) to their community, including Izaak, Mateusz, and Krystyn. On November 11, 1003, a group of bandits besieged their compound and murdered the two founders and the three Slavs. Bruno, a confrere from the monastery at Pereum, penned a grisly account of the attack that captures the lofty Christian esteem for martyrdom in this era. After dispatching John, one assailant “slew in the upper part, with one big blow in the midst of the forehead, that precious pearl, blissful Benedict, as he hastened toward the others, so that a high stream of blood reddened the walls of the corner and, as can be still seen today, colored the house all over in a gush, creating beautiful stains.” After felling Izaak with two blows of a sword, the attackers killed Mateusz, who “was pierced by the lances and prostrated himself, laying his entire body upon the earth, as if prostrated in prayer.” Krystyn “was slaughtered as the fifth one after the four murdered saints through the great benefit of our Savior, from whose fifth wound in the side there came out the saving blood and water, through which men’s sins are remitted.”25 The wounded monastic foundation survived the assault, bolstered by the memories of the saintly victims. Their relics were set in a place of honor in the cathedral at Gniezno. Those murdered have come to be known as the Five Holy Martyrs, or Five Brothers, of Międzyrzecz. Bruno shared their zeal for evangelizing pagans, and in 1009 he shared their fate. Another early Benedictine abbey took form at Tyniec, some twelve miles southeast of Kraków. Jan Długosz claims that Kazimierz I founded the community in 1044, but the first hard evidence of its existence dates from 1124.26 The monastery’s genesis is often linked to the process of reasserting political and religious order after the havoc wrought by foreign invasions and domestic unrest. The generous patronage showered on the monks at Tyniec allowed them to erect a spacious three-naved church, one of the most impressive edifices in Poland at the time. In return, they offered quality pastoral and sacramental care to the wider region. The first monks brought with them a ritual manual now known as the Tyniec Sacramentary, and they helped transmit to Poland the values of the Cluniac reform movement that was animating many Benedictine foundations in

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western Europe. The community’s first abbot, Aaron, served as bishop of Kraków from 1046 to 1059. In 1113 Bolesław III Krzywousty oversaw the establishment of a community of canons regular at Trzemeszno in Great Poland, the first of its kind in the kingdom. Canons regular were communities of priests who lived according to a rule (typically the Rule of Saint Augustine) that was more flexible than the Rule of Saint Benedict. This arrangement helped satisfy aspirations for the discipline of monastic life without unduly hampering the execution of priestly responsibilities. Monasticism in this period usually entailed monks from communities in western Europe transplanting their way of life on Polish soil. One notable exception to this pattern may be found in the life of Andrzej Świerad. The details of his biography are shrouded in uncertainty, but one tradition claims that he was born in the village of Opatowiec in Little Poland around the year 980. In or about 1003 he ventured to Hungary, affiliated with the Benedictine monastery near Nitra, and later relocated to an isolated cave. Andrzej earned the reputation of a saint, in part owing to his extreme acts of mortification. According to his vita, Andrzej went to great lengths to ensure that his flesh would remain afflicted at night: Around a leveled stump of an oak he constructed an enclosure, through which he fixed sharp canes from all sides. Then he would sit on the stump, using it as a seat to rest his limbs in such a posture that if his body, overcome by sleep, should perchance incline in any direction, he would be painfully pierced by those sharp canes and woken up. Moreover, he used to place on his head a crown made of wood, to which he attached four stones hanging on four sides, so that if his head bowed in any direction in sleep, it would be struck by a stone.27

After his death, his relics were translated to the cathedral at Nitra and became the focal point of a lively cult. Andrzej’s memory was perpetuated by, among other agents, the Order of Saint Paul the First Hermit, a Hungarian order that eventually founded numerous communities in Poland. Thus Catholics in Poland came to appreciate the achievements of what may have been a native son.

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Christianizing Society Very few records survive from the first two centuries of Polish history, and those that do exist pertain mainly to elites. This complicates any effort to reconstruct early Polish Catholicism as a lived reality for the population at large. Still, a few observations can be offered. A prominent feature of religious life in this period was the transition from paganism to Catholicism. Relatively little is known about the preChristian religiosity in the lands that would eventually form Poland. Specific beliefs and practices differed from tribe to tribe, but some basic features appear to have been broadly shared. The population recognized numerous divinities marked by special attributes, along with a high god associated with the sky. They sought divine favor through rituals, some of which were linked to noteworthy points in the annual cycle, such as the solstices and the harvest season. They established outdoor cultic sites and found spiritual significance in such natural features as mountains, rivers, and forests. Their burial customs could be quite elaborate, including the creation of large, earthen mounds, and they appear to have venerated their ancestors in some fashion. Surviving accounts of Christianity’s introduction into the Polish lands suggest that the faith was first embraced by elites and then promoted, if not imposed, from above. Mieszko’s baptism served as a paradigm for his subjects to emulate. Długosz describes the “rigorous measures” the duke took to propagate his new religion. Those who continued to worship their old gods were “condemned to lose their estates and heads.” He forbade “all rites, ceremonies and occasions when honour used to be paid to the idols,” as well as “divination, enchantments and soothsaying.” Recognizing that his subjects continued to harbor idols in secret, Mieszko identified a specific day on which “in every town and village, before a throng of both sexes, the images of the old gods [were] to be hacked to pieces and these cast into a lake, bog or marsh, and heaped over with stones.”28 Some of Poland’s earliest bishops endeavored to win converts in part by demonstrating the impotence of paganism. Emulating the missionary model of Saint Boniface in the eighth century, Vojtěch dared felling oak trees considered sacred by pagan Prussians. In the newly minted Diocese of Kołobrzeg, Thietmar relates how Bishop Reinbern attempted to disrupt pagan centers of worship there. “He destroyed the shrines of idols by

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burning them and purified a lake inhabited by demons, by throwing into it four rocks anointed with holy oil and sprinkling it with consecrated water.”29 In the earliest phase of the transition, when Christianity had yet to set down deep roots and the church’s institutional footprint was slight, rulers appear to have resorted to severe threats to ensure compliance with Christian disciplines. Thietmar offers a bracing account of the punishments Bolesław I ordered for certain sins: “If anyone in this land should presume to abuse a foreign matron and thereby commit fornication, the . . . guilty party is led on to the market bridge, and his scrotum is affixed to it with a nail. Then, after a sharp knife has been placed next to him, he is given the harsh choice between death or castration. Furthermore, anyone found to have eaten meat after Septuagesima is severely punished, by having his teeth knocked out.”30 Catholicism clearly made headway after Mieszko’s baptism, but it did so in the face of considerable resistance. Attacks on pagan beliefs and customs were especially provocative. According to Vojtěch’s vita, it was the bishop’s assault on the sacred oak grove that drove the Prussians to take his life. Similar sentiments may account for the deaths of the Five Martyrs. Długosz suggests that some of this resistance may have been rooted in a desire to circumvent financial obligations to the church. “Many of the Polish nobles, prompted, of course, by the Devil, [came] to the conclusion that the sheaf tithe [was] too onerous a burden,” he writes in his account of the year 1022. They refused to pay and stopped going to church. Bolesław had his soldiers hunt down the scofflaws, who were then “beheaded or flogged.”31 The most prominent manifestation of resistance was the pagan uprising in the 1030s, which, in conjunction with foreign invasions and civil war, led to a nearly total collapse of the Piast state. Anti-Christian feelings found expression in attacks on clergy, churches, and monasteries. In his description of these tumultuous years, Gallus Anonymous adds the following note: “Furthermore—and I can barely say it without tears in my voice—they turned aside from the Catholic faith and rose up against their bishops and the priests of God; some they deemed worthy to be put to death by the sword, some by the baser death of stoning.”32 Try as they might, defenders of the old religious order could not stop the advance of Christianization. Despite early setbacks, Christianity tri-

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umphed among the ruling elite and exercised growing influence over the population as a whole. That said, traces of pagan belief and practice survived for some time. Evidence of pagan burial customs (cremation, burying the dead with objects needed in the afterlife, and so on) can be found as late as the twelfth century. Gradually these gave way to Christian norms, such as burying corpses on an east-west axis, arms folded over the pelvis or chest, in cemeteries adjacent to churches. The appeal of certain pagan shrines likewise proved durable. The twelfth-century construction of a Benedictine monastery on Bald Mountain in southern Poland may have been an attempt to Christianize a pagan site of enduring sacred resonance. As they came to terms with Christianity, evidence suggests that the inhabitants of the Piast realm found the cult of the saints a particularly attractive entry point into the new religion. At the root of this devotion is the recognition of powerful spiritual entities who can be moved by tested methods to intercede before God on the petitioner’s behalf. This set of assumptions was roughly analogous to core pagan practices, and so it made immediate sense. Appeals to the saints also promised solutions to intractable problems. Saint Vojtěch proved especially popular. According to the medieval logic of saint veneration, the presence of his physical relics at the shrine in Gniezno offered privileged access to his spiritual presence in heaven. His status as a national saintly patron further enhanced the likelihood that he might be moved to aid Poles in need. Gallus Anonymous records a story of how Vojtěch protected Gniezno from a Pomeranian raid in 1097: “But He who is ever watchful, who will never slumber, set the vigilance of his soldier Vojtěch to watch over the townsfolk as they slept, and unearthly arms struck terror in the pagans lying awake to ambush the Christians. For there appeared to the Pomeranians an armed figure mounted on a white horse, who with drawn sword struck terror in them and drove them headlong down the castle steps and across the grounds. . . . It was without a doubt the protection of the glorious martyr Vojtěch that thus rescued them from imminent peril and death.”33 A growing cata logue of favors granted by the saint served to reinforce his cult.34 Indigenous saints such as Vojtěch exercised a distinct appeal, but Poles also took an interest in an array of imported cults. Missionaries from western Europe no doubt played a key role in mediating this process. We know,

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for instance, that some members of the Piast dynasty took a particular interest in Saint Lambert, a seventh-century bishop of Maastricht. Mieszko I and Bolesław I each named a son after the saint. A possible inspiration of their devotion was Bishop Jordan, who may have come from Liège, a city where Lambert’s cult was vibrant.35 Gallus Anonymous relates how Władysław I Herman and his wife, Judith, came to appreciate the spiritual suasion of Saint Aegidius (Idzi). After struggling in vain to conceive a child, a bishop encouraged the couple to appeal to the saint, for whom fertility was something of a specialty. They commissioned a golden statue of a boy, which they sent along with other gifts and their petition to the Abbey of Saint Aegidius in Provence, home to the saint’s relics. Responding to the couple’s request, the monks of the abbey began a three-day fast, and before they completed their labors “the mother in Poland was rejoicing to conceive a son.”36 Władysław and Judith subsequently used their considerable resources to promote the cult of Saint Aegidius, commissioning at least three churches in his honor. Władysław’s son Bolesław III eventually had reason to be grateful to Saint Lawrence. In 1109 he marshaled his soldiers to attack the Pomeranian stronghold at Nakło on the saint’s feast day, and beforehand he directed them to pray to Lawrence for assistance. The Piast ruler concluded that the saint played a role in his army’s victory, and he took care to express his appreciation.37 Precious few resources shed light on the inner spiritual lives of Polish Catholics in this era. It is reasonable to presume, though, that over time growing numbers appropriated the Catholic faith in more sophisticated ways. One evocative document that speaks to such a development is a collection of nearly a hundred prayers written by (or possibly for) Gertruda (c. 1025–1108), the daughter of Mieszko II. The prayers, sometimes described as the oldest known writings by a Pole, were written in the margins of an illuminated psalter over a number of years of her adult life in Poland and neighboring Kievan Rus’ (she married into the ruling dynasty there). They reveal a pious Catholic familiar with some of the main currents of Western Christian spirituality and quite possibly influenced by the Eastern Christian tradition. Many of the prayers involve rather intimate dialogues with an all-powerful but compassionate God. The author also gives voice to a pronounced devotion to the Eucharist and the Blessed Virgin.38

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Another dimension of Polish Catholicism’s maturation was the growing persuasiveness of the Christian moral code. We have seen how early Piasts resorted to brutal measures to enforce disciplines like fasting. Poles gradually internalized such strictures, which made them more of a deeply ingrained habit than a foreign imposition. Piast rulers found themselves constrained by many of the same rules. Gallus Anonymous details the heavy penance Bolesław III had to endure after blinding his brother, Zbigniew. “For we have seen such a man, such a prince, such a favored youth fasting from the beginning of Lent, ever prostrate on the earth in sackcloth and ashes, washed in tearful sighs, bereft of human company and conversation, regarding the earth as his table, grass as his tablecloth, black bread as fine fare, and water as nectar.”39 Bolesław also had to give liberally to the poor and make pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Aegidius and Saint Stephen in Hungary and the shrine of Saint Vojtěch in Gniezno.40 As Christianity set down roots, it gradually transformed the Polish experience of time. We see this in the establishment of the Christian week, culminating with Sunday as a day of rest. This novel idea required a new word, and the Polish name that emerged, niedziela, which was derived from the phrase “not work,” distilled the distinctiveness of the day. The larger rhythms of the liturgical year likewise became normative. The earliest known practice of Lent in Poland began on the tenth Sunday before Easter, in keeping with a venerable monastic practice. Here we see the legacy of the missionary monks who were instrumental in transplanting the faith. Christianity also reshaped how Poles conceptualized time on a cosmic level. They gradually adopted the wider Christian tendency to integrate the history of one’s own social group into the larger narrative of salvation history. Biblical accounts of ancient Israelite history and God’s role therein proved profoundly compelling. Poles warmed to the idea that they, too, were special to God, and that their moral failings could provoke divine wrath. Gallus Anonymous helped establish the paradigm. Although little is known about the author for certain, it is thought that he was part of the influx of westerners who helped transmit the values and perspectives of Western Christendom to Poland. As he surveyed Poland’s past, he spied the hand of God at work in both its triumphs and tragedies. Writing of Bolesław I Chrobry, he observed that God “always came to his help wherever he fought for justice.” When Polish leaders erred, however, such as

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when Władysław I Herman, leading his troops against the Pomeranians, did not observe Lent, God “wielded the scourge of correction.” Subsequent generations of historians would elaborate on this theme.41 In addition to the transformation of time, Christianization gave rise to new categories of sacred space. Especially noteworthy in this regard was the erection of churches as centers of prayer and sacramental practice.42 Evidence of around eighty stone churches dating from the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries has been discovered, though little of this early heritage remains intact. Time, natural or human disasters, and changing tastes have all taken their toll. Surviving historical traces indicate that early ecclesial architecture in Poland was very much rooted in the stylistic conventions of Western Christendom. Poland’s first churches emerged at the tail end of the Romanesque era, the architecture of which was characterized by thick, load-bearing stone walls, rounded arches, and small windows.43 One of Poland’s finest Romanesque structures is Saint Andrew’s Church in Kraków. It was originally built in the late eleventh century, likely on account of Władysław I Herman’s generous patronage. Its heavy stone walls are punctuated by slit-like windows on the first story that convey a defensive posture. This aspect of its design helps explain why the church was the only structure of note to survive the devastating Mongol assault on the city in 1241. Saint Andrew’s is built on a traditional basilica floor plan, with a semicircular apse at the eastern end to accommodate the altar. Its western end terminates in a multistory façade composed of matching twin towers, a feature that was commonly incorporated into monumental churches in central and western Europe at this time. Renovated many times, the church’s interior and the pinnacles of its western towers are of Baroque design, but this has not obscured its Romanesque core. Another striking example is the Collegiate Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Kruszwica, located in the region of Kuyavia. Likely built during the reign of Bolesław III, the structure was intended to serve as a cathedral before Włocławek overtook Kruszwica as the new diocesan seat. Its floor plan remains essentially true to its original design: a three-naved basilica with a transept, forming a Latin cross. Its massive walls of sandstone and granite give way to a modest program of round-arched windows. The divisions between the naves, transept, and chancel are clearly articulated by undulating stone archways. The church’s western façade

Saint Andrew’s Church, Kraków. Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

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initially included twin turrets, but these were replaced in the sixteenth century by a rectangular brick tower centered on the building’s central axis.

In the ninth and tenth centuries, the lands destined to form the core of Poland lay in the missionary trajectories of the Eastern Church guided by Constantinople and the Western Church guided by Rome. Considering the success of eastern missionaries in neighboring Moravia and Kievan Rus’, it is entirely conceivable that, had events unfolded a little differently, Poland could have aligned itself with Constantinople and constituted the western edge of the Eastern Orthodox world. As it happens, Mieszko opted for Catholic Christianity, likely taking into account the emerging threat posed by a resurgent German empire. Few choices have been more fateful in shaping the course of Polish history. Initiation into Christianity helped transform Poland into an integral component of the western European order. It opened a channel for the cultural resources of Western Christendom, which were transmitted primarily by a stream of intrepid monks who embraced the hardship of frontier life as a spiritual challenge. They carried with them the gifts of literacy, numeracy, tested bureaucratic structures, and moral injunctions conducive to stability. Early Piast leaders demonstrated their appreciation by their enthusiastic adoption of Christianity and the patronage they showered on Christian institutions. This emerging alliance was not without its challenges, however, as evidenced by the fateful clash between King Bolesław and Bishop Stanisław. The early phase of Poland’s Christianization was largely a top-down process, imposed by political elites who sometimes resorted to brutal methods. Their subjects were expected to abandon their gods and the myths and rituals that imbued their lives with meaning. These onerous demands provoked violent rebellions that drove the Piast state to the edge of ruin. In the long run, however, the region’s pagan traditions were simply no match against an imported religion of greater sophistication that could tap deep reservoirs of support in the European subcontinent. Resistance waned, and the area’s inhabitants gradually internalized Christian patterns of belief and practice. Catholicism was taking root in Poland.

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For all of its early promise, the Piast dynasty had to contend with dangerous rivalries within its ranks. The power struggle between the sons of Włyadysław I Herman, Zbigniew and Bolesław III, was a harbinger of future trouble. The two centuries that followed would be defined by seemingly endless conflicts between Piast dukes, which drew into question Poland’s viability as an independent kingdom. The church would serve as a critical source of stability in this difficult time.

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Chaos and Consolidation (1138–1333)

In 1186 Hedwig of Andechs (1174–1243), the twelve-year-old daughter of a leading noble of the Holy Roman Empire, undertook an arduous journey from her native Bavaria to Silesia, never to return. Awaiting her was the man her parents had arranged for her to marry, Henryk I Brodaty (“the Bearded”), a Piast prince with a promising future. In the decades that followed, she made Silesia her new homeland and earned the affection and gratitude of her subjects. Hedwig’s life exemplifies some significant features of Polish life in her day. Her marriage was one of many strategic unions that linked leading families in Poland with their counterparts in neighboring states. She was on the front end of a substantial wave of German immigration that gradually transformed Polish society. She also endured her share of the warfare that plagued the country, including the perpetual conflicts between rival Piast factions and the Mongol invasion in 1241 that devastated southern Poland and claimed the life of her son. Pious and well educated, she was one of many Catholics who helped bolster the faith along Western Christendom’s Polish frontier. It is commonly assumed that she partnered closely with her husband in establishing churches and monasteries in their domains, including the Cistercian cloister at Trzebnica (Trebnitz), where she spent her final years and was buried. Hedwig embodied the highest religious aspirations of her day, including a demanding prayer regimen, punishing ascetic practices, and generous solicitude toward the poor. Regarded by many as a saint during her lifetime, Hedwig’s admirers began promoting her cause for canonization almost immediately after her death, an effort bolstered by a surge of miracles attributed to her intercession. Pope Clement IV officially acknowledged her as a saint in 1267, which greatly enhanced an already lively cult devoted to her and enlarged the host of holy luminaries associated with Poland.1

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Statue of Saint Hedwig, Wrocław. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist stands in the distance. Hedwig is often portrayed holding a church, a symbol of her generous patronage. Photograph by Andrea Hoelscher.

Relations between Church and Unstable State Bolesław III Krzywousty reestablished unified control over much of the Piast domains by the 1130s, and toward the end of his life he developed an elaborate model of cooperative rule designed to overcome the punishing

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interdynastic conflicts that had rocked Poland for decades. His realm was divided among his four sons, with overarching authority vested in the senior duke based in Kraków. The system promptly broke down, as Władysław II (1105–1159), Bolesław’s eldest son and first senior duke, sought without success to assert his dominion over his brothers, the junior dukes. The descendants of the brothers continued to wage war against each other and against neighboring powers drawn into the Polish theater for the better part of the next two centuries. As leading Piasts wrestled for primacy, they had to take into account the designs of the Holy Roman Empire and an increasingly assertive Catholic clergy. Initiated by the popes of the second half of the eleventh century, the Gregorian Reform touched off a process whereby the Catholic hierarchy throughout Western Christendom consolidated its autonomy visà-vis secular rulers and enhanced its authority over public affairs. A similar dynamic unfolded in Poland. The Polish bishops emerged as potent players in the political sphere, and against the backdrop of Piast infighting, the unified front they often maintained further strengthened their profile. An important element of their authority was their command over the burgeoning field of canon law, which provided an ever more elaborate body of legal guidelines that enjoyed widespread approbation in an explicitly Christian society. By this time the papacy could also be drawn into Polish affairs to powerful, if sometimes unpredictable, effect. Władysław II’s efforts to extend his authority over the entire domain of the Piasts initially looked promising, but his ruthless behavior generated mounting resistance and many enemies. His opponents included Gniezno’s Archbishop Jakub of Żnin, a man of considerable moral authority. In 1138 the archbishop presided over a gathering of leading Polish nobles and clerics, at which they vowed to uphold the wishes of Bolesław III concerning the division of political authority among his sons. Władysław’s actions violated this accord, and when he ordered the blinding of his rival Piotr Włostowic, the archbishop responded by excommunicating him. Jan Długosz has Jakub deliver the following judgment: “Because, by unjustly using violence, you have invaded your brothers’ duchies and, as an enemy of the faith and of your country, have broken the laws of God and man, despised my paternal persuasion, stubbornly rejected all advice, betrayed a hardness of heart worthy of the Pharaohs, I hereby . . . excommunicate you, and impose a ban on you as a recalcitrant, leaving

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it to Divine Vengeance to punish you.”2 This sanction undermined Władysław’s legitimacy. Faced with mounting rebellion, he fled to Bohemia in 1146, never to return.3 The Piast power struggle attracted the interest of Emperor Frederick Barbarossa (1122–1190), who recognized an opportunity to reassert imperial authority over his eastern neighbor. In 1157 he led an armed invasion of Poland, purportedly in support of the restoration of Władysław II. In a bid for peace, the ruling grand duke, Bolesław IV, agreed to make an act of submission to the emperor. This new phase of imperial domination appears to have extended to the Polish Catholic Church. Around this time, Barbarossa found himself at odds with Pope Alexander III, and in response he threw his support behind Alexander’s rival, Antipope Victor IV. Delegations of Polish bishops dutifully allied themselves with Victor at synods held at Pavia (1160) and Lodi (1161). If imperial entanglements could complicate Poland’s relationship with Rome, Rome could also provide a hedge against imperial ambitions. As we have seen, this dynamic likely informed the decisions of Mieszko I to accept baptism and to place his domains under papal protection. It also may have factored into Polish agreement to pay an annual financial contribution to Rome known as Peter’s Pence (Denarii Sancti Petri), an arrangement firmly in place by the thirteenth century. Although taxes generally are not popular among those required to pay them, this one was different, for it signaled Poland’s autonomy from the empire. Poland’s willing submission to papal authority stood in contrast to some western European states, which over the course of the thirteenth century showed a growing willingness to challenge papal claims in the name of national sovereignty. Polish Catholic officials wrested from the Piast dukes greater authority over their internal affairs, in keeping with the priorities of the Gregorian Reform. An early landmark in this process occurred at the Congress of Łęczyca in 1180. In the ongoing Piast power struggle, Kazimierz II Sprawiedliwy (“the Just”) outmaneuvered his brother Mieszko III Stary (“the Old”) in the competition for the throne in Kraków, the recognized seat of the grand duke. The country’s bishops agreed to affirm Kazimierz’s achievement at Łęczyca, but at a price. The new grand duke had to renounce the jus spoli, the traditional right of rulers to seize the assets of deceased bishops. In time, this concession would be extended to other rulers.

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In the early thirteenth century, the right to select bishops to Polish sees emerged as a new front in the battle for control over church affairs. With the death of Bishop Fulko of Kraków in 1206, Duke Władysław III Laskonogi (“Spindleshanks”) claimed the right to appoint his successor, in keeping with a well-established precedent. This contradicted canon law, however, which underscored the collaborative efforts of the cathedral chapter of a given diocese and the papacy in the selection of bishops. Henryk Kietlicz, archbishop of Gniezno from around 1199 to his death in 1219, challenged Władysław on this point and ultimately excommunicated him when the duke resisted. Fearing for his safety, Kietlicz fled to Rome, where he won the support of Pope Innocent III. The pope addressed a forceful bull to Władysław, accusing him of a number of violations of canon law. The chastened duke agreed to allow Kraków’s cathedral chapter to nominate candidates for the position, and the pope ultimately tapped Wincenty Kadłubek (c. 1161–1223) for the post. This was not an isolated instance. In 1211, Władysław deferred to the cathedral chapter in Poznań in the nomination of candidates to occupy the bishop’s chair in that city. Kietlicz also played instrumental roles at the Synod of Borzykowo in 1210 and the Synod of Wolbórz in 1215. On both occasions, the bishops managed to extract key concessions from leading Piast dukes, including the renunciation of the jus spoli, the affirmation of the authority of cathedral chapters to nominate clergy to episcopal posts, and the guarantee of the clergy’s immunity before secular courts of law. These rights significantly enhanced the church’s autonomy vis-à-vis Poland’s secular rulers. Dukes who pushed back hard against the expanded powers of bishops could come to regret it. The fate of Duke Bolesław II Rogatka (“the Horned,” c. 1210–1278) is a case in point. He tangled repeatedly with Tomasz I, bishop of Wrocław from 1232 to 1268, regarding their respective rights over the church. Tomasz excommunicated the duke on several occasions, and in 1257 Bolesław responded by kidnapping the bishop and imprisoning him in a dungeon. Church officials, possibly including Pope Alexander IV, began calling for an international crusade against Bolesław. This threat forced the duke into a humiliating capitulation involving the public performance of penance before the Wrocław cathedral and the payment of a large indemnity. The seeming inability of the Piast dynasty to resolve its internal conflicts complicated Poland’s social and economic development and compro-

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mised its territorial integrity. In the northwest, large stretches of Pomerania fell to the Margraviate of Brandenburg.4 In the south, Bohemia gradually extended its authority over Silesia. In the east, lands conquered from Kievan Rus’ slipped out of Polish control. The damage likely would have been greater still had Poland’s neighbors not faced internal turmoil of their own. Adding to the country’s woes was the Mongol invasion of 1241, which cut a destructive swath through southern Poland, decimating armies of defenders and laying waste a string of cities before receding. Among the victims was Duke Henryk II Pobożny (“the Pious”), son of Henryk I and Hedwig of Andechs, who had once been in a position to reunify the Piast domains. Even though Polish forces failed to check the Mongols, their resistance helped nourish the idea that Poland was an eastern bulwark of Christendom, standing guard against godless hordes to the east; in time this idea developed into a core component of Polish identity.5 In the era of the Crusades in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries Catholics rallied around the cause of battling non-Christians in the Holy Land and on the periphery of Christendom. Church officials in Poland sought to raise funds and inspire warriors to support the effort, but ultimately to little effect.6 The thin ranks of Polish crusaders included Henryk of Sandomierz (c. 1131–1166), a younger son of Bolesław III Krzywousty, who led a contingent of soldiers to the Holy Land in the 1150s. Długosz summarizes his venture pithily: “He reaches the Holy Land safely, pays reverence to the Holy Sepulchre, and joins the army of Baldwin, King of Jerusalem. He distinguishes himself in battle with the Saracens and dreams of a martyr’s crown, but Fate does not grant him one. After spending a whole year in the Holy Land, by which time many of his knights have been killed either in battle or by the inclement climate, Henry returns home to Poland, safe and sound.”7 Henryk is linked to the founding in Zagość of a community of Hospitallers, one of several military orders created to defend Christian footholds in the Holy Land. Other Hospitaller communities emerged in Strzygom and Poznań, along with a Templar establishment at Miechów. Ultimately the Hospitallers and Templars had very little impact on Polish affairs. The same cannot be said of a third military order, the Teutonic Knights. The Piasts struggled for decades, and without much success, to contain the military threat to the north posed by the Prussians, a pagan

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tribe settled along the Baltic. Around the year 1224, Duke Konrad I of Mazovia invited the knights to establish a presence in the Chełmno (Kulm) region on the northern edge of his domains. He considered them clients who could help blunt Prussian incursions, but the knights had larger ambitions. Hoping to establish their own sovereign state, they reached out to the empire and the papacy for support. In 1226, Emperor Friedrich II granted them the Prussian lands as a principality. In 1234, Pope Gregory IX issued the Golden Bull of Rieti, which recognized the order’s state as directly subject to the papacy.8 The Teutonic Knights waged a relentless, decades-long campaign against the Prussians, subduing them finally by 1288. During this time, they also established settlements for German colonists within their Baltic state. By the early fourteenth century, the knights found opportunity to expand their dominion over territory that earlier had been a part of Poland. At this time, the Piasts sought the aid of the knights in putting down a local rebellion in eastern Pomerania. After pacifying the region, the knights claimed it as their own. Over the next century, the order represented one of Poland’s gravest military concerns.9 Despite nearly two centuries of internal strife and substantial losses of territory, the concept of a unified Polish state endured. Idea and reality gradually realigned during the reign of Władysław Łokietek (“the ElbowHigh,” c. 1260–1333). As a child he inherited the domains of Kuyavia and Łęczyca, and over the course of his long life he extended his rule over Poland’s remaining territories, relying on a mixture of military success, good fortune, and a habit of outliving his rivals. With the assent of Pope John XXII, Władysław was crowned king in Kraków in 1320, marking a restoration of the vaunted claims first advanced by Bolesław Chrobry. He adopted the white eagle used by a predecessor for his coat of arms, which helped establish its status as an enduring symbol of Polish statehood.10

The Church’s Consolidation Throughout the tumult of these two centuries, one institutional constant was the Metropolitanate of Gniezno, which encompassed nearly all of the lands associated with Poland. The stability of this structure partially offset the damage caused by Poland’s fractious political culture. It also aided the steady expansion of the church’s institutional profile in the region.

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In 1149 Pope Innocent II confirmed the establishment of a new diocese in western Pomerania. Based originally in Wolin (Wollin), the see was relocated to Kamień (Kammin) in 1176. Poland’s hold on western Pomerania was tenuous, however, and in time the diocese slipped from Gniezno’s grasp. Further east, Rome established several new dioceses in the territory controlled by the Teutonic Knights in 1243. The dioceses of Chełmno, Warmia (Ermland), Sambia, and Pomesania were placed under the Archdiocese of Riga rather than Gniezno, further evidence of Poland’s waning influence along its northern border. As Gniezno’s gravitational pull softened along Poland’s margins, its primacy within the country was challenged by the growing stature of the Diocese of Kraków. The diocese benefited from its placement in Poland’s new capital and from the talented bishops who led it. Długosz notes that Bishop Fulko (d. 1207), during the twenty-one years he spent at the helm of the diocese, “obtained from the Pope various rights, privileges and immunities for his cathedral: the right of the Bishop of Kraków to speak first, before all other bishops of the principality, indeed of all Poland; at the consecration of an archbishop, the Bishop of Kraków being the first to lay hands on him.”11 Fulko’s successor, Wincenty Kadłubek, enlarged the diocese’s income stream considerably, thereby enhancing its prestige.12 Competition in their ranks notwithstanding, Poland’s bishops regularly collaborated with each other and with church officials abroad. They worked to address perceived problems within the church in Poland and to bring it into fuller accord with universal Catholic norms. One example concerns the enforcement of celibacy among the clergy. This emerged as an issue in other parts of Europe already by the eleventh century, but it seems that many Polish clerics resisted the discipline, thus necessitating a series of interventions. In 1197 Cardinal Peter of Capua presided over a synod of Polish bishops, in which Poland’s clergy were enjoined to put away wives and concubines and practice celibacy. Their response appears to have been sluggish, for Pope Innocent III felt compelled to reissue the order in 1207. During his tenure as archbishop of Gniezno, Henryk Kietlicz threw his own weight behind the cause, requiring priests to swear to live in celibate fashion. The issue was revisited at synods held at Sieradz and Łęczyca. At the latter synod, the bishops forbade the laity from attending masses celebrated by priests living in open defiance of the rule.

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Papal legates emerged as an increasingly reliable fixture in Polish ecclesiastical life. This brought Roman priorities to bear in a direct and meaningful way, and it enhanced the legitimacy of certain reform initiatives, such as clerical celibacy. The international connections forged in this era also allowed Polish Catholic concerns to find increasing traction abroad. The canonization cause of Hedwig of Andechs offers one example. Before his pontificate as Pope Urban IV (1261–64), the churchman Jacques Pantaléon served as a legate to Poland. His familiarity with the country helps explain how Hedwig came to be recognized as a saint just twenty-four years after her death. Following models developed in Western Christendom and enjoined on them by papal legates, Polish bishops divided their dioceses into deaneries and archdeaneries. Members of the cathedral chapter oversaw these units, typically by making visitations. This allowed them to serve as the eyes and ears of the bishop and to enforce the bishop’s directives toward the faithful under his charge. High-ranking diocesan officials enhanced their authority over the lower clergy, many of whom were accustomed to deferring primarily to secular lords. In 1207 Pope Innocent III lent considerable moral weight to the effort by issuing letters to all clergy holding benefices in Poland and to chaplains serving dukes and other leading nobles. Both letters enjoin the clergy to receive visiting diocesan officials with respect and to obey the commands of their ecclesiastical superiors, an obligation many were failing to uphold. In his letter to the chaplains, Innocent laments, “Although you serve secular lords, it does not become you to withhold due reverence and honor from ecclesiastical prelates.”13 In a related effort, diocesan officials endeavored to integrate the churches in their territory into a common network. During the first two centuries of Polish Christianity, churches emerged through a variety of channels. This was the natural work of bishops, but powerful lords also engaged in the process, eager to ornament their lands with churches and to secure access to the sacraments for themselves and their households. It is not clear to what extent these churches were essentially private institutions or open to the wider population. The founding lords and their descendants appear to have exercised a great deal of authority over their operations, appointing personnel and collecting and dispensing the tithe. In the thirteenth century, Poland’s bishops attempted to assume control over

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these churches, the personnel who staffed them, and the revenue that funded their operations. With canon law in their favor, they made progress toward these goals, though nobles continued to hold onto some traditional rights of patronage, including a voice in the dispensation of benefices. Authority over the tithe was especially contentious. The tithe was a tax on income and production to support the church, which could be paid in currency or in such products as grain, honey, or even squirrel skins. The earliest history of its imposition in Poland is poorly understood, but it is clear that nobles exercised wide-ranging control over the collection and distribution of the tithe on their lands. In some instances, they reduced the tax in order to attract settlers. By the thirteenth century, church officials made a concerted effort to bring canonical rules to bear on the issue. In 1207 Bishop Wawrzyniec of Wrocław sought to reform abuses of the tithe in Silesia. This brought him into conflict with Duke Henryk I, who feared that strict observance of the tax would undermine his efforts to attract colonists. Two decades of wrangling eventually yielded a compromise that offered something for both parties. Related struggles unfolded in other dioceses. The hierarchy’s hand was strengthened in 1267 when Papal Legate Guido declared that peasants and lords guilty of defying the church’s claims to the tithe could be denied the sacraments and a proper Christian burial.14 An increasingly elaborate parish network developed over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, staffed by a growing body of secular and religious clergy. A critical component of a well-functioning parish was the pastor, who offered the sacraments and oversaw parish affairs. Some parishes were home to multiple priests, whereas others endured without a resident priest for extended periods. Specialized categories of clergy came into being in certain parishes, particularly in urban areas. Chapter prebends, for instance, were clergy belonging to a chapter, an elite community of clerics supported by an endowment and tasked to faithfully perform the Divine Office. The primary function of altarists, by contrast, was to offer masses devoted to the particular intentions (most commonly for the souls of departed loved ones) of those who sponsored them. The clergy survived on income from a variety of sources, including endowments, rents, the tithe, and other collections. Clergy income varied widely, depending on the status of a particular benefice and the wealth of

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the surrounding region. It was often very modest, which gave rise to two abuses that bedeviled the church throughout Europe: absenteeism and pluralism. Absenteeism refers to the practice of residing away from the place where priests and prelates were obligated to render ser vice. Sometimes they used a share of the revenue from a given benefice to hire lower-ranking clerics to fulfill their responsibilities; in other instances, they simply ignored their duties. Absenteeism was often linked to pluralism: the holding of multiple, often incompatible benefices, in order to increase one’s revenue. The bishops repeatedly sought to discourage such practices, but a blanket ban was hardly feasible. A regular system for training secular clergy did not yet exist, and the standards to which they were held were quite modest. Many began young, working as apprentices of sorts for established pastors, gradually learning how to say the Mass and perform other essential priestly duties. Some benefited from more formal training at a small but growing number of cathedral and parish schools. Archdeacons had the responsibility of examining the readiness of candidates before ordination was conferred. A statute issued at a synod in 1285 identified the basic competencies expected of priests: knowledge of the seven sacraments and the articles of faith contained in the Apostles’ Creed and the ability to say Mass and recite the prayers of the Divine Office.15 In addition to secular clergy, the Polish church relied on the labors of growing ranks of male and female religious affiliated with an increasingly diverse array of religious orders. While some administered parishes, others devoted themselves to distinctive charisms, including communal prayer, education, charity, preaching, and missionary outreach. Active in Poland since the end of the tenth century, the Benedictines founded a number of new abbeys in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.16 They were gradually eclipsed, however, by a series of newer orders. One such challenger was the Cistercian order, a Benedictine reform movement that criticized traditional Benedictine communities for laxity and called for a return to strict observance of Benedict’s Rule. Championed by the charismatic Bernard of Clairvaux, the Cistercians appealed to the spiritual aspirations of a great many Christians, and hundreds of abbeys sprouted up across Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They established the first of many abbeys in Poland in 1140, when they laid foundations for a community of monks at Jędrzejów in Little Poland. In

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an evocative symbol of their ascendant fortunes, the Cistercians assumed control of the abbey at Lubiąż, only recently founded by traditional Benedictines, and steadily transformed it into the largest Cistercian monastery in the world. With the support of Hedwig of Andechs, the first Cistercian community for women emerged at Trzebnica in 1202. By 1300 there were some twenty-six male Cistercian communities in Poland, complemented by several female Cistercian communities.17 For all their talk of returning to past ideals, the Cistercians distinguished themselves by innovative agricultural techniques and economic practices, which only magnified their appeal to wealthy patrons. Cistercian monasteries developed into vibrant hubs of economic activity, encompassing farms, fisheries, mines, and other forms of industry. Perpetuating the Benedictine love of learning, many among their ranks devoted themselves to scholarship. A noteworthy example is Wincenty Kadłubek, one of medieval Poland’s greatest chroniclers. Cistercian monks also provided pastoral care to Christians in their vicinity, thereby enhancing the church’s ability to serve Poland’s growing population. Sometimes they were pressed into missionary work along the kingdom’s unstable frontiers. In 1209 Pope Innocent III appointed a monk named Christian of Oliwa (c. 1180–1245) to coordinate missionary outreach to the Prussians. He eventually was named bishop of Prussia and then bishop of Chełmno. If the Cistercian spirit can be said to have set the tone for vowed religious life in twelfth-century Western Christendom, the mendicant orders—led above all by the Franciscans and the Dominicans—were the premiere forces of the thirteenth century. Inspired by the examples of the Apostles, they committed themselves to poverty, preaching, and peregrination. Eschewing the elaborate monasteries integral to Benedictine life, the mendicants owned very little, which earned them immediate respect in a religious context that viewed wealth as a stumbling block to salvation. Eager to preach the Gospel effectively, they devoted themselves to extensive study of Scripture, theology, and the art of homiletics. Rejecting the traditional monastic impulse to flee the world, the mendicants gravitated to population centers, offering high-quality preaching and pastoral care specifically attuned to the moral demands of everyday life. The mendicant vision captured the imaginations of Christians across Europe. By 1300, the mendicant communities in Poland outnumbered the communities of all other religious orders combined.

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Blessed Wincenty Kadłubek’s Church, Jędrzejów. The original church on this site formed part of the Cistercian abbey where Kadłubek spent his final years. Heavily damaged in a fire, it was rebuilt in Baroque fashion in the eighteenth century. It contains a shrine to Kadłubek. Photograph by Jakub Hałun.

In 1220 Bishop Iwo Odrowąż of Kraków was in Rome on ecclesial business, when he encountered Dominic de Guzmán, later Saint Dominic, whose mendicant movement was still in its infancy. Impressed by what he witnessed, he convinced Dominic to admit into the order three of the

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bishop’s Polish companions, including his relatives Jacek (Hyacinth) and Czesław. After two years of formation and study in Bologna, the first Polish Dominicans returned to Kraków and established a base of operations at Holy Trinity Church. They recruited new members and after sufficient training dispatched them across the region. By 1300 there were thirty-three Dominican convents within the borders of present-day Poland.18 The Franciscans arrived in Poland about a decade after the Dominicans and expanded at a still more impressive clip. By 1300 around forty Franciscan convents existed within the borders of present-day Poland.19 The Franciscan Sisters of Saint Clare also gained a foothold in Poland at this time. Before long, Poland served as a base for Dominican and Franciscan missionary work in the eastern frontiers of Western Christendom. Integral to hagiographical accounts of Jacek’s life are his efforts in the lands of old Kievan Rus’ to convert the Orthodox population there to Catholicism. With the blessing of the Teutonic Knights, Dominicans ventured into thirteenth-century Prussia, establishing houses in Chełmno, Elbląg, and Toruń, and occasionally rising to high offices in the dioceses of Prussia. Meanwhile, Franciscan missionaries led the way in Lithuania. In their earliest phases, dioceses and religious communities in Poland naturally relied on the expertise of foreigners. One notable sign of maturation over the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth centuries was the growing cadre of Polish-born priests and religious. A prominent example is Iwo Odrowąż, who served as bishop of Kraków from 1218 to 1229. Born to a leading family in Little Poland, he benefited from an impressive education in the universities of Paris and Bologna. On his return to Poland, he occupied high positions in the government and the church, eventually emerging as one of the most influential Polish bishops of his era. He assembled what is considered to be the first private library in Poland and was a driving force behind a number of monastic foundations and, of course, the earliest Dominican presence in Kraków. The enhanced prevalence and adequacy of Polish-born church leaders is underscored by steps taken in the late thirteenth century to curtail the presence of foreigners from positions of influence in the church. In 1257 Gniezno’s Archbishop Pełka forbade pastors in the archdiocese from hiring Germans for teaching positions, a rule reiterated by Archbishop Świnka in 1285. Świnka also opposed granting benefices to clergy who did not speak the local language.20

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The growing prevalence of Polish-born clergy did not necessarily lead to a more insular church. Polish church leaders maintained lively contacts with other ecclesiastical centers in Christendom and ventured westward for personal and professional reasons with increasing frequency. When Pope Innocent III summoned Catholic bishops to Rome for the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, for instance, seven Polish bishops made the long journey. The fathers gathered at this highly consequential council affirmed an array of canons that introduced higher standards and greater uniformity to the Western Church. On their return home, the Polish bishops advocated these principles, which brought the Polish church into greater compliance with international Catholic norms. Polish clerics also forged links with the continent’s intellectual culture. Growing numbers followed the path of Iwo Odrowąż, taking advantage of the educational opportunities available in Europe’s earliest universities. They included Wincenty Kadłubek, who after studying in Paris and Bologna returned to Poland, where he served as bishop of Kraków (1208–18) before retiring to the Cistercian monastery at Jędrzejów. “For him,” Długosz relates, “study was nobility, fatherland, mother and nurse.”21 At some point he penned Chronica seu originale regum et principum Poloniae, a highly influential chronicle of Polish history.22 Written largely in dialogue form, Kadłubek’s sweeping account stretches from antiquity to the recent past. He repeatedly discerns God’s active role in Polish affairs and draws comparisons between the Poles and the ancient Israelites. Among both groups, the sins of leaders result in collective suffering. Despite the political chaos that often defined the eleventh and twelfth centuries, Kadłubek takes as a given Poland’s existence as a unified state, which added ballast to the idea among Polish elites. He also emphasizes the importance of rulers remaining answerable to their subjects, which offered encouragement to the republican tradition that would eventually take root in Poland. Another noteworthy scholar with Polish ties was Martin the Pole, a Dominican friar born in the Silesian town of Opava (Troppau). Although little is known of his early life, by the mid-thirteenth century he was ensconced in Rome and enjoyed close ties with popes and members of the curia. In 1278 Pope Nicholas III appointed him archbishop of Gniezno, but he died before he could assume the office. Martin’s lasting scholarly contribution is the Chronicon pontificum et imperatorum. The work’s layout

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is its most innovative feature, presenting side by side leading developments in papal and imperial history from the time of Christ to the present, with each line of text devoted to one year. An attractive pedagogical tool, it was widely copied. A later edition of the work made reference to the apocryphal “Pope Joan,” which became the primary source of this colorful fable.23

Catholicism Takes Deeper Root The evolution of the clergy into a more clearly defined estate with distinct privileges and rules was part of a wider process of social differentiation that gradually transformed Polish society. At the top of this emerging social order was a caste of warriors, who in exchange for their military ser vice to the duke received land and a growing array of hereditary privileges. This protonobility, eventually known in Polish as the szlachta, claimed an increasingly prominent role in political affairs and tended to resist the centralization of power, much to the consternation of Polish sovereigns. Members of this caste forged a complicated relationship with the church, patronizing Catholic institutions, guiding younger sons into prominent clerical careers, and sometimes challenging the church when their respective interests diverged. The rights and privileges of the warrior caste stood at odds with, and were dependent on, an evolving peasant population. A paucity of sources prevents a satisfactory reconstruction of peasant life in this period. It is fairly clear, though, that over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, many peasants lost measures of the autonomy and mobility that they had once enjoyed. A growing array of legal charters bound them to remain at given locales and provide ser vice to secular lords, bishops, and monastic communities. The process of enserfment facilitated the collection of tribute by lords and the tithe by church officials.24 The thirteenth century witnessed the foundation of dozens of towns across Poland, which gave rise to another distinct element in the social order. Initiated by rulers, large landowners, and leading churchmen, these foundations typically were established to lure internal migrants and foreign colonists to settle in underdeveloped regions and spur economic development. The legal charters of these settlements offered inhabitants rather favorable economic conditions and considerable political autonomy.

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The proliferation of towns created new pastoral challenges for the church, not to mention occasional turf battles when the respective jurisdictions of town and church appeared to overlap.25 Yet another strand in this social tapestry was the growing population of Jews, who migrated to Poland to escape persecution elsewhere in Europe and to pursue new opportunities in the developing country. Poland’s ruling elite tended to look favorably on these newcomers, recognizing the skills they possessed and their potential to enhance economic life and enrich their patrons. However, many Poles responded with ambivalence, a reaction rooted in, among other things, a belief widely shared among Christians that the Jews were collectively responsible for the death of Christ and destined to suffer for not recognizing him as the messiah anticipated in their scriptures. This mixed reception found expression in the legislation pertaining to Jews that was issued in this era. A number of rulers instituted laws designed to protect Jews from hostile neighbors and local rulers. One notable example is the Statute of Kalisz, promulgated by Bolesław V in 1264, which placed the Jews of Great Poland under royal protection. Just three years later, however, Papal Legate Guido presided over a synod in Wrocław in which church leaders affirmed canons designed to protect Christians from the “superstitious and evil habits of the Jews.”26 As the institutional church in Poland matured, it drew Catholics into denser webs of pastoral care and religious obligation. The gradual development of a parish network afforded Poles a normative locus for receiving the sacraments, expressing piety, and interacting with the wider community. Church officials used this mechanism to oversee and discipline their flocks. As early as 1279, synodal legislation required the faithful to fulfill their religious duties in their own parishes. Each Sunday priests were required to read the names of the excommunicated and to admit only registered parishioners to celebrations of the Mass. As the sacraments became normative in the Polish religious experience, some of the most intimate aspects of life were brought under the purview of church officials and placed within a Catholic interpretative framework. Marriage, for instance, was essentially a family matter in pre-Christian Poland, and it remained as such long after Mieszko’s baptism in broad swaths of the country where a regular clerical presence was lacking. Gradually the Catholic vision of marriage triumphed, and canonical regulations came to govern the ritual in most instances. In 1197 a visiting papal

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legate declared that marriages were to take place in the presence of a priest. Among the canons issued at the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215 were requirements that parish priests publish the banns of marriage and inquire into possible obstacles to the proposed unions. Having attended the council, the Polish bishops were well aware of these requirements and likely sought to institute them. Confession was another sacrament that brought the church into close proximity with the private lives of the faithful. The Fourth Lateran Council issued the requirement that all Catholics confess their sins to a priest at least once a year, a ruling that transformed this discipline into a ubiquitous feature of Catholic life. Poland was no exception, as Kietlicz and his fellow bishops threw their weight behind the practice. This had profound consequences for how Polish Catholics understood sin and its expiation, not to mention how the lay faithful related to the clergy. Długosz describes how in 1261 Poland’s bishops had to contend with rival interpretations of sin and its remedy. In that year, advocates of public flagellation caused a stir in Poland: Their errors are many and depraved: they go in procession with their heads covered like nuns, but other wise are bare to the navel, and beat each other on the shoulders with scourges of quadruple thongs knotted at the end. They also perform strange stoops and genuflexions, sing embarrassing songs, each in his own tongue, for the members are of different nationalities. Although they are all laymen, not priests, they hear each other’s confession, and give each other absolution, sometimes for quite serious sins. They recruit those who are doing penance, telling them that their sect is dear to God and brings great comfort and advantage to the souls of those near them, even of those who have been damned and are in Hell, and those who have achieved Heaven, as well as their own when they die.

Długosz describes the hard line Poland’s bishops and dukes took with the flagellants, including the threat of imprisonment and loss of property, which contributed to the phenomenon’s abeyance.27 Building and maintaining a comprehensive ecclesiastical infrastructure came at considerable cost, which amplified and sometimes complicated the ties between church leaders and the lay faithful. The tithe represented a critical source of revenue, but it was hardly the only one. In this era it

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became customary in parts of Poland for the clergy to visit the homes of parishioners in the Christmas season, during which they would collect a financial offering. Church officials also began charging fees for a host of ser vices including funerals, trials, drafting of last wills and testaments, and supervising the taking of oaths.28 Financial obligations to the church sometimes caused resentment, but the faithful also displayed remarkable generosity to a range of religious initiatives. Leading noble families had the most to offer, and a lasting legacy of their largess can be found in the religious communities they founded and the churches they commissioned or beautified in some way. Before a gathering of fellow nobles in 1258, for instance, Duke Bolesław Wstydliwy (“the Chaste,” 1226–1279) announced his intention and that of his wife, Kinga, to found a nunnery in their domains “to ensure the safety of the daughters of his nobles and esquires, the weak and the poor or those who scorn marriage.” The couple paid for the building of the complex and created an endowment to support sixty nuns in perpetuity.29 Among the most prolific patrons in this era were the Silesian noble Piotr Włostowic (d. 1153) and his wife, Maria, a Ruthenian princess. They are said to have founded over seventy churches in Silesia. An evocative trace of the family can be found on the tympanum of Saint Mary’s Church in Wrocław, which contains the image of Maria and her son Swiętosław, along with the following inscription: “To you, Mother of Grace, I, Maria, offer this temple. My son, Swietoslaw, brings it as a gift.”30 Although very few could match the scale of Włostowic’s patronage, Poles of more modest means contributed to humbler causes. Common denominators to this giving included a high esteem for the church’s role in the world and the belief that acts of patronage were spiritually meritorious. The inscription on the tympanum of Saint Mary’s Church points to a vital and ubiquitous channel of piety in Poland and throughout the Catholic world: reliance on the saints, spiritual patrons who could be moved to intercede before God on behalf of their devotees. Some of the saints honored in the earliest phases of Polish Catholic history maintained lively cults in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. This was certainly true of Saint Vojtěch, who retained his status as patron of Poland. His primacy gradually was challenged by Saint Stanisław, a native son, whose growing cult benefited from its locus in Kraków, the new royal capital, and from

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articulate admirers who catalogued his virtues and miracles. This campaign culminated in Stanisław’s canonization in 1253. In contrast to Gallus Anonymous, who had linked Stanisław’s murder with his involvement in a treasonous plot against King Bolesław, thirteenthcentury commentators offered much more favorable accounts of the saint’s life. In his chronicle, Wincenty Kadłubek observed that the king’s extensive military campaigns led to social disruptions, including peasants violating the property and wives of absentee knights, and Bolesław meted out excessively cruel punishments to offenders. Stanisław reproved and ultimately excommunicated the king. Enraged by these measures, the king and his soldiers felled the bishop while he was celebrating Mass in the Skałka Church outside of Kraków and hacked his body into pieces. In fitting tribute to his holiness, the bishop’s body miraculously reassembled itself. The Dominican Wincenty of Kielce (c. 1200–1262) authored two hagiographical accounts of Stanisław’s life. They include a memorable legend of how the king falsely accused the bishop of fraudulently taking possession of the village of Piotrowin from a deceased knight, which prompted Stanisław to raise the knight from the dead in order that he might offer exculpatory testimony. Wincenty portrays Stanisław as Poland’s heavenly patron and links their fates together in compelling fashion. Poland’s extended political travails, he suggests, can be traced back to Stanisław’s murder. “For this homicide that [Bolesław II] had done to the saint martyr Stanisław fell not only the crown from the head of his progeny, but Poland itself lost up to present times the glory and honour of its kingdom.”31 Wincenty encourages his readers to hope that, just as God restored Stanisław’s dismembered body to wholeness, God would restore the kingdom to its former unity and greatness.32 Stanisław was just one of a constellation of new saintly cults that vied for the affections of the faithful. Some of these cults had their origins abroad. Długosz relates a legend associated with Pope Lucius III’s decision in 1184 to present Poland with relics of Saint Florian, who according to hagiographical accounts was a Roman soldier and firefighter martyred during the Great Persecution in the early fourth century: “The Pope decides to accede to Casimir’s repeated requests for the body of St. Florian to be given to Kraków cathedral, a gift that, according to the old story still

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being told, was miraculously confirmed by the Almighty, for when the Pope entered the chapel in which the bodies of numerous saints were stored and asked aloud—whether seriously or in jest is not known—who of the many resting there would like to be translated to Poland, an arm appeared out of the tomb containing St. Florian’s body, and beckoned, thus letting it be understood that Florian would like to go to Poland.”33 This donation gave rise to a growing cult that in time took on something of a national character. Florian was associated with protection from fire, which had a special appeal in an age when fires posed a perpetual menace, especially in urban areas.34 The ranks of Poles venerated as saints gradually expanded over the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Poland’s Dominican and Franciscan communities were zealous promoters of the saints in general and of holy mendicants in particular. The Dominicans found an especially appealing locus for their devotion in Jacek, one of the first Polish Dominicans. Not long after Jacek’s death in 1257, a fellow Dominican penned a hagiographical account of his life, replete with examples of heroic virtue, pastoral devotion, and miraculous intercessions. A memorable episode concerns his flight from Kiev in advance of a Mongol attack. He made sure to take the ciborium containing consecrated hosts as he was exiting his chapel, only to hear a heavy stone statue of the Blessed Virgin request that he take her, too. Miraculous assistance allowed him to carry the statue to safety. Canonized in 1594, Jacek usually is depicted holding a statue of Mary and a ciborium or a monstrance. Meanwhile, Poland’s Franciscans promoted the cause of Kinga (1224– 1292), the great-niece of Hedwig of Andechs, daughter of King Bela IV of Hungary, and wife of Bolesław “the Chaste.” As her husband’s name suggests, the couple vowed to abstain from sexual relations, and Kinga complemented this and other ascetic disciplines with lavish acts of charity on behalf of the poor. After her husband’s death, she affiliated with the Poor Clares and founded a community of Poor Clares at Stary Sącz, where she spent the last years of her life. Kinga has come to be identified, among other things, as the patroness of salt miners, and some of the most memorable tributes to her have been carved out of salt in the famous Wieliczka Salt Mine in Little Poland. Beatified in 1690, Kinga was finally canonized by John Paul II in 2000.35

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The most enduring testimony of the importance of the saints in Poland can be found in the hagiographies written by their advocates and the paintings, statues, and shrines crafted in their honor. By the thirteenth century there is also evidence of more modest offerings made by humble Catholics seeking saintly assistance or rendering thanks for favors granted. The Polish faithful flocked to the shrines of the saints, believing that proximity to their relics enhanced the likelihood of miraculous intercession. There they deposited votive offerings of various sorts, including waxen effigies of afflicted body parts. The accumulation of such offerings bore witness to a given saint’s power, thereby strengthening the cult.36 Długosz’s account of the jubilant response in Kraków in 1254 to news of Stanisław’s canonization offers compelling testimony to the popularity of the saints and the importance of their relics: The people of Kraków turn out en masse to greet the Polish envoys returning with the papal bull of canonization of St. Stanisław. These are honoured like victorious warriors. May 8 is fixed as the day for the saint’s bones to be taken from his grave. When the day comes, the city cannot accommodate the crowds that come from all over Poland and even from Hungary. The bones are taken from the grave near the south gate of the cathedral, washed with wine and held up to view to the applause and shouts of those seeking the saint’s help. They are then distributed among the cathedral’s churches and the more important collegiate foundations, monasteries and parish churches; but the head, hands and other important members remain together with the dust in Kraków cathedral.37

In the Catholic conception of sainthood, the Blessed Virgin long has occupied a premiere place of honor. Over the course of the Middle Ages, European Christians cultivated increasingly intense, empathic connections with Mary, recognizing her as the ultimate heavenly intercessor and a paradigm of perfect devotion to Christ.38 This Marian turn found its way to Poland in part through western European church officials who helped lead the fledgling Polish church. A good example is Alexander of Malonne, a priest from the vicinity of Liège who served as bishop of Płock from 1129 to 1156. He appears to have been instrumental in promoting devotion to Mary in Mazovia. His most lasting legacy was the many

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churches he established during his tenure, all of which were dedicated to Mary.39 Foreign missionaries may have been the first promoters of Marian piety, but in time it set down tenacious roots among the Polish faithful. Eloquent testimony of this can be found in “Bogurodzica” (Mother of God), the oldest known Polish-language hymn.40 Its exact origins are unclear, and hypotheses regarding its composition range from the eleventh to the fourteenth centuries. The text begins with expressions of praise for Mary, employing the venerable honorific “Mother of God.” It then shifts to an appeal for her to intercede on the speaker’s behalf for mercy from her son, Christ, in keeping with what was by this time a widespread assumption: Mary was prone to be sympathetic to petitioners and had a unique capacity to soften the heart of Christ, the heavenly judge. Długosz observes that by the fifteenth century, the “Bogurodzica” had developed into an integral part of Poland’s religious culture, and Polish soldiers sang it before important battles.41 In addition to literary creations like “Bogurodzica,” Catholic piety in this period inspired the creation of a wide array of artistic and architectural monuments, some of which have endured the ravages of the region’s history. Among the most noteworthy artistic achievements are the twin bronze doors of the Gniezno cathedral. The doors are composed of eighteen distinct panels, each of which is devoted to a specific instance of Saint Vojtěch’s ministry in Poland and among the Prussians. Collectively they serve to magnify the significance of the shrine to Vojtěch inside the cathedral, and they reinforce the idea of the saint as Poland’s national patron. The provenance of the doors is a matter of long-standing academic debate, but it seems likely that they were commissioned in the 1170s during the rule of Mieszko III Stary. Stylistically they seem to adhere to artistic conventions common to Belgium and northern France at the time, and they may have been manufactured there.42 Regarding the church architecture of the era, construction and design conventions associated with the Romanesque continued to offer the predominant standards. Of the few examples that survive relatively intact, an idiosyncratic one is Saint Procopius’s Church in Strzelno. Built either in the late twelfth century or the early thirteenth, it has a modest rotunda as its nave, with a cube-shaped apse at its eastern end to accommodate the altar and two modest hemispheric appendages off the northern side

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of the nave, likely designed for side altars. The tallest element in the ensemble is a stout, cylindrical tower rising along the western end of the structure, which distinguishes its profile and adds considerably to its modest capacity. The second floor of the tower likely was intended to accommodate dignitaries. The structure’s bold assortment of shapes and elevations, composed largely of roughhewn granite blocks, is at once primitive and visually arresting. Across Europe, Romanesque architecture gradually ceded ground to a new design paradigm known as Gothic over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. As this new method of building took hold, the traditional reliance on massive stone walls gave way to expansive windows covered in elaborate designs made of stained glass. The key to this dramatic innovation was a new approach to load bearing, which relied on the pointed arch and massive stone piers that were often reinforced by elaborate buttresses. In parts of northern Europe that were poor in suitable stone deposits—including much of Poland—Gothic buildings were executed in brick to distinctive effect. In Poland the Gothic model began making an appearance in the thirteenth century, though it would come into its own only in the fourteenth century. The Cistercians were trailblazers in this regard, and the Cistercian church and abbey complex at Sulejów offers an evocative landmark of the transition. Consecrated in 1232 and dedicated to Saint Thomas Becket, the church is made up of a three-naved basilica intersected by a transept. In keeping with the Romanesque, it has stout walls composed of blocks of local limestone and a cycle of modest, rounded-arched windows. The interior, however, contains some signature techniques of the Gothic, including gently pointed arches and ribbed vaulting. The interior was subsequently updated in the Baroque era, but the simple grandeur of the original design remains very much in evidence.

Wracked by nearly two centuries of political chaos, the Kingdom of Poland managed to survive into the fourteenth century. Compromised by deep internal divisions and frequent warfare, it easily could have dissolved like Kievan Rus’ to the east or have been formally incorporated into the Holy Roman Empire like Bohemia to the south. The Catholic Church served as an important source of stability and autonomy in this difficult

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period. The Metropolitanate of Gniezno, an administrative structure created in the year 1000, reinforced the kingdom’s territorial footprint as the Piast dukes fought with one another. Church personnel and institutions helped maintain order and systems of governance. At the same time, and in keeping with the agenda of the Gregorian Reform, Catholic officials took advantage of Piast divisions to strengthen their own privileges and autonomy. Despite its nearly perpetual unrest, the period was one of growth and consolidation for Catholicism in Poland. Visits by papal legates helped strengthen connections with the global church, and the clergy in Poland were held more accountable to international Catholic norms. Diocesan hierarchies grew more elaborate, and bishops managed to exert more control over clergy and laity in their jurisdictions. More systematic methods of taxation were imposed on the lay faithful, which helped support a better-educated clergy, a denser network of parishes, and more regularized pastoral care. An expanding array of religious orders complemented parish and diocesan structures. In addition to their financial obligations to the church, lay Catholics increasingly were expected to subject some of the most important and intimate aspects of their lives to church supervision, including major life changes (birth, marriage, death) and the confession of sins. The threat of punishment still loomed over the noncompliant, but this was less necessary as the faith set down deeper roots in the hearts and minds of the faithful. Indeed, sincere devotion and the promise of spiritual rewards motivated many Polish Catholics to contribute above and beyond what was expected. Poles were especially eager to cultivate relationships with the saints, heavenly intercessors who might aid them in this life and the afterlife. In light of the turmoil it experienced in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it is somewhat surprising that Poland managed to endure as an independent kingdom. More surprising still were its changing fortunes in the two centuries to follow. Effective leaders and strategic alliances would transform Poland into a regional power. Benefiting enormously from these developments, Poland’s Catholic Church would emerge as an increasingly integral component of the Western Church.

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Baptized into Power (1333–1506)

In February 1386, two centuries after Hedwig of Andechs traveled to Poland to marry a Piast duke, another twelve-year-old girl of the same name made her way to Kraków’s cathedral on Wawel Hill to celebrate her marriage. The bride-to-be, Jadwiga of Anjou, officially was “king” of Poland, having been selected by leading Polish nobles to succeed her father, Louis, king of Poland and Hungary, who had failed to produce a male heir.1 The nobility also chose her groom: Jogaila (Jagiełło), the grand prince of Lithuania and a man three times her age. The couple had only just met and did not share a common language. Długosz suggests that the young Jadwiga resisted the impending nuptials, going so far as to take an axe to the gates of the Wawel Castle in order to flee to her original fiancé, Wilhelm of Hapsburg. Jadwiga ultimately assented to marriage with Jogaila, and their union had enormous consequences for Poland and the Catholic faith in the region. Jogaila agreed to submit to Catholic baptism and to promote the faith among his subjects, resulting in the Christianization of one of Europe’s last pagan strongholds. The merger of Poland and Lithuania proved enduring, setting the stage for several centuries of Polish preeminence in east-central Europe. Jadwiga witnessed only the early stirrings of this transformation, dying of complications from childbirth in 1399. She was only twenty-four.2 It has been noted that unlike many other European states, Poland never had a medieval saint-king, which some commentators have linked to the stunted nature of royal power in the country. Technically this is no longer true. “King” Jadwiga attained a reputation for sanctity, and numerous miracles were attributed to her intercession, prompting the archbishop of Gniezno to order the formal cataloguing of her miracles in 1426. Pope John Paul II canonized her in 1997.

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Revived Kingdom, Assertive Church As noted in the last chapter, Władysław Łokietek managed to outmaneuver or outlive his Piast rivals, reuniting core lands of the Polish kingdom after nearly two centuries of fragmentation. On his death the kingdom passed to his son Kazimierz III Wielki, who reigned from 1333 to 1370 and earned the honorific “the Great” by strengthening and enlarging the country he commanded. Early in his tenure, he agreed to truces with hostile neighbors that brought temporary peace along Poland’s northern and southern borders. In a 1343 treaty with the Teutonic Knights, he surrendered claims to Pomerania and Gdańsk (Danzig) in exchange for Kuyavia and Dobrzyń. Negotiations with Bohemia’s King John of Luxembourg led to his renunciation of claims to Poland and Mazovia in exchange for a large payment and an arbitration process that resulted in Bohemian control over much of Silesia. The loss of Pomerania and Silesia was more than offset by gains in the east. Kazimierz reasserted Polish control over Mazovia and extended his dominion over Galicia and Volhynia, which came to form the kingdom’s southeastern territories.3 Undergirding Kazimierz’s military successes were various efforts to strengthen the kingdom from within. The king enlarged the military forces at his disposal by introducing the general levy and increasing the obligations of the szlachta. He oversaw the construction of a string of royal castles that bolstered security, reformed the royal administration, and clarified the system of laws that governed life in core Polish territories. Even Długosz, who makes no secret of his disdain for the king’s moral failings, grudgingly pays him his due: “King Casimir is the first giver of just laws in Poland and deserves the honourable soubriquet ‘Great.’ ”4 The king’s relationship with the Catholic Church was complicated. The church was an essential ally, but the ambitions of its leaders overlapped with his own, which led to friction. One example was his fraught relationship with Kraków’s Bishop Jan Bodzęta. The two tangled over control of the tithe in the diocese, which likely served as the subtext for the bishop’s decision to challenge the king over irregularities in his personal life (he married his third and fourth wives without formally divorcing the previous ones). Marcin Baryczka, a cathedral canon and representative of Bodzęta, publicly denounced the king for his moral failings. Kazimierz ordered Baryczka’s imprisonment, and soon thereafter the canon drowned

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Bas-relief depicting King Kazimierz III and Bishop Bodzęta above the portal of the Collegiate Basilica of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin at Wiślica. Photograph by Jakub Hałun.

in the Vistula River under mysterious circumstances. Suspicion fell on the king, followed by excommunication, leading him to seek absolution from the pope. Długosz records his eventual penance: “He is to return all the villages belonging to Kraków cathedral; he is to rebuild the church in Wiślica using dressed stone, and he must rebuild five other churches.”5 An enduring tribute to their clash can be found in the bas-relief above the portal to the Collegiate Basilica of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin at Wiślica. It depicts the king, on his knees, presenting the church he funded to the Blessed Virgin. Standing behind him, and seemingly pushing him forward, is Bishop Bodzęta. One achievement that eluded Kazimierz was the siring of a male heir, which made him Poland’s last Piast monarch. The crown passed next to King Louis I of Hungary (Ludwik Węgierski), the son of Kazimierz’s sister and a member of the powerful House of Anjou. Louis reigned over Hungary and Poland for the next twelve years. Focused primarily on Hungary, he delegated the management of Polish affairs to others and pacified the szlachta with concessions that hollowed out the crown’s authority. He, too, failed to produce a male heir, and leading Polish nobles

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agreed to choose one of his two young daughters to serve as Poland’s next monarch. They opted for ten-year-old Jadwiga, who was crowned king of Poland in the Wawel Cathedral on October 16, 1384. Jadwiga was already betrothed to a scion of the Hapsburg dynasty, but her election changed the calculus surrounding her marriage. A more compelling suitor emerged in Jogaila (c. 1351–1434), ruler of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, a rising power along Poland’s northeastern frontier.6 A key element behind their strategic marriage was that Lithuania and Poland shared a mortal enemy in the Teutonic Order, which, having conquered Prussia, now was driven by its raison d’être to take the fight to pagan Lithuania. Their capacity to resist was stronger together than apart. One condition for the union was Jogaila’s baptism, for it was unthinkable for a Christian kingdom to be ruled by a pagan. In the winter of 1386 the grand duke ventured to Kraków, where he was baptized on February 15, taking the Christian name Władysław.7 Although military and political calculations likely motivated his conversion, Jogaila appears to have taken the Catholic faith seriously, fulfilling his religious obligations and appealing to the Christian God for his primary concern, success on the battlefield. If we are to believe the sometimes scathing commentary of Długosz, the new king did not allow the church’s moral teachings to restrain his outsized sexual appetite: “He was a womanizer, sensual and avid for love-making.”8 He also maintained some cherished pagan customs to his dying days, including spending the night in forests on certain occasions to listen for the song of the nightingale.9 Although controversial on both sides, the Polish-Lithuanian partnership proved long-lasting and consequential. A significant religious ramification was the gradual Catholicization of the Lithuanian people. Many members of Jogaila’s family and court followed his religious example, and after returning to Lithuania in 1387, he promoted the faith among his subjects there. He enticed Lithuanian nobles to convert by enhancing their privileges if they did so. He authorized the building of a cathedral in Vilnius, the capital, and he saw to the elimination of pagan shrines, sacred groves, and customs. It was a gradual process, to be sure, and certain regions and sectors of Lithuanian society held out for many years. By inducing Jogaila’s baptism, Poland was partially responsible for Lithuania’s religious transformation. Once the testing ground for foreign missionaries, the kingdom now was contributing to Catholicism’s eastward expansion.

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The union with Lithuania pulled Poland further eastward, away from its Piast foundations, where it would remain for centuries. In the decades preceding the union, Poland and Lithuania had each advanced their hold over the lands once belonging to Kievan Rus’. Volhynia, Galicia, Podolia, Ukraine, and lands now belonging to Belarus came to form a significant part of the combined state. This greatly expanded the Eastern Orthodox population under Polish dominion. The extended encounter with Orthodoxy influenced the complexion of Catholicism in some ways and generated considerable challenges. Elites in Lithuania and Poland’s eastern provinces were susceptible to Polonization, but ultimately the Polish Catholic element remained a distinct minority there. Jogaila tolerated the religious practices of his Orthodox subjects, but he favored the Catholic Church in various ways and encouraged its expansion in areas of Orthodox settlement.10 Inspired by the possibility of mending the schism between the Eastern and Western churches, he reached out to the patriarch of Constantinople to propose the summoning of an ecumenical council. Consumed by the mounting threat posed by the Ottoman Turks, Patriarch Antony IV declined the overture in 1397.11 The Polish-Lithuanian partnership definitively tipped the balance of power vis-à-vis the Teutonic Knights. In 1410 the Lithuanians and Poles marshaled their combined forces for a major assault on the military order’s territory. The decisive battle took place at Grunwald on July 15 of that year, claiming the lives of the order’s grand master and the rest of the high command, some four hundred knights, and much of its supporting army. The order managed to retain a number of its strongholds, which ultimately preserved it from complete annihilation. At the peace treaty reached at Toruń in February 1411, the order ceded control over Samogitia in the northeast and agreed to pay a punishing indemnity. Had this defeat come from the hands of pagans or infidels, the knights might have been able to rally the sympathies of Western Christendom to their defense. That the victors were Catholic Poland and Catholicizing Lithuania changed the calculus in ways that rendered the knights’ very purpose obsolete. This became clear at the Ecumenical Council of Konstanz (1414–18), where the order failed in its attempt to secure condemnation of Poland’s and Lithuania’s military aggression.12 Konstanz also provided a forum for responding to Jan Hus, a priest and professor of theology at the University of Prague. He advocated

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controversial religious ideas, including the supreme authority of the Bible in Christian life, the right of laypeople to receive communion in both species (bread and wine), and the rejection of the sale of indulgences. Hus attracted a following in Bohemia, where his theological program fused with political resentments in a region dominated by powerful outsiders. The fathers at Konstanz lured Hus to the council, condemned him as a heretic, and burned him at the stake. Hus’s fate only hardened the resolve of his followers, who gained ascendancy in Bohemia and repulsed a series of crusades directed against them in the 1420s and early 1430s. The Hussites complicated Jogaila’s relationship with the Catholic Church. In part this was because of his refusal to support the international military efforts to dislodge the Hussites. Jogaila’s chief military concern was still the Teutonic Knights, who enjoyed the support of King Sigismund of Hungary. The Hussites, who deprived Sigismund of control over Bohemia, were a tactical ally. In 1433 they even deployed several thousand troops in support of Jogaila’s latest campaign against the knights. The Polish king also showed a willingness to entertain unconventional religious ideas. In 1431 he called for a public debate between Hussite representatives and Catholic theologians from the University of Kraków, which prompted Bishop Zbigniew Oleśnicki to place the entire city under interdict. In 1433 the king granted a private audience to Master Christian, a Hussite astronomer. Długosz records the king’s insistence that the two men “discussed nothing but eclipses, the unusual conjunctions of planets and other such things that the Master maintain[ed] presage the deaths of Kings and Princes.”13 It is tempting to read such gestures as foreshadowing the religiously tolerant atmosphere that would distinguish Poland in the century to come. Like other kings before him, Jogaila relied on talented clerics to staff his royal chancellery. Such service to the crown often facilitated advancement within the church hierarchy. We see this, for example, in the career of Mikołaj Trąba (1358–1422), who forged a close relationship with the newly baptized king, serving as his confessor and adviser before taking up the offices of royal notary and deputy chancellor of the crown. Robust royal support was integral to his promotion to bishop of Halicz in 1410 and archbishop of Gniezno in 1412. In addition to finding allies within the church, Jogaila encountered his share of rivals. None was more formidable than Zbigniew Oleśnicki

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(1389–1455). Descended from minor nobility in Little Poland, Oleśnicki rose through the church’s ranks by dint of talent and shrewdness, emerging in time as the most powerful Polish prelate of his age. According to Długosz, he earned the king’s trust at the battle of Grunwald when he protected Jogaila from an attack. Learning of the young man’s clerical aspirations, the king vowed to make him a bishop. If true, Długosz’s account would explain Oleśnicki’s rapid rise. In 1423 he took command of the choice diocese of Kraków, and from that lofty perch he waded into important matters of state, but not always with the same intentions as the king. He forged alliances with leading magnates in Little Poland, who feared that a strong king would check their power.14 Jogaila ruled for forty-five years, but he managed to produce sons and heirs only toward the end of his life. His fourth wife, a Lithuanian princess named Sofija Alšėniškė, gave birth to Władysław in 1425 and Kazimierz in 1427. Jogaila was eager to ensure that a son succeeded him, but there was resistance within the Polish szlachta to the progeny of two Lithuanians who had no connection to the Piast dynasty. This gave Oleśnicki the leverage needed to extract the king’s recognition of an array of noble and ecclesiastical rights. Jogaila died in 1434, leaving the bishop of Kraków as the real power behind the throne. As the leading echelons of the szlachta gathered in Kraków for Jogaila’s funeral, Oleśnicki engineered a royal election, solidifying a precedent that endured for centuries. He presented the assembly with Jogaila’s two sons, with the elder son receiving the ultimate nod. Władysław was still a boy of nine, so the bishop arranged for a regency council to govern, retaining for himself the ultimate levers of power. When the Hungarian crown became available in 1439, Oleśnicki successfully championed Władysław’s candidacy. Just sixteen at the time, the young king accepted a second crown and soon departed for Budapest, leaving the bishop largely in control of Polish royal affairs for the next four years. Władysław faced mounting pressure to lead a crusade against the ascendant Ottoman Turks, who by the 1440s were pressing into the Balkans and threatening Hungary. He eventually succumbed, marshaling an army in 1444, only to fall at the disastrous Battle of Varna. This debacle tempered European enthusiasms for subsequent engagements against the Ottomans, thus depriving the Greeks at Constantinople of the possibility of military assistance from the West. The city fell nine years later.

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The Polish crown next passed to Władysław’s younger brother, Kazimierz IV, and his forty-five-year reign (1447–92) was marked by military and economic achievements with far-reaching consequences. Poland bested the Teutonic Knights in the Thirteen Years’ War (1454–66), and the terms of peace called for the order’s territory to be divided in two. Poland absorbed the western half of this territory (eastern Pomerania), which it fashioned into the Province of Royal Prussia. The eastern half was reduced to a Polish fief governed by the thinning ranks of the declining order. Poland’s territorial gains strengthened Kazimierz’s position by shifting the kingdom’s center of gravity away from Little Poland, long a base of antiregal opposition, and creating new sources of income. It placed the Vistula Basin under Polish command, directly linking Poland’s vast agrarian potential with maritime trade networks at a time of spiking demand for grain. This led to an economic boom that roared for decades and remained the lifeblood of the Polish economy for the next three centuries. With the dispatching of the knights, Poland found itself largely free of major military threats for the better part of the next two centuries. Kazimierz leveraged his military and economic successes to reverse the erosion of royal power that had occurred in previous decades. As members of the royal council died, he replaced them with loyalists of his own, thereby diluting Oleśnicki’s influence. He also took steps to reshape the episcopate, encouraging the appointment of regalist bishops.15 When the pope appointed Jakub Sienieński, Oleśnicki’s nephew, as bishop of Kraków in 1461, instead of the king’s preferred candidate, Kazimierz banished Jakub along with his relatives and supporters from the diocese, confiscated their property, and sent emissaries to Rome to lobby for Jakub’s dismissal.16 A papal legate eventually adjudicated the dispute, leading to Jakub’s resignation in 1463. The king’s drive to transform the episcopate culminated in the remarkable career of his sixth and youngest son, Fryderyk Jagiellon (1468–1503). In 1488, at the tender age of twenty, he was elected to lead the choice Diocese of Kraków. When the archiepiscopal see of Gniezno was vacated five years later, Fryderyk once again received the nod, and Pope Alexander granted him the right to occupy both offices simultaneously. In the same year, the pope bestowed on him the honor of a cardinal’s hat. This marked an accumulation of prestige, power, and income that was unprecedented in Polish ecclesial history.

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Over the next fifteen years, Fryderyk used his influence to advance his father’s regalist program. He appointed loyalists who shared his political priorities to leading offices at Kraków and Gniezno, many of whom went on to lead dioceses of their own. In this way, his values continued to resonate in the church in Poland long after his early death. Responding to the state’s fiscal needs, Fryderyk facilitated several controversial rounds of taxation of church entities. He also helped ensure the smooth succession of his older brother Jan Olbracht to the throne after their father’s death in 1492, preventing magnates from extracting stiff concessions.17 Olbracht died relatively young and without an heir, and the crown next passed to his brother Aleksander, who reigned from 1501 to 1506. A key event in these years was the ratification in 1505 of a constitution known as Nihil novi commune consensus, which stipulated that any new laws receive the consent of the nobility belonging to a parliamentary body known as the Sejm. Aleksander agreed to the constitution as a means of rewarding his allies among the lesser nobility, giving them a voice in government on par with the most powerful nobles (magnates). In effect, it diluted royal power and moved the country in the direction of a limited noble democracy, in which male nobles, working in concert, emerged as the ultimate authority in political life. In 1494, when Aleksander was the Grand Duke of Lithuania and not yet the king of Poland, he married Helena, an Orthodox Christian and daughter of the Russian ruler Ivan III. Marrying outside of the Catholic faith was controversial for a Catholic sovereign, and to do so he had to receive a papal dispensation. Both his marriage and his large number of Orthodox subjects inclined Aleksander to promote stronger Orthodox– Catholic relations. Especially noteworthy was a plan developed with allies in the Catholic hierarchy to restore union between the two churches according to the terms established at the Union of Florence in 1439. The proposal would have allowed Orthodox Christians in the Grand Duchy to retain their traditional liturgical practices and ecclesial structures in exchange for recognizing the ultimate authority of the pope. The initiative came to naught, in part because of the resistance of Ivan III, who used it as a pretext to resume hostilities with Lithuania. That the proposal was discussed at all, however, is further evidence of how Catholicism’s proximity to the Orthodox world in Poland and Lithuania created opportunities for dialogue and exchange.

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A Maturing Church Order Poland’s vacillating political fortunes and shifting boundaries had consequences for the ecclesiastical structures within it. As the Piasts lost control of Pomerania, its diocesan structures gradually fell beyond the Polish orbit. The Diocese of Kamień was placed under the direct authority of the papacy in 1373, and the Diocese of Lubusz was integrated into the Archdiocese of Magdeburg in 1424. Silesia slipped out of Poland’s grasp as well, but the Diocese of Wrocław remained affiliated with Gniezno, despite Bohemian attempts to transfer it to the Metropolitanate of Prague. Polish expansion in the lands of Kievan Rus’ eventually led to new diocesan structures. An archdiocese was established in Galicia as early as 1375, which was based in Lviv (Lwów, Lemberg) as of 1412. Its subsidiary dioceses included Przemyśl, Chełm, and Volodymyr. Jogaila’s conversion led to the creation of the Diocese of Vilnius (Wilno) in 1387, placed within the metropolitanate of Gniezno. After the Battle of Grunwald, Prussia ceded Samogitia to Lithuania, and the Diocese of Samogitia was established soon thereafter, with its seat in Kaunas. Set within relatively underdeveloped regions with large non-Catholic populations, these eastern dioceses were considerably poorer than their western counterparts. As Poland strengthened and stabilized over the course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, its connections with western Europe and the wider Catholic Church intensified. The papacy and periodic ecumenical councils loomed larger in Polish Catholic affairs, and Polish religious and political leaders found that their voices carried more weight in international church circles than heretofore. Distance, cultural differences, and competing interests were still factors, though, making it easy for misunderstandings to fester. A routine form of interaction and occasional source of tension was the appointing of bishops and other high-ranking church officials. The cathedral chapter and the king had a say in the matter, but the pope made the final call, and those in the papal penumbra could influence his thinking. The process required cooperation and could easily engender conflict. We see this, for example, in the appointment of Jan Bodzęta as bishop of Kraków. He was in Avignon in 1348 when the previous bishop died of the plague that was epidemic in Europe. Having ready access to Pope Clement VI, Bodzęta persuaded the pontiff to appoint him to the newly vacant

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office. This chagrined Kazimierz III Wielki, who had his own favored candidate to nominate, but he accepted it. As noted earlier in this chapter, Kazimierz IV reacted very differently when a candidate not of his choosing was appointed to lead the Diocese of Kraków. Kazimierz pushed hard for the final say in appointing churchmen to leading benefices in his realm, and he expanded the crown’s control in this regard. Papal appointments could be influenced by pecuniary interests. Długosz suggests that when Bishop Przecław of Wrocław died in 1376, a local official was promptly nominated to succeed him. The pope delayed his confirmation for two years, allowing the papacy to appropriate the diocese’s income in the interim.18 The prelates who gathered at ecumenical councils could exercise authority over the Polish church or the country in general, owing to the expansive nature of canon law in the period. The most noteworthy instance of such jurisdiction concerned the dispute between the Teutonic Knights and Poland and Lithuania. After the debacle at Grunwald, the knights brought their grievances before the Council of Konstanz, hoping that a favorable judgment might undo some of the consequences of their defeat. They presented themselves as Western Christendom’s defenders, and Poland—in league with heathen soldiers no less—violated the moral norms of war in launching an attack. The knights had good reason to expect a favorable judgment. They enjoyed the sympathy and approbation of many secular and ecclesial leaders throughout western Europe. For generations they had offered a ready outlet for the crusading ideals of Europe’s warring caste, and they had earned the papacy’s gratitude for extending the dominion of the Catholic Church in northeastern Europe. In defending itself at Konstanz, Poland relied on Paweł Włodkowic (1370–1435), a canon regular, professor, and rector of Kraków’s young university. He advanced audacious arguments against the knights in particular and crusading in general. The errand of the knights was illegitimate, he suggested, for the papacy could only empower crusaders to spread the faith in places like the Holy Land, which was once ruled by the Roman Empire, whose authority the papacy had inherited. Forcing wars on pagans living elsewhere, even if motivated by the desire to spread the Gospel, was a violation of natural law. Force is incompatible with the free decision to accept the Christian faith, which is necessary for true conversion.

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Włodkowic’s argument went too far for his late medieval audience, for it questioned principles supported by popular opinion and legal precedents. Yet it was just one element of Poland’s successful defense. Jogaila made it known that he would eagerly take the fight to the Turks if he did not have to contend with the threat of the Teutonic Knights on his northern flank. Ultimately the knights failed to gain any meaningful redress at Konstanz, and Poland walked away with newfound recognition and respect in the highest echelons of the Catholic Church. The kingdom was beginning to displace the knights in the calculations of the papacy and other western powers regarding military matters on the eastern edges of Western Christendom.19 A period of travail for the papacy in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries afforded Poland and other European societies new forms of leverage with the Holy See. The crisis began with the Western Schism, when a disputed papal election in 1378 gave rise to competing claims to the papal office. For the next several decades, the Western Church was divided into two obediences: those recognizing the claimant in Rome and those recognizing the claimant in Avignon. Poland remained within the Roman obedience in these years, but the church as a whole was deeply divided. The search for a solution to the stalemate eventually led to the idea of summoning an ecumenical council, deposing the claimants at Rome and Avignon, and electing a new pope that would enjoy broad recognition. This plan resulted in the Council of Pisa, where twenty-two cardinals and hundreds of bishops, heads of religious orders, and other officials gathered in 1409. Representing Poland were the bishops of Kraków, Poznań, Płock, Wrocław, and Chełm. The conciliar process yielded the formal condemnation and dismissal from office of Benedict XIII (Avignon) and Gregory XII (Rome), followed by the election of Cardinal Peter of Crete, who took the name Alexander V. The new pope issued appeals for support to the sovereigns of Europe, including Poland. After consulting his advisers and an assembly of nobles, the Polish king recognized Pisa’s choice. The Pisan procedure might have succeeded if Alexander had had the time to consolidate his position. He died before the first anniversary of his election, however, and his successor was unable to unify Western Christendom behind him.20 In the end, Pisa merely added a third claimant to the Chair of Saint Peter. Several years later, cardinals from all three

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obediences gathered at Konstanz for the largest ecumenical council of the Middle Ages, seeking a new solution to the crisis. Leading the Polish delegation was Archbishop Mikołaj Trąba of Gniezno. Pope Gregory XII agreed to abdicate his office in exchange for the right to formally summon the council, thereby legitimating the council itself and his immediate predecessors in Rome. The council dismissed the other two claimants, clearing the way for the election of Pope Martin V in 1417, thereby ending the schism. The success of Konstanz lent momentum to the conciliar movement, an effort to strengthen and regularize the role of ecumenical councils within the governing structures of the Western Church. Its advocates argued that individual popes could err, as the Western Schism demonstrated abundantly, and councils offered the ideal mechanism for checking such frailty and allowing good judgment and the guidance of the Holy Spirit to triumph. At Konstanz a rule was issued requiring future popes to summon ecumenical councils on a regular basis. This led to the Council of Pavia (1423–24) and then the Council of Basel (1431–37/49). At this latter council, the prelates in attendance attempted to solidify the supreme authority of councils in church affairs. Pope Eugenius IV (1431–47) resisted these efforts in defense of papal preeminence. The fathers at Basel eventually voted to depose him and elect a new pope, Felix V, in his stead. Poland played a significant role in the conciliar movement. The experience of Polish church leaders at Pisa and Konstanz sensitized them to the potential of ecumenical councils. Especially important was the community of theological scholars at the University of Kraków, which, like other European universities, emerged as a center of passionate debate over the church and its reform, with conciliarism enjoying considerable support.21 A consummate politician, Bishop Oleśnicki avoided taking an unambiguous stand, but it is hard to imagine that the university’s theological faculty would have been so outspoken if they believed the bishop opposed them. The University of Kraków remained a staunch bastion of conciliarism, holding out even after Felix V abdicated and the Council of Basel disbanded in 1449. Oleśnicki’s calculated vagueness explains how he managed to receive cardinal’s hats from Felix V, Eugenius IV, and Eugenius’s successor Nicholas V, all of whom courted his favor.22 It is tempting to view Polish support for conciliarism as an outgrowth of its political culture, where resistance to centralized authority and en-

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thusiasm for collective decision making were already coalescing. It is also possible that the conciliar movement accelerated the push to limit the Polish king’s power in favor of the collective authority of the nobility. A simpler explanation, though, is that conciliarism made sense to Polish theologians and prelates on its own merits. In addition to navigating the intrigues of the church on a global level, Poland’s ecclesial leaders had to contend with local struggles. Episcopal offices could be exceedingly well endowed, which fostered competition among those eager to hold them. Gniezno was the richest prize at this time, encompassing some 13 towns, 292 villages, and numerous other assets in the mid-fifteenth century. Kraków was another bonanza, controlling at least 11 towns and 275 villages. Clerics sometimes resorted to unsavory means to secure choice benefices. In 1412 Bishop Wojciech Jastrzębiec of Poznań used his political connections to acquire the See of Kraków, forcing its occupant, Piotr Wysz, to take the lesser office in Poznań. Długosz relates a dramatic encounter between Wysz and Jogaila, when the bishop sought “to persuade the King to right the wrong the King has done him, namely that, having been told that the bishop was mentally ill and like one in a state of lethargy, [the king] got the Pope to transfer him to the see of Poznań.”23 The king eventually sought and won Wysz’s forgiveness. In this era, church officials at Gniezno and Kraków were locked in an unedifying contest for prestige and preeminence. Gniezno had a clear advantage as an archdiocese, but Kraków’s status as the kingdom’s capital greatly enhanced the luster of its diocese. When Louis of Hungary ventured to Poland to assume the crown in 1370, he agreed to be crowned in Kraków and then to present himself in Gniezno, lest he offend either camp.24 In 1417, partisans of Gniezno had reason to celebrate when Archbishop Trąba was granted the title “primate” at the Council of Konstanz, an honorific later extended to successors to his office. The talented Bishop Oleśnicki, however, found numerous ways to put his finger on the scales in Kraków’s favor, including his procurement of three cardinal’s hats. Unabashed in his sympathy for his bishop and patron, Długosz takes delight in recounting a dispute that unfolded at a synod in Piotrków in 1451: “The barons and gentry of [Great Poland] lodge a complaint that the Cardinal [Oleśnicki] has deprived the Metropolitan of Gniezno of his primacy. Castellan Jan Cisów speaks up for the Cardinal, telling the assembly that it

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should be proud of its Cardinal and reminding it that . . . Oleśnicki has been appointed by three Popes, a thing unprecedented, and solely on merit. He reminds Archbishop Vincent that he is not the only one inferior to a cardinal, for so are the primates of Munich, Cologne, Leon, and all other primates in the Catholic Church.”25 Of course, bishops were just the apex of an expanding cluster of officials charged with regulating the religious affairs of a given diocese. Especially important were cathedral canons, who nominated candidates for the episcopate and managed the affairs of the cathedral, the flagship church where the Divine Office and the sacraments were celebrated with appropriate grandeur, setting the standard for the rest of the diocese. Canons and bishops took seriously their work of maintaining beautiful cathedrals outfitted with high-quality religious art, liturgical utensils, and vestments. In 1453 Oleśnicki issued a rule requiring every future bishop of Kraków to donate a costly golden chalice “to his spouse the cathedral, in order to adorn her with such ornaments.”26 Diocesan officials maintained authoritative liturgical books for the diocese, such as the missal, which contains the words of the Mass, and the breviary, which contains the cycle of daily prayer known as the Liturgy of the Hours. Every diocese had its own liturgical books, and variations emerged by virtue of inexact copying and the development of local traditions. Such variations were significant, for these prayers influenced public life and were considered important modes of communication with God and relevant to the quest for salvation. This helps explain the drive toward greater standardization in the liturgical sphere, making use of new technology like the printing press to produce numerous copies of authoritative texts. In the 1480s Bishop Jan Rzeszowski of Kraków authorized the printing of his diocese’s official breviary and missal for widespread distribution. Other bishops soon followed suit.27 The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were a time of rapid expansion in terms of clergy and parishes. Lower-level clerics typically were recruited from nonnoble families in the local area. It has been estimated that between 1300 and the early sixteenth century, the number of parishes in the territory corresponding to present-day Poland roughly doubled, reaching a level similar to present numbers. The geographical scope of these parishes varied greatly. Rural parishes could be expansive, encompassing multiple villages and requiring members to travel some distance for Mass.

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A denser provision of ser vices could be found in most urban settings. Records from Kraków in the early sixteenth century suggest that there were some 400–500 clergy in a city that was home to 20,000–25,000 souls, a ratio of one priest for every 40–60 inhabitants.28 Priests in this period were better trained and equipped than their predecessors. By 1459 the bishop of Kraków required three years of study at a cathedral or collegiate school before a man could be ordained a priest. A growing body of legislation issued at church synods specified the utensils and texts that priests were expected to possess, required them to preach on a regular basis, and instructed them to teach the faithful basic prayers and theological tenets. Not all priests lived up these standards. Evidence exists of priests who were censured for elementary shortcomings, such as not being able to celebrate Mass properly. Others were found guilty of more serious sins. A record from the Diocese of Kraków in 1490 contains the following confession: “I Mikołaj of Byelanus parish priest . . . rightly rebuked for my excesses by the most illustrious and reverend lord bishop, promise not to meet with the married woman whom I enticed into my priest’s house, or with any other suspect women, in accordance with the order of the bishop, under pain of imprisonment and expulsion from the Kraków diocese.”29 The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries remained a period of vibrancy for the mendicant orders. Both the Dominicans and the Franciscans continued to expand in Poland at an appreciable rate, especially in the east. The orders also struggled internally over how strictly they should observe their respective rules. Among the Franciscans, these struggles gave rise to a schism between more moderate “conventual” friars and their stricter “observant” confreres. The observant wing flourished in the fifteenth century, owing in part to the Italian Franciscan and future saint Giovanni Capistrano, who spent extended periods in Poland in the years 1452–54, delivering fiery sermons that stoked the religious fervor of large numbers. Inspired by his words and example, King Kazimierz and Bishop Oleśnicki supported the building of the Church of Saint Bernard of Siena in 1453, named after a leader of the observant Franciscan movement. This church served as an important base for observant Franciscans in Poland, who came to be known as Bernardines. A new presence in the Polish religious landscape was the Order of Saint Paul the First Hermit, colloquially known as the Paulines. Originating in

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Hungary in the thirteenth century, the order spread to Poland when it founded a house at Jasna Góra outside of the town of Częstochowa in 1382. That community acquired a darkened icon of the Blessed Virgin that was destined to emerge as Poland’s premiere locus of pilgrimage and prayer.30 Meanwhile Jasna Góra evolved into the central hub of the Paulines as a whole. Harried by the Ottomans in its native Hungary, the order found more favorable conditions under which to work in early modern Poland. Although the majority of the population remained illiterate, significant strides were made in the kingdom’s intellectual culture in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and the church continued to play a leading role. A growing number of parish schools provided elementary instruction for boys, along with a network of cathedral schools that offered more ambitious curricula. A signal achievement was the founding of Poland’s first university at Kraków, authorized by the papacy and chartered by Kazimierz III Wielki in 1364. In the words of the royal charter, the institution was designed to advance “the conversion of the pagans and schismatics adjoining the said kingdom, a greater love of prayer and a more effective ordering of the Catholic faith.”31 The university began to function only in the 1390s, depending initially on scholars trained at the University of Prague, which at the time was the leading center of higher study for Polish elites.32 The University of Kraków made higher education more accessible to Poles and transformed the city into a vibrant center of learning. Much of the scholarly energy at Kraków centered on the issues of church abuses and reform. An influential pioneer in this regard was Mateusz of Kraków (1345–1410), a graduate of Prague who served as rector in Kraków and helped build the theological faculty there. Disillusioned by the moral stature of the papal curia, he came to advocate conciliarism, most notably in his work De Squalobibus Romanae Curiae (1403). Following his lead in this regard were Bartłomiej of Jasło (c. 1360–1407), Benedykt Hesse (d. 1456), and Jakub of Paradyż. Together they helped make Kraków a significant center of conciliarist thought. Their trenchant critiques of corruption in the church and calls for reform likely enhanced the receptivity of Polish society to the messages of Protestant reformers in the sixteenth century. Poland’s intellectual culture was nurtured by strong connections to other parts of Europe, including centers of Renaissance learning and humanist thought. Humanism represented a significant break with Scholas-

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ticism, the dominant intellectual paradigm of the High Middle Ages. Scholastic theologians emphasized the mastery of revered intellectual authorities (Christian and Greco-Roman), the harmonization of these authorities into a coherent system that was consonant with Christian doctrine, and the application of principles within this system toward pragmatic ends. Humanists, by contrast, demonstrated greater enthusiasm for the cultural deposit of antiquity, a higher degree of optimism regarding human nature and the power of reason, and, in some instances, less deference to traditional Christian beliefs. A humanist pioneer in Poland was Grzegorz of Sanok, archbishop of Lviv from 1451 to his death in 1477. Originally from southeastern Poland, Grzegorz spent nearly a decade of his youth in Germany and Italy, where he came into contact with intellectual impulses associated with the Renaissance. Returning to Poland, he studied at the University of Kraków and eventually lectured there on classical and Italian literature before embracing the priesthood. His priestly career included a stint in the Hungarian royal court before returning to Poland to serve as a bishop. Grzegorz balanced his episcopal obligations with a liberal temperament, an abiding love for literature, and considerable distinction as a poet. Bound to a region that at the time was still something of a backwater, Grzegorz cultivated an intellectual oasis at the palace he built at Dunajów. Through generous patronage, he attracted a coterie of writers and scholars. His most famous guest was the Italian humanist Filippo Buonaccorsi, better known by his pen name Callimachus, who fled Italy after being implicated in a plot to assassinate Pope Paul II. Buonaccorsi found safe refuge with Grzegorz, and the connections he made in Poland convinced him to remain even after being granted amnesty in Italy. He went on to serve in government in various capacities and played a significant role in the budding of the Renaissance in Poland.33 In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, as the institutions of the Western Church grew more integrated and sophisticated, church leaders focused more attention on rooting out irregularities of belief and practice. Higher standards in this regard contributed to a heightened awareness of heresy, which led to the development of disciplinary mechanisms to combat it. Poland caught up with this trend by the fourteenth century. In 1318 Pope John XXII appointed two inquisitors to assist in the detection and prosecution of Waldensianism in the dioceses of Wrocław and Kraków, and in

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time such mechanisms were extended to other parts of Poland and Lithuania. Concerns were also raised regarding the presence of Beghards, Beguines, and Wycliffites.34 A more serious challenge emerged in the fifteenth century, when the Hussites made inroads into Poland. Hus’s personal fate and the disciplinary mechanisms of the church proved sufficient in curtailing the movement’s impact.35

Late Medieval Piety Documents from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries allow us to recover a sense of the religious mentality of Polish Catholics in this period. An underlying logic to creation and human affairs was taken as a given, and the keys to unlocking this logic were the patrimony of the church. God had certain expectations for humankind, and success and misfortune in this life were tied in part to the degree to which individuals adhered to these expectations. It was more difficult to account for instances when bad things happened to good people, or when wicked people seemed to profit from their vices, but a satisfactory solution could be found in the afterlife, when perfect justice would be served. Polish Catholics paid special attention to temporal coincidences and remarkable numbers, working from the assumption that little if anything was random in a world controlled by an omnipotent and omniscient God. Although it was believed that much could be known concerning God’s purposes, it was also understood that the actions of God often exceed the limits of human comprehension. Examples of this mind-set can be found in Długosz’s magnificent chronicle. He notes, for instance, that when Polish elites pressured Jadwiga into marrying Jogaila although she was betrothed to Duke Wilhelm of Hapsburg, “it was generally thought that this criminal act . . . would call down the vengeance of Our Lord on the Poles.” After describing a rebellion of local elites in Wrocław against their bishop in 1342, he observes that God punished them, “for on St. Stanisław’s Day fire breaks out and though everyone hastens to help, the blaze cannot be put out before the whole town has been consumed by the flames.” At the same time, Poles still gave credence to the existence of unseen forces not rooted in Christianity, such as fate or the stars. Długosz refers, for example, to an astrologer linked to the University of Kraków, who in the 1420s exercised

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considerable influence in the royal family. “On the basis of the stars in the heavens at those times he had predicted that [Queen Sofija’s] first child would rule many kingdoms and dukedoms, if Fate allowed him a longish life; while the second, Casimir, would ardently love his mother, but live only a short time. He now predicts that her third son, Casimir, will live longer, yet never enjoy success.”36 When Poles reflected on the purpose of life, they tended to emphasize its fleetingness and the importance of living virtuously in order to attain salvation. The anonymous fifteenth-century poem “Conversation of a Master with Death” drives home this point in a powerful way, personifying death as a relentless, unstoppable power that zealously seeks the destruction of the great and the lowly alike: “No one receives my respect,” death brags. “I will squeeze the soul out of each one; / The pope counts as little / As the most miserable beggar. Cardinals, and bishops— / I will give them a thrashing. / I crush canons, / Parish priests, diocesan bishops, / And I get no blame for this— / I kill all the monks / And abbots for free.”37 In a context of economic expansion, it was possible for more Polish Catholics to engage in worldly indulgences, even if they believed that such pursuits were inimical to their spiritual interests. Nowhere is this dilemma better expressed than in the anonymous fifteenth-century poem “Lament of a Dying Man,” which portrays the regrets of a wealthy man approaching death: “How greedily I sought thalers, / How licentious was my life. / Because of these two cursed gods / I never honored holidays. / I did not give alms to the poor, / I made no offering to God; / With harvest’s first fruits and tilling / I would never give God his due.”38 Commenting on the events of 1467 in his chronicle, Długosz lambastes the vane obsessions he had been noticing in his day: “Men have formed the habit of curling their hair and of dressing in order to evoke the admiration of women; they go bareheaded indoors and out, compete with women in the softness of their bodies and vie with them with dangling locks and ribbons with which they swathe their breasts, a thing previously scarcely allowed to women, but now a specialty of men.”39 Frivolous spending and hair curling were overshadowed by much larger offenses in an age when raiding and warfare remained common occurrences. Sinning was a source of anxiety, and Catholics found succor in sacraments that brought absolution. In another verse in the “Lament of a Dying Man,” after reflecting on his empty life, the man seeks to reverse

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course while he can: “Quickly, hasten to confession! / Call the priests to come to your house; / Repent and receive communion, / The body of Christ, holy oil!”40 So important were the sacraments, church officials often were tempted to use them as leverage. Describing a dispute over the collection of tithes in 1435, Długosz notes the following: “The lay delegates, seeing that they are losing the argument, decide to withhold tithes until the Church grants them what they want, but when Archbishop Albert [of Gniezno] threatens to place an interdict on all who do this, nothing more is heard of the matter.”41 Another popular remedy was the practice of voluntary suffering, which, when combined with the proper intentions, was believed to have the capacity to offset the wages of sin. This explains the appeal of self-flagellation, which cropped up in Poland and other parts of Western Christendom during times of stress in the Late Middle Ages. During an outbreak of the plague in 1349, Długosz observes, “There being no other remedy, people turned to the practice of their religion, convinced that their misfortunes are due to God’s anger at their sinfulness. Some start scourging themselves and others do all sorts of penances, until finally God takes pity on them and removes the plague, ending its dreadful slaughter.”42 This principle also undergirded the logic of indulgences. Długosz notes that in 1451 the pope declared a jubilee year for Poland and Lithuania. Those wishing to be relieved of the punishment due for their sin had to “lodge with his cathedral half of what it would cost him to go to Rome, stay there a fortnight and return home; also he must visit the church in question on three consecutive or separate days.” This was a relative bargain, and as a result “the money starts flowing in, especially into Kraków cathedral, whose great chests end up full of golden grosses, broad grosses and small coin.”43 As in earlier centuries, late medieval Christians leaned heavily on the saints for problems lacking an obvious remedy. In addition to perpetuating venerable cults, they gravitated to newer exemplars of virtue. Religious orders long have tended to produce saints during periods of vibrancy, and in late medieval Poland this was certainly true of the Bernardines. An early member was Szymon of Lipnica (1437–1482; canonized in 2007), who as a student in Kraków was inflamed by the sermons of Giovanni Capistrano and became an observant Franciscan. He developed a reputation for sanctity over many years of ministry. After dying from cholera while tending to those suffering from the disease, he attracted the veneration

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of desperate people in need of miracles. Claims of miraculous healings began to emerge, leading to the creation of a shrine in his honor in the Saint Bernard Church in Kraków.44 Medieval Christianity was more, though, than a conceptual framework for understanding the world and a set of practices designed to aid members in this life and obtain salvation in the next. The ideas, symbols, and narratives at the core of the faith touched believers on a deep emotional level. Christians commonly experienced a sense of spiritual kinship with Christ, Mary, and the saints. In many cases, their prayers and pious practices were much more than self-interested transactions, springing rather from the desire for greater intimacy with paragons of their highest ideals. We see this longing for connection especially with respect to Mary, whom Polish Catholics were keen to understand and honor, and in whose stainless presence they were eager to linger. This hunger for proximity found expression in various forms, including the anonymous, fifteenthcentury song “Lament of Our Lady at the Foot of the Cross.” Written from Mary’s perspective in the first person, the song imagines the searing pain she experienced as she witnessed her son’s torture and execution: “A heavy affliction has befallen me, a poor woman, / Seeing my birthright bloodstained; / grievous was the moment, bloody the hour, / seeing the infidel Jew / beat and torment my beloved Son. / O my son, sweet, singled out, / share your sufferings with your mother; / I bore you close to my heart, dear son, / and served you truly. / Speak to your mother, console my grief; / now that you are deserting me and all my dearest hopes.”45 The song’s gruesome imagery could not but move devout hearers to heartfelt sympathy for Mary as a devastated mother, and it had the potential to awaken a more perfect devotion to Christ that Mary was understood to embody. At the same time, its identification of the “infidel Jew” as the architect of Christ’s travails—a well-established trope by this time— reinforced the animus Christians harbored toward Jews. Catholic churches and shrines proliferated throughout Poland in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Many were modest structures, typically of wood, but more substantial projects took form as well, reflecting the kingdom’s stability and prosperity. This array of churches redefined the landscape, and many have developed into veritable icons of the church in Poland. The Gothic mode of building and decoration came into

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its own in Poland at this time, reflecting the kingdom’s rootedness in western European culture, but this mode was adapted to local tastes and conditions. Architectural historians speak of the “Vistula Gothic” to describe the regional idiom, including a reliance on brick, the eschewing of flying buttresses in favor of load-bearing piers integrated into the walls, and an enduring attraction to twin-towered façades. Two of the most important churches in Kraków, and in Poland as a whole, were substantially rebuilt over the course of the fourteenth century. In 1320 Bishop Nanker initiated a thorough redesign of the Cathedral of Saints Stanisław and Wacław adjacent to the royal palace on Wawel Hill. Over the course of several decades, the original Romanesque structure gave way to a three-naved basilica featuring a transept and an elongated choir ringed by an ambulatory. Pointed arches and ribbed vaulting throughout the interior reflect its Gothic heritage, but much of the fourteenth-century design has been obscured by later additions. In the 1350s and 1360s, Saint Mary’s Church on the city’s market square was similarly transformed into a spacious, three-naved basilica built largely of brick. Its façade, made up of two massive, rectangular towers culminating in spires of different designs and heights, remains one of the most definitive features of Poland’s ancient capital.46 Monumental building projects were launched throughout the kingdom in this period. None was more ambitious than Saint Mary’s Church in Gdańsk, which began in the mid-fourteenth century and was brought to completion in the early sixteenth century, after the city had been reincorporated into Poland. The hulking structure, which has the distinction of being the largest brick church in the world, is punctuated by a single, massive tower at its western end, and a network of shorter, acute spires at key junctures along its roof. It offers an enduring testament to the wealth and ambition of this thriving, maritime city. Much more modest in scope, but awe-inspiring in the intricacy of its brick exterior, is Saint Anne’s Church in Vilnius, built on the initiative of King Aleksander Jagiellon in the waning years of the fifteenth century. Perched on the eastern edge of Catholic Europe, Poland was also exposed to the architectural and artistic traditions associated with Eastern Orthodoxy. A fine example of this influence can be found in the Royal Chapel of the Holy Trinity, built in the early fifteenth century at the Lublin Castle during Jogaila’s reign. Its most distinctive feature is the elabo-

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Byzantine-style frescoes in the Royal Chapel of the Holy Trinity, Lublin. Courtesy of the Muzeum Lubelskie w Lublinie.

rate cycle of polychrome frescoes in the interior. Their design is clearly indebted to Byzantine and Russian modes of decoration.47 Another form of Eastern Christian influence was a growing appreciation for icons, images of holy people or sacred events that are created according to exacting conventions and are believed to mediate their holy subject matter in a distinctive manner. Icons found their way into the kingdom and helped redefine Polish Catholic conceptions of the sacred and traditions of religious art. The leading example in this regard is the renowned icon of the Black Madonna, which was brought to Poland around the time the Pauline monks took up residence in Częstochowa in the late fourteenth century. The exact provenance of the image is uncertain, although it clearly is rooted in the Eastern Christian iconographic tradition.

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Its spiritual allure has been augmented by colorful legends, such as the claim that the Virgin’s swarthy complexion is the product of a fire in the Pauline monastery, which she miraculously extinguished. The twin scars on her right cheek have been attributed to the vandalism of brigands. Already in the fifteenth century it was believed that Mary was present in a special way in the image, and pilgrims began to venture to Częstochowa to seek her assistance. Their ranks included King Kazimierz IV, who paid his respects in 1448 and 1472. The stature of this devotion would grow steadily more pronounced over time. In an era when Catholics were imprinting their faith ever more deeply into the fabric of public life, the kingdom was also becoming more religiously diverse. Its fledgling Jewish population expanded notably at this time, encouraged by tolerant rulers who saw the economic benefits of hosting a generally industrious and talented population. Kazimierz III Wielki stands out in this regard, Długosz regretfully concedes.48 Kazimierz IV expanded these privileges in the fifteenth century. In the context of late medieval Europe, Poland emerged as something of a haven for Jews, but this is not to say that it was especially welcoming. The Christian axioms that the Jews bore collective responsibility for the death of Christ and were destined to suffer fostered hostility toward the Jews in general and outrage when Jews appeared to flourish. Compounding the problem was the gathering conviction, in Poland and throughout Europe, that the Jews hated Christ and were driven by this hatred to commit heinous crimes like the ritual sacrifice of Christian children and host desecration. Such false beliefs created a context in which Christians periodically lashed out against Jews, in defiance of the laws designed to protect them. After a fire devastated much of Wrocław in 1361, Długosz notes, “The citizens vent their anger on the Jews, then quite numerous, and cruelly slaughter them, irrespective of age, sex or status, as if they had caused the fire, robbing them of their belongings and expelling the survivors from the city.”49 Anti-Judaism was by no means the exclusive preserve of the rude masses. Highly educated church leaders shared these assumptions and were often responsible for stoking the fears that led to violence. Catholics did not harbor the same degree of ill will toward the Eastern Orthodox, but they often struggled to recognize them as legitimate Christians. One example was the debate whether Orthodox baptism was valid,

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or whether Orthodox Christians should be rebaptized in the Catholic manner. The integrity of Orthodox baptism had its defenders, including Jogaila. In a 1417 letter addressed to the fathers at the Council of Konstanz, he argued against the position that Orthodox Christians seeking to enter the Catholic Church should be required to submit to Catholic baptism. Advocates of the other position included Jan of Oświęcim, professor and rector of the University of Kraków, who in 1501 authored a treatise detailing the deficiencies of Orthodox baptism and making the case for rebaptism.50 For their part, Orthodox Christians inside Poland and Lithuania tended to remain committed to their own traditions and wary of Catholicism. This is clear from the reaction of Orthodox Christians when presented with evidence of the short-lived Treaty of Union, hammered out in Florence in 1439, which promised to heal the schism between the Eastern and Western churches on the Western Church’s terms. Długosz describes what happened to the archbishop of Kiev, serving as the papal legate to Ruthenia, when he returned to Poland in 1440: “He brings with him a papal bull bearing the Pope’s leaden seal and the silver seal of Emperor John Palaeologus in Constantinople, the subject of which is the unification of the Greek and Latin churches. . . . Later, as if the two churches were already united, he says Mass according to the Greek rite. However, both Greeks and Ruthenians ridicule and reject the idea of unification. Indeed, when the legate speaks to his suffragans in Ruthenia and Moscow, trying to convince them of the need for union, he is seized, imprisoned and robbed of all his valuables, of which he had acquired quite a number. Later, he manages to escape.”51

The Polish state persevered in the twelfth, thirteenth, and early fourteenth centuries, despite endless infighting among leading Piast dukes. When Kazimierz III inherited the throne in 1333, he broke decisively with this history, restraining potential rivals, strengthening the kingdom internally, and greatly extending its borders in the east. As an old saying has it, he found Poland made of wood, and he left it made of stone. If he redeemed the Piast dynasty’s promise, Kazimierz failed to perpetuate it with a legitimate male heir. Threatened by the Teutonic Knights, Poland’s leading nobles offered the crown to Jogaila, grand duke of Lithuania, in 1386. The

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combined forces of Poland and Lithuania vanquished the knights, and the partnership they forged managed to last for nearly four centuries. As it turned its attention eastward, Poland became an agent of Catholic expansion. Catholicism in Poland became increasingly enmeshed with Eastern Orthodoxy, which led to cross-fertilization, efforts at ecclesial reunion, and considerable friction. As the kingdom’s fortunes improved, the influence of its Catholic officials grew more pronounced in international church affairs, such as the Council of Konstanz and the subsequent debate over conciliarism. Within Poland, leading Catholic prelates exercised considerable power, sometimes in concert with the regalist designs of kings and sometimes with the interests of the szlachta. The number of parishes, religious houses, and schools increased notably, and the kingdom’s first university took form. On the whole, priests in Poland benefited from more extensive education and were held to higher standards. Their custody of the sacraments, which were highly valued as channels of divine grace, enhanced their prestige and influence among the lay faithful. A variety of evidence illustrates how the religious convictions of Polish Catholics deeply informed their understanding of creation, human nature, and proper action. In an era of rising living standards, some were clearly troubled by the venerable principle that God and mammon were incompatible. Those who embodied Christian ideals and resisted earthly desires could acquire an odor of sanctity, thereby attracting the veneration and petitions of other Catholics seeking spiritual favors. As Catholicism grew more integral to the identity of its adherents, those outside the church—most notably the Jews—became targets of scorn and occasional persecution, despite complex economic relationships across religious boundaries. The upward arc of the country’s fortunes in this period was destined to continue in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, transforming Poland-Lithuania into the premiere power in the region. In an era defined by deepening confessional divisions and wars rooted in the same, Poland-Lithuania would stand out by virtue of its tolerant climate. Facing greater competition in the religious arena, the Catholic Church in Poland would be challenged to remedy some of its weaknesses and enhance its appeal and outreach to the faithful.

4

The Promise and the Peril of Liberty (1506–1648)

At a gathering of the Sejm in Warsaw in 1573, delegates approved a remarkable edict. It read in part: “Whereas there is a great dissidence in the affairs of the Christian Religion in our country, and to prevent any sedition for this reason among the people such as we clearly perceive in other realms—we swear to each other, on behalf of ourselves and our descendants, in perpetuity, under oath and pledging our faith, honour and consciences, that we who differ in matters of religion will keep the peace among ourselves, and neither shed blood on account of differences of Faith, or kinds of church, nor punish one another by confiscation of goods, deprivation of honour, imprisonment, or exile.”1 In sixteenthcentury Poland and Lithuania, the emergence of vibrant Protestant movements, which gained adherents at the expense of the Catholic and Orthodox Churches, had the potential to cause the same types of persecution and warfare seen in other parts of Europe in this era. The nobility of Poland and Lithuania vowed to resist letting religious disagreements disrupt civil peace. This commitment made the region perhaps the most religiously tolerant corner of early modern Europe. The distinctive climate that prevailed in Poland and Lithuania at this time was rooted in part in the region’s long history of religious diversity, which enabled its leaders to think beyond the commonly held premise that religious uniformity was an essential component of a harmonious society. A still more important factor was the ethos of the szlachta, which by this time had clearly established its political dominance. Its paramount concern was the defense of the “golden freedom” of its members, including their right to choose among the country’s competing confessions. Thus, Polish-Lithuanian society was tolerant not so much for the sake of tolerance itself, but because of its distinctive political culture. The Catholic Church in Poland had to accommodate itself to this reality and find new ways to thrive in an increasingly competitive field.

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Golden Age, Golden Freedom As the sixteenth century dawned, Poland found itself in an enviable position. The dynastic union with Lithuania had transformed it into a major power, dissipating the military threats that once dogged the kingdom. Its recent incorporation of Royal Prussia gave it unfettered access to the Baltic Sea, which facilitated the grain trade and created the conditions for long-term economic growth. With the death of King Aleksander Jagiellon in 1506, the crown passed to his younger brother, who over the course of his long reign would come to be known as King Zygmunt I Stary (“the Old,” 1467–1548). The earlier efforts of his father and brothers to promote regalist bishops to high positions continued to yield dividends well into the sixteenth century. Bishops such as Jan Konarski (Kraków, 1503–24), Jan Lubrański (Poznań, 1498–1520), Piotr Tomicki (Kraków, 1524–35), and others hailed from lesser noble families and owed much of their professional success to the connections they enjoyed with the royal court.2 Although royal-minded bishops dominated the episcopate in these years, there were also exceptions. They included Jan Łaski, a scion of a magnate family based in Great Poland who ultimately served as archbishop of Gniezno (1510–31). He had a hand in the Nihil novi constitution that strengthened the Sejm at the king’s expense, and he played a role in a subsequent attempt to deprive the Jagiellonians of their hereditary right to rule Lithuania. The drive to augment the authority of the crown was pursued by monarchs and their allies across much of Europe in the early modern period, and in some contexts noteworthy gains were achieved. In Poland, by contrast, regalists were stymied by an increasingly unified szlachta. Making up 6 to 7 percent of the population of Poland and Lithuania, the nobles were determined to defend their rights and assert themselves as the ultimate authority in the kingdom. Noble political consciousness evolved over the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries through participation in parliamentary bodies that developed on the regional and national level. A network of regional sejmiki (dietines) served as vehicles for managing regional affairs, relaying concerns to the Sejm, and receiving and enacting the decisions made at the national level. The significance of these institutions was viewed through the prisms of classical republicanism and Renaissance-era humanism, which inclined nobles to guard

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against tyranny and cherish their freedoms. The Nihil novi constitution of 1505, which required the king to win the consent of the Sejm to pass laws, served noble interests very well in this regard. The szlachta would continue to press their advantage over the course of the sixteenth century. Unlike his older brothers, Zygmunt I managed to produce a son and arrange his election as his royal successor. The new king, Zygmunt II August (1520–1572), married three times but could not replicate his father’s achievement, thus marking an end to the country’s Jagiellonian era.3 Facing an uncertain royal transition and the possible end of the PolishLithuanian partnership, the king summoned the Sejm to help chart a political path forward. On July 1, 1569, its deliberations yielded the landmark Union of Lublin, which joined Lithuania and Poland into a commonwealth destined to endure for more than two centuries. The Union of Lublin and the subsequent Henrician Articles required the king to partner with a potent Sejm, which was to meet every other

Union of Lublin by Jan Matejko (1838–1893). The most prominent Polish painter of the nineteenth century, Matejko specialized in large-scale treatments of important events in Polish history, and in the process he reshaped how Polish history has been remembered. Union of Lublin attempts to re-create the drama of the document’s signing and the many individuals—both supporters and opponents—connected to its genesis. The cardinal seated on the left is Stanisław Hozjusz. King Zygmunt August stands in the center, holding up a crucifix. The man in white behind the Bible is Primate Jakub Uchański. The man with the white beard on the far right, his arm around a peasant, is Andrzej Frycz Modrzewski. Courtesy of the Muzeum Narodowe w Warszawie.

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year and on special occasions. The bicameral body consisted of the Senate, to which belonged all Catholic bishops and leading officials in the royal government, and the Chamber of Envoys, composed of two representatives from each sejmik. The Sejm’s powers included the supervision of royal elections (in which every noble had the right to participate) and approval of taxation and the financing of military campaigns. Sensitized to the danger of tyranny, determined to preserve the freedom of the szlachta, and seeking to promote harmony and consensus, the architects of the union called for the Sejm to operate on the principle of unanimity: It was to pass no laws without the universal consent of its members. A provision known as the liberum veto stipulated that the dissent of even one member was sufficient to scuttle a bill.4 Under the framework of the Union of Lublin and the Henrician Articles, the power of the crown was decidedly weakened. Savvy kings could still achieve major objectives, though. This is illustrated by the reign of Stefan Bathory, a Hungarian noble and ruler of Transylvania, who was elected Poland-Lithuania’s king after the brief, disappointing rule of Henry of Anjou and ruled in the years 1576–86. Strategic concessions won the Sejm’s consent to higher taxes, which allowed him to stabilize the central government and enhance the army. After Bathory’s death, the szlachta elected a Swedish candidate to the throne, Zygmunt III Vasa, who reigned from 1587 to 1632. At a time when Protestant movements were a force to be reckoned with, Zygmunt demonstrated an unambiguous commitment to Rome, much like Bathory before him. As he established himself in the commonwealth, the new king relied heavily on allies within the Catholic clergy, including the influential Jesuit Piotr Skarga. His ambitions as king included depriving Protestants of influence, weakening the liberum veto, and bolstering the military and royal coffers.5 This agenda was perceived by many nobles as an attack on their golden freedom, and it eventually gave rise to a largescale rebellion in the years 1606–9, led by Mikołaj Zebrzydowski (1553– 1620), vaivode of Kraków. The rebellion was eventually pacified, but the king’s regalist agenda stalled. Succeeding Zygmunt was his son Władysław IV, who ruled from 1632 to 1648. Reared a Catholic under the tutelage of Piotr Skarga, he proved a reliable ally to the Catholic Church as it reasserted its dominance vis-àvis its Protestant rivals. Like his father, he sought to enhance royal power,

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Zygmunt III Vasa Column, Warsaw. King Władysław IV commissioned the monument in the early 1640s to honor his father, who is depicted holding a sword and a large cross. Destroyed by German forces in 1944, the monument was rebuilt after the war. The stately building to the right is the Royal Castle. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist rises above the townhouses to the left. Photograph by Andrea Hoelscher.

but he was stymied by a vigilant szlachta determined to prevent any curtailment of its liberty. As the threat of the Teutonic Knights to the north faded, new dangers emanated from the Grand Duchy of Moscow to the east. Lithuania bore the brunt of Moscow’s aggression, and its failures rendered it more dependent on Poland, which was a factor that led to the creation of a unified commonwealth. Inheriting the problem, Bathory waged a seven-year war (1576–82) that ultimately yielded a favorable peace treaty that stifled the threat for years to come. By the early seventeenth century, civil war and internal chaos rendered Muscovy practically defenseless, tempting Poland-Lithuania into a new round of warfare with its neighbor (1605–17). Commonwealth forces pushed deep into its territory, occupied Moscow for a time, and at one point King Zygmunt’s son Władysław nearly gained the Russian throne. The plan came to naught, owing to the king’s ambitions to assume control personally and promote the expansion of Catholicism eastward. The conflict ground on, and the eventual peace agreement included substantial

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territorial concessions from Muscovy. The commonwealth reached its apogee in terms of size, but it would eventually come to regret the bitter resentments it left behind in Moscow. Poland-Lithuania also clashed repeatedly with Sweden, owing in part to the designs that King Zygmunt harbored for his native land. His commitment to the Catholic Church rendered his candidacy untenable in a country that had moved solidly in the direction of Lutheranism. Sweden was another country that Poland-Lithuania would regret having made an enemy of. Poland-Lithuania engaged in numerous wars in the sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth, emerging victorious more often than not. Its military potency tempered the ambitions of its neighbors. The relative peace and stability this afforded proved a boon to the grain trade, the primary driver of the economy. Nobles with substantial landholdings thrived, and some took advantage of the union with Lithuania to amass huge estates in the east.6 They typically funneled their profits into display and patronage, building impressive manors, sponsoring artists and intellectuals, and funding the building or beautification of churches. Their political dominance and robust economic fortunes inclined the szlachta to an unmistakable self-satisfaction and helped form a distinctive shared culture. They fancied themselves descendants of the Sarmatians, an ancient people linked to the regions north and east of the Black Sea, and they reveled in their military prowess, love of freedom, commitment to the common good, and attachment to the land. Although hardly immune to the fashions of western Europe, the szlachta grew more inclined to celebrate certain eastern influences (especially in terms of dress, weaponry, and ornamentation) that were part of life on the edge of the Western Christian world. They also became more inward looking, convinced that they were uniquely blessed by God and the envy of others.7 As the grain trade boomed, Poland-Lithuania’s cities, home to perhaps a quarter of its population in the sixteenth century, flourished like never before. Cities facilitated the sale of agricultural products and supplied finished goods and luxuries to farmers and nobles in the countryside. Its largest city, Gdańsk, prospered in a special way. Its port handled the export of the large majority of the country’s grain, and its merchants provided an unrivaled selection of products from around the world. This era also marked the beginning of Warsaw’s ascendancy, as King Zygmunt III

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chose it as his primary base of operations in 1596, owing in part to its central location. Poland-Lithuania’s agrarian economy depended on the labor of a vast peasant population. Although some managed to preserve their independence and even thrive, a much larger share found themselves deprived of the right to own property and bound to work the land of others, as the institution of serfdom grew more defined and onerous. Their lot gave the lie to noble boasts concerning the commonwealth’s golden freedom. Jews played an increasingly essential mediating role between these two populations. Nobles hired them to manage estates, run businesses, and extract resources from dependent populations. As such, they often served as the face of oppressive systems of exchange, which only fed the darkest stereotypes Christians harbored concerning their Jewish neighbors.

Confessional Ferment In the history of the Western Church, not to mention the larger history of Western civilization, the Protestant Reformation marks an epochal shift. Traditionally understood to have begun in 1517, the Reformation was animated by the calls of Martin Luther, John Calvin, and a host of others for fundamental changes to what Western Christians were to believe and how they were to fulfill their religious obligations. Core elements of this reform agenda included the primacy of the Bible as a guide to the Christian life, the centrality of faith in Christ in the process of salvation, and a reinterpretation of the priesthood that encompassed all faith-filled Christians. Demands for religious reform were hardly original to the sixteenth century. What was novel, however, was the staying power of Protestant reform movements. Large swaths of Western Christendom broke with Rome, opening up schisms that endure to this day. Sixteenth-century Poland and Lithuania proved fertile ground for reformist currents. Luther’s native Saxony was not far from the Polish border, and the country had economic and cultural ties with other centers of Protestant ferment, ensuring ready transmission of such ideas. The reformist charge concerning the corruption of the Roman Catholic Church was a premise that had been in circulation for decades, advanced by, among others, reform-minded clergy and scholars at the University of Kraków. Protestant principles concerning Scripture, faith, and the priesthood

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exercised considerable appeal among Poles, especially those exposed to humanist intellectual currents. For Orthodox Christians in Poland and Lithuania, certain practices of the emerging Protestant confessions (married clergy, vernacular liturgies, offering the chalice to laypeople) resembled Orthodoxy, creating a more appealing invitation into forms of Western Christianity.8 Not to be overlooked is that support for Protestantism offered an opportunity to strike a blow against the Catholic Church, which in the estimation of its critics had acquired excessive wealth and privileges. By the mid-sixteenth century, the church owned a substantial percentage of the lands in Poland and Lithuania. The tithe provided it with a generous share of the earnings of the general population, and yet it was largely exempt from taxation. The clergy were also exempt from standard legal channels, enjoying the right to be tried before their peers. For the szlachta, eager to enhance its dominance, the Protestant movements provided a means to bring the Catholic Church to heel. In some areas of Europe, such as Spain and the Italian peninsula, Protestant ideas and movements were deftly suppressed by vigilant inquisitions backed up by the disciplinary mechanisms of sympathetic governments. This was not an option in Poland and Lithuania. Poised on the edge of Western Christendom, the population was long accustomed to the experience of multiple Christianities by the presence of a large Orthodox population and smaller groups like the Armenian diaspora and the Bohemian Brethren. The ample population of Jews and the scattered presence of Muslims only enhanced the normalcy of religious heterogeneity. For this reason, the emergence of new Christian confessions in the region may have created less of a sense of crisis than it did elsewhere. More to the point, Poland and Lithuania did not possess the legal mechanisms required to enforce religious conformity. Catholic officials might issue rulings, but implementation typically fell to secular officials, who often lacked the will or the wherewithal to follow through. Poland’s sixteenth-century kings, although Catholic, preferred to maintain the peace and thus generally resisted the temptation to apply their full arsenal against Protestants. The increasingly powerful szlachta were adamant about defending the freedoms of their peers, including in matters of conscience. In cities vested with broad measures of legal autonomy, mayors and council members often failed to see the necessity of cracking

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down on the Protestants in their midst. Catholics committed to the fight against heresy found themselves forced to rely more on persuasion than compulsion.9 What resistance there was to the advent of Protestantism in Poland and Lithuania generally lacked consequence. King Zygmunt I repeatedly sought to impede the importation of Lutheran writings in the 1520s and 1530s, but this proved impossible. A stream of prohibitions issued at Catholic synods in the middle decades of the century resulted in so many dead letters. In 1552 the bishop of Przemyśl attempted to discipline Stanisław Orzechowski (1513–1566), a canon of the diocese who defied the Catholic principle of clerical celibacy in word and deed, only to be stymied by the priest’s powerful supporters. Under pressure from the szlachta, King Zygmunt August suspended the jurisdiction of clerical courts over laypeople, further hampering the Catholic Church’s ability to stifle heresy. In the middle decades of the sixteenth century, Protestant principles captured the imaginations of sizable numbers of Poles, especially among educated nobles and urban elites. One high-profile representative of this trend was the humanist scholar Andrzej Frycz Modrzewski (1503–1572). Born into a family of minor nobility in Great Poland, he studied at the University of Kraków and abroad, including a stint at the University of Wittenberg, where he met Luther. Ordained to lower orders, he entered into service to Archbishop Jan Łaski and later to the court of Zygmunt August. It was through his writings, though, that he made his greatest and most lasting impact. Especially influential was his treatise On the Improvement of the Commonwealth (De Republica Emendanda), first published in its complete form in 1554, in which he detailed his reform vision. Modrzewski called for a federation of national churches, held together loosely by a pope with limited powers, and governed by democratically elected bishops. He advocated a stricter separation of church and state and defended the right of individuals to follow the dictates of conscience in religious matters. For his labors, Modrzewski was stripped of his clerical status, and On the Improvement of the Commonwealth was placed on the Index of Forbidden Books. Owing to Poland’s tolerant climate, however, he remained a free man. When the Sejm gathered in Piotrków in 1555, enthusiasm for religious reform peaked. Over the course of their deliberations, members coalesced around a proposal to send a delegation to Rome to seek permission to

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convene a national council to discuss a variety of potential innovations, including saying Mass in the vernacular, offering communion to laity in both forms, and ending the requirement of clerical celibacy. Advocates of these principles appealed to the example of the early church and the practice of the Eastern Orthodox Church. The fact that this delegation was tasked with winning Rome’s permission points to an enduring respect for papal authority. Not surprisingly, the papacy’s response was unfavorable, and ambitions for a national council came to naught. Certain Protestant ideas resonated in the highest echelons of the Catholic Church, which prevented the institution from responding in unison. One example is Jan Drohojowski (1505–1557), who was appointed bishop of Kamianets-Podilskyi in 1545 and then bishop of Włocławek in 1551. As he rose through the ranks of the hierarchy, he became close with a number of Protestant thinkers, including Modrzewski, and dared to articulate his sympathies. After being admonished by Rome, Drohojowski disavowed his links to Protestantism. On his deathbed, however, he confessed his regret that he had not been true to his convictions. More significant was the role played by Jakub Uchański, who after serving as bishop of Chełm and Włocławek was appointed archbishop of Gniezno in 1562, an office he held until his death in 1581. Uchański sympathized with some aspects of reform, including the idea of moving toward a national church with less dependence on Rome. He was also an advocate of religious toleration. Across much of Europe, confessional differences between Catholics and Protestants generated immense tension, resulting in the repression of religious minorities and contributing to an array of civil and international conflicts commonly referred to as the “wars of religion.” In this era, Poland and Lithuania stood out as perhaps the most tolerant region of Europe, where Christians of all persuasions were left largely unmolested. The Sejm’s 1573 edict of toleration, issued less than six months after the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in France, offers a powerful symbol of the country’s distinctive course, and it helps explain why it began attracting Protestant refugees fleeing oppression elsewhere. After a visit to Poland in 1568, the papal envoy Giulio Ruggiero lamented that “the heretics had recreated the ancient tower of Babel with their languages, nationalities, and sects.”10 A very different evaluation of this period is found in the memoirs of Teodor Jewłaszewski (1546–1617), a Calvinist by confession and a judge by profession, who looked back with affection on his life

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in the religiously diverse city of Vilnius. “In those days,” he writes, “difference in faith made not the least difference in love among friends, for which very reason that era seems golden to me from the point of view of this age, where even among people of one faith duplicity has overtaken all, and do not even ask about love, sincerity, and truly good conduct among those who differ in faith.”11 Of the various Protestant confessions that gained a foothold in PolandLithuania, Lutheranism set down early and tenacious roots. It thrived in cities with significant German-speaking populations in Royal Prussia, Great Poland, and Silesia, the last of these falling under Hapsburg control in 1526. Another area of Lutheranism’s triumph was eastern Prussia, which was ruled in Poland’s name by the Teutonic Knights, an order in clear decline. In 1525 Grand Master Albrecht von Hohenzollern orchestrated the secularization of the order’s Prussian domains, which were transformed into the hereditary Duchy of Prussia, a Polish fief to be ruled by him and his descendants. Lutheranism quickly emerged as the dominant confession in the duchy, making it the first dominion where Lutheranism functioned as the state religion. Calvin’s reformist vision also found support in the country, especially among certain sectors of the nobility. For some, the primary source of the appeal was the promise of returning to a faith truer to Christ’s original vision. For others, mundane benefits were paramount, such as depriving bishops of their authority over church institutions and tithe revenues, thereby enhancing the power of nobles over religious life in their domains. As the commonwealth’s papal nuncio noted sardonically in 1577, “Heretics and Catholics lived marvelously alongside each other in Poland, since they all firmly agreed on one thing: not to pay the tithe.”12 Calvinism made significant inroads in Little Poland and parts of Lithuania. At its peak in the 1560s and 1570s, as much as 20 percent of the commonwealth’s nobility may have embraced it, including some of the country’s most powerful clans. Support was more tepid further down the social order.13 Other movements filled out the diverse Protestant landscape in the region. They included the Bohemian Brethren, the surviving remnant of fifteenth-century Hussitism, which with the advent of the Reformation came to be recognized as a forerunner and component of Protestantism. After being expelled from the Hapsburg domains in 1548, many made their way north, where they found sympathetic defenders, including the

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Ostroróg clan of Great Poland. Another faction was the Minor Reformed Church of Poland, which established a base at Raków in Little Poland under the protection of the Sienieński family. They were known colloquially as the Polish Brethren as well as the Socinians, the latter name being derived from the Italian exile and theologian Fausto Sozzini, who played an essential role in bringing coherence to the movement. Their despisers labeled them Arians on account of their Unitarian view of God and interpretation of Christ as an exalted human being, which resembled the teachings of Arius in the fourth century.14 Their impressive growth notwithstanding, Protestants remained a distinct minority in Poland and Lithuania, and divisions diluted their potency. Various attempts were made to forge overarching structures, including the Sandomierz Agreement of 1570, a vaguely worded pledge of cooperation signed by the region’s Lutherans, Calvinists, and Bohemian Brethren.15 The agreement had little practical effect, and in the end each of the confessions was destined to defend itself in relative isolation as the religious environment grew less forgiving. Despite early Protestant successes, the commonwealth’s leadership never engaged in the kind of wholesale assaults on Catholic property and influence that took place in parts of Europe where Protestantism triumphed. In time, Catholic leaders reestablished their dominance in the religious arena. An especially consequential figure was Stanisław Hozjusz (1504–1579). Born in Kraków to a German immigrant father and a Polish mother, he studied the liberal arts at the University of Kraków and gravitated toward the priesthood. Recognizing his potential, Bishop Tomicki sponsored his advanced study in Padua and Bologna. On his return to Poland, he lent his talents to the royal government before being tapped to lead the diocese of Chełmno in 1549 and then Warmia in 1551. Alarmed by the growth of Protestantism in the region, Hozjusz fought hard to prevent its encroachment in Warmia. At the urging of his fellow bishops, he penned the treatise Confessio Fidei Catholicae Christiana. First published in 1553, the work offers a lucid summary of Catholic doctrine and a refutation of leading Protestant ideas. It filled an important niche for Catholics in the realm of ideas, and many editions soon followed, along with translations into other languages. By now a rising star in the Polish episcopate, Hozjusz caught the attention of Rome, and he was pulled into ser vice at the highest levels. After

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functioning as a papal legate in Austria, he was given a cardinal’s hat in 1561. He was one of a handful of papal legates charged with presiding over the final, decisive sessions of the Ecumenical Council of Trent (1562–63). Trent stands as an impor tant landmark in the Catholic Church’s response to Protestantism. The prelates in attendance condemned core Protestant principles, clarified certain aspects of Catholic doctrine, and sought to eliminate practices that could give rise to scandal. Hozjusz was intimately involved in this labor, and he helped ensure the Polish crown’s formal recognition of the council’s decrees in 1564, one of the first countries to do so.16 Another champion of the Catholic cause in Poland and Lithuania was the Society of Jesus. Founded by Saint Ignatius of Loyola and formally recognized by the church in 1540, the Jesuit order focused its efforts on defending and promoting Catholic Christianity at a time when it was struggling to contend with the Protestant challenge. The movement attracted large numbers of talented, ambitious men, including many Poles, who through extensive education and training were formed into highly effective advocates of the faith. As in other parts of Europe, Jesuits active in the commonwealth focused much of their resources on offering superior education, which positioned them to shape future generations of Polish elites into devout Catholics.17 Cardinal Hozjusz invited the order to found their first college in the region at Braniewo (Braunsberg) in 1564, and by 1648 some thirty-two Jesuit colleges dotted the commonwealth’s map. These institutions trained thousands of young men, many of whom rose to leading positions in the church and society.18 The commonwealth’s Protestant churches failed to develop educational institutions of the same caliber, and so many Protestant families chose to enroll their sons in Jesuit schools, which not infrequently led to their conversion to Catholicism. The Lutheran doctor Maciej Vorbek-Lettow, who studied under the Jesuits at Vilnius in the early seventeenth century and managed to resist their religious appeals, freely admitted the quality of their instruction. “I must grant it to the Jesuit fathers that they teach diligently and benevolently.” Even incompetent students, he writes, “will have to learn something.”19 The number of Jesuits active in the commonwealth swelled from 60 in 1574 to 1,390 in 1648. Rapid growth justified the creation of a freestanding province in the commonwealth in 1576, which was subdivided into

Volga Riga

Daugavpils

Varniai Kražiai

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Braniewo Reszel

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Holy

Bydgoszcz Gniezno

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Włocła w Kalisz Łowicz

Jesuit college

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Ivano-Frankivsk

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Ovruch

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Kiev

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Vinnytsia Kamianets-Podilskyi Dn ie st er

Ottoman Empire Poland-Lithuania, seventeenth century

Catholic seminary, academy, or secondary school

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Catholic university

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Empire

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Navahrudak

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Muscovy

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separate Polish and Lithuanian parts in 1608. The order attracted men of uncommon talent. Among the most renowned in this era was Piotr Skarga (1536–1612). Skarga began his professional career as a diocesan priest before joining the society in 1569. Intellectually gifted, he functioned as an administrator and professor at a number of Jesuit schools. He won admirers in elite circles, and in 1588 the recently elected King Zygmunt III appointed him to serve as royal chaplain. Skarga came to exercise considerable influence on the crown, advocating a harder line toward non-Catholics and the enhancement of royal power. He wielded his influence broadly through his publications. Especially important was his Lives of the Saints of the Old and New Testament (Żywoty świętych pańskich starego i nowego zakonu), an exceedingly popular work that passed through twelve editions by the middle of the seventeenth century. Skarga presented the saints as spiritual models worthy of emulation, and he challenged his readers to appreciate the dangers of the commonwealth’s religious diversity. Skarga’s political vision found expression in Parliamentary Sermons (Kazania sejmowe), a published collection of eight sermons he delivered to the Sejm in 1597. In addition to decrying the commonwealth’s toleration of religious minorities, Skarga lamented the weakening of royal power and the excessive power of the nobility. This, he warned, was a recipe for anarchy.20 As Catholic leaders pursued a more forceful and coherent response to Protestantism, the fortunes of the Protestant confessions, once so promising, started to stall and then decline. By the late sixteenth century, Catholicism was exercising a renewed appeal within many noble families who earlier had embraced other churches. Emblematic of this shift was the family of Mikołaj Radziwiłł “the Black” (1515–1565), one of the earliest and most important noble patrons of Calvinism in Lithuania. All but one of his children eventually returned to the Catholic fold, and his son Jerzy became a priest, rose high in the ranks of the Catholic episcopate, and received a cardinal’s hat.21 Also at work was the resolution of some of the economic, political, and legal issues that once led some within the szlachta to see the Catholic Church as an adversary. Important in this regard was a compact reached between the noble and clerical estates in the 1630s. The clergy agreed to contribute to future war efforts, to permit the quartering of soldiers on their lands, to respect the ius patronatus rights of nobles, and to restrict the further expansion of landownership by Catholic

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institutions. The nobility, in turn, agreed to honor their tithing obligations and to respect the jurisdiction of the bishops.22 Over the first half of the seventeenth century, the religious climate of the commonwealth grew more punishing toward Protestantism. There were instances of abuse at the hands of hostile Catholics, including the burning of Protestant churches. Compared to many other European societies, though, confessional relations in Poland-Lithuania remained remarkably calm. Vocal advocates of toleration at this time included the Bernardine Mikołaj Ławrynowicz (c. 1590–1651) and the Jesuit Mikołaj Łęczyca (1574–1653). In 1645 King Władysław IV sponsored the gathering of Protestant and Catholic theologians in the Royal Prussian city of Toruń for a decorous theological debate that has come to be known as the “Colloquium of Love.”23 This era also witnessed considerable ferment in Catholic–Orthodox relations. Restoring communion was a long-standing goal for leaders on both sides of the schism, especially in the commonwealth where Catholics and Orthodox Christians lived side by side. Catholics usually identified Orthodox recognition of papal authority as an essential prerequisite for communion, and this was the crucial concession in the union agreement signed by Catholic and Orthodox leaders in Florence in 1439. That agreement ultimately failed to reunite the Catholic and Orthodox Churches, but it did serve as a model for the Union of Brest in 1596, which brought large numbers of Orthodox Christians in the commonwealth into the Roman orbit. A factor that led to Brest was Moscow’s push to oversee the Orthodox world, which had been under the aegis of the Patriarchate of Constantinople before that city’s capture by the Ottomans in 1453. Many Orthodox bishops in the commonwealth viewed Moscow’s ambitions as a threat to their authority. Orthodox bishops were also attracted to the vitality of the Catholic Church in the commonwealth and the possibility of enjoying the influence and privileges afforded to Catholic bishops, such as membership in the Senate. Writing on behalf of their respective flocks, a number of Orthodox leaders sent a formal inquiry to Rome in 1595 regarding the possibility of union with the Catholic Church. Pope Clement VIII responded later that year with his terms: Orthodox Christians would be able to retain the Slavonic rite, a separate hierarchy, and the right of their priests to marry; they would be expected to affirm certain Roman doctrines, in-

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cluding the supreme authority of the bishop of Rome. Orthodox bishops in the commonwealth gathered at Brest for a synod in 1596 to discuss the matter. A majority accepted Rome’s terms, while a minority hived off to a different location and rejected the arrangement. By the end of the synod, each camp had excommunicated the other.24 Those who submitted to Rome came to be known in time as Greek Catholics of the Slavonic Rite, or more simply as Uniates, and initially their ranks comprised the majority of Orthodox bishops and clergy in the commonwealth. They emerged as the official, privileged branch of Eastern Christianity in the country, while those bishops, clergy, and institutions still loyal to traditional Orthodoxy were actively suppressed. In the early years, they found an effective leader in Josyf Veliamyn Rutski, metropolitan of Kiev (1614–37). Born to a noble Ruthenian family of Calvinists, he converted to Catholicism while studying at the Jesuit college in Prague. He moved to Rome for advanced study, where Pope Clement VIII encouraged him to affiliate with the Uniates and set him on a path of leadership. Another important resource was the newly created Order of Saint Basil (Basilians), which drew together a number of existing monasteries into a new framework based on the Jesuit template. Union with Rome made them more respectable in Catholic eyes, but the Uniates never achieved the kind of parity many had anticipated. Their bishops, for instance, were denied membership in the Senate. More troubling still was the mounting hostility they encountered among the Orthodox, who regarded the union agreement as a betrayal of the true faith. These feelings erupted in the city of Vitebsk in 1623, when an angry crowd of Orthodox Christians murdered Josafat Kuntsevych, a Uniate bishop actively involved in the drive to incorporate the Orthodox faithful into Uniate structures. In an attempt to placate his Orthodox subjects, King Władysław IV allowed a separate Orthodox hierarchy to reemerge from the shadows. Orthodox and Uniate institutions now existed side by side, but they were divided from each other by mutual distrust and disdain.25 Meanwhile, in Muscovy the Union of Brest was viewed as a threat to Orthodoxy and a justification for greater engagement in the commonwealth. In time, the Uniates would suffer mightily at the hands of the self-proclaimed defenders of Orthodox interests. Just as Poland-Lithuania was something of a haven for Protestants in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, it also offered a favorable

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environment for Jews. The crown and many among the szlachta recognized the advantages of having Jews in their domains, and they took steps to protect Jewish rights and autonomy. In 1551, King Zygmunt II August granted Jews the right to elect their own rulers and to govern their internal affairs, which led to the creation of regional bodies known as kahals and an umbrella organization known as the Council of Four Lands. In 1564 and 1566 he issued decrees that made it more difficult for Christian authorities to hold hearings against Jews on charges of ritual murder or host desecration. The 1573 edict of toleration extended basic religious protections to Jews: “Since Turks, Armenians, Tartars, Greeks, and Jews not only sojourn in Poland but also reside there and (freely) move from place to place, they ought (undisturbed) to press their faiths, enjoy their liberties, and benefit, so to say, from the same rights of citizenship.”26 By the end of the sixteenth century, there were an estimated 200,000 Jews living in the commonwealth, constituting roughly 6 percent of the total population. Many magnates recognized Jews as ideal business partners. They were effective managers and reliable leaseholders, and they did not challenge magnate power in the ways that urban leaders and the gentry sometimes were prone to do. Jews came to play a significant role in the Polish economy, and a few clearly flourished, adopting lifestyles akin to nobles and overseeing Christians in their employ. From a traditional Christian standpoint, this was nothing short of a scandal. Jews could be tolerated, the thinking went, but they should not be allowed to thrive, let alone dominate Christians.

From the Renaissance to the Baroque To understand the Catholic Church’s success vis-à-vis Protestantism and its capacity to draw many Orthodox Christians into union, it is important to appreciate its strengths. The sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth constituted a golden age of sorts for Poland-Lithuania, marked by relatively robust economic conditions, political stability, and the absence of major military threats. This redounded to the church’s benefit in the form of ample streams of patronage and new opportunities to tap into the country’s cultural florescence. Compared to their counterparts in earlier centuries, the Catholic clergy as a group was substantially better educated, less given to absenteeism and pluralism, and more carefully

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supervised by diocesan officials. The reforms issued at the Council of Trent further enhanced these developments. As a result, the Catholic faithful generally found themselves in more dynamic parishes with greater opportunities for catechesis, pastoral care, and collective devotions. The country’s bishops collaborated on a more regular basis, including in the seven episcopal synods held between 1577 and 1643. A similar dynamism informed orga nized religious life. Among the Benedictines, there were signs of new vigor within some women’s communities, thanks in large part to the vision of Magdalena Mortęska (1554–1631). Born to a noble family in Royal Prussia, she affiliated with an ailing Benedictine community in Chełmno in 1578. She soon rose to the position of abbess and initiated a series of reforms that included greater discipline, more thorough education for the sisters, and greater attention to the spiritual life. She won the support of her local bishop and officials in Rome, and twenty other Benedictine women’s communities gradually were pulled into her orbit. Mortęska extended her influence further still through her spiritual writings, which included a commentary on the Bible and a collection of meditations on the Passion of Christ.27 After a period of uneven discipline and internal torpor, vital currents began stirring anew in the Dominican order, leading to rapid growth and a range of fresh pastoral initiatives in the late sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth. A key figure in this renewal was Melchior Mościcki (c. 1511–1591), who oversaw an expanding network of reformminded Dominican houses and eventually rose to the level of provincial. The ranks of the commonwealth’s Dominicans ballooned from an estimated 300 friars in 1580 to 900 two decades later. There were as many as 1,750 by 1648. Mościcki attained national prominence, and in 1559 King Zygmunt II August chose him to serve as his confessor. Another Dominican sympathizer was King Zygmunt III, as evidenced by his efforts to secure the canonization of Jacek, the thirteenth-century Dominican pioneer in Poland. Jacek was canonized in 1594, and in 1603 Pope Clement VIII recognized him as one of Poland’s saintly patrons. The Dominicans avidly promoted his cult, which proved a boon to their recruitment efforts.28 Meanwhile, like many other Catholic societies, Poland-Lithuania was touched by the renewal and growth of the Carmelite order. With roots reaching back to the Holy Land in the twelfth century, the Carmelites were initially eremitical and contemplative, but when they migrated

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to Europe they gravitated toward the mendicant model. They initiated a modest presence in the country in 1397, when a group of Carmelites from Prague established a convent in Kraków at the invitation of the royal couple, Jadwiga and Jogaila. Subsequent growth justified the establishment of a Polish Carmelite province in 1536. Reformist currents in the order stirred by Saint Teresa of Ávila in Spain inspired a new wave of growth, and in the seventeenth century Discalced Carmelite communities multiplied across the commonwealth. Carmelite spirituality, with its pronounced Marian character, proved especially appealing to Polish society.29 By the early modern era, the field of scholarship was no longer dominated by the church, but many of Poland-Lithuania’s most prominent scholars were still clerics. Exemplars included Maciej of Miechów (1457– 1523), who, in addition to being a canon at Kraków’s cathedral, taught at the university, practiced medicine, and distinguished himself as a historian and geographer. His 1517 Treatise on the Two Sarmatias (Tractatus de Duabus Sarmatiis) was a pioneering effort to map the lands of eastern Europe. In 1519 he published Chronica Polonorum, the first printed history of Poland and the first significant chronicle of recent history since Długosz’s day.30 Before joining the ranks of the episcopate in 1586, Wawrzyniec Goślicki (1530–1607) spent many years in government ser vice and made a mark as a political theorist. In 1568 he published The Ideal Senator (De Optimo Senatore), in which he linked governmental power with the consent of the governed and reflected on the merits of Poland-Lithuania’s mixed government and the virtues of elected kingship. The work was translated into English before the end of the century and influenced the development of the English liberal tradition. A copy of the book eventually found its way into Thomas Jefferson’s library. Of much greater renown was Nicolaus Copernicus (1473–1543). Born to a distinguished family in Toruń in Royal Prussia, Copernicus benefited greatly from the patronage of his uncle Lukas Watzenrode, who served as bishop of Warmia from 1489 to 1512. He studied mathematics, astronomy, canon law, and medicine at the universities in Kraków, Bologna, and Padua. After taking lower orders, he was appointed a canon at the Warmia cathedral in 1497 and spent the next four decades of his life mainly in Frombork (Frauenburg), where he engaged in scholarship while fulfilling other professional responsibilities.

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His theory of a heliocentric universe ranks among the greatest of scientific breakthroughs.31 Although advanced scholarship was a rare privilege, exposure to at least a modicum of formal education was increasingly common, with the clergy and religious playing outsized roles in its delivery. It has been estimated that by the sixteenth century, around 90 percent of the parishes in Little Poland had schools that offered elementary instruction. Secondary schools cropped up in Polish cities, which enabled substantial minorities of their populations to enjoy the benefits of literacy. They included Poznań Academy, founded in 1519 by the city’s bishop, Jan Lubrański (1456–1520). The institution attracted an impressive faculty who exposed students to a modern humanistic education. The purpose of education from a Catholic perspective was not merely to equip students for worldly success; it should also fortify their faith. With the invention of the printing press, the publication of religious books became another tool to achieve this end. Polish translations of the Bible by Protestants compelled Catholics to produce translations of their own, and the Jesuit Jakub Wujek (1541–1597) eventually produced the definitive translation of the Vulgate into Polish.32 In an era of competing confessions, Catholic leaders across Europe recognized the value of developing catechisms that offered systematic accounts of Catholic teaching. The first Polish-language catechism, based on the Roman Catechism commissioned at the Council of Trent, was published in Kraków in 1568. A simpler and more affordable Polish-language catechism was issued in 1600.33 In addition to doctrinal compendiums, Polish Catholics could choose from a growing range of literature designed to instruct and inspire them in matters of the spirit. One popular religious author in the early seventeenth century was the Dominican theologian Mikołaj of Mościska (1559–1632). His numerous works included The Academy of Piety (Akademia pobożności), which offered laypeople practical guidance on matters such as the moral life, the art of prayer and contemplation, and the disciplining of the flesh.34 More prominent still was his Dominican confrere Fabian Adam Birkowski (1566–1636), who earned a national reputation for his eloquence as a preacher and who served in the court of King Władysław IV for some two decades. Collections of his sermons were published and widely read in seventeenth-century Poland-Lithuania. Birkowski used his considerable

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rhetorical gifts to draw sharp distinctions between worldly and spiritual concerns and to challenge his readers to privilege the latter. Reading spiritual books was an option reserved for the literate minority. Most Polish Catholics relied on an array of devotional actions—some old, some new—to help focus their attention on holy things, win the favor of heavenly patrons, and advance their quest for salvation. These actions included the celebration of the Mass, a weekly obligation believed to infuse its participants with spiritual grace, as well as the sponsoring of additional masses for specific intentions. Protestant reformers rejected sponsored masses as an empty form of works righteousness, but the Catholic Church stood by the practice, and Polish Catholics eagerly took advantage of this resource to help achieve their spiritual goals. When Jakub Potocki (1554–1613) contributed the funds needed to found a Dominican convent at Jezupol in Podolia in 1607, he stipulated that a Mass be said monthly for his first wife, Jadwiga, “to remember her and her most ardent cooperation in the foundation of the convent.”35 According to Catholic doctrine, Christ becomes physically present when the bread and wine are consecrated by the priest. The Mass offers Catholics a special opportunity to worship their lord and savior, which early modern Polish Catholics took very seriously. The French diplomat Charles Ogier, who traveled through Poland in 1635–36 and recorded his impressions in his diary, marveled at the intense emotionality of Poles during worship. “They also, when they listen to the sermon, start to groan audibly at the mention of the name of Christ, of the Blessed Virgin or at any other pious word or sentence. During Mass, when the Body of the Lord is elevated, they violently beat their face, forehead, cheeks and chest, and bang their head against the earth.”36 Polish Catholics took advantage of opportunities to venerate the consecrated host outside of Mass as well, including its formal exposition in churches, its ceremonial procession through neighborhoods and villages, and shrines rooted in Eucharistic miracles. One such shrine could be found in the Corpus Christi Church in Poznań. Overseen by a community of Carmelites, the shrine housed a host purportedly purchased in 1399 by three nefarious Jews who attempted to desecrate it. They discarded it when the host began to bleed, and the site where it landed—where the church now stands—became associated with numerous miracles. King Jogaila was an early devotee, making a point to visit the shrine before major battles. The

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shrine developed into a prominent center of pilgrimage, enhanced by written accounts of its miraculous origins, including a history published by Jan Chrysostom Sikorski in 1604.37 In this period, Polish Catholics gravitated toward new ways of identifying with and worshipping Christ. One of the most dramatic and popular entailed the development of Calvary shrines, full-scale replicas of the sites of Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection. The first such shrine in Poland-Lithuania, and in time the largest Calvary in Europe, was founded by Mikołaj Zebrzydowski, the vaivode of Kraków who helped spearhead the rebellion against King Zygmunt III in 1606. In the early seventeenth century he started building elaborate models of sacred sites in the Holy Land on his estate in Little Poland, a project carried on by his son and grandson. Known as Kalwaria Zebrzydowska, the complex eventually contained over forty churches and chapels, each in a distinct style and linked to events and people associated with Christ’s final hours. A community of Bernardine friars was charged with ministering to the growing throng of pilgrims eager to draw closer to Christ by symbolically accompanying him on his momentous journey. The shrine developed into one of the most popular religious destinations in Poland-Lithuania and inspired imitations in other parts of the country.38 Already ubiquitous in the Middle Ages, devotional practices focused on the Blessed Virgin appear to have grown even more pronounced in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. One factor behind this development was the Protestant tendency to reject Marian devotion as a kind of idolatrous corruption of true Christianity. As with other Protestant criticisms of this sort, Catholics responded by reaffirming their commitment to traditional practices, thereby sharpening the distinctions between Catholic and Protestant life. By the seventeenth century, over a thousand Marian shrines blanketed the commonwealth. Many were home to images purported to be miraculous, which attracted large numbers seeking remedy for afflictions.39 The rosary grew in popularity in these years. The Dominicans were especially zealous in promoting the virtues of this type of prayer, and they formed dozens of confraternities centered on it.40 These organizations appealed especially to women. Although Mary was the heavenly intercessor par excellence, Polish Catholics continued to rely on a plenitude of saints, each associated with a particular type of petition. Newly minted Polish saints offer insight into

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some of the values and concerns of the era. In order to generate a reputation for sanctity, it certainly helped if one were born to a prominent family. We see this at work in the remarkable afterlife of Kazimierz Jagiellon (1458–1484), the second son of King Kazimierz IV. Tutored by Długosz and Callimachus in his youth, the crown prince seemed destined for leadership, perhaps even succeeding his father, until he was felled by tuberculosis at age twenty-six. As collective memory of the prince hardened after his death, accounts of his deep piety, holiness, and charity emerged as particularly definitive, giving rise to a nascent sense of his sanctity. His budding cause rose to a new level of seriousness when it was claimed that he appeared to the Lithuanian army and aided them in their defense against the invading forces of Muscovy in 1518. This prompted his brother, King Zygmunt I, to advocate for his canonization, a goal finally realized in 1602. In 1636 his relics were translated to a chapel erected in his honor in the cathedral at Vilnius.41 The prestige and influence of the Jesuits help explain the swift canonization and popularity of another Polish saint, Stanisław Kostka (1550– 1568). At age fourteen, Stanisław ventured with his brother to Vienna to study. Hagiographical accounts relate that while he was there he became acquainted with the Jesuit movement, and against his family’s wishes he vowed to join it. He traveled to Rome on foot in 1567, evading capture by concerned relatives. He died a year later, but in his short time as a Jesuit he impressed those around him with the intensity of his piety. The Jesuits eagerly promoted his cause, resulting in his canonization in 1726. Dozens of churches and shrines emerged in his honor in the Polish-speaking world, but the epicenter of his cult remains a stunning chapel in the Church of Saint Andrew in Rome, where polychrome marble is employed to portray the saint on his deathbed. The Catholic universe of value and meaning remained intact, if somewhat unsettled, in early modern Poland-Lithuania. It was rocked by the emergence of a variety of Protestant confessions. A more subtle challenge was the ethos of the Renaissance, which made inroads among Polish elites in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and encouraged a set of assumptions quite at odds with the medieval Christian worldview. These assumptions included a more positive evaluation of human nature, a higher esteem for earthly existence, and the idealization of a life of moderation in harmony with the natural world. Renaissance values certainly could

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be reconciled with Christianity, but this required a fair measure of theological agility.42 One of the finest literary exemplars of the Polish Renaissance was Jan Kochanowski (1530–1584). The son of a lawyer from a village outside of Radom in Little Poland, he studied at the universities in Kraków, Königsberg, and Padua en route to an ecclesiastical career. In 1574 he abandoned the priesthood in favor of marriage and writing. He excelled at poetry and was instrumental in establishing Polish as a literary language. Kochanowski embodied the humanist values of his day, which led him to a richer appreciation of the human character, the goodness of life, and a celebration of God’s benevolence. In a 1562 poem he observes the following about God: “Your countless / Gifts and Your beneficence are boundless. / The church does not contain you; everywhere, / In heaven, earth, sea, the depths, You are there.” Hopelessly indebted to the creator, we can only offer gratitude and praise. Speaking on behalf of humankind, he concludes with the following petition: “O immortal Lord, be praised forever! / To Your grace and goodness there will never / Be an end; as long as it is Your liking, / Keep us here on earth—but under Your wing!”43 Although voices such as Kochanowski’s existed in early modern PolandLithuania, they were exceptions in a Catholic society that still trembled before the seemingly inscrutable will of an all-powerful God, that accepted as a given the human capacity for depravity, and that privileged the possibility of eternal salvation over the fleeting pleasures of earth. Representative of this traditional mentality is the poetry of Sebastian Grabowiecki (c. 1543–1608), a noble courtier who gravitated toward the religious life in his later years and eventually served as abbot of the Cistercian monastery in Bledzew. His poems typically double as prayers and emphasize human sinfulness and the need for divine mercy. Addressing God in one such poem, he writes: “You know how precarious [my life] is, and rightly / It has been compared to spray rising from water. / Tear me, I beseech You, from my sins—do not hold / In scorn the light-hearted man who succumbs to them. / Slacken Your hand for it has overwhelmed me, / And was ready to hold me up to ridicule.”44 The Renaissance in Poland-Lithuania entailed not only shifts in mentality but a fresh aesthetic sensibility. Poles gained a newfound appreciation of the artistic and architectural legacy of antiquity, esteeming in particular its symmetry, harmonious proportions, and orderly arrangement of

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core building elements. Flush with profits from the booming grain trade, sixteenth-century nobles sponsored many building projects in the new idiom, often hiring master craftsmen from Italy to design and direct the work. Most of these projects were secular in nature—palaces, town homes, government buildings, granaries, and so on—but a number of Renaissancestyle churches and chapels emerged as well.45 A premiere work of Polish ecclesial architecture and one of the finest examples of Renaissance architecture north of the Alps is the Zygmunt Chapel at the Wawel Cathedral. Commissioned by Zygmunt I to serve as a mausoleum for his family, it was built in the 1520s and early 1530s under the direction of the Florentine architect Bartolommeo Berrecci. In form it is a stack of simple geometric spaces: a cubic base topped by an octagonal drum, which in turn supports a dome crowned with a cylindrical lantern. The modest decoration on the exterior stands in marked contrast to the richness and detail lavished on the interior. The primary materials are red marble and alabaster, which evoke the colors long associated with the Polish crown. These are fashioned into a system of pilasters, arches, cornices, and other classical elements that frame the tombs of Zygmunt, his son Zygmunt August, and other members of their immediate family. Their finely carved effigies are positioned next to saints with special significance personally (Zygmunt), locally (Wacław and Florian), nationally (Vojtěch and Stanisław), and universally (Peter, Paul, and the four evangelists), as well as two great kings of ancient Israel (David and Solomon). The chapel’s central focus is the altar dedicated to the Dormition of the Blessed Virgin, inviting homage to this powerful intercessor and expressing the hope that those interred in the chapel might replicate her journey to heaven.46 Just as Renaissance architecture was gaining purchase in the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth, tastes were evolving in Italy. Leading architects began employing a classical design language in bold new ways. The Renaissance values of balance and harmony gave way to the quest for dynamism, theatricality, and exaltation. Known in time as the Baroque, these new impulses coincided with Catholic efforts to reverse the advance of Protestantism. The result was a new wave of churches in which architects applied the expressiveness and drama of Baroque architecture to celebrate Catholic Christianity. These churches were often delightful riots of color and form, where disputed Catholic concepts such as transubstan-

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tiation, the intercession of the saints, and the authority of the papacy were proudly proclaimed. As in other parts of Catholic Europe, the Baroque sensibility caught on in Poland-Lithuania and proved exceedingly popular. It corresponded well with the spirit of an age marked by a resurgent Catholic Church and a large, confident, and powerful noble caste. Over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, hundreds of preexisting churches were updated with Baroque elements, and scores of new churches were built in the same idiom. An early example of the Polish Baroque is the Jesuit Church of Saints Peter and Paul in Kraków, constructed under the supervision of mainly Italian architects during the first two decades of the seventeenth century. Like so many Jesuit churches of this era, Saints Peter and Paul was modeled in part after the order’s main church in Rome, the Gesù. The similarities are especially clear in its two-tiered façade. The lower tier is punctuated by niches housing statues of four Jesuit saints (Ignatius of Loyola, Francis Xavier, Aloysius Gonzaga, and Stanisław Kostka), and the upper tier hosts statues of the patron saints of PolandLithuania’s Vasa kings: Zygmunt and Władysław. The interior comprises a spacious central nave and two side aisles affording access to a series of chapels. A dome rises above the intersection of the nave and transept, and light from its windows helps call attention to the altar and the celebration of the Mass. Its richly appointed interior honors, among others, its patrons Peter and Paul and national luminaries such as Vojtěch, Stanisław of Kraków, and Stanisław Kostka.

Over the long course of Jagiellonian rule in Poland, its kings sought to enhance the power of the crown. Their ambitions were checked by an assertive szlachta, many of whom were drawn to models of classical republicanism. The last of the Jagiellonian kings, Zygmunt II August, agreed to landmark legislation that fortified the Polish-Lithuanian union on terms that expanded the Sejm’s control over royal elections, taxation, and military funding. This new political framework rested on the principle of consensus, and it worked relatively well for decades. A functional government, success on the battlefield, economic expansion, and cultural florescence combined to make the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries something of a golden age for Poland-Lithuania.

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This golden age unfolded in a context of confessional fragmentation, in which a host of new Christian movements challenged the former dominance of the Catholic Church in Europe. The messages at the heart of these movements—criticism of the Catholic Church’s failures, the promise of a purer, more original Christianity—appealed to large numbers in Poland and Lithuania. The country’s political culture, including the nobility’s resistance to any impingement on the freedom of its members, created a climate of tolerance very much at odds with a broader European experience marked by religious persecution and wars rooted in religious difference. Protestant momentum peaked in the middle of the sixteenth century, only to recede in the face of a revitalized Catholic Church marked by greater internal discipline and more effective programs of evangelization and catechesis. Scores of influential nobles returned to the Catholic fold, and Catholicism emerged as an increasingly integral component of Polish noble identity. In the same period in which the Western Christian world fractured into Catholic and Protestant camps, progress was made in bridging the gap between Catholics and Orthodox Christians in the commonwealth, culminating in the 1596 Union of Brest. The union fell short of its promise— Uniates never enjoyed equal status with Catholics—and it came at a high cost. The union and Polish efforts to suppress traditional Orthodoxy provoked pointed resistance among Eastern Orthodox Christians. Muscovy regarded it as an aff ront against true Christianity, and Polish interventions in its eastern neighbor’s affairs further enflamed the situation. In time, Moscow would be in a position to exact a terrible revenge. Taking advantage of the prosperity of the era and responding to the challenge of rival churches, Catholic leaders invested in a denser network of schools, a more highly educated clergy, and the production of a variety of printed materials designed to nurture faith. Generous patrons lavished their wealth on an abundance of artistic and architectural projects that clearly echoed aesthetic conventions in other parts of Europe. As the Polish Renaissance came into its own, it demonstrated a more optimistic view of human nature, creation, and the human relationship with God. Such sentiments, however, never displaced traditional themes of human sinfulness, God’s judgment, and the importance of heavenly intercessors. Poland-Lithuania reached its greatest territorial extent in the first half of the seventeenth century, and its innovative military practices and sub-

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stantial economic resources placed it among Europe’s leading powers. As it happens, this apogee would be followed by a series of sharp reversals later in the century that sapped the commonwealth’s strength and left it increasingly vulnerable to the whims of its neighbors. In some respects the Catholic Church would come to play an even more prominent role in Polish society, and religious minorities would have to contend with mounting hostility and an erosion of their rights.

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On April 1, 1656, Poland-Lithuania’s King Jan Kazimierz and his closest associates gathered in the cathedral in Lviv for Mass and a special ceremony. With great pomp, the king pronounced an oath that formally identified the Virgin Mary as the country’s queen and placed his subjects under her particular care. He then petitioned her for assistance in the commonwealth’s “present affliction.” In an era when grandiloquent expressions of devotion to Mary were commonplace, this one stood out. It occurred in the midst of a full-scale military catastrophe, in which Cossack, Muscovite, and Swedish armies ravaged the commonwealth’s territory and forced the king to seek sanctuary abroad. Poles began to hope that a turning point was reached early in 1656, after the Swedish siege of Częstochowa was successfully deflected. That the Lutheran Swedes would dare attack the home of the Black Madonna stirred righteous indignation, and their failure gave rise to the conviction that higher powers were now engaging on behalf of the country’s cause. As one chronicler noted in 1688: “The holy place was preserved by God, and more by miracles than by the sword.”1 Buoyed by victory, Polish resistance stiffened, and Jan Kazimierz returned to the commonwealth to lead his subjects. An early order of business was honoring Mary in a special way. The events leading up to the royal oath at Lviv are emblematic of PolandLithuania’s tumultuous history in the second half of the seventeenth century and first half of the eighteenth. In these decades, the commonwealth repeatedly was overrun and undermined by hostile neighbors. This had a devastating effect on the once powerful country, stripping it of territory, population, and resources and leaving it virtually defenseless against foreign manipulation. In these difficult conditions, the symbols and rituals of Catholicism provided a comforting balm, and a country once known for its religious diversity and toleration grew more explicitly Catholic.

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Death Spiral King Władysław IV died without a legitimate male heir in 1648, and the szlachta elected his brother Jan Kazimierz (1609–1672) to serve as his successor. The new king, who earlier had joined the Jesuit order and was even appointed a cardinal before opting out of an ecclesial career, inherited a sprawling, prosperous country that, unlike some other parts of Europe, had managed to avoid the devastation of the Thirty Years’ War. This good fortune was about to change. Trouble began in the winter of 1647–48 with an uprising of the Cossacks, armed men mainly of peasant origin native to the southeastern provinces of the commonwealth. For many decades, the rulers of Poland and Lithuania had employed this population in their military campaigns; they were an effective, if fractious, force. In 1647 a veteran commander named Bohdan Khmelnytskyi (c. 1595–1657) rallied his fellow Cossacks into rebellion. Khmelnytskyi was aggrieved by the unfair treatment he had experienced at the hands of a powerful Polish magnate, and he felt betrayed when the Sejm scuttled plans for a major military campaign involving Cossack forces. He understood the resentments many Cossacks harbored against the Poles and Jews who had moved into the region and who appeared to be benefiting at the expense of the indigenous population. He also understood the hostility that the mainly Orthodox Cossacks felt toward the Union of Brest. As he put it, the commonwealth forced tens of thousands of Orthodox Christians “into pernicious Union and Roman errors, by force, violence, and many tortures of the Christian conscience.”2 Khmelnytskyi’s forces won a series of early victories, which rallied growing numbers to his side, destabilized the commonwealth’s southeastern territories, and resulted in the massacre of non-Orthodox populations, especially Jews.3 Commonwealth armies eventually checked the Cossack threat, and faced with few options, Khmelnytskyi turned to Moscow for assistance in 1654, appealing directly to Tsar Aleksei Mikhailovich to defend Orthodox Christians in the commonwealth against the depredations of Catholics and Uniates. Eager to profit at Poland-Lithuania’s expense and to avenge past Polish aggression against Muscovy, Aleksei ordered a military invasion, citing his role as protector of Orthodoxy. His forces penetrated deep into Lithuania, capturing Vilnius in 1655.

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As the commonwealth’s troubles mounted in the east, Sweden seized the opportunity to strike in the west. Polish–Swedish relations had been troubled for decades, owing to competing territorial ambitions, rival religious identities, and the standing claims to the Swedish crown made by Poland-Lithuania’s Vasa kings. In 1655 Swedish King Charles X ordered an invasion of the commonwealth, and his battle-hardened forces advanced rapidly as Polish commanders either capitulated without a fight or were vanquished on the battlefield. Great Poland, Mazovia, and Little Poland were soon submerged in the Swedish “Deluge,” leading Jan Kazimierz to flee to Hapsburg Silesia for safety. The situation began to brighten only at the end of the year with the successful defense of Częstochowa. As Sweden’s position worsened, Charles lured other powers into the fray. He convinced Friedrich Wilhelm, ruler of Brandenburg-Prussia, to offer military assistance, promising him control over part of the commonwealth in return. He struck a similar arrangement with György II Rákóczi of Transylvania. After years of struggle and incalculable misery, the commonwealth gradually stilled its multiple assailants.4 Rákóczi’s forces were hemmed in and obliterated in 1657. In the same year, Poland-Lithuania and Brandenburg-Prussia signed the Treaty of Wehlau, in which Friedrich Wilhelm agreed to break with Sweden in exchange for sovereignty over the Duchy of Prussia (a Polish fief since 1466). Sweden signed the Treaty of Oliwa in 1660, leaving the invader little to show for its five-year occupation other than wreckage and ruin. Peace in the western half of the country allowed the commonwealth to concentrate on its war with Muscovy, which came to a halt with the Truce of Andrusovo (1667) and a formal end with the Treaty of Eternal Peace (1686). Poland-Lithuania ceded vast stretches of territory in the east, including the regions of Smolensk, Czernihów, Kiev, and all lands east of the Dnieper River. It agreed to an article stipulating that Orthodox Christians would not be harassed in its domain, thereby supplying Moscow a ready pretext for future interference. The nearly constant wars during Jan Kazimierz’s unhappy, two-decade reign took a devastating toll on the commonwealth. The country’s territory was reduced by a quarter, and its population shrank by as much as 40 percent. Losses were especially heavy in urban areas, and many cities ceased to be of any consequence. After repeated assaults and occupations, a ravaged Warsaw stood around a third of its prewar size. Much

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of the country’s cultural heritage—archives, significant buildings, works of art—was looted or destroyed. Making matters worse, the neighboring states of Brandenburg-Prussia and the Grand Duchy of Moscow emerged from the conflict significantly larger and more powerful, which the commonwealth would come to greatly regret. Having presided over the country’s unraveling, Jan Kazimierz abdicated the throne in 1668 and spent his final years in France. After absorbing so many blows, the commonwealth ceased to be the dominant power it once was, though its full impotence was not immediately apparent. The reign of King Jan Sobieski (1674–96) offered a fleeting reminder of its lost potential. Born to a distinguished Galician family, Sobieski studied at the University of Kraków and spent time abroad before embarking on a military career. He served with distinction in campaigns against the Cossacks, Sweden, and the Ottoman Empire, rising to the pinnacle of the commonwealth’s army before being elected king. His most famous accomplishment came in 1683, when he led an international force to victory against a much larger Ottoman army besieging Vienna. A pious Catholic, en route to the battle he paused at Częstochowa to pray before the Black Madonna icon, and after triumphing on the field he sent Ottoman trophies of war in tribute to the Vatican. His achievement earned him international acclaim and reinforced the idea of Poland as a bulwark of the Catholic West. But the victory served Austria’s interests more than the commonwealth’s and did little to reverse the latter’s decline. When the szlachta gathered to elect Sobieski’s successor, Friedrich August I, elector of Saxony, emerged from the divided field, having dispensed bribes to a critical mass of leading nobles. He agreed to convert to Catholicism, a prerequisite for his new position. This dismayed his Lutheran subjects in Saxony, while his disregard for Christian morals would in time scandalize the pious in Poland-Lithuania. Taking the name August II, he forged a personal union between the commonwealth and Saxony that was destined to endure until 1763. The Saxon era, as it has come to be known, showed some initial promise before giving way to listlessness and humiliation. With an eye toward territorial gain, August II joined Denmark and Russia in waging war against Sweden, thereby dragging the commonwealth into the debacle known as the Great Northern War (1700–1721). Sweden proved much tougher than anticipated, besting Poland-Lithuania’s forces

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on the battlefield and forcing its king to abdicate. A subsequent Russian victory over Sweden in 1709 returned August to the throne, where he had to contend with growing unrest. He survived a major uprising in 1715 thanks only to Russian backing. In the peace settlement that followed, brokered by Russia, he was forced to withdraw Saxon troops from the commonwealth and reduce its army, rendering it a Russian protectorate in everything but name.5 August II died in 1733, and as the szlachta gathered to elect his successor, support coalesced around the candidacy of Stanisław Leszczyński (1677–1766), a scion of a venerable noble family who, with Swedish support, had briefly reigned as king when August II was forced from power (1706–9). Leszczyński enjoyed the backing of his son-in-law, French King Louis XV. The foreign power that really mattered, however, was Russia, and having come to appreciate the pliancy of August II, it endorsed the candidacy of his son. Russian troops proctored the election of its Saxon client, forced Leszczyński to flee the country, and battled his increasingly bedraggled supporters into oblivion. The commonwealth’s new king, August III, occupied the throne for nearly three decades (1734–63), taking only occasional interest in its fractious affairs and delegating day-to-day responsibilities. Leszczyński spent the rest of his life in exile in France. In the Saxon era, the devastating potential of the liberum veto, in which the opposition of just one Sejm member could stymie legislation, came into full view. This clause was first employed in 1652, when envoy Władysław Siciński, working at the behest of magnate Janusz Radziwiłł, vetoed a move to extend the current Sejm beyond its six-week term, thereby rendering moot the legislation developed up to that point. Starting in the 1720s, this practice lost its stigma and became depressingly familiar. Keen to keep the commonwealth weak and dysfunctional, Russia and Prussia took to bribing envoys to veto any sensible legislation, effectively neutering this key organ of the state. During the reign of August II, eleven out of twenty Sejms were broken in this manner. Under August III, only one Sejm managed to pass any legislation at all. This new political reality had its defenders among those who saw the breakdown of government as the necessary price to pay for the country’s “golden freedom.” “We prefer to endure the purgatory of this freedom,” opined Jan Dębiński, “even though it is very vexatious and in part harmful, rather than with others go down the road of despotic servitude.”6 Conservative Catholics took comfort in

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the fact that a hamstrung government could not impinge on the church’s wealth and prerogatives, a not uncommon phenomenon elsewhere in eighteenth-century Europe.7 With the near paralysis of the central government, the exercise of power took place elsewhere. Magnates emerged as the unrivaled authorities over their respective domains, erecting elaborate courts, maintaining standing armies, and even conducting foreign policy. With no serious repercussions to fear, neighboring powers encroached on the commonwealth’s territory and interfered in its internal affairs with impunity. In the midst of the breakdown, mainstream political thinking grew increasingly divorced from reality. Many took comfort in the fantasy that the commonwealth’s weakness was its best defense; as it posed no threat to its neighbors, they would leave it in peace. Others continued to insist that the country’s highly dysfunctional polity represented a kind of ideal. “In freedom lies Poland’s strength,” argued the Jesuit Walenty Pęski. “We do not live in a foreign way, not as Frenchmen, not as Germans do, but in our own native Polish way. What is more, it is rather not a human but a heavenly way of life.”8 In many European societies at this time, the state came to exercise extensive authority over religious life in its territory. In Protestant countries, this was often a by-product of the Reformation. After breaking with the papacy and the international apparatus it commanded, Protestant reformers found themselves dependent on the support of sympathetic rulers and thus amenable to state interference. In Catholic countries such as Spain and Austria, monarchs extended their control over the appointment of church officials, the dispensing of church revenue, and other essential procedures. Poland-Lithuania defied this trend. Its hapless government was in no position to assert its will over an institution as disciplined and powerful as the Catholic Church. On the contrary, it came to depend on the resources, expertise, and stability the church could offer. The bishops remained a small but influential voting bloc in the Senate, and talented clerics staffed key administrative positions throughout the country. The law required that every other holder of the office of grand chancellor of Poland (akin to the role of prime minister) be a Catholic bishop. Church courts provided the only reliable juridical system in the country, and church officials served on the highest tribunals in Poland and Lithuania. Polish church institutions often hosted the meetings of the sejmiki and housed legal records for safekeeping. Meanwhile, the clergy quietly

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ignored existing laws designed to limit the church’s power, such as prohibitions against church ownership of certain forms of property.9 Adding to the commonwealth’s woes in this period were deleterious economic and social developments. The devastating wars during the reign of Jan Kazimierz caused massive disruptions in the country’s critical grain trade. Production plummeted, and distribution channels were often compromised during the conflicts. When stability finally was achieved, reestablishing the old system was no longer possible. More efficient suppliers elsewhere had moved in to satisfy a substantial share of the international demand for grain. Struggling to sustain their operations, many farmers and landowners slipped into penury and had to sell their lands. Those with the largest landholdings fed on those who failed, further deepening economic divisions. By the second half of the eighteenth century, the richest 2 percent of the szlachta controlled an estimated 75 percent of PolandLithuania’s wealth. In a context of economic stagnation, conditions generally worsened for the peasantry at the bottom of the economic order. The commonwealth’s cities and towns endured a similar process of destruction and decline that proved difficult to reverse. Home to perhaps a quarter of the country’s population in the sixteenth century, by the eighteenth century that figure had fallen to around 15 percent. Although a few cities managed to recover something of their lost luster—Warsaw was a leading example—many remained scarred, economically anemic, and partially abandoned. The actions of the szlachta only compounded matters. Generally scornful of urban life, they tended to invest their wealth in the countryside. They used their political power to enhance their privileges, often to the detriment of cities. They exempted themselves from city taxes and jurisdiction, restricted the rights of urban dwellers to engage in certain forms of economic activity, and further curtailed the influence cities once exercised in national politics.10

The Intolerable Other Catholicism’s preeminence in Poland stretched back well into the Middle Ages, and yet in so diverse a region, the accommodation of other religions was a practical necessity. With the kingdom’s eastward expansion, Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy existed side by side, usually in peace and with some fruitful cross-fertilization. The influx of Jews into the area was

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hardly welcomed by Christians, but Jews encountered a more hospitable climate here than elsewhere. In the fifteenth century, Hussites found a foothold, as did a variety of Protestant confessions in the sixteenth century. Over the course of the seventeenth century, this spirit of accommodation gradually waned. Among the szlachta, where respect for each other’s religious differences was once a necessary consequence of the country’s golden freedom, Catholicism increasingly emerged as an integral dimension of their collective identity. As it did, the commonwealth’s climate grew more restrictive and hostile toward non-Catholics. To understand why, it helps to recall that the main architects of the commonwealth’s travails in this century—Cossacks, Russians, Swedes, Prussians, Turks— were associated with other religions. Polish Catholics increasingly felt besieged by hostile faiths, and the suspicion took root that the country’s earlier indifference to religious difference had alienated it from God’s favor. The obvious solution was to push for greater uniformity and to scapegoat religious minorities. An early stage in this shift unfolded at the 1658 Sejm, in the aftermath of the Swedish Deluge, where opinion coalesced around the claim that the commonwealth was being punished by God for tolerating heresy. Determined to atone for their sins, envoys passed a harsh law designed to rid the country of the Polish Brethren, or “Arians” as they were known by their despisers. Polish Brethren were given three years to leave the commonwealth or face death. When the war with Sweden concluded two years later on terms not unfavorable to Poland-Lithuania, many were quick to link this good fortune with the 1658 law. The Sejm noted the following in 1662: “All the world can see that the Heavens are content with the expulsion of the Arian sect from our State, for after the entire country managed to rid itself of this blasphemy, [the Heavens] provided us with trophies from our enemies.”11 For other Protestants, the 1573 toleration edict still provided a measure of freedom, but a series of legislative moves made life less palatable throughout much of the commonwealth. A 1668 law identified apostasy from Catholicism as a crime punishable by exile. A 1673 statute limited new ennoblements to Catholics. In 1717 the construction or renovation of non-Catholic churches was formally prohibited. In 1718 the Sejm expelled from its ranks its last remaining non-Catholic member, the Calvinist Andrzej Piotrowski. In 1733 Protestants were barred from appointments to

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the Senate, the Chamber of Envoys, tribunal courts, and other high offices. An exception to this trend was Royal Prussia, where Protestants enjoyed special protections enshrined in the Treaty of Oliwa.12 These legislative changes coincided with a steady decline in the Protestant population. The number of Protestant parishes in the commonwealth plummeted from an estimated eight hundred in 1590 to just eighty in 1764. Although less an actual presence, they remained a powerful idea against which Catholics defined themselves. In their discourse regarding Protestants in this period, Catholics tended to employ increasingly dehumanizing language, comparing them to weeds, vermin, sickness, and the like. This is one index of the siege mentality that had taken hold among Catholics.13 An extreme example of the mounting Catholic hostility toward Protestants unfolded in 1724 in Toruń, the city that hosted the ecumenical Colloquium of Love some eight decades before. The trouble began on July 16 as Catholics participated in a public procession through the streets of the largely Lutheran city. When some Protestant onlookers failed to show sufficient respect to an image of the Virgin Mary, offended Catholics forced them to. In response, a group of Protestants stormed the local Jesuit college the next day and caused a great deal of destruction, pitching Catholic devotional objects they found there into a bonfire. In November the matter was brought before the Crown Tribunal, which issued exceedingly harsh verdicts, including death sentences for the city’s mayor and nine other Lutheran officials. As the news rippled through Protestant Europe, it sparked outrage. Prussia endlessly fanned these flames, using the “Bloodbath of Toruń” to justify meddling in the commonwealth’s affairs in purported defense of Protestant interests. Despite its relatively strong historical record of religious toleration, Poland-Lithuania was increasingly viewed abroad as a bastion of repression.14 Polish Catholic fears of the other extended to the country’s Jews and inspired a variety of efforts designed to limit this population’s supposedly nefarious influence. Poland-Lithuania was hardly unique in this regard. Throughout Europe, the Catholic Church had for centuries emphasized the importance of maintaining firm boundaries between Christians and Jews, motivated by concerns that the latter might corrupt the former. This danger seemed especially pronounced in the commonwealth, owing to its large number of Jews and the impor tant economic role they played. Pope

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Benedict XIV issued an encyclical to the country’s Catholic bishops in 1751, reminding them of such perils.15 As it happens, Poland-Lithuania’s bishops and clergy had been sounding this same alarm for decades. Whoever “loves the enemy of the Cross, is himself an enemy of the Cross,” thundered the Jesuit Kaspar Balsam in the mid-eighteenth century. “That is why all of those Catholics who serve the Jews, and even more, those who could prevent this but do not prevent it, mortally sin.”16 Catholic fears about Jews sometimes moved from words to deeds, including the prosecution of alleged Jewish crimes of a religious nature. Medieval paranoia that the Jews used the blood of Christian children for religious purposes remained stubbornly in place in certain quarters. Dozens of accusations of so-called Jewish ritual murder were brought to court in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, leading in some instances to execution.17 The last of these trials took place in 1753, when thirty-three Jews were brought before the consistory court at Żytomierz, and thirteen were found guilty and executed. Jews also ran the danger of being accused of stealing objects sacred to Catholics, including consecrated hosts, for the purposes of either profit or desecration. Fueling such charges were deeply embedded stereotypes of Jewish greed and hatred of Christ. Surveying the evidence, the historian Gershon David Hundert argues that the 1740s and 1750s constituted the worst period of Jewish persecution for such crimes in Poland’s history up to that point.18 Anti-Jewish sentiment manifested in softer forms as well, including the efforts of a number of Catholic leaders to convert Jews to Catholicism. A leading exemplar of this effort was Franciszek Kobielski (1679–1755), appointed bishop of Kamianets-Podilskyi in 1736 and then of Brest and Lutsk in 1739. In 1741 he published an open letter to Jews of his diocese, attempting to educate them about what he considered Judaism’s errors and the possibility of salvation through Christ. He also preached in the synagogue at Brody. Such endeavors yielded meager harvests.19 In this era, another category of outsider stirred Polish Catholic concern: witches. Fear and persecution of witches unfolded across Europe, flaring with particular intensity in the early modern period. Poland-Lithuania was slower than some neighboring regions in taking cognizance of this purported threat, but it eventually arrived at the same conclusions. Prosecution of witchcraft peaked in the second half of the seventeenth and first half of the eighteenth centuries, claiming the lives of thousands. It can

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Altar in the middle of the central nave in the Corpus Christi Church, Poznań. According to tradition, the altar marks a site associated with the alleged host desecration of 1399. Four bronze plaques on the altar relate the legend of how three Jews attempted to harm a consecrated host. Below the altar, statues of three Jews are grouped around the opening of a well, presumably attempting to conceal the evidence of their crime. Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

be explained in part by the turbulence of the era, which drove people to look for causes of their calamities. Another factor at play was the Catholic Church’s effort to promote a precise awareness of Christian orthodoxy and orthopraxy. As this awareness penetrated deep into Polish Catholic society, the differences between official church teaching and popular religious practices sometimes stood out in bold relief. Practitioners of traditional methods of healing, warding off evil, and tapping into unseen powers could find themselves accused of sorcery. Harsh methods of interrogation, including torture, often led to confessions, thereby confirming the existence of the witchcraft that people had come to fear.20

A Functional Institution Disasters like the Deluge and the Great Northern War took a harsh toll on the institutions of the Catholic Church in Poland-Lithuania, degrading or destroying its property, resources, and personnel. Unlike the gov-

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ernment, however, the church remained a fairly disciplined and fully functioning institution. Although chastened in some respects, its influence in Polish society grew more pronounced. In the first half of the eighteenth century, the territory of the commonwealth was divided into seventeen Latin Rite dioceses, which belonged in turn to two provinces, Gniezno and Lviv. These dioceses varied greatly in size and resources. The richest and densest diocese by far was Kraków, which was home to around nine hundred parishes and more than a million souls. The bishop of Kraków enjoyed an annual income of more than one million złoty, roughly twice what the archbishop of Gniezno could expect to reap and many times greater than the incomes of bishops in the impoverished eastern dioceses. Such discrepancies helped drive a constant jockeying for position and promotion among prelates. Achieving high ecclesial office remained a prestigious career that attracted talented, ambitious, and well-educated men from leading noble families. The church was to a significant extent a meritocracy, and rising through its ranks required talent and political acumen. This helps explain why high-ranking clergy routinely were invited to serve in regional government and the royal court. Members of the episcopate naturally varied in terms of quality and character. Two exemplary members were the brothers Andrzej and Józef Załuski, renowned for their love of learning and commitment to the country’s reform. Andrzej served as chancellor of the crown for more than a decade while holding a series of bishoprics, culminating with Kraków in 1746. As bishop he also oversaw the University of Kraków, and he took steps to modernize its curriculum.21 Józef was a trusted adviser to one-time king Stanisław Leszczyński, accompanying him in his French exile for a time. After returning to Poland-Lithuania, he was appointed bishop of Kiev in 1758. Together, Andrzej and Józef amassed a library of nearly 400,000 works, one of the largest collections of its day. With an eye toward improving Polish society, they opened the library to the public in 1747. Bishop Kajetan Sołtyk, by contrast, cut a much less impressive figure. In the political arena, he proved himself a Machiavellian opportunist, and to his lasting discredit he oversaw the 1753 “ritual murder” trial that sentenced thirteen Jews to death. Poland-Lithuania’s bishops presided over a large, integrated network of personnel and institutions. In the mid-eighteenth century, roughly 8,000 priests were serving in around 4,000 parishes and 2,000 filial churches

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across the commonwealth.22 The parish network was densest in the west and south and thinner in the east, though there were areas of growth there. Bishops exercised oversight through a system of parish visitation, conducted personally or through subordinates in the hierarchy. They made increasing use of pastoral letters to teach the faithful and enunciate their priorities. Owing to the ravages of war, this was an era of extensive rebuilding. As the Protestant population contracted, numerous Protestant houses of worship were converted into Catholic churches. The travails of the mid-seventeenth century proved especially difficult for the Greek Catholic population. The Cossack uprising and subsequent Russian invasion caused immense destruction and loss of life in Uniate areas of settlement and greatly aggravated Uniate–Orthodox relations. The eventual peace brought not only stability but greater religious uniformity. The lands won by Moscow were populated overwhelmingly by Orthodox Christians, thus depleting the commonwealth’s Orthodox population and leaving Greek Catholics as the most dominant Eastern Christian population. The late seventeenth century and the first half of the eighteenth was a time of Uniate growth and institution building. A synod of Greek Catholic bishops in Zamość in 1720 proved instrumental for ordering the church’s internal affairs. In 1772 the commonwealth was home to an estimated 4.5 million Greek Catholics, who were divided into roughly 9,300 parishes and eight dioceses. The era also witnessed the successful culmination of the effort to bring the commonwealth’s small Armenian Christian population into union with Rome, a process begun in the 1630s. Another layer of the Catholic Church’s strength lay in the hundreds of religious communities distributed across the country. According to one estimate in 1772–73, there were 14,601 male religious living in 995 houses and 3,211 nuns living in 152 houses. Since 1700, the number of male houses grew by roughly 48 percent and the number of female houses grew by 40 percent. More than half of the male religious belonged to the mendicant orders.23 One new religious order to take root in Poland-Lithuania was the Clerks Regular of the Pious Schools of the Poor of the Mother of God, known colloquially as the Piarists. The visionary behind this movement was the Spanish priest José de Calasanz (c. 1556–1648; canonized in 1767). While stationed in Rome, he concluded that exposure to quality education could improve the material and moral condition of the children of impoverished

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families. He attracted priests to engage in this work, along with generous patrons to fund it, though the demands of the latter soon led the Piarists to share their pedagogical gifts with more well-to-do students. King Władysław IV invited them to the commonwealth in 1642, and they set about building a network of Piarist communities and schools. They formed a Polish province in 1662, which was divided into two parts in 1736. Under the leadership of Stanisław Konarski (1700–1773), Piarist schools came to distinguish themselves by virtue of their quality and innovation. Konarski studied in Rome in the 1720s, and he complemented that education with advanced study in Paris and travel to other parts of Europe. He returned to Poland-Lithuania in 1730 with an appreciation of leading trends in education and an awareness of how education in the commonwealth was falling short. He set about modernizing Piarist schools in order to train a new generation of leaders dedicated to public service, guided by Christian moral values, and capable of reforming their dysfunctional country. Under his direction, Piarist schools appointed more highly trained teachers, adopted better textbooks, and instituted a more contemporary and practical curriculum. Through these efforts, the order seized the mantle of educational excellence once held by the Jesuits, challenging the latter to update their schools and curricula.24 Central to Konarski’s reformist vision was the founding in 1740 of the Collegium Nobilium, which he intended as an elite school for training future leaders. Here students passed through a rigorous, innovative curriculum and were challenged to shed Sarmatian myths surrounding the commonwealth.25 The Piarists gave rise indirectly to the Marian Fathers, the only religious order founded in Poland-Lithuania before the nineteenth century. The order’s founder was Stanisław Papczyński (1631–1701; beatified 2007), the son of a blacksmith from the village of Podegrodzie in Little Poland. He affiliated with the Piarists as a young man in 1654 and taught in Piarist schools for a number of years. Over time, however, his spiritual ambitions came into conflict with Piarist expectations, leading to his departure in 1670. Papczyński slowly attracted a following for a model of religious life that emphasized Marian devotion (especially to the Immaculate Conception) and demanded personal asceticism, the spiritual work of praying for souls in purgatory, and various types of pastoral care for the living. He won support from sympathetic bishops, and in 1701, the last year of his life, the Vatican recognized his movement as a new religious order.

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Sarmatian Piety According to the dominant historical narratives of early modern Europe, the Reformation inaugurated an era of faith-based warfare that raged on and off for more than a century. The senselessness of these conflicts helped usher in a subsequent phase of history linked to the Enlightenment. Europeans grew more tolerant of religious differences and less willing to fight over theological minutiae. Core assumptions of Enlightenment thought, including a greater confidence in the reasoning mind’s ability to arrive at the truth, nurtured the conviction that human history was progressive and that the future would be more prosperous and harmonious than the present. Under the new intellectual paradigm, Europeans were slower to accept inherited wisdom as a given, requiring instead persuasive demonstrations of a given tenet’s truth. Such attitudes paved the way for innovations in many fields, including theology. This narrative suffers from numerous defects. The so-called wars of religion were rarely motivated solely or even primarily by religious differences.26 Religious minorities continued to experience discrimination, if not persecution, in the era that followed. “Enlightened” thinkers, meanwhile, if quick to dismiss the unexamined dogmas of the past, maintained their own sacred principles that were above scrutiny. If the standard historical narrative rests on exaggerated dichotomies, this is not to say that it is wholly without merit. There are indeed marked differences between these two eras, particularly in the religious domain. Most Europeans still faced strong pressures to belong to the dominant confession of a given region or state, but in many respects the impact of religion in public life was softening. Across much of Europe, expanding central governments started encroaching on spheres of experience once considered the brief of the church. As governments claimed and exercised greater oversight of the churches in their territories, they often brought a practical orientation to the task, emphasizing religion’s capacity to form honest and obedient subjects.27 The case of the commonwealth further muddles such generalizations. In the era of faith-based persecution and warfare, Poland-Lithuania proved remarkably tolerant. The status of religious minorities grew more tenuous in the century or so after 1648, when “Europe” was supposedly moving away from religious persecution. Meanwhile, the “Age of Reason” was

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hardly a high point in terms of intellectual activity in the commonwealth. The creativity of the Polish Renaissance in the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries gradually changed to a climate in which new ideas were often suspected of being anti-Catholic and anti-Polish. The successful implantation of Protestantism in the region awakened fears that the free flow of ideas was fostering heresy. Many Catholic leaders advocated stricter controls on publishing, education, and public debate in order to protect the faithful from dangerous doctrines. “It would be far better to listen to the word of God directly from the priests, so that there were no difference within the Church and so that the heretics . . . would not infect these books with their venom,” lamented the theologian and priest Benedykt Herbest (1531–1598). “But we have come to an unfortunate age, when even ladies discuss religion. Would that someone wrote one book explaining the teachings of the Catholic Church, and would that only this book be read in homes, this way the word of God would not be defiled by contempt and dishonesty.”28 As the Catholic Church reasserted its dominance in Polish society, it was able to bring its doctrinal concerns to bear on the country’s intellectual culture. Such worries dovetailed with the Sarmatian sense that Poland-Lithuania had little to learn from the outside world. We see this attitude on display in The Happy Endurance of Kingdoms or Their Miserable Fall (Trwałość szczęsliwa królestw albo ich smutny upadek), a 1764 work by the Polish Jesuit Szymon Majchrowicz (1717–1783), which celebrates Poland-Lithuania’s insularity and traditionalism and warns that novel ideas might undermine the church and harm the country. Lamenting contemporary intellectual trends, Majchrowicz notes: “The unvirtuous Voltaire, or some similar Jansenist, deist or Calvinist, so long as he writes in French or English, stands higher than St. Augustine, Chrysostom, Gregory, Thomas Aquinas and others sent by God to instruct the world.”29 To be sure, Poland-Lithuania was also home to Catholic intellectuals zealous for knowledge and receptive to contemporary ideas. Bishops Andrzej and Józef Załuski and Father Stanisław Konarski are premiere examples, and they were not alone. The historian Jerzy Lukowski estimates that of the 235 Polish-Lithuanian writers in the eighteenth century who could qualify as “enlightened,” 63.4 percent of them were clerics.30 For the majority of the Catholic faithful, however, traditional religious resources and ideas continued to provide satisfactory answers to existential questions,

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not to mention hope and comfort amid life’s travails. Integral to this worldview was a creator God actively involved in human affairs. Success or failure on earth was commonly understood to depend on the quality of one’s actions in the eyes of God. In accounting for the calamities befalling the commonwealth in the second half of the seventeenth century, for instance, the Franciscan Antoni Węgrzynowicz assigned blame to the moral failings of the Polish people. In a sermon he lamented: “The sins of the Poles led to the collapse of the integrity of the [territories] of the Polish Crown, so our motherland has shrunk as it lost so many provinces. . . . O Poles! Bring your sins to an end. . . . Stop violating the laws, privileges and freedoms of the Church, and to the King what belongs to [him].”31 Despite the commonwealth’s precipitous decline, many Poles in this era took refuge in the idea that they were a new chosen people uniquely blessed by God on account of their unwavering commitment to the Catholic faith. An early iteration of this theme can be found in the writings of Wespazjan Kochowski (1633–1700), a warrior who fought at the Battle of Vienna in 1683 and later in life devoted himself to writing. Among other works, he authored the epic religious poem Polish Psalmody (Psalmodia polska), a celebratory account of Sobieski’s victory at Vienna that conflates it with biblical accounts of ancient Israelite victories. “Your hand, O God, and not the human arm did smite the pagan; the haughty Assyrian shamefully ran from it. . . . Together with him the fat Edomite; and both of them fled, seized with fear, racing with the waters of the swift Danube. . . . The Parthian did not look back, he whose rearguards like to skirmish as they retreat; nor did the Mussulman utter a word.”32 Majchrowicz strikes similar notes in The Happy Endurance of Kingdoms or Their Miserable Fall. He argues that various peoples throughout history, from the ancient Israelites to contemporaneous European kingdoms, have enjoyed God’s particular favor, only to lose it by falling into sin or heresy. By virtue of the constant fidelity to Catholic truth, the Polish szlachta represent God’s new chosen people, and the golden freedom they enjoy is a testament to divine providence. Such works foreshadowed the concept of Polish messianism that would flourish in the nineteenth century. The culture of Polish Catholicism in this era, if somewhat insular, was not immune to outside influences. Evidence of this can be seen in the adoption of new practices originating abroad, such as the devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The modern form of this devotion emerged in con-

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nection with claims of the French nun Margaret Mary Alacoque (1647– 1690; canonized in 1920) that Christ appeared to her and recommended specific devotional practices focused on his Sacred Heart, including a certain pattern of receiving communion and practicing Eucharistic adoration. As word of the apparitions spread, Catholics throughout the world adopted the practices. Alacoque belonged to the Order of the Visitation of Holy Mary, which earlier had established a house in Warsaw at the instigation of Queen Marie Louise, and this community served as an early channel of the Sacred Heart devotion in Poland-Lithuania. The Jesuits and Piarists subsequently took up the cause, which advanced its spread. Marian devotion continued to flourish, accelerated it seems by the country’s struggles. It is telling that in one of Poland-Lithuania’s bleakest hours, King Jan Kazimierz honored Mary by declaring her its queen. The one religious order founded on Polish soil in this era, the Marian Fathers, was animated by the calling to promote the veneration of the Blessed Virgin. Another manifestation of Marianism in this period was the formal coronation of miraculous images of Mary.33 The coronation of the images at Częstochowa (1717) and Berdyczów (1756) attracted the ruling elite of both the church and the state to ceremonies of exceptional grandeur. For ordinary Catholics, a pilgrimage to one of the hundreds of Marian shrines throughout the country remained a popular remedy to stubborn problems. In light of the country’s travails, it is not surprising that some figures who suffered at the hands of Poland-Lithuania’s enemies touched a nerve among the faithful and acquired the odor of sanctity. So it was that Josafat Kuntsevych, the Uniate bishop murdered in 1623 by Orthodox Christians opposed to his efforts, became more than just a casualty of the unruly eastern frontier. He was regarded as a martyr in the eyes of Uniates and Catholics alike, leading to his beatification in 1643 and canonization in 1867. Andrzej Bobola (1591–1657) gained a similar reputation. Born to a noble family in Little Poland, he affiliated with the Jesuits in 1611 and eventually took up missionary work in the eastern borderlands. He remained there during the Cossack uprising, and in 1657 he was captured, tortured, and killed. From a Catholic perspective, Bobola suffered a martyr’s death for his faith and merited veneration. The church formally named him blessed in 1853 and canonized him a saint in 1938. In the particular climate of the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, when Polish Catholics were less inclined to look abroad for inspiration

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and found comfort in the conviction that they were a chosen people, local saints exercised a special appeal. Emblematic of this sentiment was a collection of vitae of saints and holy individuals published by the Franciscan Florian Jaroszewicz in 1767.34 The common thread running through the 399 lives he describes is that they were all connected to Poland in some fashion. One measure of Catholicism’s embeddedness in Polish culture was how thoroughly the Catholic liturgical calendar continued to define the public experience of time. By the early modern period, the liturgical calendar reflected centuries of Christian experience and aspiration, as the key symbols, dramas, and values of the faith were integrated with the usable pre-Christian past and mapped over the year to create a dense cycle of meaning to guide a Christian’s life. In certain parts of Europe its influence was receding for reasons theological (rejection of the cult of the saints, concerns about superstition) or practical (the desire to increase economic productivity), giving rise to a more secular reckoning of time. In Poland-Lithuania, however, it continued to set the annual rhythm of work and rest, celebration and penance, unifying Catholics across the socioeconomic spectrum around a common set of beliefs. Sundays and a copious number of religious feasts amounted to around one-third of the days in a given year, offering a welcome reprieve from the toil demanded of the majority of the population. This was a sacred right fiercely defended by the church, though the clergy routinely lamented how frivolous revelry often overshadowed the pious practices appropriate on such days. In early modern Poland-Lithuania, the liturgical year started with Saint Martin’s Day (November 11), which marked both the beginning of Advent and a time for initiating or concluding economic agreements. Peasants offered annual tributes to their lords; workers struck contracts for the coming year; fees were paid; and loans came due. It corresponded with the onset of the winter season, when the workload was lighter and many celebrations were held. There was fortune-telling on Saint Andrew’s Day (November 30), gift-giving on Saint Nicholas’s Day (December 6), and an elaborate set of customs honored on several days around Christmas, including visiting nativity scenes, caroling, and feasting. The weeks that followed remained a time of levity, punctuated by practices that yielded certain forms of supernatural protection. These included the blessing of candles on Candlemas (February 2) that were thought to shield the home

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from harm and the blessing of throats on the feast of Saint Blaise (February 3). The public mood shifted dramatically on Ash Wednesday, the start of a forty-day period of penance and fasting that culminated with great solemnity in Holy Week, as the last days and death of Christ were commemorated, setting the stage for the joyous celebration of his resurrection on Easter Sunday and the Easter season that followed. Theatrical techniques were commonly employed to heighten the impact of these events, including the public procession of wooden statues of Christ on a donkey on Palm Sunday; the ritual drowning of straw effigies of Judas on Holy Wednesday; the building of elaborate sepulchers in churches, where the faithful could gaze upon replicas of the dead body of Christ and his grieving mother; and, on the feast of the Ascension, the raising of statues of Christ on church towers and the casting down of images of the devil. Pre-Christian practices seemingly tied to new life and the fertility of spring had their place as well, including the sharing of painted eggs on Easter, the dousing of females by males on Easter Monday, and the bedecking of churches and homes with greenery, flowers, and branches around the time of Pentecost. After Pentecost, the Easter season gave way to ordinary time, dominated by agricultural concerns. Pre-Christian celebrations of midsummer were perpetuated in lightly Christianized forms on the feast of Saint John the Baptist toward the end of June. The feasts of Mary’s Assumption (August 15) and her birth (September 8) came to be associated with the harvest. As the growing season wound down, the time came to commemorate the dead with elaborate practices on the feasts of All Saints and All Souls (November 1 and 2).35 Catholic symbols and rituals offered a framework for recognizing the rites of passage of individual believers, endowing the life course with meanings calibrated around the quest for salvation. It was customary to give newborn children two names: one for the saint associated with the day of birth and the other rooted in family tradition. Premodern child mortality rates were high, so babies were baptized not long after birth in order to ensure that their afterlife would not be compromised by original sin. As children matured into adulthood, the priesthood and religious life offered respected vocations and positioned a person well in terms of the afterlife. The majority opted for marriage and parenthood, however. Catholic

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teaching and the marriage ritual underscored the significance of the union and made it exceedingly difficult to break. At the death of a loved one, Poland’s Catholics once again relied on the church to channel their grief, honor the deceased, and provide reassurance that the dead might enjoy a future life in paradise. As with baptisms and marriages, the grandeur of a funeral—including the number of clergy involved, the size of the procession, the number of bells rung—helped signify the social status of those involved.36 Those who died in good standing with the church could expect to be interred in holy ground—a church cemetery or, for elites, within the confines of a church—and periodically remembered and prayed for during masses sponsored at the anniversary of their deaths.37 The dense cycle of holy days and ritual celebration sacralized public space in the eyes of Catholics and contributed to the sense that the country as a whole enjoyed God’s special favor. Its large non-Catholic population was expected to honor this sensibility by showing respect to public displays of objects and rituals sacred to Catholics and by avoiding ostentatious industry on holy days when Catholics suspended their labors. Non-Catholics usually exercised prudence in this regard but not always to Catholic satisfaction, as illustrated by the conflict in Toruń in 1724. Such tensions were harder to prevent when Catholics actively sought out trouble with non-Catholics. Bishop Mikołaj Stefan Pac issued a pastoral letter to his flock in 1682, demanding that they show greater restraint when transporting consecrated hosts through the Jewish quarter in Vilnius. Apparently Catholics assisting priests on such missions took the occasion to “attack Jews they encounter: by beating the Jews with whips and other instruments, by overturning tables they have put out with items for sale, by snatching those things away; and by various buffoonish derisions of Jews and Jewesses.” The proper protocol was to ring a bell loudly beforehand in order to allow Jews the opportunity to vacate the street, and Pac demanded that the faithful follow it.38 If public space was periodically sanctified through religious celebrations, the abundance of churches and shrines throughout the commonwealth offered Catholics permanent loci of the sacred where they gave expression to their religious aspirations. The wars of the mid-seventeenth century damaged or destroyed hundreds of churches, and their repair, alongside the remodeling of undamaged structures and the creation of wholly new ones, made the late seventeenth century and first half of the

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eighteenth a time of particularly intense activity in terms of church construction. Baroque design remained the idiom of choice, which helps explain the predominance of Baroque churches in Poland to this day.39 Owing to the heavy damage visited on the capital and the generous patronage of governing elites thereafter, Warsaw’s building boom was especially intense, and numerous noteworthy Baroque edifices came to dot the skyline. The city benefited in particular from the efforts of Tylman of Gameren (1632–1706), an accomplished architect from the Netherlands who accepted a commission in Poland in the 1660s and spent the rest of his career designing buildings in and around the capital. One of his finest accomplishments is the small but lovely Saint Kazimierz’s Church, commissioned by Queen Maria Kazimiera for the Benedictine Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration of the Most Holy Sacrament and in gratitude for her husband’s 1683 victory at Vienna. The ground level of the building formed a Greek cross, the center of which supported an octagonal drum capped by an elegant dome and lantern. The relative restraint of the exterior stood in marked contrast to the exuberant interior. Destroyed during the Second World War, it has been rebuilt, but much of the interior decoration has been lost.

Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden, Masuria. Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

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As Gameren was designing this church, a much more audacious project was being launched to the north in a Masurian village. The village had been home to a popular shrine based around a linden tree that contained a miraculous image of Mary, but when Lutheranism came to dominate the region in the 1520s the shrine was destroyed. In the 1680s the Jesuits decided to restore the shrine as a center of pilgrimage, with an eye toward reasserting a Catholic presence in the region. Toward that end they set about constructing the Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden. They spared no expense, employing a cohort of master craftsmen over the course of decades to erect one of the finest Baroque churches in Poland. Its exquisite interior decoration includes an elaborate organ with figures of angels that move as the instrument is played. It is a fitting symbol of the theatricality the order was wont to employ to enhance its ministry.

Poland-Lithuania largely sidestepped the so-called wars of religion that engulfed much of Europe in the sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth, including the disastrous Thirty Years’ War. In 1648, the year that war came to an end with the Peace of Westphalia, the commonwealth’s fortunes were beginning to turn for the worse, and for the next two decades the country endured a series of catastrophic conflicts, the severity of which was intensified by religious differences between PolandLithuania and its neighbors. The commonwealth emerged from these conflicts substantially shrunken in terms of territory and population and militarily weakened, and its emboldened neighbors were determined to keep it that way. They interfered in its internal affairs and exploited flaws in its political culture, rendering the central government essentially unworkable. To a growing degree, the exercise of power in the commonwealth devolved to a small number of magnates. Non-Catholic powers such as Sweden, Prussia, and the Grand Duchy of Moscow played leading roles in the commonwealth’s travails, which only accelerated certain trends in its religious life. To a growing degree, its noble elites came to recognize Catholicism as an integral component of Sarmatian identity, and they traced the country’s fall from grace to its tolerant heritage. Determined to rectify this offense before God, many sought to curtail the rights and well-being of religious minorities. Protestants gradually lost the privileges they had once enjoyed, and their num-

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bers and strongholds shrank. Jews endured greater levels of persecution and had to contend with mounting false accusations of outlandish crimes against Christianity. With the loss of territory in the east, most of the commonwealth’s Eastern Orthodox population found themselves subject to Moscow. Greek Catholics formed the majority of Poland-Lithuania’s remaining Eastern Christian population, and they set about rebuilding a functioning network of church institutions. The Catholic Church suffered profoundly in the catastrophes that overwhelmed Poland-Lithuania, but in time it rebounded and resumed its core work. In light of the commonwealth’s general disarray, the church’s virtues were all the more apparent, and its officials and institutions helped buttress the country’s fragile public order. In addition to meeting the sacramental needs of the faithful, its priests and religious were largely responsible for public education and the care of vulnerable populations. Despite Poland-Lithuania’s troubles, the idea took root that the country’s Catholics constituted a new chosen people, uniquely blessed by God and uncommonly faithful to the church. As the “Age of Enlightenment” dawned in Europe, the commonwealth’s Catholics continued to inhabit an enchanted universe. The Catholic liturgical calendar defined the public experience of time; Catholic rituals guided the typical life course; and Catholic churches and shrines were found throughout the landscape. Enveloped in the comforting illusion of being uniquely blessed by God, many inhabitants of the commonwealth failed to appreciate just how vulnerable they had become to the whims of their neighbors. The country’s weakness would become all too clear in the second half of the eighteenth century, when Russia, Prussia, and Austria resolved to divide it between themselves, effectively erasing Poland from the map of Europe. This would inaugurate more than a century of direct foreign rule that had profound ramifications for the Catholic Church in the region, eroding the wealth, influence, and privilege it had long enjoyed.

6

Reform, Romance, and Revolution (1764–1848)

On February 29, 1768, a group of disaffected magnates, gentry, clerics, and peasants gathered in the Podolian town of Bar to form a confederation, the first step in their drive to overthrow the commonwealth’s king and drive out its Russian “protectors.” The confederates of Bar were deeply chagrined by the country’s recent course, including Russia’s bald domination over its affairs and perceived affronts to the Catholic Church, including a new law that guaranteed toleration of religious dissidents. The confederates were short on military training and equipment and slow to develop a unified chain of command, but these disadvantages were partially offset by the patriotic and religious zeal animating their ranks. As word of the rebellion spread, pockets of support opened in various corners of the commonwealth. The minuscule royal army was too impotent to suppress the rebellion on its own, and Russian forces were bogged down in conflicts elsewhere, allowing what amounted to a civil war to grind on for four years. Russia eventually delivered a series of decisive blows, with the confederacy’s last redoubt at Jasna Góra falling in August 1772. Russia, Prussia, and Austria pointed to the rebellion as further proof of the “anarchy” in Poland-Lithuania, which they used to justify their seizure of roughly 30 percent of its territory and 35 percent of its population. Historical assessments of the Confederation of Bar have ranged widely. While some have dismissed it as a quixotic adventure by the defenders of noble privilege and religious intolerance, others have discerned within it the stirrings of a healthy patriotism and a legitimate drive for renewal and autonomy. Encompassing a diverse constituency, the confederacy was in fact all of these things and more.1 It marked the beginning of a period of crisis that led to the eclipse of Poland’s independent existence and more than a century in which the region was ruled from Moscow, Berlin, and Vienna. In the process, the Catholic Church in Poland was forced to wres-

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tle with a host of new challenges, including aggressive state oversight and the allure of nationalism.

Risking Reform When the Confederation of Bar first erupted, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth remained one of the largest countries in Europe, but over the preceding century fateful political choices and foreign intrigue had hobbled it. Its central government was rudimentary and weak, led by a king who was overshadowed by a powerful Sejm, where the liberum veto stymied meaningful political action. For decades the commonwealth’s neighbors interfered in its affairs to protect their interests. This was especially true of Russia, which had come to regard the commonwealth as a protectorate. Russia sponsored dozens of influential Polish and Lithuanian nobles, including numerous Catholic prelates, who usually could be called on to do its bidding. Members of the “Russian party” long have been viewed as traitors in the Polish historiographical tradition, but many sincerely believed that the commonwealth’s close alliance with Russia offered the best guarantee of peace and stability. The last of the Saxon kings to rule over Poland and Lithuania, August III, died in 1763, and when the Sejm gathered to elect his successor, Russian Empress Catherine ensured that her former paramour Stanisław Poniatowski (1732–1798) received the nod.2 Poniatowski chose the royal name Stanisław August, and to the surprise of many—not least Empress Catherine—he pursued an ambitious reform agenda designed to strengthen the commonwealth and liberate it from crippling foreign control. A highly educated and culturally refined man with extensive experience at the highest levels of political power, Stanisław August proved to be the country’s most effective ruler in decades. It is a cruel irony that he was destined to preside over its dissolution.3 Like many educated elites in his day, Stanisław August swam in the currents of the Enlightenment. He was also an avowed Catholic, and he reconciled these two commitments by emphasizing Catholicism’s ethical dimension instead of supernatural claims that strained the limits of reason. Cognizant of the church’s clout, his reform agenda never threatened its influence or interests in any substantial way. He succeeded in winning

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a number of key allies in Catholic circles, but some of his most determined opponents were high-ranking prelates.4 Like Polish society as a whole, the church was deeply divided on the question of reform. Early in his tenure, Stanisław August began inviting people of influence to weekly dinners in order to forge alliances and discuss reform ideas. Among the guests was Father Stanisław Konarski, the Piarist educator who also devoted considerable attention to political reform. In his four-volume treatise On the Effective Functioning of Councils (O skutecznym rad sposobie, first published in the years 1761–63), he advocated ways to strengthen the central government and improve the functioning of the Sejm, including the elimination of the liberum veto.5 Another frequent guest was Ignacy Krasicki (1735–1801), a priest from a leading noble family whom the king chose to serve as his personal chaplain and whom he nominated as bishop of Warmia in 1766. Krasicki emerged as a key ally in the king’s program of cultural renewal and one of the most respected Polish thinkers over the next three decades.6 Early reform efforts included the 1765 launch of Monitor, a newspaper that served as a conduit for Enlightenment-era debates percolating across Europe.7 Krasicki played a leading role in its operations. In 1766 the king summoned into being the School of Chivalry, an institution designed to train a new generation of military leaders capable of overseeing an expanded and revitalized royal army.8 The emboldened reformist camp, led by Crown Chancellor Andrzej Zamoyski, then took a much more ambitious step, pressing for fundamental political change, including the abolition of the liberum veto. This was too much for neighboring countries to bear, as it threatened to eliminate their preferred means of perpetuating the commonwealth’s dysfunction. Russian agents encouraged expressions of discontent from Protestant and Orthodox minorities in the commonwealth and a formal rebellion of nobles under its influence, which Russian ambassador Nikolai Repnin used as a pretext for commandeering the levers of power in Warsaw and scuttling the reforms.9 Following through on his manufactured outrage (Russia itself was hardly a haven of religious toleration), Repnin demanded the restoration of the freedoms historically enjoyed by religious minorities in the commonwealth. Predictably enough, this sparked resistance among conservative Catholic leaders, who had grown accustomed to blaming the commonwealth’s tolerant past for its affliction. Repnin responded

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by ordering the arrest and imprisonment of Bishop Kajetan Sołtyk of Kraków, Bishop Józef Załuski of Kiev, and others who opposed him. During the 1768 Sejm, the commonwealth’s legislators approved a law guaranteeing the religious freedoms of minority groups and affirmed the right of Russian and Prussian intervention in the event of the law’s violation. Władysław Lubieński (1703–1767), the archbishop of Gniezno and the Polish-Lithuanian primate, opposed the drive for expanded religious toleration, and he died an untimely death, possibly by poisoning at the hands of a Russian agent. Repnin engineered the election of Gabriel Podolski (1719–1777) as Lubieński’s successor. Podolski, as politically pliant as he was indifferent to priestly discipline and the duties of his office, scandalized pious Catholics with his libertine lifestyle during the ten years of his primacy. With Repnin’s blessing he developed an audacious plan to transform how the Catholic Church in Poland-Lithuania was governed. It called for the elimination of the Vatican’s authority over Catholic life in the commonwealth and the creation of a national synod to regulate the church’s affairs. The synod would take possession of all church property and manage its finances, paying salaries to those remaining in office. The number of religious houses would be pruned back substantially. Repnin ultimately thought better of challenging the church so directly and withdrew his support for the project, to the surprised relief of church officials in the commonwealth and the Vatican.10 This chain of events and the cynicism that characterized Russia’s engagement in the commonwealth help explain the indignation that fueled the Confederation of Bar. After a four-year struggle to pacify the revolt, Russia, Prussia, and Austria executed what has become known as the first partition of Poland-Lithuania, claiming possession of some 30 percent of its territory. These neighboring states justified the procedure by pointing to the anarchic state of the commonwealth’s affairs, which they themselves helped perpetuate. The Sejm was summoned into session in 1773 to offer legal recognition of the maneuver, and its delegates, under heavy pressure, complied. The first partition left Poland-Lithuania notably shrunken and virtually landlocked, but it also lent fresh momentum to the reform movement. Russia now signaled its willingness to tolerate a measure of reform, recognizing the benefits of greater order and prosperity in what it still regarded as its protectorate. It allowed steps to strengthen the central government

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and expand the military, while retaining key levers of influence like the liberum veto. Within the commonwealth, the recent brush with political mortality concentrated the mind, resulting in a newfound openness to remedy entrenched inefficiencies and dysfunctions. The last two decades of the country’s existence was a period of uncommon dynamism in many areas of life, including religion.11 One critical reform in these years was the creation of the National Education Commission in 1773. The commission assumed control of all existing schools in the commonwealth, and it was charged with enhancing the quality and accessibility of education. It had the good fortune of inheriting much of the wealth, institutions, and personnel of the Jesuit Order, which the Vatican suppressed in 1773, and it used these resources to advance its work.12 Although educational reform was being overseen by a state commission, the end product was hardly secular. Konarski’s educational vision remained influential, including his emphasis on the importance of regular access to the sacraments, and priests and religious formed a significant percentage of the republic’s cadre of educators. Chairing the commission for a time was the king’s brother Michał Jerzy Poniatowski, an enlightened prelate who served as coadjutor bishop of Kraków from 1773 to 1784, when he was appointed archbishop of Gniezno.13 Another prominent player in the commission’s work was Hugo Kołłątaj (1750–1812), a talented priest from the Diocese of Kraków.14 Born to a noble family in Volhynia, Kołłątaj studied in Vienna and Rome as a young man, where he was exposed to ideas that shaped him profoundly. A paragon of the Catholic Enlightenment, Kołłątaj had a utilitarian appreciation of religion’s capacity to inculcate sound moral values. Religion and education naturally complemented each other in the formation of human character and the advancement of the common good. In his words: “The aim of the clergy is to enlighten people on how they should base their moral conduct on revealed religion; its aim is the practice of morals. The aim of the Education Commission . . . is to enlighten a man, so that he would be a good citizen. He who is not a good citizen, is no pupil of the school of Christ.”15 Kołłątaj took a special interest in reviving his alma mater, the University of Kraków, and served as its president in the years 1783–86. He sought to modernize its faculty, curriculum, and facilities.

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Reform-minded bishops like Poniatowski recognized the potential of parish priests to serve as agents of religious and social renewal. Toward that end, they sought to strengthen seminary education and equip priests with the tools needed to perform this work. Priests were encouraged to dress soberly and set examples of moral rectitude. The devotional life of the parish was to revolve around the Mass rather than the cult of the saints and extreme forms of asceticism. Parish priests were tasked with focusing more of their energies on education, including topics like hygiene and modern agricultural techniques.16 The region of Warmia fell to Prussia in the first partition, which made its bishop, Ignacy Krasicki, a Prussian subject. He maintained a vital presence in the commonwealth’s culture, though, through his widely admired literary output. Like many of his peers, Krasicki viewed literature as a lofty avocation, capable of forming the conscience and shaping moral discourse. In a number of his writings, he wryly criticized backward beliefs and behaviors, including among the clergy, with the clear intention of nurturing a more enlightened society. The subject of his 1777 work War of the Monks (Monachomachia), for instance, is a fictional conflict between communities of Carmelite and Dominican friars steeped in superstition and pettiness. Krasicki was hardly an opponent of the church. Instead he should be viewed as a member of the loyal opposition, committed to improving an institution that he believed had essential contributions to make to Polish society. Another reform-minded cleric was Paweł Brzostowski, a priest of noble lineage who in the late 1760s came into possession of a sizable estate in southeastern Lithuania, which was home to a population of impoverished serfs. In a daring test of the Enlightenment premise that education and opportunity could unleash the human potential of anyone, regardless of social station, Brzostowski transformed his estate into a constitutional republic in miniature, governed by himself as president and a bicameral legislature. He abolished serfdom, parceling out land to his republic’s residents for rent or purchase, and he made provisions for elementary education, basic medical care, and cultural enrichment.17 As word of Brzostowski’s experiment spread, traditionalists decried what they viewed as an attack on the established order, while admirers enthused about the Pawłowski Republic’s successes.

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In acknowledging the presence of reform advocates within the church, one should not lose sight of the fact that they were well outnumbered by defenders of the status quo, either as a matter of ideological conviction, self-interest, or simple inertia. Judging from the criticism of such reformers as Krasicki, many religious orders were bastions of a traditionalism that was holding the commonwealth back from necessary change. Reform efforts barely registered among the Catholic peasantry, who remained wedded to traditional beliefs and practices that often blurred the boundaries between religion and magic. Meaningful political reform encountered opposition from some influential prelates who owed their positions to Russian patronage, such as Bishop Józef Kossakowski (1738–1794) and Bishop Ignacy Massalski (1726–1794).18 After the first partition, reformers were slow to address the structural flaws that rendered the commonwealth vulnerable to foreign domination, recognizing the lengths that neighboring countries would go to defend the country’s “golden liberty.” In 1788, however, a remarkable confluence of events created an opening for bold action. In short order Russia found itself at war with the Ottoman Empire and Sweden, which would bog down its armies for several years. Seeking to speed the Sejm’s approval of Polish-Lithuanian troops to fight in her Ottoman campaign, Catherine allowed Stanisław August to convene the Sejm as a confederation, which made it easier to pass legislation by precluding the use of the liberum veto. This provided the reformers with a powerful tool, which they promptly seized. The Sejm stayed in session for four years, during which time a flurry of politicking and debate unfolded, a substantial share of which touched on religious matters. This chaotic process yielded impressive results in fits and starts. Determined to overcome Poland-Lithuania’s humiliating weakness, a critical mass within the szlachta eventually acceded to the curtailment of traditional privileges in the name of “ordered freedom.” Kołłątaj exercised one of the most influential voices in these years. He championed a stronger central government, the elimination of the liberum veto, universal taxation, the expansion of the army, and enhanced political rights for townspeople and peasants. He also emphasized the essential role of the clergy in providing the education and moral guidance required of responsible citizens in a thriving society. In his seminal work Political Law of the Polish Nation (Prawo polityczne narodu polskiego), Kołłątaj

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defended religion as a critical element of a well-ordered society, one that inclined hearts to follow human laws and the laws of nature. At the same time, he warned that religion untempered by the light of reason tended toward fanaticism. While acknowledging that a common moral formation was ideal, he argued that religious minorities should be tolerated for the sake of public tranquility.19 Another prominent advocate of reform at this time was Stanisław Staszic. Originally from Piła in Great Poland, Staszic was ordained to the priesthood as a young man, but his intellectual commitments eventually led to his estrangement from the Catholic faith, and he ceased to function as a priest. He, too, recognized that the Catholic Church had a role to play, but he called for an aggressive pruning of its excrescences. In Warnings for Poland (Przestrogi dla Polski), he suggested that most monastic communities and many church officials contributed little to the common good and should be eliminated. The money saved by these measures could then be applied to more essential needs, like expanding the military.20 The “Four-Year Sejm,” as it has come to be known, passed a series of daring measures that threatened to antagonize Russia, Prussia, and Austria. It rejected the “guarantees” that granted neighboring powers the right to intervene in the commonwealth’s affairs. It called for a massive expansion of the army, and charged Tadeusz Kościuszko (1746–1817), recently returned from the United States of America after providing critical military assistance in its War of Independence, to help lead the process. Despite spirited opposition from the bishops and Rome, much of the burden of paying for an enlarged military was placed on the church. The Sejm established a 20 percent tax on clergy income (twice the rate established for nobles) and nationalized the property holdings of the Diocese of Kraków, the richest bishopric in the commonwealth, in exchange for an annual payment to the bishop of 100,000 złoty. Proponents of these policies were motivated by a mixture of anticlericalism (which in the hearts of many nobles coexisted quite naturally with deep Catholic piety), a genuine concern to purify the clergy of unbecoming materialism, and a still more pressing desire to spare the szlachta of these costs. In 1789 the Sejm appointed a commission to prepare a new constitution. The commission produced a remarkable document, at once progressive and realistic, and the Sejm approved it on May 3, 1791, in a surprise vote strategically timed for a moment when most of the deputies, including

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conservative opponents, were away. The 1791 Constitution, the first constitution in modern Europe and just four years removed from the creation of its American counterpart, promised to reestablish the commonwealth on a much surer footing. It retained the royal office but made it hereditary instead of elective, thus protecting future monarchs from one kind of foreign manipulation. In a bid for greater accountability, it called for royal ministers to be appointed to two-year terms and subject to removal from office by a two-thirds vote in the Sejm. It eliminated the liberum veto, replacing it in most instances with majority voting. It granted townspeople the same legal rights enjoyed by the nobility, and it offered peasants the vague promise of “protection of the law.” In a bow to political reality, it did not abolish serfdom, an institution integral to the commonwealth’s economic life. It called for the expansion of the army to 100,000 soldiers. Regarding religion, the first article of the constitution acknowledged Catholicism as the official religion of the commonwealth, and it stipulated that the king must be Catholic. At the same time, it guaranteed toleration to religious minorities.21 The Constitution of May 3, 1791, enjoyed broad popular support, including among the clergy. Many clerics in fact played an important role in promoting the idea that the document was the product of God’s providential hand. In the homily he delivered in Warsaw’s Church of the Holy Cross on May 8, 1791, the Feast of Saint Stanisław, Father Ignacy Witoszyński observed the following about recent political developments in the commonwealth: “God will take it as His own work, take it under His care and defence, and will bless us.” At least seven bishops issued pastoral letters in support of the constitution.22 Several bishops opposed the constitution, but for the moment they were clearly outnumbered.23 In a bid to enhance the document’s Catholic resonance, Stanisław August petitioned Pope Pius VI to transfer the feast day of Saint Stanisław from May 8 to May 3.24 The Constitution of May 3, 1791, gave the lie to the myth of Polish anarchy and affirmed the nation’s will for survival. It has been a source of tremendous pride for Poles ever since, even though it was destined to remain a dead letter. Russian officials grew increasingly alarmed by developments in the commonwealth, which threatened their control and called to mind the revolutionary events unfolding in France. Russia summoned its loyalists, including several Catholic bishops, to organize resis-

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tance to the reforms, and they duly complied. On May 14, 1792, a coterie of nobles gathered in the Ukrainian town of Torhovytsia (Targowica) to forge a confederation and lay the groundwork for armed rebellion. This provided the pretext Catherine desired to launch a massive military invasion. Reneging on a defensive compact recently signed with PolandLithuania, Prussia also attacked, eager to stake a claim in any new partition in the offing. Facing a two-front war and hopelessly outmanned, Stanisław August made the agonizing decision in July of 1792 to support the confederation. His hope was to avoid a looming bloodbath and win more favorable peace terms, but the move cemented his reputation as an unsteady friend of reform and accelerated the collapse of Polish-Lithuanian resistance. The Russians and Prussians carved away generous portions of the republic’s territory for themselves, leaving behind just 30 percent of the pre-partition country. At the Sejm held in Grodno in the summer and fall of 1793, the deputies formally rejected the reforms of the past several years and legitimated the latest loss of territory. Stripped of its most important cities and natural resources, deprived by the exile of many of its most dynamic leaders, and burdened by crushing taxes imposed to pay for occupying Russian troops, the population that remained in the commonwealth had to contend with sharply diminished economic expectations. This lent itself to a burgeoning political radicalism, nourished in part by events in France. The Russian decision early in 1794 to integrate what remained of the Polish army into its larger Russian counterpart sparked a rebellion that rapidly mushroomed. Kościuszko returned from exile to Kraków, where on March 24 in the market square he read aloud the Act of Insurrection, summoning Poles to take up arms in defense of an independent Poland under the constitution of 1791.25 Kościuszko hastily assembled an army, including divisions of scythewielding peasants, which almost immediately had to face a larger, betterequipped Russian army at the Battle of Racławice on April 4. Kościuszko engineered an unlikely victory, and word of it inspired Polish uprisings in Warsaw, Vilnius, and other towns lost in the partitions. In Warsaw, Polish patriots took crude revenge on Russian collaborators, including Bishop Kossakowski and Bishop Massalski, both of whom were hanged to death in public. They sentenced Bishop Skarszewski to hang as well, but Kościuszko personally intervened to save him, likely in response to an appeal from

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the papal nuncio.26 Knowing the rebellion’s only chance of success lay in the total support of the Polish people, including the vast peasant population, Kościuszko issued the Manifesto of Polaniec on May 7, canceling the obligations of serfdom and promising peasants the protection of the Polish state. The Kościuszko Uprising threatened to dial back recent territorial losses and destabilize the traditional social order. Russia, Prussia, and Austria organized military campaigns that dealt a series of heavy blows against Polish forces in the summer and fall of 1794, including the capture of Kościuszko on October 10 and the fall of Warsaw on November 4. The third partition followed soon thereafter, encompassing the remainder of the republic’s territory. Poland-Lithuania officially ceased to exist.

The Napoleonic Era Over the course of the partitions, Russia annexed vast stretches of territory in the east, including Vilnius. Prussia absorbed the northwestern corner of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, including Gdańsk, Poznań, and Warsaw. Austria gained control over the southwest, including Kraków and Lviv. Thereafter, the historical experiences of Polish Catholics varied somewhat depending on their country of residence, but there were also some broad commonalities. Each of the partitioning powers sought to bring the powerful Catholic Church in the Polish territories to heel. Before the partitions, the church collectively owned an estimated 17 percent of the commonwealth’s territory, and its leading officials enjoyed broad autonomy and exercised far-reaching influence. All of this changed dramatically under Russian, Prussian, and Austrian control. The Russian government honored the right of Roman Catholics to practice their religion, but it immediately abrogated the traditional prerogatives and autonomy of the clergy. It nationalized much of the church’s property and subjected the clergy to state oversight. After the first partition, it made the city of Mogilev (Mohilev) the base of a new diocese (an archdiocese as of 1783) encompassing its now sizable population of Catholic subjects. Russia placed Mogilev under the authority of the unfailingly loyal Stanisław Bohusz Siostrzeńcewicz (1731–1826), who ruled with a firm hand for several decades. After the second partition,

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when Russia won control of the dioceses of Vilnius, Kiev, KamianetsPodilskyi, Livonia, and Lutsk, it suppressed them all, erecting in their stead two new dioceses subject to Mogilev.27 At the same time, it valued the capacity of priests and religious to educate and socialize its Catholic subjects. When the Vatican suppressed the Jesuit order in 1773, for instance, Russia opened its doors to Jesuits from other countries in order to benefit from the order’s expertise in education. Russia took a much tougher line toward the Uniate population it gained through the partitions, reflecting long-standing Orthodox contempt toward Uniatism. Catherine orchestrated a campaign to compel the conversion of Uniates to Orthodoxy, threatening those who refused with flogging, imprisonment, and the confiscation of property. The state transferred large numbers of Uniate churches and monasteries to Orthodox control. Prussia, too, faced the challenge of governing a large Catholic minority, and like Russia it tolerated Catholic religious practice while exerting wide ranging control over church operations. In 1796 it nationalized the church’s extensive real estate holdings, leaving the former owners to subsist on just 50 percent of the revenues generated from these lands. It sharply curtailed the jurisdiction of church courts and waded deeply into ecclesial affairs, from the filling of church offices to the fees clergy could charge for their ser vices. It tightened the rules for entry into the religious orders, which it held in contempt, with an eye toward shrinking their numbers and influence. One could be excused for expecting a more lenient approach from Catholic Austria, but this was not the case. The partitions took place during the era of Josephinism, and Austrian officials applied the same rationalizing spirit toward Catholic institutions in the lands acquired from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Bishops, priests, and religious found themselves under a similar degree of state control that their counterparts experienced in Russia and Prussia. Eager to shape future generations of clergy, Austria dismantled the seminaries of the old commonwealth and concentrated priestly formation in a state-supervised seminary in Lviv. It dissolved over half of the religious houses in the Polish lands under its control and placed new restrictions on the houses that survived. Austria showed more leniency toward Uniates, recognizing them as a check on potential Russian influence in the border region. It consolidated many

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Uniate parishes with an eye toward creating stronger institutions and better paid priests. It established a seminary in Lviv designed to raise the quality of the Uniate clergy. Polish Catholic officials had been deeply committed to the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth, but their theological convictions inclined them to loyalism toward their new sovereigns. Catholic political theology posited monarchy as the normative model of human governance and underscored the moral obligation to obey the divinely ordained authority of monarchs in power. The radical course of the French Revolution, including its full-scale war against Catholicism, only reinforced this viewpoint. At the same time, unrelenting assaults by the partitioning powers on the property, influence, and autonomy of the church tested the loyalties of even the most conservative of clerics. In the final analysis, Catholics were not being impeded in the practice of their religion even in Orthodox Russia and Protestant Prussia, so the policies of these governments did not justify acts of rebellion by the Catholic faithful. The political orientation of Ignacy Raczyński (1741–1823), bishop of Poznań from 1793 to 1807 and archbishop of Gniezno from 1807 to 1818, was typical of many of the prelates of his day. A deeply conservative man, Raczyński was troubled by the agenda of the reformers in the final years of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, which he recognized as contrary to the proper ordering of human affairs. After the second partition, he readily acknowledged the Prussian king as his new sovereign, and he encouraged Catholics under his authority to show proper fealty. When the Kościuszko Uprising erupted, he condemned it. Raczyński grew increasingly troubled, however, by Prussian policies seemingly designed to weaken the church, thus preventing it from fulfilling its essential functions. He protested against such incursions in his correspondence with state officials, but he never broke publicly with the government. Many Polish Catholics felt a distinct nostalgia for the old commonwealth, including its overt Catholicity. The passing of time softened its defects, while the challenges of life under the partitioning powers augmented its virtues. But nostalgia did not translate into active resistance of any consequence. After the third partition, there was no obvious means to restore an independent Poland. That changed virtually overnight when Napoleon’s armies pushed deep into central Europe, dealing Prussia a decisive defeat in 1806. As French armies marched across the lands Prussia

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gained through the partitions, the local population reveled in the possibility of a restored Poland. Napoleon satisfied these hopes in 1807, creating a semi-autonomous Polish state called the Duchy of Warsaw, which encompassed most of the lands Prussia gained in the second and third partitions, to which were soon added some of the Polish territory controlled by Austria. He provided the duchy with a liberal constitution that balanced a bicameral Sejm against the executive authority of a monarch and a council of ministers. The document abolished serfdom, granted legal equality to most citizens, and guaranteed religious freedom while identifying Catholicism as the official religion of the duchy. The duchy did not live up to the hopes of its citizenry. Napoleon kept his Polish allies on a relatively short leash and extracted crushing military and financial contributions to his war efforts.28 For Catholics, there were also religious grounds for disappointment, including a Napoleonic model of state intrusion into matters traditionally assigned to the church and a callous disregard of religious obligations by certain high officials in Warsaw. Archbishop Raczyński, who earlier had penned pointed letters to Prussian officials, now focused his wrath on duchy leaders. In one letter he noted, “The previous [Prussian] government, although Protestant, was better to the clergy.”29 The Duchy of Warsaw’s fortunes were bound up with those of Napoleon, and after his failed attempt to defeat Russia, the duchy lay exposed to the whims of hostile neighbors. When the leaders of Britain, Russia, Prussia, and Austria gathered at the Congress of Vienna in 1814–15 to chart a post-Napoleonic Europe, they suppressed the duchy and parceled out its territories to neighboring states, with a larger share of the old commonwealth, including Warsaw, now falling to Russia. For all of its imperfections, the duchy’s demise left many Poles distraught. These sentiments took on a distinctly religious coloration for Catholics who believed that the destinies of Poland and the church moved in tandem. After reoccupying Poznań, Prussian troops replaced the Polish white eagle with the Prussian eagle on public buildings, prompting the pious and patriotic Klaudyna Działyńska to record the following sentiments in her diary: “Through our tears we witnessed the removal—like Christ from the cross— of our white eagle, in order to lay him in the tomb. . . . We believe that, just as Christ rose from the dead, so too will our eagle some day stir from the grave and spread his wings over a free fatherland.”30

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The short-lived Duchy of Warsaw had enduring effects on the thinking of many Poles. Its very creation demonstrated the fragility of the hold the partitioning powers had on the region. If Poles could break free of their dominion once, they could do so again. The struggle to build a new Polish state and to defend it over years of conflict awakened patriotic feelings not easily stilled. What is more, the close alliance with France brought many Poles into extended contact with revolutionary ideas that had only begun to find a foothold in Poland before the final partition, such as human equality, the right of a people to self-determination, and holding government accountable to the popular will. Traditional social boundaries and political models did not dissolve overnight, but more Poles accommodated themselves to expansive forms of Polish identity. In all of these ways, the brief period of the duchy’s existence helped inculcate within a sector of the population a nascent feeling of Polish nationalism, which would have far-reaching political and religious consequences. Nationalism refers to a strong sense of identification with the “nation,” which, depending on context, can refer to one’s political community and/ or one’s ethnic or cultural group. Although nationalists typically have sought to endow their respective nations with a coherent history stretching deep into the past, nationalist sentiments in Europe are actually quite young, first stirring in any significant way in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Prior to this time, deeply entrenched social divisions and the lack of mechanisms for linking local communities with larger social units inhibited the formation of national identities. This began to change under the impact of the new paradigm of human equality that animated the American and French revolutions and spread inexorably thereafter. It was facilitated by cultural and technical developments, such as universal education, a common curriculum, the proliferation of media, and rapid advances in communication and transport. Growing numbers of Europeans abandoned parochial and caste-based forms of social identification in favor of broader models rooted in the nation. Polish nationalism would prove especially consequential, for one core principle of nationalists has been the belief that national and political boundaries should correspond. For those drawn to the concept of belonging to the Polish nation, it was unconscionable that the Polish people should be strewn across several states and subjected to the authority of other national groups like Germans and Russians. This contradiction of

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the proper order of things would inspire generations of Poles to engage in insurrectionary politics. Nationalism would also have a powerful impact on how Polish Catholics conceived of and practiced their religion. As they gravitated in growing numbers toward nationalist modes of thought, their religious lives started to reflect these concerns. The Catholic Church was an especially valuable resource for Polish nationalists, for it was one of very few institutions from Poland’s pre-partition past to survive into the present, and it linked together Poles living in Russia, Prussia, Austria, and further afield. From this point forward, nationalists would rely frequently on the resources and ritual practices of Catholicism to advance their cause. It became increasingly common for Polish Catholics to see their religious values and national aspirations as largely consonant with one another.

The Dreams of a Captive Nation The leaders who gathered at the Congress of Vienna restored many traditional political models that had been overturned by Napoleon and sought to forge a workable balance of power in Europe. In the case of Poland, however, they recognized that the status quo ante was insufficient. Simply to ignore the desire among Poles for independence was to court peril. It was therefore decided to grant degrees of autonomy, especially in the cultural realm, while preserving ultimate Russian, Prussian, and Austrian control and promoting gradual assimilation. Tsar Alexander I agreed to the creation of what became known as the Congress Kingdom of Poland, a semi-autonomous state composed essentially of Russia’s share of the Duchy of Warsaw. The tsar was to serve as king and rule within the framework of a relatively liberal constitution that called for regular meetings of a Sejm and guaranteed freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and other basic rights. King Friedrich Wilhelm III (1797–1840) placed the Prussiancontrolled lands of Great Poland into a semi-autonomous unit called the Grand Duchy of Poznań, with largely symbolic authority granted to a Polish viceroy and a provincial congress. The partitioning powers agreed that Kraków and its immediate hinterland would form an autonomous city-state known as the Free City of Kraków. The rest of Austrian-controlled Poland would form the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria, which was firmly integrated into the Austrian Empire.31

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Russia reasserted its influence over the operations of the Catholic Church in its domains, while leaving the Catholic faithful free to practice their religion. Negotiations with the Vatican resulted in the creation of the Archdiocese of Warsaw, whose archbishop was to serve as metropolitan over seven neighboring dioceses. Russia initially left the Catholic religious orders unmolested, with the exception of the Jesuits, who were banished from Russia in 1820, partially as a result of their success at winning converts.32 In the Polish lands controlled by Prussia, the Catholic Church had already been shorn of much of its property and influence, and so the state could afford greater liberality. It negotiated with the Vatican over the details of a more rational division of diocesan structures, resulting in the papal bull De Salute Animarum (1821). The Diocese of Poznań and the Archdiocese of Gniezno were joined in a personal union, which in practice elevated the former at the expense of the latter. The state sought to raise the quality of instruction at the seminaries in these two cities, which temporarily exacerbated the clergy shortage. In the Austrian partition, the state resumed the course it had followed with the church prior to Napoleon’s invasion. Lviv was the epicenter of administration for Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, and Armenian Catholics. The city’s prominence for Roman Catholics was enhanced by the breaking off of Kraków as a free city. Because of the border adjustments, the dioceses of Kielce and Lublin now stood in Russia and thus beyond the Metropolitanate of Lviv, and the latter added the dioceses of Przemyśl and Tarnów to its brief. As in the years immediately prior to Napoleon’s invasion, many Polish Catholics—and especially those in the upper echelons of the ecclesial hierarchy—gravitated naturally to a loyalist course vis-à-vis the partitioning powers. The ruling dynasties of these states possessed all the trappings of traditional leadership, which Catholic teaching linked to the divine order of things. The cause of Polish independence, by contrast, was tainted through its association with revolution. The life of Andrzej Alojzy Ankwicz offers a good illustration of Catholic loyalism in this period. Born to a prominent family in Kraków in 1777, Ankwicz came of age in the turbulent final years of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. His father, Józef, was a high-ranking diplomat with close ties to Russia, aligning himself with the Confederation of Torhovytsia and taking a leading role in the final Sejm at Grodno, which led to his arrest and public execution during the Kościuszko Uprising. His father’s death marked the younger Ankwicz

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deeply, giving rise to an antipathy toward revolutionary politics. He soon made his way to Vienna, where he came to enjoy the patronage of the imperial court. He chose to pursue a priestly vocation and rose rapidly in the hierarchy. Ordained to the priesthood in 1810, Ankwicz was tapped to lead the Archdiocese of Lviv in 1815. By all accounts he was an effective archbishop, taking particular interest in raising the quality of education in the city’s Catholic seminary and university. He promoted the study of the Polish language and literature at these institutions, but he was convinced that the best interests of his Catholic subjects lay in belonging to the ethnically diverse Austrian Empire. His loyalty to the Hapsburgs was never in doubt, and their confidence in him is reflected in the decision to appoint him archbishop of Prague in 1833.33 Although the Vatican, the overwhelming majority of Europe’s Catholic prelates, and the lion’s share of its priests and laity were inclined to view monarchy and the traditional social hierarchy as integral to the divinely ordained natural order, the church was also home to those favorable to the new political paradigms fostered in the revolutionary era. There were Catholic liberals, for instance, who recognized virtues in governments being answerable to the governed, the limiting or elimination of monarchal power, and civil rights such as freedom of expression and freedom of conscience. One high-profile example was the French priest Hugues-Félicité Robert de Lamennais (1782–1854). In the 1820s Lamennais experienced an ideological conversion to political liberalism, which he recognized as consonant with God’s will and conducive to the interests of the Catholic Church. In various publishing ventures he championed what he dubbed “liberal Catholicism,” and he dared to envision the pope as the natural head of the movement. Pope Gregory XVI (1765–1846) issued pointed rebukes that deflated Lamennais’ hopes, but liberal Catholicism survived in various permutations as a minority opinion throughout much of the Catholic world. In the Polish lands, such ferment found expression among Catholics in a variety of ways.34 The most visible manifestations were efforts to promote appreciation of the Polish language, culture, and history. This was tolerated to a degree by the partitioning powers, even though the risks were plain: The more committed Poles became to their distinct national identity, the more likely it was that they would eventually rally to the cause of national self-determination. In addition to promoting Polish identity,

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some nationalists engaged in conspiratorial activity focused on revolutionary change. Polish Catholics generally eschewed direct acts of rebellion in the 1820s, but officials of the partitioning powers watched carefully for signs of unrest, including in Catholic institutions that normally could be relied on as agents of stability and loyalism. Prussian officials, for instance, began to suspect that the Catholic seminary in Poznań was fostering Polish identity and a rebellious spirit within the future generation of priests it was training. They were especially worried about Teofil Wolicki, a high-ranking canon who eventually served as archbishop of Poznań and Gniezno in 1828–29 and who energetically resisted the state’s Germanization campaign. In the Congress Kingdom, Poles grew increasingly frustrated with mounting Russian violations of the kingdom’s autonomy and constitution. On November 29, 1830, a group of Polish officers rose up in revolt against Russian plans to deploy Polish troops abroad, and their action inspired a much larger rebellion known as the November Uprising, with more radical voices calling for complete independence.35 The rebels managed to gain control of the capital and establish a provisional government, and the Polish military rallied to the cause. For the better part of a year, Polish forces fought an increasingly desperate campaign against the much larger Russian army. Prussia and Austria sealed their borders to the kingdom to choke off supplies to the rebels and to prevent the rebellion from spreading. The November Uprising highlighted the political fissures afflicting Polish society and the Polish Catholic community. Ardent Polish patriots found themselves at odds not only with those who had made their peace with foreign rule but also with those who doubted the legitimacy and viability of the rebellion. A substantial percentage of Catholics supported the uprising, including a few bishops and many priests. Prussian officials were horrified to discover that several priests were among the Poles who stole across the Prussian-Russian border to aid the rebellion. Of the most prominent supporters, one was the recently ordained bishop of Kraków, Karol Skórkowski (1768–1851). Skórkowski delivered a rousing homily on December 10, 1830, calling on his flock to make sacrifices in support of the uprising, and he urged the priests of his diocese to pray for its success. When a rebel commander ventured into the Free City of Kraków, Skórkowski provided him refuge.36 Liberal Catholics abroad, including Lamennais, cheered on the Polish rebels, recognizing their uprising as an

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expression of popular will against a repressive and outmoded political model. Some clerics publicly disavowed the uprising, usually on the grounds that it contradicted Catholic teaching concerning the submission that subjects owed to legitimate rulers. Their numbers included Bishop Jan Marceli Gutkowski of Podlasie. Gutkowski was not afraid to criticize Russia when he believed it violated the proper boundary between church and state, but in his view the circumstances of the moment did not justify rebellion. In 1832 Pope Gregory XVI (1765–1846) buttressed the conservative position in an encyclical that condemned the November Uprising in no uncertain terms. The rebels, “under the pretext of religion,” revolted against “the legitimate authority of the princes,” he reasoned.37 The Vatican’s uncompromising position underscored the challenges facing devout Catholics committed to Polish independence. The November Uprising convinced the partitioning powers to take a more forceful approach to their Polish subjects, curtailing the measure of autonomy they had earlier allowed. Increasingly skeptical of the clergy’s willingness to foster loyalism among the faithful, they also implemented harsher policies vis-à-vis the church. The Russian government demanded more control over the training of Catholic seminarians and the assignments and promotion of priests. It liquidated the University of Warsaw and the University of Vilnius and concentrated Catholic seminary education at a newly created institution in Saint Petersburg, under the watchful eye of Russian officials. When Catholic officials resisted promoting clerics endorsed by Russia to key positions in the hierarchy, the government responded by allowing these offices to remain empty. As a result, a number of dioceses in Russia lacked bishops for many years at a stretch. The state renewed its hard line against the religious orders, leading to the closure of around two-thirds of the Catholic religious houses remaining in the country. It also intensified its pressure against Greek Catholics. In 1838 it declared Uniatism to be illegal outside of the Kingdom of Poland, and it took steps to transfer Uniate property to the Russian Orthodox Church. The Prussian government ordered that all diocesan business be conducted primarily in German, and it demanded that loyal Germanspeaking priests be promoted within the Catholic hierarchy. It rebuilt the Catholic seminary in Poznań from the ground up, appointing a new faculty and instituting German as the primary language of instruction. It

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drove almost all of the remaining communities of Catholic religious orders into extinction. Having compromised themselves politically through their support of the November Uprising, thousands of Poles emigrated to France and other countries. This marked the beginning of an enduring aspect of modern Polish history: the existence of a sizable diaspora inclined to perpetuate its Polish identity and Catholic faith. Many emigrants were well educated and politically engaged, and they took advantage of the relatively free climates of their host societies to form a diverse array of periodicals and organizations that sustained a vibrant subculture. Their ideas resonated in the Polish territories, despite the best efforts of Russian, Prussian, and Austrian censors. Poles remained deeply divided in terms of political orientation. For some, the failure of the November Uprising underscored the virtues of loyalism. Others interpreted its defeat as a temporary setback in the pursuit of a noble cause that was bound to triumph. In this period a third option came into view as well: “organic work.” Its proponents argued that the Polish nation first had to be strengthened economically, intellectually, and culturally before it could hope to achieve independence. The repressive policies of the partitioning powers toward the Catholic Church in the Polish territories had unintended consequences, particularly in Russia and Prussia. Such policies provoked even loyalist, conflictaverse clerics to offer resistance, thus giving rise to some awkward alliances between rival ideological camps. Jan Marceli Gutkowski, bishop of Podlasie from 1826 to 1842, offers a good example of this phenomenon. Politically conservative, Gutkowski publicly opposed the November Uprising. He grew more combative in the 1830s, however, as the Russian government encroached on what he considered to be the inviolable rights of the Catholic Church. He pushed back in particular against new Russian policies toward mixed marriages between Catholic and Orthodox couples, which denied the legitimacy of such unions when officiated solely by a Catholic priest and required that the children of mixed marriages be raised in the Orthodox faith. His pointed protests found their way into print, which made him a hero in Polish nationalist circles and captured the sympathetic attention of Catholics abroad. Embarrassed by this publicity, the Russian government restricted his income and appealed to the Vatican for his removal from office. When this failed to have the desired effect, Tsar

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Nicholas I personally ordered his arrest and expulsion from his diocese in 1840. Two years later, Gutkowski resigned from office and spent the remainder of his life in a monastery in Lviv. The mixed-marriage issue touched off an even larger controversy in Prussia, where in 1836 Archbishop Clemens August von Droste-Vischering of Cologne ordered the priests of the archdiocese to defy a Prussian law requiring the children of such marriages to be raised in the confession of the father. Priests were to preside over only those marriages in which both partners agreed to rear their offspring as Catholics. When the archbishop refused to back down, the Prussian government ordered his arrest and imprisonment. Droste-Vischering’s fate stirred the sympathies of Catholics across Prussia and beyond, and the crisis deepened when the police arrested a second archbishop, Marcin Dunin of Poznań-Gniezno, for the same offense. Dunin’s stance was very much at odds with the loyalism that defined his career to that point, and it transformed him into a symbol of resistance for Polish nationalists. After a ten-month internment, he returned to a rapturous welcome in Poznań marked by expressions of religious and nationalist fervor. Prussian observers noted with growing alarm the convergence of Catholic and Polish nationalist sentiment, which threatened to undermine Prussia’s hold on the region. Despite the November Uprising’s failure, in the 1830s and 1840s numerous Poles engaged in underground conspiracies directed toward the cause of independence. Aware of the centrality of Catholicism in Polish life, the organizers of these efforts recognized that appeals to Catholic sensibilities could broaden support for the cause. Although few clerics played leading roles in these movements, many sympathized with the ultimate cause and could be counted on to lend assistance. The most daring example of priestly plotting in this period was that of Piotr Ściegienny (1801–1890). Born to a peasant family in a village near Kielce and ordained to 1832, Ściegienny gravitated toward nationalist conspiratorial circles in the 1830s while serving in parishes around Lublin in the Congress Kingdom. The writings of Lamennais provided one of the touchstones of his political formation. In the early 1840s he launched an underground campaign designed to convince the peasantry of their political and religious obligations to resist Russian oppression. Toward that end he preached homilies and distributed inflammatory literature, including a forged letter attributed to, of all people, Pope Gregory XVI. He

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organized a peasant uprising that was to begin in October 1844, but tsarist police, apprised of the plot, arrested the priest and his co-conspirators ahead of time. A court sentenced him to death, and Ściegienny found himself with a noose around his neck in the market square of his hometown, when it was announced that the tsar had changed the sentence to flogging and a life of hard labor in Siberia.38 The most consequential resistance in this period occurred during the Springtime of Nations in 1848, when liberal political agitation led to the breakdown of more traditional regimes across much of Europe, including Prussia. Taking full advantage of the crisis, Polish nationalists established provisional control over much of Prussian Poland and planned for full independence. Numerous Catholic clergy actively supported the Polish movement, including three priests who served on the National Committee created to oversee the transition to independence. Archbishop Leon Przyłuski of Poznań-Gniezno repeatedly spoke out on behalf of the revolutionaries and served as their interlocutor with the government in Berlin. The revolutionaries and their allies in the clergy sought to awaken the support of the broader Polish population by weaving together religious and national themes.39 In the end, the Hohenzollern dynasty was able to reassert its control over Prussia, and the superior Prussian military pacified the Polish rebellion.40

The Romantic Turn Of the most noteworthy trends in post-Napoleonic Europe, one was Romanticism, a tempering of the once boundless esteem for reason that had marked the Enlightenment with a new appreciation for nonrational aspects of human experience, such as emotion and intuition, as well as for tradition and folk culture. At a time when old dynasties were returning to their thrones, Europeans were rediscovering value in venerable practices and modes of interpreting the world once despised by an earlier generation. Romanticism resonated among Catholics in various ways. The positive reassessment of tradition included the religious legacy of the Middle Ages, such as Gothic architecture, liturgical formalism, vowed religious life, and a strong papacy. Catholic theologians pivoted away from the heavy emphasis on reason and toward the sureties inherent in faith itself (fideism)

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and modes of argumentation pioneered by Scholastic theologians. The faithful, meanwhile, found renewed meaning in popular religious devotions centered on affective connections to Christ, Mary, and the saints. Romanticism exercised a powerful appeal among Poles, for whom the appreciation of tradition was enhanced by the memory of Poland’s independent past. Catholicism was often integral to their varied acts of retrieval, for the church not only played an important role in Polish history, it offered one of the few living links to this bygone era. Gestures of this sort almost always entailed an ample measure of creative anachronism, rendering the Polish Catholic tradition more idealized, uniform, and consonant with Polish nationalist thinking than it ever was in practice. An early and telling instance of this Romantic reappropriation of the Polish past can be found in the Golden Chapel in Poznań, one of the most noteworthy architectural projects in the Polish lands in the first half of the nineteenth century. The chapel was the brainchild of Teofil Wolicki, the cleric whose loyalty Prussian officials had reason to doubt. Wolicki was an ardent Polish patriot determined to instill among his flock a richer appreciation of their national heritage, which he regarded as inseparable from Catholicism. Toward that end he endeavored to commemorate properly two early leaders buried in Poznań’s cathedral: Mieszko I and Bolesław I Chrobry. The statuary, paintings, and mosaics housed within this architectural gem conspire to present these two rulers as the founders of a Polish Catholic tradition blessed by God and guided by the Blessed Virgin.41 The dominant mode of Romantic retrieval in this period was not architecture so much as literature. The post-Napoleonic era witnessed the emergence of a vibrant Polish-language literary tradition forged by luminaries such as Adam Mickiewicz, Juliusz Słowacki, and Zygmunt Krasiński, along with many lesser lights. Writers enjoyed an exalted status in these decades, and their creative gifts acquired a nearly prophetic luster in the eyes of their admirers. Many of their works came to be regarded as integral to a proper Polish education. As subsequent generations of Poles read them, they were invited to embrace an idealized national past, in which Catholicism played an integral and largely positive role. In this way the Romantics, while usually innocent of formal theological education, exercised considerable influence over how Polish Catholics understood their faith. The result was a Catholicism steeped in nationalism and in some respects tending toward heresy.

Golden Chapel, Poznań. The statue group on the left offers heroic depictions of Mieszko I and Bolesław I Chrobry. Above them is the painting Mieszko I Breaking the Idols, which portrays the duke as a latter-day Moses, leading God’s new chosen people, the Poles, away from paganism to Christianity. The chapel is capped with a golden dome ringed by twenty saints with close connections to Polish history. Photograph by Andrea Hoelscher.

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Most influential in this regard was Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855), widely hailed as the greatest of Poland’s nineteenth-century bards.42 His reputation rests mainly on a series of stirring historical dramas written in the 1820s and early 1830s, including Forefather’s Eve (Dziady), Grażyna, Konrad Wallenrod, and Pan Tadeusz, which lionized the Polish and Lithuanian past and stoked the desire for independence. He wove Christian motifs throughout many of his works, most notably in his Books of the Polish Nation and Polish Pilgrimage (Księgi narodu polskiego i pielgrzymstwa polskiego), which offers a roughly sketched salvation history of humankind with the nations of Europe, and especially Poland, serving as the principal characters. Echoing the Bible in style and substance, he proclaims that in the beginning there was freedom and faith in one God among the peoples of earth, but they fell by giving themselves over to idolatry, which led to slavery and oppression. Christ came to preach belief in the true God, human equality, and selfless sacrifice for others. This message animated the Christian nations of Europe, but its full flowering was stymied by the selfishness of kings. The Christlike nation of Poland stood out as a refuge of freedom, selfless service, and devotion to the one true God, and for this reason it was “crucified” by the “Satanic Trinity” of Russia, Prussia, and Austria. But all hope is not lost, Mickiewicz insists. “For the Polish nation is not dead! Its body, indeed, is in the tomb, but its soul has ascended from the surface of the earth . . . to the homes and hearths of those who endure distress and oppression in their country, and far from their country, in order to be the witness there of their suffering. . . . And on the third day, the soul shall return to its body; and the nation shall rise from the dead; and shall free all the nations of Europe from slavery.”43 Mickiewicz’s grandiose claim regarding Poland’s salvific mission in the world was representative of a wider strain of thought known as Polish messianism. In the middle decades of the nineteenth century, numerous Polish thinkers followed Mickiewicz’s lead, offsetting the substantial obstacles to Polish independence with millenarian hope. In the 1840s Mickiewicz and others fell under the spell of Andrzej Towiański (1799–1878), one of the more curious figures in Polish history. In addition to recognizing the role of nations in advancing God’s designs in human history, Towiański claimed that he was the latest in a series of incarnations of the messiah destined to help realize the liberation of humankind. The Vatican placed his writings and other expressions of Polish messianism on the Index of Forbidden Books,

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which undermined their legitimacy. Certain ideas continued to resonate, however, including the belief that Poland was a Christlike nation destined to suffer for the redemption of others before rising again.44 One dimension of the Romantic turn in Catholic Europe was a renewed appreciation of papal teaching authority. Known as ultramontanism, this phenomenon grew increasingly pronounced over the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. To understand its significance, it helps to recall the hollowing out of papal influence in preceding centuries, culminating in the early years of the 1800s when Napoleon dissolved the Papal States and held Pope Pius VII under house arrest in France. Europe’s leading powers restored the Papal States at the Congress of Vienna, and before long the papacy started to matter again. The conservative men who occupied the Papal See rallied the faithful to resist the main currents of modernity, finding succor instead in Thomistic theology, Tridentine worship, and traditional devotions. Polish enthusiasm for papal authority was complicated by the Vatican’s conservative political orientation, which inclined it to sympathize with the partitioning powers and to oppose Polish national aspirations. This became painfully apparent when Pope Gregory XVI condemned the November Uprising. Despite this fact, many Polish Catholics gravitated toward ultramontanism. The partitioning powers and the Vatican promoted conservative prelates to lead the dioceses in the Polish lands, who in turn encouraged deference toward the papacy. At the same time, the old sureties associated with ultramontanism appealed to Catholics discomfited by the disruptions of modernity. An articulate Polish proponent of ultramontanism was Jan Koźmian (1814–1877), a journalist who later in life became a priest. Born to a wealthy family in the village of Wronów near Lublin, he was inspired to take up arms during the November Uprising, which resulted in a lengthy exile in France. While there he returned to the Catholicism of his youth and befriended, among others, Louis Veuillot, a leading French advocate of ultramontanism. In 1845 Koźmian moved to Poznań to assume the editorship of the ultramontane periodical Przegląd Poznański (Poznań Review), which came to exercise considerable influence in Catholic intellectual circles.45 Koźmian’s conversion from revolutionary nationalism to ultramontane Catholicism was part of a larger trend. Other examples include Bogdan Jański (1807–1840), Hieronym Kajsiewicz (1812–1873), and Piotr Semeneńko

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(1814–1886), the three founders of a new religious order known formally as the Congregation of the Resurrection and colloquially as the Resurrectionists. Jański was born to Catholic parents of the lesser nobility in the village of Lisów in Mazovia. He abandoned Catholicism during his studies of law and economics at the University of Warsaw, and he dabbled in a number of social movements and alternative ideologies en vogue at the time. The onset of the November Uprising found him in France, and he promoted the cause of Polish independence in the Western press. Not long after the uprising’s collapse he returned to the Catholic fold, recognizing it as the answer to the needs of contemporary civilization that he had been seeking. Manifesting the zeal of a convert, Jański shared his conviction within the growing ranks of the Polish émigré population. He found worthy fellow travelers in two veterans of the uprising, Kajsiewicz and Semeneńko, who went on to become priests. Together they founded a brotherhood that hardened in time into an official order. The Resurrectionists initially focused their pastoral outreach on the Polish émigré community, promoting traditional Catholic piety and combating heterodox manifestations like messianism. Polish Catholics also demonstrated renewed commitment to traditional religious practices like public processions, pilgrimage, elaborate prayer regimens, and devotion to holy images. There was a marked uptick in Marian piety in particular, stimulated no doubt by numerous reports of Marian apparitions across Europe. There was an increase in pilgrim traffic to established Marian shrines, and new centers of gravity emerged in the Catholic devotional landscape. Pilgrimage to the Marian image at Piekary in Upper Silesia is one example of a venerable practice that won new adherents in this period. Upper Silesia ceased to be connected formally to Poland in the fourteenth century, but most of its inhabitants still spoke one of several dialects of Polish. The image in question earned a reputation for miraculous powers in the seventeenth century and began attracting pilgrims throughout Silesia and from neighboring Poland and Bohemia. Despite Prussian resistance, a determined priest named Jan Ficek (1790–1862) raised the funds required to build a stately new church to house the image, which in conjunction with fresh claims of miracles raised its profile considerably. Ficek also nurtured a distinctly Polish Catholic consciousness in Upper Silesia by republishing hagiographical accounts of notable Polish saints.46

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As the fortunes of the Piekary shrine revived, a new center of Marian devotion blossomed near a small village in Great Poland. According to legendary accounts of its origins, a Polish soldier named Tomasz Kłossowski, injured in the Battle of Leipzig in 1813, had a vision of Mary wearing a crown and holding a white eagle, the symbol of Poland. She assured him of his recovery and return to the motherland, and she instructed him to create a shrine in her honor. He fulfilled those instructions near his hometown of Licheń in the 1830s. Mary subsequently appeared to the shepherd Mikołaj Sikatka in 1850 and requested a more stately shrine, called for moral reform, and promised her protection. When a cholera epidemic washed over the area two years later, locals flocked to the image. Numerous accounts of recovery from a range of afflictions attracted larger numbers of pilgrims. The shrine grew more elaborate over subsequent decades and has emerged as one of the most significant centers of Marian devotion in modern Poland. An impressive tribute to this status can be found in the recently completed Basilica of Our Lady of Sorrows, Queen of Poland, which ranks as the largest church in Poland.

Elected king in 1764, Stanisław August sought to rouse the commonwealth from its torpor through a series of bold reforms in the spheres of education, politics, and the military. This touched off a thirty-year period of extraordinary dynamism in Poland-Lithuania, which was accelerated by the recognition that the country’s very survival hung in the balance. The effort deeply divided Catholic leaders. Some of the most high-profile advocates of reform were clerics, as were some of the most dogged defenders of the status quo. In their efforts to strengthen the central government and military, commonwealth leaders ultimately required the Catholic Church to carry some of the burden in the form of taxation and the nationalization of the Diocese of Kraków’s property. Other proposed reforms in the religious arena came to naught, however, and the church retained much of its autonomy, influence, and wealth. The reform drive in Poland-Lithuania threatened the control that Russia, Prussia, and Austria were accustomed to exercising over the commonwealth’s affairs. In response, they divided the country between themselves, initiating more than a century of foreign rule over the Polish population. In this new era, the Catholic Church in the Polish lands had to contend

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with governments determined to supervise its internal affairs, reduce its role in public life, and relieve it of much of its accumulated wealth. Despite these painful setbacks, high-ranking Catholic officials typically were deeply conservative men who espoused loyalty to the Russian, Prussian, and Austrian crowns. Conservative Catholic thought in this period abhorred revolution and continued to emphasize the divine right of kings. Within the Polish population as a whole, however, support began to build for the ideas that Poles constituted a distinct nation and should be free to pursue their own political destiny. The legacy of Polish Catholicism offered an essential resource to nationalists seeking to convince their fellow Poles of these principles. Polish nationalist discourse led in short order to conspiratorial activity and revolutionary action, and the partitioning powers cracked down hard on their Polish subjects and the Catholic Church in the region. This provoked resistance, in turn, even from reliably conservative prelates, thereby creating some unlikely alliances between them and more revolutionary elements in Polish society. In the first half of the nineteenth century, impulses associated with Romanticism began to transform the culture of Catholicism in the Polish lands. The Romantic esteem for tradition, reinforced by the demand for historical examples of the Polish nation’s character and achievements, inspired a range of artistic, literary, and scholarly treatments of the Polish past. Idealized aspects of the Polish Catholic tradition often figured prominently in the same. The Romantic temperament also helps explain the renewed esteem for many venerable features of Catholicism, such as vowed religious life and expansive conceptions of papal authority. In short, a tremendous degree of innovation was taking place under the guise of tradition, propelled forward by disparate and sometimes contradictory motives. By the mid-nineteenth century, an emotional attachment to Poland’s past and a longing for the country’s restoration survived within influential sectors of Polish society, despite foiled insurrections and the gathering efforts of the partitioning powers to promote assimilation. These sentiments would continue fostering discontent for decades to come, subtly transforming the character and expression of Catholicism in the region.

7

The Gospel and National Greatness (1848–1914)

On July 4, 1890, an imposing throng of dignitaries made their way through the streets of Kraków. At the center of the procession were the mortal remains of Adam Mickiewicz, having already moldered for thirtyfive years in a Paris cemetery, now destined for reburial in Poland’s holiest shrine, the Wawel Cathedral. The event was at once steeped in tradition and utterly unprecedented: The cathedral accommodated royalty, highranking prelates, and military leaders, but never before had it housed a purely cultural figure like Mickiewicz. In its late-nineteenth-century context, though, the gesture made sense. After the loss of Polish sovereignty, there were no new political leaders to honor, and a series of failed uprisings had yielded no military leaders of substance. Arguably it fell to writers such as Mickiewicz to ignite enthusiasm for the idea of Poland among new generations of Poles. The Polish community had come to regard his writings as something akin to revelation, and his lofty accounts of Poland’s history and national character molded Polish self-understanding in powerful ways. Those responsible for organizing the reburial exceeded their fondest hopes in terms of attracting interest and participation. Tens of thousands of Poles, drawn from all three partitions and the expatriate community, flocked to Kraków for the celebration. Their ranks included large numbers of peasants, a population that historically had not identified itself as a part of the Polish nation. This enthusiastic display of unity and national pride offered a potent reminder to the partitioning powers that despite their best efforts many of their Polish subjects refused to assimilate and still harbored hopes for independence. The reburial of Mickiewicz was suff used with the symbols and ethos of Catholicism. The ceremony was patterned after the translation of saintly relics to a sanctioned shrine, and Catholic officials figured prominently in the day’s events, which culminated in a High Mass at the Wawel

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Cathedral. This is hardly surprising, considering Catholicism’s lingering hold on the majority of Poles and its capacity to unite their diverse and dispersed ranks. And yet this amalgamation of Catholic piety and Polish pride was not without its contradictions. Mickiewicz was still notorious for advocating teachings that landed some of his writings on the Index of Forbidden Books. High-ranking Polish prelates, deeply conservative by nature and eager to maintain good relations with the respective crowns under which they served, were distinctly uncomfortable associating themselves with an event that signaled enduring Polish aspirations for independence. Were they to reject these aspirations out of hand, however, they risked slipping into irrelevance. In the end they chose to celebrate Mickiewicz in ways that tempered the radical potential of his legacy and emphasized his Catholic bona fides. In his homily on the day of the poet’s reburial, Father Władysław Chotkowski observed: “We know that you were a mortal and sinful man, but you died with God; the clergy has offered prayers and bloodless offerings for your soul to God all these years because we all learned to love the Fatherland and our brothers from you, because you spread love and strengthened hope with your songs.”1

Domination and Resistance The failed uprisings of the 1830s and 1840s dampened nationalist spirits for a season, but they by no means extinguished the allure of armed insurrection as a means to achieve Polish independence. Unrest began to simmer anew in the Russian-controlled Congress Kingdom in the early 1860s, and Catholic symbols, resources, and personnel were inevitably drawn into the looming conflict. Nationalist leaders understood how certain dimensions of the Polish Catholic tradition could be employed to inspire Poles in all three partitions and across classes, even if the majority of Polish prelates squarely opposed the revolutionary path toward independence. Renewed signs of Polish unrest prompted Polish prelates to rein in the faithful. In 1861 Bishop Maciej Majerczak of Kielce issued a stark warning to his fellow Catholics: “Damned are those who, instead of peace, quiescence, and obedience sow confusion, discord, impudence, and conflict, for they are the sons of Satan, delegated from a fiery hell into which they are trying to drag others.” In an 1862 pastoral letter, Kraków’s Bishop Antoni

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Gałecki reminded his flock that secular authorities deserve obedience because their authority originated “from God himself.”2 Try as they might, conservative bishops could not restrain all Catholics from acts of political resistance. In the early 1860s, Polish nationalists in the Congress Kingdom began staging public protests against tsarist rule in the parish churches of sympathetic pastors, trusting that the police would not launch an attack in such sensitive precincts. Warsaw’s Archbishop Antoni Melchior Fijałkowski (1778–1861) condemned the practice, but to no avail. His own death in October of 1861 provided another occasion for activists to rally Polish support for independence. By midmonth, Russian officials imposed martial law in the city to quell the rebellion, and soldiers raided Warsaw’s churches in search of insurgents. The capital-vicar of the archdiocese shuttered churches across the city in protest of this violation. Early in 1862, Warsaw’s new archbishop Zygmunt Feliński (1822–1895) sought to restore order by opening the churches and banning insurgent activity within their confines, but a spirit of rebellion continued to simmer among a sector of the clergy and lay faithful. Catholic insurgents, including a number priests, launched Głos Kapłana Polskiego (Voice of the Polish Priest), an underground magazine that criticized loyalist prelates such as Feliński and characterized the brewing rebellion as a holy cause in keeping with Poland’s long-standing mission to advance the faith and freedom of Europe. Feliński, the paper noted, “wants to make the clergy apathetic about the fate of the Fatherland, to turn it into an ultramontane caste that would have nothing in common with the nation.”3 Feliński’s critics unfairly characterized the archbishop’s stance on the nation and the aspiration toward independence. Like many of his fellow prelates, he felt a strong emotional connection to Poland and lamented its recent humiliations. Before his ordination to the priesthood, he supported the Polish uprising in Great Poland in 1848, fighting alongside the rebels and suffering a wound at the Battle of Miłosław. Feliński later came to reject the moral legitimacy of armed insurrection and the larger premise that humans were masters of their own destiny.4 A much more powerful force in human affairs was the providence of God. Drawing from the biblical account of ancient Israel and a long-standing pattern of Polish Catholic thought, Feliński concluded that God was punishing Poland for its sins. The key to its future flourishing lay in moral regeneration. In his

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words: “Whoever manages to always see the finger of Providence in the course of historical events, and, trusting in the justice of God, cannot doubt that every nation will ultimately receive that which it has earned by its behavior, will recoil in disgust at the thought of committing a crime, even if that would be the only means of fighting an even greater injustice.”5 Mounting unrest in the Congress Kingdom finally erupted in armed insurrection early in 1863. Leaders of what has become known as the January Uprising employed Catholic language and symbols to rally the population to their cause, and Catholic participants in the struggle gave voice to their own religious feelings in more spontaneous ways. It would be wrong, though, to characterize the uprising as exclusively and unambiguously Catholic. Its leaders articulated expansive visions of Polish identity that could appeal to non-Catholics. They were also aware and contemptuous of the opposition that Catholic leaders reliably offered to armed rebellion. Only a small minority of Catholic priests in the kingdom actively supported the uprising, but larger numbers offered pastoral care to insurgents during the fight. Archbishop Feliński opposed the rebellion, but he also penned a daring appeal to Tsar Alexander II, suggesting that he grant Poland political autonomy. Militarily overmatched and finding no support abroad, the insurgency suffered defeat after defeat before collapsing entirely in 1864. Russia exercised a harsh revenge on those associated in any way with the uprising. It executed around thirty priests, sentenced another hundred or so to hard labor, and sent several hundred into exile. Among those in this last category was Archbishop Feliński, who spent the next twenty years of his life in the Russian city of Yaroslavl.6 Russia eliminated the measure of political autonomy its Polish subjects had once enjoyed in the Congress Kingdom, incorporating it directly into the Russian Empire under its new name, the Vistula Land. It declared Russian to be the official language of government and education and relied more extensively on Russian bureaucrats to run the province’s affairs. It also transferred land held by the gentry to the peasantry in a bid to weaken the former and win the latter’s loyalty. Alarmed by the degree to which Catholic officials colluded with the uprising, the Russian government imposed a variety of punitive measures designed to weaken the church and restrict its freedom. It closed down scores of Catholic churches, monasteries, and schools, and it abolished the

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dioceses of Kamianets-Podilskyi and Minsk in 1865 and 1869 respectively, assigning their territory to neighboring archdioceses. In 1869 it disbanded the Warsaw Ecclesiastical Academy and required Polish Catholic bishops on Russian soil to submit to the administrative oversight of the Ecclesiastical College of Saint Petersburg. Bishops who openly objected faced the threat of exile. It imposed more rigorous controls over the homilies of Catholic priests, restricted communication between the church in Russia and the Vatican, and required Catholics who married Orthodox Christians to convert to Orthodoxy. The repression provoked Pope Pius IX to raise his voice in protest, which only inflamed anti-Catholic sentiment in the tsar’s court. Russia gradually relented in the 1870s, increasingly cognizant of the toll its policies were taking on its image abroad.7 The Uniates suffered acutely in these decades as well. Already in 1838 the Russian government banned Greek Catholicism from the lands of eastern Poland it had annexed, forcing an estimated 1.5 million believers to convert to Orthodoxy. After the January Uprising it pursued a similar policy toward Greek Catholics living in the territory of the Congress Kingdom. The process culminated in the abolition of the Eparchy of Chełm in 1875. Greek Catholics offered spirited resistance to these designs, and hundreds suffered death or deportation as a result.8 As Polish Catholics in Russia adjusted to life under a more hostile regime, their counter parts in Prussia came to experience a similar fate, although for different reasons. After the unification of Germany in 1871, Chancellor Otto von Bismarck concluded that overt appeals to the anti-Catholic sentiments of Protestants and liberals would enable him to maintain a majority coalition in parliament. As a result, the 1870s and 1880s witnessed the enactment of a series of discriminatory laws against Catholic institutions and interests, especially in the province of Prussia where the Polish minority was concentrated. This new phase of church– state rancor, known as the Kulturkampf, resulted in enhanced state influence over Catholic schools, seminary formation, religious orders, diocesan governance, and marriages between Catholics. When priests, religious, and bishops defended their traditional rights and privileges, they endured onerous penalties, including removal from office, imprisonment, and deportation. In a matter of years, half of the Catholic bishops in Prussia were in prison, roughly a quarter of parishes had no resident priest, and hundreds of religious had been expelled from the country.

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Whatever short-term political advantages it yielded, the Kulturkampf ultimately proved counterproductive to Bismarck’s interests. It galvanized Germany’s Catholic population into a powerful political force, and in Prussia it undermined the state’s efforts to assimilate its Polish minority. Government policy reinforced the impression among Polish Catholics that Germany was hostile to their religion whereas the Polish national cause was favorable to it.9 The Kulturkampf gradually wound down in the 1880s, but the German government managed to antagonize Polish Catholics anew in the early 1900s. Concerned with the uneven pace of Germanization, government officials took steps to eliminate the use of Polish in religious instruction. Polish Catholic pupils responded by launching strikes at school, most famously in the town of Września in 1901. They endured beatings by their teachers, and some of their parents were imprisoned for attempting to intervene. Rather than stifling the rebellion, these harsh measures caused it to spread.10 In these same decades, a very different dynamic played out in the Polish lands under Austrian control. The 1860s brought a liberalization of Austrian policy toward its ethnic minority populations, culminating in the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867. In the Polish lands, an appreciable

Students who participated in the school strikes in Września, 1901. The formal portrait offers an indication of the notoriety their action achieved.

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degree of political authority devolved to local elites, and in 1869 Polish emerged as the official language of administration and education. This new climate gave Polish nationalists a relatively free hand to promote Polish cultural identity and even to give cautious expression to their aspirations for an independent Poland. At the same time, among many Poles it reinforced feelings of loyalism and gratitude toward the Hapsburg dynasty. After years of neglect, the city of Kraków enjoyed a cultural revival. A rising swell of pilgrims made their way to the “Polish Rome,” eager to encounter monuments linked to Poland’s past glory. The city hosted a series of large-scale public commemorations of important persons and events in Polish history, including the historical novelist Józef Ignacy Kraszewski (1879), King Sobieski’s 1683 victory at Vienna (1883), Mickiewicz’s reburial in the Wawel Cathedral (1890), the Constitution of May 3 (1891), the Kościuszko Uprising (1894), and the Polish-Lithuanian victory at Grunwald in 1410 (1910). Catholic symbols and spaces were interwoven into these celebrations, reinforcing the link between Catholicism and Polish national identity, but outward expressions of harmony often masked deep tensions. Conservative Catholic leaders hesitated to associate themselves with anything that smelled of sedition, and they chafed at the thought that the faith they presided over was being instrumentalized by other parties.11 Kraków also hosted two of the more innovative ventures in ecclesiastical architecture in a period not particularly noted for the same, at least in the Polish lands. The celebrated artist and writer Stanisław Wyspiański (1869–1907) redesigned the interior of the Basilica of Saint Francis according to an Art Nouveau sensibility. The pièce de résistance is the outsized window that dominates the western façade, which offers a powerful portrayal of God creating the universe. Franciszek Mączyński (1874–1947) accepted a commission from the Jesuits to design the Basilica of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus. He developed an innovative design with definite Art Nouveau influences while gesturing in historicist fashion toward the Romanesque, the Gothic, and the Baroque. Framed on one side by a tower, its arresting façade is punctuated by a rose window with heart-shaped partitions. A perennial challenge for Polish nationalists was winning the support of the vast peasant population in the region, which long was inclined to identify the trappings of Polish national identity with the gentry. As the

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Funeral procession in honor of Stanisław Wyspiański, Kraków, 1907. Wyspiański earned broad acclaim as a poet, playwright, painter, and applied artist. In his work he repeatedly touched on aspects of Poland’s history and its predicament at the time. His body was interred alongside other famous Poles in the crypt of the Skałka Church in Kraków. Courtesy of the Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe.

noble Zdzisław Zamoyski observed in 1848, “Our peasant, despite the fact that he was born on Polish soil, that he only speaks Polish, is incapable of grasping the concept that he is a Pole. . . . The Pole for him is the lord whom he despises—who has power and legal jurisdiction over him—for whom he owed feudal obligations.”12 Nationalist leaders faced competition for peasant affections from the partitioning powers, each of which took steps to emancipate the peasantry from the bonds of serfdom in the second half of the nineteenth century.13 These policies were designed in part to win the peasantry’s grateful loyalty. As it happens, emancipated peasants began to identify with Poland like never before. The dismantling of serfdom made it easier to bridge the chasm that once separated peasants from Polish elites. At the same time, Polish writers, social scientists, and political activists took a greater interest in the peasantry and sought to integrate them intentionally into

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expressions of Polish nationhood. Nationalist-minded priests played an important role in this process. Deep into the nineteenth century, priests were often the primary purveyors of what little formal education was available in peasant villages. One can cite numerous examples of patriotic clerics who, in addition to teaching the basics of the Catholic faith, eagerly promoted an appreciation of the Polish language, history, and literature.14 The romantic nationalism that exercised such sway over Polish intellectual and cultural life began to cede ground to fresher impulses in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which in turn posed new challenges to the Polish Catholic community. In the wake of the January Uprising debacle, growing numbers of nationalist activists rallied around the ideas of positivism and organic work, which emphasized the importance of strengthening the nation from within rather than hatching new insurrections. Self-strengthening, they argued, required advances in scientific understanding, technological expertise, and economic endeavor. It also required abandoning outmoded ideas and practices. This included the Catholic Church, which many positivists viewed as a hidebound institution inimical to progress.15 The loyalist orientation of the region’s Catholic bishops only deepened their disdain. Overt displays of such sentiments were tempered, though, by the recognition of Catholicism’s lingering hold on the majority of the Polish population. The turn of the century witnessed the rising prominence of two men destined to shape the course of Polish political history for decades to come. One was Roman Dmowski (1864–1939), the co-founder and leading architect of the right-wing political movement National Democracy (Narodowa Demokracja), known colloquially as Endeks. Dmowski articulated his aspirations in his 1902 manifesto Thoughts of a Modern Pole (Myśli nowoczesnego Polaka). Influenced by Social Darwinism, he summoned Poles to jettison their nostalgia for the Polish-Lithuanian past and endeavor to create a thoroughly modern society that could thrive in a competitive world. He had little use for Christian values, which he regarded as ill-suited for the gritty realities of politics and prone to inhibit the “egoism” proper to a vital nation. He was likewise contemptuous of Poland’s multicultural past and historical tolerance of diversity. Dmowski dreamed instead of an autonomous and increasingly homogenous Poland, in which minorities would be expelled or pressured to assimilate. In his mind, the primary

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impediment to this dream was Germany, and the most logical way forward lay in alliance with Russia.16 Dmowski’s great rival was Józef Piłsudski (1867–1935). Born to a noble family in the Lithuanian village of Zalavas (Zułów), his parents inculcated a love for Polish culture and history that marked him deeply. He dedicated his life to the restoration of a Poland that remained faithful to its multiethnic past and encompassed not only the Polish heartland but Lithuania and the eastern borderlands (Kresy) as well, an ambition that set him squarely against Russian interests in particular. In the 1890s he joined the Polish Socialist Party, recognizing it as a viable political vehicle to advance his goals, and he quickly rose through the ranks. Convinced that Polish independence would require armed conflict, he set about forming Polish military units. Piłsudski’s inclination toward armed insurrection placed him at odds with church teaching, but the greatest obstacle for would-be Catholic supporters was his socialist affiliation. Dmowski’s extreme nationalism, his ambivalence toward the Christian moral code, and his lack of deference toward Catholicism posed stumbling blocks of their own, and early efforts by Endeks to cultivate sympathetic clergy yielded paltry harvests. At the same time, though, Dmowski’s Darwinian vision, the sharp lines he drew between Poles and non-Poles, and the particular enmity he harbored toward Jews had tremendous potential appeal in an era when Catholics perceived themselves to be surrounded by enemies. That potential would begin to be realized in the 1920s as Dmowski shifted his platform in the church’s direction, recognizing Catholicism as an integral component of Polish identity.17 In this difficult political landscape, many Catholic leaders emphasized trust in God and moral reform as the surest means to realize Polish hopes for independence. Biblical accounts of ancient Israel offered a key for interpreting God’s engagement in human affairs: God’s chosen people thrived when they adhered to the divine law and suffered when they defied it. So it was with Poland. As Father Stanisław Adamski noted in a homily delivered in Lviv in 1899, “From the beginning, it always went well for us as long as we did not sin before our God, and good fortune was reversed when God ceased to defend us because we had fallen from God, because we had lost the faith of our fathers.”18 It followed that good fortune could be restored through collective fidelity to church teachings. As

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Piotr Semeneńko counseled his fellow Poles, “Just be faithful, and you will live. Don’t believe your own eyes when it seems to you that you have died; you live, and you will live, and you must live. You are immortal, because you have a mission from God.”19 At the same time, Polish Catholic leaders showed a growing receptivity to aspects of the liberal political model, including engagement in the democratic process. In this respect, they participated in the gradual evolution of Catholic thinking on a global level, which Pope Leo XIII gently nurtured. Although hardly a liberal, Leo took cautious steps to reconcile the Catholic community to the increasing ubiquity of liberalism and the opportunities it offered. In his 1885 encyclical Immortale Dei, the pope discouraged the assumption that there was only one legitimate type of government, and he affirmed the appropriateness of Catholic participation in the political life of liberal states. These signals coincided fortuitously with the rising profile of democratic institutions and procedures in Germany, Austria, and even Russia.

Pastoral Care and Social Reconstruction One of the greatest challenges facing the church in the Polish lands in this period was contending with population growth and rapid urbanization. Over the course of the nineteenth century, the Polish population more than doubled, with particularly rapid concentrations in industrial centers such as Warsaw, Łódź, and the Dąbrowa Basin in Upper Silesia. The population of priests did not keep pace with this expansion. This was especially true in the Polish lands controlled by Russia and Prussia/Germany, where ambivalent feelings toward the Catholic Church inclined governments to set up roadblocks toward the recruitment and training of priests. This created substantial gaps in terms of the provision of pastoral care. To cite one particularly stark example, there were just two parishes in the burgeoning city of Łódź at the turn of the century, the largest of which encompassed 142,000 members.20 In Austrian Poland, conditions were more favorable for cultivating priestly vocations. This helps explain why the region would continue to yield a disproportionate share of the Polish Catholic clergy for decades to come. One element that helped determine the quantity and quality of priests was seminary education, which varied considerably from region to region.

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In Russia, heightened concerns about the loyalty of the Polish Catholic clergy led the government to take radical measures. It centralized Catholic seminary education in the lackluster Ecclesiastical College of Saint Petersburg, which allowed for ready state oversight. The state of Catholic seminary education was considerably better in neighboring Prussia, but that changed with the Kulturkampf. New restrictions forced the seminary in Poznań to close for sixteen years. In Austrian Poland, Catholic officials did not have to contend with such harassment, and they benefited from the educational resources on hand at the universities in Lviv and Kraków. A select number of Polish seminarians and priests had the opportunity to pursue advanced degrees at elite institutions in western Europe.21 The priesthood long had been a route of social mobility in Poland, offering men of modest family circumstances the opportunity to receive an education, wield considerable influence, and live a comfortable life. In the second half of the nineteenth century, priests of common stock and uncommon talent found it possible to rise high in the ranks of the hierarchy, formerly a noble preserve. Examples include two of the more remarkable bishops from this period: Józef Sebastian Pelczar (1842–1924) and Józef Bilczewski (1860–1923). Born in the Galician villages of Korczyna and Wilamowice respectively, Pelczar and Bilczewski experienced impressive career trajectories, the former becoming bishop of Przemyśl (1900–1924) and the latter the archbishop of Lviv (1900–1923). Pope John Paul II canonized Pelczar in 2003, and Bilczewski received the same honor two years later. A distinguished lineage still counted for much, though, and no doubt hastened the ascent of Adam Stefan Sapieha (1867–1951) to the helm of the Diocese of Kraków in 1911. As the church scrambled to care for a burgeoning lay population, it benefited considerably from a renewed dynamism in vowed religious life. The Polish situation paralleled a global Catholic trend in this respect: The virtual collapse of the religious orders in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries was followed by a renaissance, making the nineteenth century one of the most fertile periods in terms of the growth of existing orders and the founding of new ones. The decline of the orders in the Polish lands can be attributed in large part to the hostile policies of the partitioning powers. Such headwinds continued to be felt deep into the nineteenth century in Russia and Germany. The Russian government

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ordered the wholesale closure of monasteries and convents in the wake of the January Uprising. The German government pursued a similar, if less thorough, strategy during the Kulturkampf. Yet the upsurge of interest in organized religious life could not be so easily stymied. In the friendlier terrain under Austrian control, it positively flourished. The experience of the Jesuits in Austrian Poland is a case in point. Not long after the order’s restoration in 1814, it established a modest presence in the province. The Austrian government expelled the Jesuits in 1848, sensing enthusiasm in their ranks for the Springtime of Nations, only to allow them to return again in 1852. Thereafter their membership expanded at a healthy clip. By 1900, 454 Jesuits were engaged in a variety of ministries at thirty-nine sites throughout the region. In these same decades, the Resurrectionists matured into a respected order under the leadership of Piotr Semeneńko (1814–1886).22 Semeneńko enjoyed particular esteem in the Vatican as a trusted voice on Polish affairs, and he was instrumental in the founding and early direction of the Polish Pontifical College, a seminary in Rome for Polish candidates for the priesthood that has formed generations of Polish Catholic leaders. One of the most noteworthy women’s orders to be founded in these years was the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Felix of Cantalice, otherwise known as the Felicians. The order’s foundress, Maria Angela Truszkowska (1825–1899; beatified in 1993), was born in Kalisz in Great Poland to a distinguished family of means and raised to adulthood in Warsaw. Truszkowska’s desire for a life of spiritual contemplation competed with the duty of ser vice she felt toward the poor and vulnerable populations. Under the spiritual influence of Capuchin friar Honorat Koźmiński (1829– 1916; beatified in 1988), she formed a women’s community dedicated to both ideals. The community took its name from the shrine to Saint Felix located in the Capuchin Church of the Transfiguration in Warsaw. The nascent order began to grow, but the sisters’ decision to lend medical aid to insurgents during the January Uprising resulted in its suppression by Russian authorities. It soon found new life in the Austrian partition, with Kraków serving as its headquarters. Felician sisters staffed schools and a range of charitable institutions throughout the region, but they had their greatest impact serving Polish communities in the United States. The clergy embraced some innovative pastoral initiatives to nurture Catholic practice in these decades. One such tool was the parish mission,

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in which a priest or group of priests would descend on a given parish in order to offer a brief, intense burst of pastoral care, including the sacraments of Eucharist and confession, powerful preaching, and devotional practices such as Eucharistic adoration. Such visits were designed to jolt the parish community into a renewed degree of religious commitment. One effective practitioner of this model was Karol Antoniewicz (1807– 1852), who after the untimely death of his wife and children joined the Jesuit order and was ordained to the priesthood in 1844. Recognizing his remarkable oratorical gifts, his superiors assigned him to the mission circuit, and in the late 1840s and early 1850s he completed successful tours through Galicia, Silesia, and Great Poland before succumbing to cholera. Antoniewicz also penned a number of popular religious hymns that have long outlived him. In Russian Poland, Honorat Koźmiński explored creative ways to cultivate religious zeal in the repressive climate that followed the January Uprising. He established a network of underground religious communities of laypeople based on the model of third orders long utilized in the Catholic world. Members of these communities continued to fulfill their daily obligations while vowing themselves to rigorous lives of prayer and Mass attendance, high moral standards, and charitable practices. As the Industrial Revolution gained momentum throughout much of Europe in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it transformed the socioeconomic order in ways that raised living standards in general, created tremendous opportunities for some, and trapped large numbers of laborers in horrendous working and living conditions. The misery of the working classes presented the Catholic Church with a moral challenge in and of itself. Their misery made them more receptive to the allure of ideologies like Marxism, which was anathema to the church on account of its rejection of religion and endorsement of revolution. As Catholic leaders wrestled with these issues, they came to advocate a set of principles and strategies designed to temper the harsher realities of free-market capitalism while discouraging interclass conflict and Marxism. This program, which has come to be known as social Catholicism or Catholic social teaching, received papal endorsement and direction when Pope Leo XIII issued the landmark encyclical Rerum Novarum in 1891. In the Polish lands, most Catholic leaders were slow to engage directly with social Catholicism. Deeply ingrained convictions and values informed

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this passivity, including an outsized fear of destabilizing the social order, a belief in the spiritual value of suffering, and a distinct pessimism about the human potential to effect change. Rerum Novarum helped raise the level of concern, particularly among bishops. The plight of workers was a topic of conversation in a number of gatherings of church leaders, including the 1893 Catholic Convention in Kraków and the 1895 Catholic Convention in Lviv. One of the most outspoken advocates of social Catholicism among the episcopacy was Józef Bilczewski. In various forums he defended the rights and dignity of workers and peasants and the importance of worker unions. He urged the clergy in his archdiocese to engage on their behalf. His support for the issue earned him the moniker “Leo XIII speaking Polish.”23 One broadly acceptable means of supporting the well-being of workers and peasants was to promote moral reform among their members. A leading initiative of this type was the coordinated effort to curtail excessive alcohol consumption. Drinking was deeply embedded in folk customs, and in many cases it was encouraged, and in some cases required, by landlords and government officials who reaped substantial revenues from the spirits trade. Critics lamented how drinking depleted the modest resources of peasant and proletarian households and undermined family life. The temperance cause attracted the support of numerous priests, including Jan Ficek. During the 1840s and 1850s he convinced some 200,000 Catholics in Upper Silesia to join dozens of sodalities dedicated to the goal of reducing alcohol consumption. His example resonated in neighboring regions, and there is evidence that his efforts had an effect, at least in the short term. A handful of Catholics dared to address deeper structural issues that locked people in poverty, and they usually paid a high price for their impertinence. The peasantry found a controversial champion in the Galician priest Stanisław Stojałowski (1845–1911). After an early stint with the Jesuits, he incardinated with the Archdiocese of Lviv. Not content merely to lead a parish, Stojałowski gained control of two publications that catered to peasant audiences, Wieniec (Wreath) and Pszczółka (Bee), which he transformed into powerful levers on peasant opinion. He sought at once to awaken a genuine spirit of Polish patriotism within his audience and to organize them into a political force. His controversial stances and sharp criticism of those he viewed as opposed to peasant interests earned him

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many enemies within the political and ecclesiastical establishments. Stojałowski endured repeated jail sentences, excommunication, and the banning of his publications.24 A still more radical voice among the clergy belonged to Izydor Wysłouch (1869–1937), a priest and Capuchin friar more widely known by his pen name, Antoni Szech. He found in Marxism a convincing explanation of the gross economic disparities within Polish society, and he sympathized with its prescription of revolutionary change. Szech expressed these views with increasing frankness in his sermons, speeches, and writings. If the church did not lead in the struggle for a more just social order, he averred, it risked irrelevance. Szech’s religious superiors were not convinced. He was expelled from his order in 1908 and excommunicated not long thereafter. Defrocked and disaffected, Szech cut his ties with the church and came to advocate a “religion of humanity.”25 As the global Catholic Church cautiously addressed controversial social and economic questions, it showed greater defensiveness in the scholarly realm. The intellectual currents of the era were proving tremendously unsettling for traditional Catholic thinking. They included the triumph of the historicist worldview, the eagerness to subject once unquestioned repositories of truth (the Bible above all) to unprecedented scrutiny, and a nearly boundless faith in progress and the capacity of science to unlock the secrets of the universe. Many Protestant theologians recognized the need to bring Christianity into conversation with these ideas, lest the faith lose credibility. Few Catholic thinkers dared to do the same, discouraged by church leaders at the Vatican and beyond who viewed the intellectual propensities of the era as dangerous, fostering skepticism of core doctrines and a false sense of optimism regarding the human condition. Catholic institutions of higher learning grew increasingly inward looking, rooting themselves in traditional teaching and methodologies. This turn was epitomized above all by an intense focus on Thomism. This intellectual insularity reached its apotheosis during the pontificate of Pope Pius X (1903–14). He consigned a range of leading ideas to the category of “modernism” and required all clergy to take an antimodernist oath. The Polish territories were hardly conducive to modernist thinking, and its bishops generally were determined to keep it that way. In a scathing survey of the intellectual dangers of his times, Bishop Józef Pelczar warned his readers: “Who does not see that with modernism the Catholic Church

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faces ruin, that religion dissolves into unbridled subjectivism and morbid emotionality, the end result of which must be naturalism, pantheism, indifference, and finally atheism.” He also accused specific Poles of being modernists, including two Catholic members of the faculty at Kraków’s Jagiellonian University: Wincenty Lutosławski (1863–1954) and Marian Zdziechowski (1861–1938).26 A glance at their controversial interests reveals just how narrow the confines of the Catholic intellectual universe had become. Lutosławski was a proponent of yoga and a founding member of Eleusis, an organization devoted to promoting the renewal of the Polish nation through a deepening of religious devotion and abstinence from alcohol, tobacco, gambling, and illicit sex. Zdziechowski’s philosophical concerns took him well beyond the Thomist reservation, drawing on non-Catholic thinkers such as Immanuel Kant, Arthur Schopenhauer, and Vladimir Solovyov.

Trends in Catholic Piety A variety of indicators point to the erosion of religious commitment in many corners of nineteenth-century Europe. The Polish Catholic population stood far to the rear of this trend. Although one can find examples of Poles who abandoned Christianity and regarded the church as an impediment to progress—this was especially true of the intelligentsia—they represented a small fraction of the broader population. The overwhelming majority endeavored to fulfill their religious obligations in good faith.27 In the Polish countryside, Catholic practice was deeply ingrained in the rhythms of peasant life, and this stronghold survived largely intact amid the seismic shifts of the era, including the dismantling of serfdom. Large numbers of peasants ventured to cities and foreign countries in order to improve their lives, but those who stayed behind remained religiously observant. The church continued to play an integral role in defining one’s place in the social order and the cosmos, and powerful social pressures generally assured conformity with religious norms. Church personnel and practices helped mediate connections between a given village and the wider world and between different strata of the social order. Peasant emancipation and expanded educational opportunities gave rise to new figures of authority in the countryside, including school teachers and peasant leaders, but the rural parish priest still wielded outsized influence.28

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In the wake of the failed January Uprising, many Polish intellectuals rejected the romantic nationalism that had inspired a series of quixotic insurrections, but it was by no means an exhausted force. On the contrary, in the second half of the nineteenth century it finally became a mass phenomenon, gaining traction among the broad ranks of the peasantry. At the heart of the emerging Polish nationalist tradition was the idea that the Polish people formed a nation marked by a rich culture and distinct history. The Catholic faith was integral to this vision, and it was widely assumed among adherents that piety and patriotism were complementary virtues. The tradition found its basis in a core set of historical symbols and motifs (the baptism of Mieszko, Poland as a bulwark of the Christian West, and so on), and over the decades it gathered a growing corpus of heroes, monuments, and rituals that engendered pride and enhanced the appeal of national identity. One fresh appendage to the national tradition was the anthem “Boże coś Polskę” (God Save Poland). Written in 1816, the original version of the song was penned in praise of Tsar Alexander I for his liberal policy toward his Polish subjects immediately after the Congress of Vienna. Moscow’s harder line robbed the song of its purpose, but in a matter of years it resurfaced with more provocative lyrics in harmony with a growing hunger for independence. Those who sang it now found themselves supplicating God to “return to us our fatherland and our freedom.” It gradually developed into a standard feature of patriotic manifestations and, through repeated use, a beloved tradition.29 New generations of artists augmented the nation’s cultural treasury with achievements in print, paint, and other media. Their ranks included the journalist, novelist, and faithful Catholic Henryk Sienkiewicz (1846– 1916), who gained wide renown in particular for his historical novels, including a trilogy set in the seventeenth-century Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. These works lionized Poland’s past and struck distinctly Catholic notes. Sienkiewicz won the Nobel Prize for lifetime achievement in 1905, which offered new grounds for national pride.30 In addition to providing a satisfying sense of identity, the Polish national tradition offered members a powerful set of narratives and ideas that helped mold the meanings of fresh experiences. And so, for example, through the lens of shared memory the January Uprising evolved from an ill-advised military failure into yet another instance of the brave Polish

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spirit, fighting against great odds for lofty ideals. Romuald Traugutt, one of the uprising’s principal leaders before his arrest and execution by the Russians, was lionized for his bravery and piety, and his death attracted comparisons to Christ’s passion. In their enthusiasm, some Poles even championed his canonization as a Catholic saint.31 A variety of popular devotions animated Catholic religious life in the Polish territories in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This phenomenon was part of a wider trend in the Catholic world. To the surprise and chagrin of skeptics expecting the inexorable triumph of the scientific worldview over “superstition,” Catholics demonstrated a renewed appreciation for venerable practices like Eucharistic adoration, praying the rosary, and making pilgrimages to shrines devoted to Mary and the saints. Marian piety enjoyed a pronounced global revival in these decades, propelled forward by a series of apparitions and Pope Pius IX’s declaration of the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception in 1854. These events resonated powerfully in the Polish lands, where Marian devotion was deeply entrenched. Growing numbers of Poles from all three partitions took part in pilgrimages to Częstochowa, whose Marian shrine appealed all the more on account of its potent associations with the nation. By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the shrine was attracting around a thousand organized pilgrimages every year.32 The late nineteenth century also witnessed the revival of the devotion to Our Lady Queen of Poland, which the partitioning powers earlier had suppressed on account of its references to Polish statehood. In the newly tolerant climate of Austrian Poland, however, Polish Catholics could speak of it once again, and Archbishop Bilczewski advocated its restoration.33 In 1908 Pope Pius X formally allowed the liturgical feast of Our Lady Queen of the Poland to be celebrated in the Archdiocese of Lviv and the Diocese of Przemyśl. Another popular locus of devotion was the cult of the saints, especially those with important connections to Polish history. The eight-hundredth anniversary of the death of Saint Stanisław of Kraków in 1879 served as an occasion for large numbers of Poles from all three partitions to pilgrimage to Kraków and his birthplace. Their ranks included 1,300 peasants organized by Father Stojałowski. In 1888 German government officials allowed a public celebration of Saint Vojtěch’s feast day at his shrine in Gniezno, a practice that had been banned for some time on account of its potential to raise tensions. Twenty thousand people took part in what one

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official lamented was a “political demonstration.”34 Even larger crowds gathered to honor the nine-hundredth anniversary of the saint’s death in 1897. Certain expressions of piety could prove divisive within the Catholic community. This is perhaps best evidenced by the Mariavite movement. In 1893 Sister Feliksa Kozłowska (1862–1921) had a life-changing vision. “Inconceivable luminosity suff used my soul and I was then shown the universal corruption of the world and the finality of time—the laxity of morals among the clergy and the sins committed by priests,” she noted. “I saw God’s Justice aiming at the world to punish it and also his Mercy giving the doomed world its last chance of rescue in the Veneration of the Most Holy Sacrament and in Mary’s Help.” Convinced she was being called by God to promote spiritual renewal within the church, she initiated a movement that began attracting priests, sisters, and lay devotees. Members came to be known as Mariavites (Mariawici), from the Latin phrase Mariae vitam imitans (in imitation of the life of Mary), and their spiritual disciplines included frequent communion and confession, Marian devotion, rigorous moral standards, and the use of medallions as a focal point during prayer. Leaders of the movement sought recognition from Rome but received a stinging rebuke instead. The Vatican dismissed the legitimacy of Kozłowska’s visions in 1904 and took umbrage with her harsh criticism of the clergy. It ordered the group to disband, and their refusal resulted in excommunication in 1906. The Mariavites hardened into a separate church that claimed tens of thousands of followers in 1910. It began to contract thereafter, but its subsequent leader, Father Jan Kowalski, kept it in the public eye for years to come with daring initiatives (marriages between priests and nuns, female priests) and his own legal troubles (polygamy, sexual offenses against minors).35 The existence of such divisions notwithstanding, Polish Catholics enjoyed a relatively high degree of solidarity in these decades, which was strengthened by a shared anxiety about the pace of political, social, economic, and cultural change. Over the course of the nineteenth century, growing numbers of Catholics were inclined to see such developments as part of a vast conspiracy orchestrated by the Masonic Order. The order’s purpose, according to its critics, was to undermine the church and gain power. This theory gained credibility as a series of popes endorsed it, including Pope Leo XIII in his 1884 encyclical Humanum Genus. He writes,

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“At this period, however, the partisans of evil seem to be combining together, and to be struggling with united vehemence, led on or assisted by that strongly organized and widespread association called the Freemasons. No longer making any secret of their purposes, they are now boldly rising up against God Himself.”36 Numerous Polish Catholic clerics and lay thinkers took it upon themselves to warn the faithful of this mounting threat in a flurry of articles, books, sermons, and speeches. They discerned Masonic craft in a variety of worrisome trends, including eroding moral standards, the proliferation of liberal political models, socialism, secular education, and the feminist movement. One of the most influential texts of this genre was Bishop Józef Pelczar’s Masonry: Its Essence, Principles, Aspirations, Origins, Development, Organization, Ceremonies, and Activities, first published in 1905. He warns, “History is a witness that since the French Revolution there has not been in the world of politics, particularly in Catholic countries, a single revolution or an attack on the Catholic Church or on a monarchy in which the Masons did not take a greater or lesser part.”37 The region’s large Jewish community had long been an object of fear and loathing for Polish Catholics. These sentiments grew even darker around the turn of the century, as a number of Polish Catholic observers began echoing outlandish accusations against the Jews that had been radiating out of France and Germany for some time. This discourse was quite at odds with traditional anti-Judaism and in many respects paralleled the dangerous myths surrounding the Masons. The Jews, it was said, were conspiring to gain profit and power by undermining the influence of the church and promoting a culture of unrestrained freedom. Such thinking was destined to metastasize into a national obsession in the interwar era.38

Poles Apart A prominent feature of Polish history in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century was the large-scale migration of Poles abroad. All told, some 4.5 million Poles emigrated in these decades, forming a community that has come to be known as Polonia. The promise of greater economic opportunity was the primary impetus for this migration, and factors like peasant emancipation and more affordable transportation

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allowed it to unfold. By 1914 an estimated 600,000 Poles were living in western Germany, especially in industrial centers in the Rhineland. Another 400,000 had emigrated from the Russian partition into Russia proper. The large majority of the migrants traveled further afield to immigrant-friendly countries like the United States, which was home to some three million Polish Americans by the start of the First World War. The majority of Polish immigrants were Catholic, and over the course of the nineteenth century their faith had become heavily tinctured with Polish pride. In many cases, the immigrant experience magnified their religious and nationalist identities. Those Poles who chose to emigrate tended to come from the ranks of the peasantry, and in their adopted homelands they found meaning, comfort, and essential support in the bonds of faith and ethnicity. They were strongly disposed to gather in Polish enclaves, where the language and customs of old homelands defined their environment. The Polish propensity to re-create the homeland abroad was hardly unique; other immigrant groups behaved in the same fashion. Yet in cities packed with immigrant communities, the Poles stood out in terms of the degree of their commitment to their own and their wariness of outsiders. A number of factors help explain this. Decades of oppression by the partitioning powers conditioned Poles to suspect the designs of outside authorities seeking to erode their cultural and social bonds. Polish migrants were also shaped by the legacy of the organic work movement, which sought to strengthen the Polish community from within in preparation for future liberation, and they brought the same habits to bear in their new homelands. The Catholic parish formed an essential component of many Polish immigrant communities. In the relatively free and underdeveloped context of the United States, whenever Polish Catholics gathered in sufficient numbers, they typically set about purchasing land for a church and recruiting Polish-speaking priests. “The parish church in Poland, while important, never had the social and institutional importance that its immigrant counterpart attained,” explains John Radzilowski. “The Polish-American parish was in the fullest sense a new creation, made with Polish cultural and intellectual components but created to serve an American context.”39 Vibrant Polish parishes developed in Chicago, which emerged as the most popular destination of Polish migrants in the late nineteenth and

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early twentieth centuries.40 The city’s Polish Catholic population found an especially able leader in Wincenty Barzyński (1838–1899), a priest from the village of Sulisławice on the southern edge of the Congress Kingdom. A participant in the January Uprising, Barzyński served a stint in prison before being deported. He ended up in Paris, where he joined the Resurrectionists and agreed to serve as a missionary priest to the burgeoning Polish Catholic community in Chicago. In 1874 he began as pastor to the Saint Stanisław Kostka’s Parish, which swelled to 40,000 members by his death in 1899. In addition to building a massive parish plant, he was instrumental in founding nineteen other Polish Catholic parishes, making Chicago home to more Polish Catholic parishes than any other city. He had a hand in creating other institutions designed to serve Polonia, including the Association of Polish Roman Catholic Priests, the Polish Publishing Company, and the newspaper Dziennik Chicagoski. The church Barzyński commissioned for his parish was an early example of a string of monumental churches constructed by Polish Catholic communities in the industrial centers where they tended to cluster. A common animating principle behind these buildings was the desire to re-create the ambience of high-profile churches erected during the glory days of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Commonalities in their designs have given rise to the concept known as the Polish Cathedral Style. The grandiosity of these buildings is all the more remarkable when one considers the meager resources of most Polish American families at this time, and it speaks to the importance of the parish as a locus of community and a source of pride. Another essential component of Polish Catholic parishes were parochial schools, where Polish Catholics could confidently send their children to be educated in their native language and in Polish religious and cultural traditions. By 1914 Polish American Catholics had established nearly four hundred parochial schools, which were educating an estimated 128,540 students.41 Around two-thirds of Polish American children were enrolled in parochial schools at this time.42 Building and operating schools was expensive, especially for an impoverished immigrant community. What made it possible was the small army of women religious willing to staff them for token salaries, motivated more by a sense of religious mission than material gain. Of the various orders active in the Polish American community, the most significant was the Felician Sisters. Although the

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original Felicians came from Poland, the order found ample recruits within the Polish American community. By midcentury, the majority of the global population of Felician sisters could be found in the United States.43 The person responsible for first bringing the Felicians to the United States was Father Józef Dąbrowski (1842–1903). Like Barzyński, Dąbrowski participated in the January Uprising, was forced into exile, and found a new direction as a missionary priest of the Resurrectionist Order. In the United States he took a strong interest in education, determined to prepare young Poles to be at once firmly Catholic, proud of their Polish heritage, and able to succeed in their new country. “The Church forbids caprices and slavish worship of nationality,” he once noted. “On the other hand, our nation is deeply Catholic and as long as Poles will be Poles, that fact will be the great mainstay of our religion. In this way our religion and nationality support each other.”44 Dąbrowski was also the driving force behind the creation of a seminary devoted specifically to training priests to serve the Polish American community. Established in Detroit in 1885, the Saints Cyril and Methodius Seminary has since moved to the suburb of Orchard Lake, Michigan, and remains in operation to this day. Their parishes helped organize and sustain Polish American communities in many ways. The liturgical year provided a common rhythm, and churches served as dignified settings for the communal honoring of key rites of passage. This was especially valuable for an immigrant community drawn from a wide variety of cities and villages throughout the Polish territories. The parish created opportunities for networking across classes and professions, and it offered a safety net for members in distress. Polish Americans also had to contend with pronounced fissures within their enclaves. A deep fault line ran between those who emphasized the centrality of Catholicism to Polish identity and those drawn to a more expansive conception of the Polish nation that could encompass nonCatholics. This conflict gave rise to rival national organizations, the Union of Polish Roman Catholics (Zjednoczenie Polskie Rzymsko-Katolickie) and the Polish National Alliance (Związek Narodowy Polski), each with its own press organs and initiatives. This was the first of a number of divisions that undermined attempts to bring Polish Americans together under shared national structures. In this period numerous Polish American parishes also experienced tensions with the bishops of their respective dioceses. One factor was an

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internal Catholic debate concerning the wisdom of maintaining “national” parishes grounded in specific ethnic identities. This was a popular option for a wide array of Catholic immigrant populations, but critics of this practice, including many bishops, argued that it discouraged assimilation into mainstream American culture and reinforced accusations that Catholics were un-American. Another factor was the desire by many bishops to exert ultimate authority over the parishes and clergy in their dioceses. Many Polish Americans chafed at such interference. Having made tremendous sacrifices to build their parishes, they resented having to cede control to outsiders. Such feelings were amplified by the perception that it was next to impossible for Polish priests to rise up the ranks of a clerical hierarchy dominated by Irish Americans. The long history of Polish resistance to the chicanery of the partitioning powers inclined Polish American Catholics to apply similar responses to this context. In the end, most Polish American Catholics submitted to the authority of their bishops, although not without considerable bitterness. A minority refused, and their resistance ultimately resulted in schism. Their ranks included Franciszek Hodur, a priest from the Diocese of Scranton, who challenged his bishop over control of the Holy Trinity Parish in Nanticoke, Pennsylvania. Hodur’s insubordination soon led to his excommunication, but it also earned him admirers willing to follow him into a new ecclesial body. In 1897 he was ordained bishop at the hands of three Old Catholic bishops in the Netherlands, and he organized his followers into what became known as the Polish National Catholic Church (PNCC). At the outset, the PNCC closely resembled Roman Catholicism in terms of doctrine and practice, differing mainly in governance (more authority to parishes) and with a pronounced Polish character. At its peak, it encompassed around 5 percent of the Polish American Catholic population and even established a beachhead in Poland. It survives to this day, but in much smaller form.

Despite a series of failed uprisings, the dream of independence continued to inspire large numbers of Polish elites in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Catholic Church remained an important, if highly problematic, resource as they pursued their ambitions. The partitioning powers and the Vatican ensured that only conservative loyalists

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rose to the upper echelons of the hierarchy, and fidelity to church teaching inoculated such men against revolutionary schemes. These leaders did not command the obedience of all of the clergy and laity in their jurisdictions, though. Nor did they control how the symbols and narratives associated with the Polish Catholic tradition were leveraged in the political arena. Continued Polish restiveness provoked a range of reactions from the partitioning powers, none of which were entirely successful. Russia and Prussia/Germany opted for greater repression, which degraded Polish institutions but alienated the population at large, including Catholics who could hardly help but conclude that their governments were persecuting the church. By contrast, Austria granted its Polish subjects more autonomy, which generated considerable good will but also allowed Polish identity to flourish and incubated a new generation capable of exercising leadership in a future independent Poland. Russia and Prussia/Germany gradually lost faith in the Catholic Church as an agent of stability and loyalism in the Polish lands, and they compromised the church’s ability to operate at a time when the Catholic population was expanding and contending with new challenges associated with modernity. Austria’s more tolerant course proved to be something of a saving grace, enabling the church there to thrive and even to extend some of its resources to Catholics living in the other partitions and further afield. The church in the Polish lands also benefited from a revival of interest in vowed religious life and traditional devotions. In the face of significant headwinds, Catholicism maintained a strong hold on the faithful, and there is little evidence of secularization in the period. Freed from the bonds of serfdom and increasingly exposed to education and modern forms of media, the peasantry began to lay claim to the Polish national tradition like never before. Catholic elements within this tradition proved especially attractive. Catholic identity among Poles was enhanced by a strong sense of being under siege. This sense was rooted in part in the belief, harbored by Catholics around the world, that modernity itself was in many respects hostile to faith. It was sharpened further by the gathering conviction that entities such as the Freemasons and Jews were plotting the church’s destruction. These sentiments bolstered Polish Catholic solidarity and enhanced the appeal of chauvinistic movements like Endeks.

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As the First World War loomed, Polish Catholics found themselves arrayed on both sides of the emerging conflict. In short order, the war would expose the region’s inhabitants to immense suffering and loss of life. In pitting the partitioning powers against each other, however, it also would facilitate what a long line of earlier uprisings could not: the restoration of Polish independence.

8

From Captivity to Cataclysm (1914–1945)

On July 29, 1941, an inmate of Block Twelve in Auschwitz went missing, possibly drowning in a latrine. Assuming that the man had escaped, Deputy Camp Commander Karl Fritzsch ordered the rest of the inmates to gather, and he chose ten to die for the disappeared man’s supposed crime. One of the ten cried out on being chosen, lamenting his soon-to-be widowed wife and orphaned children. To his shock, another prisoner, Father Maximilian Kolbe, stepped forward and volunteered to die in his place. Fritzsch accepted the offer, and the ten men were locked in a basement, where they were deprived of all food and water until they died. According to eyewitnesses, over the next two weeks Kolbe rallied the spirits of the condemned men, offering spiritual reflections and leading the group in prayer and song. When it came time to clear the basement two weeks later, Kolbe was one of four still alive, and he was the only one conscious. He was administered a lethal injection on August 14, which is now the feast day of the man Pope John Paul II formally identified as a saint in 1982. Kolbe’s heroic self-sacrifice marked the culmination of a life full of remarkable achievements. Born to a family of weavers near Łódź in 1894, he affiliated with the Conventual Franciscans while still in his teens and launched a number of bold religious initiatives that flourished in the interwar era. During his doctoral work in theology in Rome, he and several like-minded confreres founded the Militia Immaculata, an organization focused on evangelization and personal sanctification that has since come to encompass millions of members around the globe. Kolbe ventured into publishing to advance the militia’s goals, and he came to preside over a veritable print empire that included some of the most widely read newspapers and magazines in interwar Poland. In 1927 he established a Conventual Franciscan friary at Niepokalanów, which by the eve of the Second

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World War was home to over seven hundred Franciscans, making it the largest Catholic religious community in the world. The success of Kolbe’s religious initiatives illustrates the prominence and favor the Catholic Church enjoyed in the independent Polish state that emerged at the end of the First World War. The newspapers and magazines he founded helped give voice to the Catholic community’s concerns and aspirations, not all of which were edifying. Meanwhile, the sacrificial spirit he displayed in his final fortnight at Auschwitz offers powerful testimony of Catholicism’s capacity to supply its adherents meaning and purpose even in Poland’s darkest hour.1

The Pity and the Promise of War As Europe descended into war in August 1914, the Polish people found themselves on both sides of the divide separating the German and AustroHungarian Empires from Russia, their enemy to the east. Poles had no choice but to support the war efforts of the countries they called home, and thus in a certain sense to battle fellow Poles. Ardent Polish nationalists found grounds for hope in these unsavory circumstances: After more than a century of foreign domination, war between the partitioning powers might ultimately yield an independent Poland. Over the course of the war, both sides sought to rally Polish favor by floating rival models of future Polish independence. Early German victories left it in sole command of the Polish lands once held by Russia, and in 1916 it announced the creation of a vaguely defined Kingdom of Poland, which would be granted autonomy after the successful resolution of the war. Not to be outdone, a series of wartime Russian governments declared their commitments to future Polish self-rule. After the United States entered the war in 1917, President Woodrow Wilson repeatedly endorsed the creation of an independent Poland. Dreams of independence united Poles across the political spectrum, but choosing a course of action toward this goal proved deeply divisive. Józef Piłsudski championed a vision of a multiethnic state spanning the heart of Poland and its Lithuanian, Belorussian, and Ukrainian borderlands, evoking the glory days of the Jagiellonian and Vasa dynasties. He recognized Russia as the primary impediment to his goals, and he formed the

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Polish Legions to fight on behalf of the Central Powers against Russia. Roman Dmowski, by contrast, favored a future state that was more exclusively Polish, encompassing the core Polish lands and stretches of eastern Germany populated by Slavic-speaking minorities, echoing the domains of the medieval Piast Dynasty. Germany stood in the way of this dream, necessitating Polish cooperation with the Allies. Most Polish Catholics proved loyal to their respective sovereigns, either out of natural affection, the influence of Catholicism’s political theology, or the dangers associated with treasonous actions. Loyalism came most naturally to Polish subjects of Austria’s Hapsburg Dynasty, which in recent decades had proven relatively tolerant of Polish religious and cultural interests. When Berlin and Vienna established the Polish Kingdom in 1916, a number of Polish Catholic leaders publicly supported the move, and Warsaw’s Archbishop Aleksander Kakowski agreed to serve on its Regency Council.2 Positioned squarely on the Eastern Front, the Polish population suffered tremendously over the course of the conflict. Roughly 2,000,000 Poles fought in the war, and an estimated 450,000 perished on the battlefield.3 Hundreds of thousands endured deportation to labor camps and detention centers in Germany and Russia. Civilians who remained in the area had to contend with disruptions in the socioeconomic order, widespread infrastructural damage, and dangerous shortages of food and other necessities. As Germany started to collapse in the final weeks of the war, Polish leaders dared to break away. In October of 1918 the Regency Council of the Polish Kingdom began cutting its ties to its German sponsor. Newly released from prison in Germany, Piłsudski arrived in Warsaw on November 10, and the Regency Council tapped him to lead the Polish army and to serve as provisional head of state. The potential scope of this emerging country expanded considerably in December when Poles in the neighboring region of Great Poland launched a successful uprising. The final boundaries of what became known as the Second Polish Republic came into being by virtue of the Versailles Peace Conference and the Polish–Soviet War (1919–21). Determined to build the country in part at Germany’s expense, the Allies ensured that Poland received Great Poland, much of West Prussia and East Prussia, and—after a contentious plebiscite—the eastern portion of Upper Silesia.4 The Polish–Soviet War, which at one point found Soviet troops poised to capture Warsaw, turned

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The unveiling of a monument in 1924 in Ząbki, outside of Warsaw, in honor of the soldiers killed in the Battle of Warsaw in 1920. Bishop Stanisław Gall presided over the ceremony. The monument was destroyed by Soviet forces in 1944. It was rebuilt in the postcommunist era. Courtesy of the Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe.

sharply in Poland’s favor in August 1920, when Piłsudski’s army won a decisive victory. At the subsequent Treaty of Riga, Poland established control over a large swath of Lithuania, the lands of present-day Belarus, Galicia, and most of Volhynia. Catholics discerned profound religious meanings in Poland’s reemergence as a state, and they rallied to its defense during its difficult gestation. They took to calling Piłsudski’s 1920 victory the “Miracle on the Vistula” and circulated legends of Marian assistance. Archbishop Kakowski

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noted the following in a pastoral letter: “God gazed upon the oppression of his people in slavery, heard their laments, showed mercy and stood at our side in order to crumble our unbearable bonds and give us the free, independent, and united lands of our fathers.”5 In the run-up to the plebiscite in Upper Silesia, organized to determine whether the region would fall to Poland or to Germany, Poland’s bishops weighed in repeatedly, impressing upon the region’s majority Catholic population that Poland would safeguard their religious interests much more securely than Germany. “Unite with the bishops, priests, and those true to Poland, so that with one heart and in one language you can praise the triune God, reverence the most merciful queen in her Częstochowa residence, and honor the saintly patrons before their relics and holy images,” read one appeal.6 Catholics around the world, alarmed by the threat of the overtly atheistic Soviet Union, took an interest in Poland’s affairs and offered prayers and other forms of assistance, viewing the state through the old trope of a Catholic bulwark.

The Second Polish Republic and the Church The Second Polish Republic’s violent, protracted birth was just the first of many challenges that dogged the state over its two-decade existence. Cobbled together from three separate empires, its population was accustomed to dif ferent currencies, legal systems, economic networks, and infrastructures, and it would take time to forge a common way of life. Having been largely ruled by others for over a century, few of the republic’s inhabitants possessed the expertise required to run a government, adjudicate and enforce the law, and manage complex economic procedures. What they did possess, to quote Norman Davies, was “the spoiling habits of opposition and resistance,” which did not lend itself to the successful prosecution of parliamentary democracy.7 What is more, Poland had to cope with the resentment of two dangerous neighbors, Germany and the Soviet Union, which continued to nurse grievances regarding lost territory. A high level of ethnic and religious diversity posed another formidable threat to the republic’s viability. The Polish majority existed alongside substantial numbers of Jews, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Belarusians, Germans, and a number of smaller ethnic groups. Catholics constituted around 64 percent of the population, with the remainder consisting mainly of

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Jews, Uniate and Orthodox Christians, and Protestants of various persuasions. An expansive conception of Polish national identity championed by Piłsudski could have encompassed this diversity, but increasingly it was occluded by more exclusive visions. In the interwar era, Polish Catholics were strongly inclined to distrust the loyalty of ethnic and religious minorities and to resent how some of these populations were being used once again to justify foreign meddling in Polish affairs. The architects of the Second Polish Republic erected a parliamentary democracy with a weak presidency, which Piłsudski occupied before retreating from political life in 1922. Nearly a hundred different parties vied for voters, including the Polish Socialist Party on the left, Polish nationalist parties like National Democracy (Endeks) on the right, and others devoted to minority groups, the peasantry, and varied special interests. A fractured electorate ensured that no governing coalition held power for long. Political stalemate and difficult economic conditions soured the atmosphere. A divisive issue of the era concerned the role of the Catholic Church in public life. Shedding the party’s prewar ambivalence toward the church, representatives of Endeks began to emphasize the integral connection between Catholicism and Polish national identity. They called for a state dominated by the Polish Catholic majority and rallied supporters by vilifying minorities, most notably the Jews. Minority groups formed common cause with the left in seeking to weaken the integration of church and state.8 In November 1920 Poland’s Catholic bishops issued an instruction to the clergy not to engage in partisan politics. In practice, clerics typically maintained strong political predilections and did not shy away from offering unambiguous counsel to the faithful. Many nurtured outsized fears of socialists, Masons, and Jews, and they often assumed a defensive crouch very much at odds with Catholicism’s actual influence in society. Such attitudes harmonized well with the platform of Endeks, among other parties. Numerous instances of unabashed politicking by Catholic leaders stimulated a harsh anticlerical discourse in oppositional circles that intensified the cycle of mistrust. Poland’s bishops and the Vatican were often on different pages politically, which gave rise to another set of tensions. Achille Ratti served as papal nuncio to Poland (1918–21) before assuming the papacy as Pius XI (1922–39). During his years in Poland he developed a warm relationship

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with Piłsudski, and he sympathized with the marshal’s pursuit of Jagiellonian-style alliances in the east, which dovetailed with the Vatican’s missionary agenda and eagerness to contain Bolshevism in eastern Europe. The pope had serious reservations about the political orientation of Endeks and the antagonism this invited from Germany. Poland’s bishops generally preferred to chart the church’s course on their own terms, trusting their understanding of Polish affairs over that of a distant Vatican. Most were suspicious of Piłsudski, which magnified their reluctance to support Vatican priorities. Working within the political context of the Second Polish Republic, Catholic leaders leveraged their influence to realize some of their leading priorities vis-à-vis the state. They successfully shielded church property from the process of land reform demanded by politicians representing peasant interests. In deliberations leading up to the promulgation of the March Constitution of 1921, church officials fell short in their bid to have Catholicism named Poland’s official religion, but they could point to a number of victories. Article 114 singled out the Catholic Church as the religion of the majority, the first among the religions recognized by the state, and the only religion guaranteed to “govern itself by its own laws.” Article 120 established mandatory religious education in public schools. The state also committed itself to reaching a concordat with the Vatican.9 Negotiations with the Vatican yielded a concordat in 1925. The document included a number of provisions dear to the Catholic Church, including the following guarantees: the freedom of Catholics to practice their religion, unfettered communication between the church in Poland and the Vatican, Rome’s right to appoint Catholic bishops in Poland (subject to a presidential veto), the right of church courts to sentence clergy found guilty of crimes, and the state’s obligation to subsidize the salaries and pensions of catechists offering religious instruction in public schools. The concordat also included terms favorable to the state’s interests, including the requirement that newly appointed bishops take an oath of loyalty to the state, the clergy’s obligation to pray for government officials every Sunday and on the May 3 holiday, and the reorganization of diocesan boundaries to correspond to the borders of the Second Republic, which offered a measure of international recognition of these borders. Piłsudski upended Poland’s political order by orchestrating a successful military coup in May 1926. This development was in keeping with a

Procession of the relics of Saint Andrzej Bobola through Warsaw, 1938. After his death in 1657, Bobola’s corpse was interred in a church in Pinsk, and over time the remarkable state of its preservation added momentum to his cause for canonization. In 1922 Soviet officials put his corpse on display in Moscow in an attempt to discredit the Christian cult of the saints. Pope Pius XI negotiated its transfer to Rome in 1923, and he presided over Bobola’s canonization in Rome on Easter Sunday in 1938. Bobola’s relics were subsequently relocated with much pomp and circumstance to a shrine in his honor in Warsaw. Courtesy of the Narodowe Archiwum Cyfrowe.

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broader retreat of political liberalism across the continent in the interwar era, and it was welcomed in many corners of Polish society, owing in part to the marshal’s stature and in part to mounting frustration with the dysfunctional nature of parliamentary politics. Piłsudski dominated the Polish political arena for the remaining nine years of his life, though his rule fell short of dictatorship. He weakened the Sejm’s authority without dissolving it and tolerated the existence of opposition parties and a relatively free press. His regime, known as the sanacja (“healing”), sought to establish a more effective political model based on a strong presidency. This project came to fruition with the ratification of the April Constitution of 1935, not long before his death. Piłsudski’s deputies took up the reins of government at that point, leveraging the marshal’s memory to buttress their brittle legitimacy during the last four years of the Second Republic’s existence. The country’s acute economic woes complicated their efforts considerably. His status as a war hero notwithstanding, Piłsudski’s return to power sparked consternation, if not outright alarm, among many Catholic leaders. They were troubled by aspects of his past, including his decision to convert to Protestantism in order to marry his first wife and his long association with socialism.10 Even more disturbing was his stated preference for a multiethnic, multiconfessional Poland, in which the Catholic Church would not be expected to play a leading public role. What is more, the marshal’s inner circle included a number of pointedly anticlerical voices.11 In the end, the sanacja era did not precipitate a crisis in the Catholic Church’s relationship with the state. Well aware of the church’s influence, Piłsudski offered assurances of his good will toward the institution, and a number of prelates gradually responded in kind. Meanwhile, the Vatican did what it could to keep the peace. After the death of Primate Dalbor in 1926, Pius XI chose as his successor the moderate August Hlond.12 Hlond cracked down on antigovernment agitation within the church, especially after the 1928 election in which many priests politicked openly for Endeks. Clerical support for Endeks can be attributed in part to Dmowski’s abandonment of an earlier ambivalence toward Catholicism in favor of an unqualified embrace. In a 1927 book he declared that Catholicism was a fundamental component of the Polish nation and integral to its preservation.13 He summoned his readers to press for a country in which the Pol-

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ish Catholic majority would set the tone, and he warned against the malevolent influence of minorities, most notably Jews. Dmowski’s polarizing message resonated with Catholics in an era marked by economic insecurity and pitched political battles over the church’s role in the republic. It accelerated a general coarsening of Catholic political life, which grew increasingly obsessed with identifying enemies and their supposed conspiracies against Catholicism and the moral foundations of the nation.14 The increasing prevalence of hypernationalist, xenophobic rhetoric was hardly unique to Poland. Similar developments unfolded across Europe in the interwar era, giving rise to a range of fascist movements where the cultivation of nationalist consciousness and the elimination of “foreign” elements were linked to the pursuit or realization of totalitarian rule. In the late 1930s, a number of Polish Catholics publicly advocated for a totalitarian model of government explicitly grounded in Catholic values. They included Stanisław Piasecki, a leader of the underground National Radical Movement Falanga (Ruch Narodowo-Radykalny Falanga).15 Their ideas failed to gain much traction in the waning days of the Second Republic. Fascism’s allure was tempered by the fact that one of its leading exemplars, Nazi Germany, was a hostile neighbor and the most obvious geopolitical threat to Poland’s viability. Meanwhile, Catholic intellectuals like Jerzy Turowicz, a prominent voice in the student organization Revival (Odrodzenie), made the case that totalitarianism contradicted Catholic principles. Piłsudski spent the last decade of his life ruling a country increasingly at odds with his fondest hopes. The multiethnic heritage that he cherished, which under different circumstances might have helped unify the country’s diverse population, was simply no match for the mutually exclusive nationalisms that thrived in Poland and complicated its relations with neighboring states. When he died in 1936, the architect of the “Miracle on the Vistula” received the ultimate tribute from a grateful nation: burial in Poland’s central shrine to national heroes, the Wawel Cathedral. This act reinforced the integral connection between the Catholic Church and the Polish nation, but the deep suspicions some prelates felt toward the marshal found pointed expression. The bishop of Kielce instructed the priests of his diocese not to honor Piłsudski’s corpse as it passed through the diocese en route to Kraków, sparking outrage in some quarters. A much greater controversy followed two years later, when Archbishop Sapieha

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initiated the transfer of Piłsudski’s remains to a less prominent location in the cathedral.16

The Institutional Church in the Interwar Era In their endeavor to contain and discipline the Catholic Church in the Polish lands, the partitioning powers compromised its institutional integrity. They commandeered much of its wealth, undermined the religious orders, complicated the work of seminary formation, and interfered with the staffing of key positions in the hierarchy. The Second Polish Republic offered church officials a favorable climate for rebuilding, and they took full advantage of it.17 Key challenges included dioceses that varied widely in terms of population and expanse, with boundaries that did not adhere to the republic’s borders. Poland’s bishops, hitherto serving under three different governments, were not accustomed to working together and lacked a clear chain of command. The concordat of 1925 enhanced the coherence of the institution. It established twenty-one dioceses and archdioceses, which were grouped into the metropolitanates of Gniezno-Poznań, Warsaw, Vilnius, Lviv, and Kraków. Bound by the weight of precedent, the reorganization of diocesan boundaries was not entirely rational—huge disparities in terms of territory and population remained—but it marked an improvement nonetheless.18 After his appointment to the primacy, Hlond gradually established his authority over his peers. A noteworthy achievement in this regard was the Synod of the Polish Catholic Church, held at Jasna Góra in 1936, where Poland’s bishops worked to unify and modernize church regulations.19 Catholic officials also took steps to stabilize their finances. Prior to the partitions, the church controlled an estimated 17 percent of the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth’s territory. The partitioning powers systematically pillaged this portfolio, leaving the church in control of just 0.6 percent of the Second Republic’s real estate in 1921. In taking control of the church’s wealth, the partitioning powers obligated themselves to compensate Catholic officials. The Polish government inherited these obligations, and the 1925 concordat defined the financial terms. In time Hlond established a central fund to finance other church priorities.

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Poland’s bishops made meaningful investments in seminary formation that yielded significant growth in the number of ordinations. The priesthood remained an attractive profession in Polish society, owing in part to the considerable prestige and relatively high salaries priests enjoyed, which made it an avenue of social advancement for young men of modest means. By 1939 Poland was home to an estimated 10,400 diocesan priests, a respectable figure that equipped the church to meet its pastoral obligations.20 With the repressive policies of the partition era behind them, many Catholic religious orders experienced renewed vitality. By the end of the interwar period there were some 7,000 men and 22,000 women engaged in vowed religious life, with particularly heavy concentrations in Galicia, Little Poland, and Upper Silesia.21 The Franciscan community founded by Maximilian Kolbe at Niepokalanów emerged as a major force in the field of Catholic publishing. By 1937 the Ursuline Sisters were running some 40 percent of all the kindergartens in Poland. The Society of Saint Francis de Sales, other wise known as the Salesians, first established a presence in Austrian Poland in 1898 and expanded at a rapid clip, claiming nearly 600 Polish members divided into two provinces on the eve of the Second World War. They established more than thirty educational institutions across Poland in this period. During the partition era, government policies and population growth combined to create large holes in the parish network in Poland, especially in major metropolitan areas and in eastern regions controlled by Russia. Poland’s bishops devoted considerable attention and resources to church building in the interwar era, resulting in the construction of some 1,200 new houses of worship. While most of these projects were modest in scope, some claimed a higher profile, such as the Cathedral of Christ the King in Katowice. Designed by Zygmunt Gawlik and Franciszek Mączyński, the massive structure still ranks as the largest cathedral in Poland and as one of the more impressive buildings in this important industrial city. Its neoclassical design was chosen in part as a reaction against Gothic brick churches that had come to be associated with Germany, underscoring the region’s break with its recent German past.22 Church leaders also took cognizance of the millions of Polish Catholics living abroad. The border settlements at the end of the war left more

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than a million Poles in the Soviet Union and around 1.4 million Poles in Germany. Prior to the war, several million had emigrated to the United States and other countries in search of better economic prospects. In 1931 the Vatican gave Primate Hlond the title of Protector of the Polish Emigration, which empowered him to intercede on behalf of Polish Catholic émigrés with their respective ordinaries. In 1932 Hlond established a new congregation, the Society of Christ for Poles Living Abroad, in order to supply ministers for Polish emigrant communities. These efforts notwithstanding, large numbers of Polish Catholics had little or no access to pastoral care in Polish, especially in the Soviet Union and Germany. The expansion of the Polish American Catholic community, so pronounced in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, slowed substantially in the interwar era, owing in large measure to restrictive changes to U.S. immigration law. The community also matured in these years, developing a denser network of parishes, schools, and other institutions. Many of its members began to model the stereotype of immigrant success, advancing to higher-wage jobs, assimilating into the dominant culture, and even moving out of Polish American enclaves to more prestigious neighborhoods.23 For all of the concern they demonstrated for Polish Catholics abroad, Polish church officials expressed less solicitude for the specific pastoral needs of non-Polish Catholics in Poland, such as Lithuanian Catholics in the northeast and German Catholics in Upper Silesia and other regions inherited from Germany. Both groups were keen to sustain their ethnic identities, but they found little sympathy in the upper echelons of Poland’s Catholic hierarchy. Despite bitter memories of the Germanization and Russification campaigns of the partition period, Polish Catholic leaders were not shy about employing the faith as an agent of Polonization vis-àvis these populations. This can be attributed in part to the growing allure of Dmowski’s nationalist vision, in which Catholicism was identified as an indelible component of Polish identity and in which nations were seen as pitted against each other in combat. Polish Catholic leaders showed scarcely more sympathy toward the roughly 3.5 million Greek Catholics living in southeastern Poland. Freed from the repressive policies of the Russian government, which had sought to force them back into the Orthodox fold, the Greek Catholic commu-

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nity took full advantage of its enhanced religious freedoms. Under the deft leadership of Metropolitan Andrei Sheptytskyi, they established the GrecoCatholic Theological Academy in Lviv in 1928, which served as the apex of an expanding system of schools and other religious institutions.24 These institutions helped nurture a gathering wave of Ukrainian nationalism, at the heart of which lay the goal of Ukrainian independence from Russian and Polish control.25 Ukrainian nationalist ambitions were deeply at odds with mainstream Polish opinion, which viewed western Ukraine as integral to Poland. Polish Catholic officials tended to see Greek Catholicism as an impediment to the goals of greater Ukrainian integration into Polish culture and the Catholic religion.26 By contrast, Poland’s Catholic bishops had a more harmonious relationship with the Armenian Uniate community in Poland. Numbering fewer than 10,000 souls in the interwar era, the community posed no threat to the territorial integrity of Poland. Its most notable leader, Archbishop Józef Teodorowicz (1864–1938), was an ardent Polish patriot and worked closely with his Polish Catholic peers on a variety of initiatives. Polish Catholic sentiments toward Eastern Orthodox and Protestant Christians were generally hostile. Only a small percentage of the roughly two million Eastern Orthodox Christians in Poland were ethnic Russians, but the entire community was tainted by association with earlier Russian policies. Polish Catholic opinion was a driving force behind the demolition of a number of Eastern Orthodox churches in this period, including the Cathedral of Aleksandr Nevskiy in Warsaw. Completed not long before World War I, the sumptuous structure dominated one of the capital’s most prominent squares, and its demolition sparked outrage among the Orthodox. Polish Catholics tended to view the much smaller Lutheran community in Poland as a fifth column loyal ultimately to Germany, Poland’s dangerous rival.

The Culture of Interwar Polish Catholicism Poland’s bishops, clergy, and religious sought to strengthen the cultural fabric of Catholicism by promoting greater lay engagement in church affairs and creating opportunities for spiritual, intellectual, and social development. This augmented the church’s public profile in the Second

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Polish Republic. For all of its influence and evident vitality, however, the tone of Catholic discourse was often anxious and defensive, consumed by outsized fears of real and imagined enemies. The interwar era witnessed the reflowering of Catholic theological education in Poland. Departments of theology were established at the University of Warsaw and the University of Vilnius, institutions that had been closed down in the nineteenth century by Russian officials. More noteworthy still was the creation of the Catholic University of Lublin (Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, or KUL) in 1918, an initiative spearheaded by the theologian and priest Idzi Radziszewski. A graduate of the Catholic University of Leuven in Belgium, Radziszewski sought to model Lublin’s new university after his alma mater, with the intention of providing high-quality education that was consonant with Catholic values and truth claims. KUL gradually coalesced into a respectable university until the German invasion of Poland in 1939, at which point it was transformed into a military hospital. It reopened in 1944 and has played a significant role in Polish cultural and religious life ever since. Complementing these new centers of theological education were pastoral initiatives tailored to the needs and interests of Catholic students. They included the student organizations Rebirth and Juventus, both of which were founded in Warsaw before expanding to university communities in other cities in the republic.27 In their respective ways, Rebirth and Juventus fostered social environments that were at once intellectually serious, socially engaged, and devoutly Catholic, pushing back against the assumption that the life of the mind and religious faith were incompatible. They sponsored scholarly events like lectures and organized religious exercises for members, including masses, retreats, and pilgrimages. An impor tant influence behind these efforts was Father Jacek Woroniecki, OP (1878–1949), the second rector of KUL, a widely respected Thomist and moral theologian, and a leading figure in the interwar Polish Dominican community. Woroniecki criticized anti-intellectual strains of piety amply represented within the church and argued for the importance of education in the moral life. Although their ranks were never very large, some members of these groups, including the journalist Jerzy Turowicz, the lawyer and politician Stanisław Stomma, and the philosopher Stefan Swieżawski, emerged as prominent Catholic voices in postwar Poland.

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Freed from the onerous censorship restrictions of the partition era, Catholics launched a wide variety of media initiatives to serve the Polish Catholic population. The Polish Bishops Conference founded the Catholic Press Agency (Katolicka Agencja Prasowa) in 1927, which was charged with sending out regular press releases to newspapers across the country and abroad. By 1936 Catholic dailies produced a combined print run of more than one million, and the figure for Catholic periodicals was roughly twice that. The most popular magazine in Poland in these years was Rycerz Niepokalanej (Knight of the Immaculate), published by Kolbe’s Franciscan community, with a print run that topped 600,000. Such publications helped sustain a coherent religious worldview among a broad swath of the Catholic faithful and rallied support for the initiatives of Catholic leaders.28 The church in Poland also took part in a global Catholic drive to encourage the laity’s active participation in the life of faith. One of its most prominent expressions was Catholic Action, a movement formally summoned into being by Pope Pius XI through his 1922 encyclical Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio. Pius challenged the lay faithful to partner with the bishops to promote Catholic values in the wider society. Also afoot in these years was the liturgical movement, the endeavor to promote a fuller appreciation of and participation in the liturgy. This manifested, among other ways, in the proliferation of vernacular translations of the Roman Missal and the practice of lay recitation of certain passages of the Mass. In Poland the bishops oversaw the amalgamation of a number of lay groups into Catholic Action in 1930. The organization’s initiatives included academic congresses on Catholic doctrine and the promotion of attendance at Mass and devotional exercises. It encompassed as many as 750,000 Polish Catholics by 1939. The animating principle of Catholic Action was lay engagement, but the clergy remained in control of local chapters of the organization, in keeping with the top-down model of leadership long practiced in the Polish church.29 Although interwar Poland was hardly on the forefront of the liturgical movement, the principle of lay engagement in the Mass became a point of discussion. In a 1936 pastoral letter, Archbishop Kakowski reminded his flock that “the faithful in whose name the priest performs the Most Holy Offering, ought to also take part in the mass. Although [the priest] consecrates on his own, nonetheless the faithful also, together with him, ought to make an offering to Christ the Lord, at least spiritually.”30

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Large numbers of laity took advantage of the devotional movements that proliferated in these years. The Militia Immaculata, founded by Kolbe in 1917 as a means of promoting personal sanctification and the conversion of sinners, attracted tens of thousands of members in some 750 chapters across the country. By the mid-1930s an estimated 750,000 Poles were affiliated with the Apostolate of Prayer, a Jesuit initiative promoting devotion to the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Rosary sodalities were a common feature of parish life, and the “living rosary” was one popular way of participating in the prayer.31 The interwar years also witnessed the early stirrings of the Divine Mercy devotion that in time would swell into a global phenomenon. Its unlikely initiator was Helena Kowalska (1905–1938), the pious daughter of a poor peasant family from a village near Łódź. Inspired by a vision of Christ, Kowalska ventured to Warsaw at the age of nineteen and joined the first religious order that would accept her, the Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy, eventually taking as her religious name Maria Faustyna. In 1931 she experienced a vision of Christ in a white garment, with rays of red and white light emerging from his breast. He ordered her to have the vision painted, accompanied by the words “Jesus, I trust in You,” which was to serve as a focus of devotion. Kowalska related the experience to her confessor, Father Michał Sopoćko, who eventually concluded that her vision had been genuine. He commissioned the artist Eugeniusz Kazimirowski to capture the vision in paint. Subsequent mystical experiences convinced Kowalska that it was Christ’s will that this image serve as a locus of a broader set of devotions, including a prayer cycle that has come to be known as the Divine Mercy Chaplet. She died from tuberculosis not long thereafter in 1938, but Sopoćko continued to function as her advocate. He published a number of pamphlets concerning the image and the Divine Mercy Chaplet, which sparked a small but growing devotional movement among Polish Catholics. On the fortieth anniversary of Leo XIII’s groundbreaking encyclical Rerum Novarum, Pius XI issued Quadragesimo Anno (1931), which reinforced and developed the original document’s social concerns, including an endorsement of state intervention in the economic arena, the positive potential of labor unions, and the importance of a more equitable distribution of income. Such pronouncements from the Vatican, in conjunction with the economic upheavals of the era, prompted Polish church officials and

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lay Catholics to take steps to address the hardships of the working classes and to promote social and economic harmony. In 1931 Primate Hlond announced the creation of the Primate’s Social Council, a body of clergy and lay Catholic experts charged with bringing Catholic social principles to bear on the specific realities of Polish society. Social Catholicism emerged as a common theme in the Catholic press, which gradually shaped Polish Catholic opinion. It had an especially practical impact in terms of organized labor. The legal landscape of the Second Polish Republic was favorable to the formation of unions, and hundreds of organizations emerged, especially in the industrial and trade sectors. Polish socialists eagerly engaged on this front, and the unions they created reflected the socialist worldview, including the dynamics of class conflict and the importance of international solidarity among the proletariat. Catholic labor organizers, in conjunction with their allies in the hierarchy and the Catholic press, developed alternative institutions that were influenced by Catholic social teaching and overtly opposed to socialism. The most significant unions of this type were the Polish Trade Association (Zjednoczenie Zawodowe Polskie, or ZZP) and the Christian Trade Federation (Chrzescijańskie Zjednoczenie Zawodowe, or ChZZ).32 Polish Catholics came to form a sizable component of the working-class population in industrial regions of the Northeast and Upper Midwest of the United States, where labor organizing was most active and consequential. It has been estimated, for instance, that roughly a quarter of Pennsylvania’s coal miners and a third of Detroit’s autoworkers were Polish in this period. Labor leaders courted them and other Catholic populations assiduously, and the considerable success they enjoyed can be attributed in no small degree to the Catholic Church’s favorable disposition toward unions that were free of a socialist taint. Taking advantage of the enhanced freedoms of the interwar era, Polish Catholics launched a variety of initiatives aimed at ministering to marginalized populations. A noteworthy figure in this regard was Mother Elżbieta Róża Czacka (1876–1961), a scion of a noble family who went blind as a young woman and subsequently devoted her life to caring for the blind. She embraced religious life and founded a new order, the Franciscan Sister Servants of the Cross, whose central work was to care for the blind in ways that fostered their independence and advanced their human dignity. Their base of operations was Laski, a piece of land outside of

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Warsaw donated to the order. Czacka found an important collaborator in Władysław Korniłowicz (1884–1946), a charismatic priest and intellectual, and together they expanded the mission of Laski to the caring for the “spiritually blind.” They organized spiritual retreats, and the environment they created proved especially attractive to Catholic elites. Korniłowicz oversaw the founding of a quarterly known as Verbum, which garnered respect and readership within educated Catholic circles. Among other things, Verbum exposed Polish readers to new theological currents abroad. By many measures, the Catholic Church thrived in the Second Polish Republic. It was far and away the largest religious body in the country, and it enjoyed a nearly untrammeled freedom to maneuver. It expanded and diversified its institutional presence, and its literary, pastoral, and devotional offerings enjoyed broad support among the lay faithful. Despite these outward signs of vibrancy, the Polish Catholic community found it difficult to move beyond the defensive crouch it had maintained during much of the partition era. As it surveyed the broader world, it discerned a host of hostile forces bent on its destruction. Polish Catholicism was hardly unique in this respect—Catholics in other cultures shared many of its fears. Neither was it entirely delusional—certain sectors of Polish society were indeed ill-disposed toward the church and sought to limit its influence. But church leaders often misread the nature and scale of its opponents, and the consequences of this misreading ranged from mildly embarrassing to deeply tragic. A specter that continued to haunt the Catholic imagination in this period was the Masonic Order. Polish Freemasons were not numerous, but their ranks encompassed individuals of prominence, including a few members of Piłsudski’s inner circle. They tended to favor the curtailment of the church’s privileged position and outsized influence in Polish society. In countless homilies and articles, Catholic pastors and publicists painted much more ominous portraits of the threat, insisting that the Freemasons were bent on subverting the Catholic Church and the moral order it defended. Catholic critics were quick to spy Masonic influences at work in an array of baleful developments, including the advance of communism. Unrelenting critiques of this sort no doubt harmed the organization’s membership. Eager to curry favor with the church, the sanacja regime banned Freemasonry in 1938.33

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The Polish Socialist Party (Polska Partia Socjalistyczna, or PPS) was the most prominent of a number of socialist parties active in the Second Polish Republic, but it failed to gain much of a following. The triumph of the Bolsheviks in Russia, Poland’s hostile eastern neighbor, did little to enhance socialism’s allure. Although there was scant chance of an indigenous socialist revolution in Poland, Polish Catholics had justifiable cause for concern. After a chaotic genesis, the USSR emerged as an increasingly potent industrial and military force. A core aspect of Soviet foreign policy was the promotion of communism abroad, and Soviet leaders harbored a special animus toward Poland on account of territorial losses resulting from the Polish–Soviet War. These geopolitical circumstances moved the Polish Catholic community to update the venerable metaphor of Poland as bulwark, on the front lines of a new war against Christian civilization. A third fear enunciated routinely by Polish Catholics in this era was the threat supposedly posed by the Jewish people. Distrust and hatred of Jews was a depressingly common feature in Western society as a whole in these years. Such attitudes were rooted in centuries-old Christian assumptions, including the belief that the Jewish people were collectively responsible for the death of Christ. Over the course of the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth centuries, this traditional anti-Judaism yielded ground to a more pernicious set of ideas known as antisemitism. While diverse, the discourse of antisemitism typically viewed Jews through a quasi-scientific prism of race, arguing that the Jewish people were biologically foreign and inferior to their host societies, a stigma that baptism could not erase. As such, the Jews were identified as the ultimate source of any number of threats to the wider good, including Freemasonry, the spread of socialism and communism, and the purported breakdown of traditional social and cultural mores.34 Considering the ubiquity of antisemitism in interwar Europe, it is hardly surprising that it gained traction in Poland, which at the time was home to the largest concentration of Jews in the world. Jews constituted roughly 10 percent of the republic’s population. Despite living in close proximity to one another, Polish Jews and Polish Christians tended to inhabit very different worlds, a fact that lent itself to misunderstanding. The majority of Poland’s Jews were poor and tenuously connected to the cultural mainstream. Meanwhile, the small percentage of well-to-do, assimilated

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Jews were overrepresented at the highest levels of business and in leading urban professions. It has been estimated, for instance, that roughly half of the nation’s medical doctors, a third of its lawyers, and a quarter of its journalists were Jewish. This distinctive profile reinforced the charge that the Jews were at once a foreign and an excessively powerful element in Polish society. Following on the heels of antisemitic ideas were actions designed to curb Jewish influence and take vengeance for supposed Jewish crimes. There were efforts to segregate or curtail Jewish participation in educational institutions, labor unions, cultural endeavors, and professional life, as well as organized boycotts of Jewish businesses. There were also outbursts of violence directed at Jews that claimed dozens of lives. These impulses were partially held in check by the Piłsudski regime, only to intensify after the marshal’s death. In weighing the Polish Catholic response to these developments, it is fair to say that many Catholics fanned the flames of antisemitism and few rose to the defense of the Jewish community. As Catholics sought to account for an array of troubling modern trends—rapid socioeconomic change, the erosion of traditional moral strictures, mounting signs of secularization—many found in the Jewish people a convincing explanation. It became a widely shared conviction that the Jews, alongside and often in close collaboration with Freemasons and socialists, were waging a clandestine war against the church and Polish civilization. These ideas echoed through the Polish Catholic press, and only a handful of journalists and publications dared to offer a counternarrative.35 Some of the most virulently antisemitic publications, such as Mały Dziennik, belonged to Maximilian Kolbe’s media empire. The friar’s defenders have attempted to disentangle him from this aspect of his legacy, but these arguments are not entirely convincing. Although it would be absurd to hold him directly responsible for every opinion expressed in the many publications issued by his community, it would be equally absurd to absolve him of all responsibility. For all of his remarkable achievements, expansive virtue, and heroic final hours, Kolbe was in some respects a man of his times.36 Catholic enmity toward Jews found expression at the highest levels of the Polish church, including a notorious pastoral letter issued by Cardinal Hlond in 1936. Hlond’s reflections on the Jews form a small part of a

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letter designed to instruct Catholics on a broad range of moral topics, but it includes some poisonous language that reflects sentiments widely shared among Polish Catholics. “The Jewish question exists and will exist as long as the Jews remain Jews,” he writes. “The fact is that the Jews fight against the Catholic Church, are prone to free-thinking, and stand at the vanguard of godlessness, the Bolshevik movement, and subversive movements. The fact is that Jewish influence on public morality is disastrous, and their publishing firms propagate pornography. It is true that Jews perpetrate fraud, practice usury, and engage in human trafficking. It is true that the influence of Jewish youth on Catholic youth in schools is generally harmful in religious and ethical terms.”37 As damning as these words are, Neal Pease observes that it is important to weigh them against the remainder of the primate’s observations.38 Hlond goes on to remind Catholics that not all Jews pose the dangers he earlier enunciated. “A great many Jews are people of faith, honest, just, merciful, and charitable.” Hlond then warns Poles not to succumb to hatred and violence, as was increasingly the case in neighboring Germany: “I am warning you against an ethical stance imported from abroad that is fundamentally and ruthlessly anti-Jewish. It is incompatible with Catholic ethics. It is permissible to love one’s own nation more; it is not permitted to hate anyone, including the Jews. . . . The injunction to respect and love one’s neighbor applies also to Jews, even if it is difficult to appreciate the indescribable tragedy of this nation, which was the guardian of the messianic idea, and whose child was the Savior. When through God’s grace the Jew comes to understand, and he earnestly approaches his and our Messiah, we are to welcome him joyously into the Christian ranks.”39 Hlond’s ambiguous counsel illustrates the complex deposit of teachings that Catholics wrestled with as they navigated their relationship with Jews. On the one hand, traditional anti-Judaism inclined them to believe fresh charges of Jewish perfidy, however outlandish. On the other hand, Catholic doctrines concerning the fundamental dignity of every human being and the obligation to love friend and foe alike plainly contradicted the remedies prescribed by rabid antisemites to the “Jewish question.” Their struggles would only mount as Nazi Germany applied its murderous methods to Jews living on Polish soil during the Second World War.

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World War II The progress made by Poland’s Catholic Church and Polish society as a whole in the interwar era came to a sudden halt with the German invasion on September 1, 1939, followed by a Soviet invasion in the east of the country two weeks later. These twin acts of aggression initiated six of the most difficult years in Poland’s history.40 German forces pursued policies designed to erase Poland from the ranks of independent nations, reducing the Christian population to slave laborers while exterminating the Jewish population. The Soviet occupation was more humane by comparison, but harrowing nonetheless. The Polish Catholic Church suffered acutely in these years. The wounds it endured, alongside the resistance some of its leaders demonstrated and the solace it offered the faithful in their darkest hour, reinforced the faith’s hold on Poland’s Catholic population. An estimated 6.3 million citizens of the Second Polish Republic perished during the war, or roughly 18 percent of the prewar population. Roughly 3 million of these deaths were of Jews, victims of Germany’s ruthlessly efficient program of genocide. Polish elites were another target of extermination. As a result, 37.5 percent of the republic’s citizens possessing a college degree did not survive the war. More than 3 million Poles were deported to Germany or the Soviet Union, and in most cases they were required to perform slave labor under unforgiving circumstances. Those who remained in occupied Poland had to cope with a scarcity of basic resources, the capriciousness of police and army personnel, and a coarsening climate in which wanton brutality was increasingly banal. Catholic priests and religious found little respite from the carnage. Estimates of clergy deaths range from 20 to 30 percent of prewar totals. Thousands endured sentences in concentration camps. Countless churches and church-owned institutions were shuttered, destroyed, or commandeered for other uses. The degree of the Catholic Church’s travails varied from region to region and across the duration of the war. Circumstances were especially bad in Great Poland and adjacent lands, which Germany forged into a new province of the Reich, the Reichsgau Wartheland, and sought to transform into a society animated by National Socialist values. Integral to this process was a full-scale assault against the Catholic Church. Toward the end

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of the war, only 34 of the 828 priests active in the Diocese of Poznań before the war were still in ministry; the rest had either been incarcerated, expelled, killed, or gone missing. Of the six bishops based in the region prior to the war, only one, Bishop Walenty Dymek of Poznań, was allowed to remain, albeit subject to house arrest. Catholic schools and charitable organizations were either shut down or seized by the state, and numerous impediments were placed in the way of Catholics seeking the sacraments and pastoral care from the several dozen priests still active in the province.41 Germany also annexed the Polish portion of Upper Silesia and immediately launched a Germanization effort, but this proved far less disruptive to the church. As inhabitants of an ethnic border zone, most of the region’s population was multilingual and had a fluid sense of national identity. They took advantage of the opportunity to formally identify as Germans, and virtually overnight German emerged as the exclusive language of Catholic religious life. A similar dynamic unfolded among ethnically indeterminate populations on the German side of the prewar Polish-German border, such as in East Prussia, West Prussia, and western Upper Silesia. All told, as much as a sixth of those classified as ethnically Polish in the postwar era identified themselves as Germans during the war.42 Germany designated central and southern Poland as a temporary homeland for Polish citizens under its control and a source of slave labor, with the intention of eventually transforming the region into a new German province. Dubbed the General Government for the Occupied Polish Territories, it was ruled by German officials who terrorized the population into submission and suppressed most outward expressions of cultural life. The Catholic clergy did not suffer the degree of persecution visited upon their peers in the Reichsgau Wartheland, but hundreds were arrested or killed over the course of the war. German officials generally tolerated Catholic participation in the sacraments, but they eliminated religious education, shut down Catholic schools and seminaries, prohibited religious processions and pilgrimages, and hindered communication with Rome. After its surprise invasion of eastern Poland in mid-September 1939, the Soviet Union sought to strengthen its hold on the region by massacring military and civilian leaders (including more than 20,000 victims

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in the Katyń Forest in 1940) and deporting hundreds of thousands to labor camps in the Soviet east. Large numbers of priests and religious suffered the consequences of these policies. The Soviets did not outlaw Catholic religious practice outright, but they discouraged it through a variety of punitive measures. They nationalized church property, secularized Catholic schools, and shuttered a wide range of religious houses and institutions. Matters grew steadily worse after the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941. German leaders inflamed long-standing ethnic tensions in the region, especially between Ukrainians and Poles, which resulted in a paroxysm of interethnic violence. The boundless cruelty of the German occupation drove large numbers of Poles to engage in daring acts of resistance. Underground guerrilla cells took root across Polish soil, eventually forming a potent organization known as the Home Army (Armia Krajowa), which complicated the occupation through acts of sabotage and direct combat. More than 200,000 Polish soldiers, most of them Catholic, fought on behalf of the Allies in formal military units and made significant contributions to the war effort. Polish Catholics also defied the occupation through acts of nonviolent resistance. Hundreds of clerics served as chaplains to Catholic Poles fighting in the Home Army and on behalf of the Allies. Father Stefan Wyszyński, the future Polish primate, offered pastoral care to wounded rebels at a hospital established at Laski outside of Warsaw. The Pallottine priest Józef Stanek (1916–1944) ministered to insurgents during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, celebrating Mass and tending to the wounded. In the process of suppressing the uprising, German troops captured Stanek and executed him by hanging on September 23. Many clergy, religious, and lay Catholics circumvented prohibitions designed to suffocate Polish culture, including by publishing underground newspapers and offering clandestine education. The prominent Polish Catholic novelist and activist Zofia Kossak-Szczucka (1889–1968) engaged in cultural resistance from the very start of the occupation. She co-edited the underground paper Polska Żyje (Poland Lives) from 1939 to 1941, the year she helped found the Front for the Rebirth of Poland (Front Odrodzenia Polski, or FOP) and assumed leadership over its newspaper, Prawda (Truth). FOP was an explicitly Catholic organization that sought to advance the moral and cultural renewal of the Polish nation. In Kraków Archbishop Adam Sapieha secretly reconstituted a seminary that trained

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dozens of young men for the priesthood, including Karol Wojtyła, who later became Pope John Paul II (1920–2005; canonized in 2014).43 It has been estimated that 1,200 men were prepared for priestly ordination during the occupation. There were also those who practiced what one might fairly call moral resistance, compromising their own well-being and sometimes endangering their lives to care for others at risk. In the summer of 1943, Maria Anna Biernacka (1888–1943), the resident of a small farming village in what is now western Belarus, offered to take the place of her pregnant daughter-in-law, who had been arrested in a roundup of Poles to be killed in retaliation for the death of German soldiers. Biernacka was executed two weeks later.44 Such brave acts of witness stood in sharp opposition to the principles of the occupying regime, which discounted the worth of non-German lives and dismissed mercy and charity as weakness. The brutality of the Nazi occupation forced large numbers of Polish Catholics to wrestle with daunting moral choices. Some of the hardest challenges emerged in connection with the genocide of Europe’s Jews, which Nazi Germany perpetrated largely on Polish soil. Those who interfered with Nazi policies toward Jews risked severe reprisals, including execution, and as a result the large majority of Polish Catholics were inclined to look the other way as their Jewish neighbors had their dignity trampled underfoot, were systematically deprived of freedom, and were murdered. The powerful instinct for self-preservation was reinforced by a sense of cultural distance and an antipathy toward Jews that had been honed to a fine point in the interwar era. Although most Poles could claim ignorance of the full scope of the Shoah, only the willfully blind could regard Nazi policies toward Jews as anything less than a gross contradiction of fundamental ethical principles. One might expect to find more robust resistance from the church’s leaders, who routinely claimed to speak on behalf of the nation on moral matters. Most chose to remain silent. The unofficial head of the Catholic Church in wartime Poland was Kraków’s Cardinal Sapieha, who has been lionized in historical accounts for refusing to cower before the Nazis and for daring to protest against widespread abuses in the General Government. Sapieha barely raised his voice regarding the plight of the Jews, which was vividly on display on the streets of Kraków. He only pressed

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Nazi officials to exempt baptized Jews from the harsh anti-Jewish legislation enacted in these years.45 Much worse were the instances in which Polish Catholics actively contributed to the suffering, arrest, or murder of Jews. It is clear that many recognized the Nazi occupation as license to act on their antisemitic hatreds. A notorious instance was the 1941 torture and killing of hundreds of Jews at the hands of their Christian neighbors in the village of Jedwabne in northeastern Poland, an episode that has provoked intense controversy and soul-searching in Poland in recent years (see chapter 10). Others recognized Jewish vulnerability as an opportunity to extract personal advantage, either by blackmailing Jews, stealing Jewish property, or passing information regarding Jews to Nazi rulers.46 Such temptations proved increasingly irresistible as Polish Catholics struggled to meet their basic needs and as the brutality of the occupation chipped away at traditional moral standards. An article in the underground Catholic newspaper Prawda raised an alarm against the spiking number of Polish “denouncers” and “blackmailers” who were “making life unbearable for those who, persecuted by the Nazis, feel like hunted mad dogs.”47 Examples of callousness toward Jewish suffering are copious and deeply disturbing, but a proper moral reckoning must also take into account the many instances in which the demands of conscience prompted Polish Catholics to take enormous risks on behalf of Jews in their midst. The conspiratorial work of Zofia Kossak-Szczucka offers compelling insight into the complex ethical calculus that shaped Catholic action in these years. Like so many Catholic Poles of her generation, she regarded the Jewish people as enemies of the church and the nation, and the Nazi occupation did not shake this conviction. Despite this belief, she recognized the unfolding Holocaust as a colossal crime that demanded resistance. In the summer of 1942, as the Nazis began to liquidate the Jews gathered in the Warsaw Ghetto, she published a leaflet titled “Protest,” which described the atrocities that were taking place and insisted that resistance was a matter of Catholic moral obligation and Polish national honor; under such circumstances, silence was tantamount to complicity in mass murder. She was also instrumental in the 1942 founding of the Council for the Aid of Jews (Rada Pomocy Żydom), code-named Żegota, a secret organization devoted to shielding Jews from Nazi policies. The Gestapo arrested Kossak-Szczucka in 1943 without realizing the extent of her un-

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derground activity. She eventually ended up at Auschwitz but managed to survive. Another unlikely ally of the Jews was Father Marceli Godlewski (1865– 1945), who, like quite a few priests in the interwar era, was a firm supporter of Endeks and known to articulate antisemitic sentiments from the pulpit. The Nazi invasion of Poland found him in his seventies and serving as rector of All Saints’ Church, the only Catholic parish located in what was to become the Warsaw Ghetto. Godlewski was outraged by Nazi barbarism toward Jews, and he used his freedom to travel in and out of the ghetto to smuggle in food and medicine to its residents and to smuggle out Jewish children, sometimes hiding them under his cassock. He supplied falsified documents to Jews and sheltered over one hundred of them in his parish complex. Irena Sendler (1910–2008) engaged in similar work. A Polish Catholic nurse from Warsaw, she sympathized with Jews from an early age and responded to their plight during the Nazi occupation. In 1943 she assumed the leadership of Żegota’s children’s division. Her duties as a health inspector provided her access to the Warsaw Ghetto, which she used to smuggle roughly 2,500 Jewish children to the relative safety of Catholic institutions and foster families. The Gestapo eventually uncovered Sendler’s covert work, tortured her, and sentenced her to death, but her allies managed to secure her secret release by bribing the guards assigned to her. Her execution was duly announced, but Sendler was safely in hiding. Sendler’s co-conspirators included Matylda Getter (1870–1968), the mother superior of the Warsaw Province of the Franciscan Sisters of the Family of Mary, and others in her order. Although it was illegal for Catholic orphanages to harbor Jewish children, Getter took the risk hundreds of times over, supplying her young charges with false documents to shield them from potential arrest. Other women religious were not so fortunate. Sister Maria Ewa of Providence (born Bogumiła Noiszewska in 1885) and Sister Maria Marta of Jesus (born Kazimiera Wołowska in 1879), members of the Congregation of Sisters of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, orchestrated the sheltering of Jews in their monastery in Slonim, a city presently located in western Belarus. After discovering their crime, the Gestapo arrested the sisters on December 18, 1942, and shot them to death the next day.

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The examples above are just a few of the many Catholic Poles who assisted Jews in their most desperate hour. Thousands are known to have been executed for offering such help. After the war, Israel established a commission to identify and honor the “Righteous Among the Nations,” individuals who made substantial or repeated efforts to save Jews from the Shoah. The commission has bestowed this honor on more than 6,000 Poles, the most of any nation. Their ranks include Kossak-Szczucka, Getter, Godlewski, and Sendler.

The First World War exacted a heavy toll on the population of the Polish lands, but it also set the stage for the realization of the long-standing dream of an independent Poland. Working with a diverse population in territories inherited from three different empires, the leaders of the Second Polish Republic struggled mightily to forge a stable, functional state. Mounting frustration with the parliamentary system enabled Piłsudski to seize power and dominate Poland for close to a decade. Polish independence proved to be a boon for the Catholic Church, and its leaders used their influence to carve out a privileged position for the church in public life, which tended to alienate non-Catholics. Relations were further strained as large numbers of Catholics rallied behind the hypernationalist rhetoric of Endeks, which by the mid-1920s had come to emphasize the centrality of Catholicism in Polish national identity. Freed from the repression of Russian and German rule, Poland’s Catholic leaders set about building an institutional framework that corresponded to the country’s borders and was capable of serving its large Catholic population. They oversaw the construction of hundreds of churches, dozens of schools, and a new university. Growing numbers of young Catholics gravitated toward the priesthood and vowed religious life. In a context of relative press freedom and increasingly universal literacy, Catholics founded a broad array of newspapers and periodicals. They launched new pastoral initiatives as well, often taking cues from global Catholic developments such as social Catholicism and the liturgical movement. Despite abundant evidence of the church’s flourishing, Poland’s Catholics generally remained captive to outsized fears of real and imagined enemies, including Freemasons, socialists, and Jews.

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This period came to a sudden and tragic end in September 1939 with the German and Soviet invasions of Poland. The barbarism of the next six years resulted in the death of some six million citizens of the Second Republic and the decimation of its culture and institutions, including the Catholic Church. Amid this carnage, Catholicism retained its capacity to lend comfort and meaning to life for a great many of the faithful, which enhanced its importance. Over the course of the war, millions of Catholics were forced to wrestle with immensely difficult moral decisions. Although some took truly heroic risks on behalf of others, many more privileged their own survival and well-being. As the war drew to a close, it gradually became apparent that Poland’s Soviet “liberators” intended to set the course of the country’s future. In light of the Soviet stance toward religion, this boded ill for the Catholic Church. In time, it would also provide the church ample opportunity to display some of its finest features.

9

From Stalinism to Solidarity (1945–1989)

On October 19, 1984, Father Jerzy Popiełuszko was traveling a forested road near the city of Toruń, when three agents of the dreaded Security Ser vice (Służba Bezpieczeństwa, or SB) ambushed his vehicle. In a crude attempt to silence a determined and influential critic, they beat the thirty-seven-year-old priest to death and then dumped his body in a reservoir. Popiełuszko had forged a connection with workers linked to the Solidarity trade union in 1980, and after the union was outlawed he continued to champion its cause. At Saint Stanisław Kostka’s Church in Warsaw, where he served as pastor, he regularly said masses for the fatherland, and he encouraged active engagement in the pursuit of justice and freedom in Poland. “The struggle for freedom is our duty,” he told his flock in a 1983 homily. “For freedom is not simply given by God; it is expected of us. . . . This expectation demands that we continuously work to achieve it. We cannot be divided into people who are fighting for freedom and people who simply wait for freedom with their arms crossed.”1 He persevered in the face of intimidation from the SB and pressure from his archbishop, Cardinal Józef Glemp, to tone down his message. His courageous witness attracted throngs of listeners, and even more tuned in to broadcasts of his homilies on Radio Free Europe. On learning that Popiełuszko was missing, large crowds gathered at his church around the clock, praying for his safe return. Their worst fears were confirmed eleven days later, when the priest’s broken body was dredged out of its watery grave. A quarter of a million people attended his funeral on November 3, illustrating how powerfully the priest’s message resonated among Poles. The testimony of Popiełuszko’s driver, who had escaped the ambush, led to the arrest, public trial, and conviction of the perpetrators. Embarrassing revelations of SB thuggery further discredited a crumbling regime.2

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The Popiełuszko affair is in some respects emblematic of the position that the Catholic Church occupied in communist Poland. At its best moments, the church summoned Poles to resist the stunted hopes and tawdry compromises that life under the communist system commonly produced. Communist leaders were highly suspicious of the church, well aware of the loyalty it commanded and its capacity to weaken their grip on power. They sought to suppress and divide it for decades, but the harder they pressed, the more they magnified its moral authority in the eyes of Polish Catholics.

Stalinist Travails Germany’s defeat in 1945 created the possibility of an independent Poland, but the country that eventually emerged from the wreckage of war looked very different than its previous incarnation. The Red Army that “liberated” Poland was slow to leave, and it soon became apparent that the USSR intended to exercise a great deal of influence over Poland and the other countries of Eastern Europe that it regarded as belonging to its sphere of influence. The territory of the new Poland also differed notably from the interwar model. At Soviet insistence, and with American and British acquiescence, a vast swath of eastern Poland was absorbed into the USSR. In exchange Poland received most of the German territory east of the Oder and Neisse Rivers, which Poles helped brutally cleanse of almost all of its ethnic German population in the years 1945–47.3 In essence, Poland’s borders were shifted several hundred kilometers westward. The overwhelming majority of its roughly 23 million inhabitants were Polish Catholics, in sharp contrast to the ethnic and religious diversity that long had characterized Poland’s history. At Yalta the Allies agreed that a provisional national unity government would rule Poland in the run-up to free and fair elections in 1947. Stalin had no intention of allowing the Poles to chart their own political course, however. He was determined to transform Poland into a satellite state with strong political, economic, and military links to the USSR. Soviet intrigue ensured the triumph of the communist Polish United Workers’ Party (Polska Zjednoczona Partia Robotnicza, or PZPR) over its political rivals. The PZPR went on to govern the People’s Republic of Poland (Polska Rzeczpospolita Ludowa, or PRL) until 1989.

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The communists’ vision for Poland’s future did not include the traditional prominence of the Catholic Church. As viewed through the lens of Marxist-Leninist ideology, the churches trafficked in superstitions that reinforced oppressive class divisions and checked the progress of society toward a prosperous, classless future. In the first several years of the postwar era, however, the communists avoided direct conflict with the Catholic Church. Aware of both their own unpopularity and the loyalty the church commanded throughout most of Polish society, the communists were loath to further alienate Catholics as they consolidated their power. As a result, the church initially enjoyed more favorable conditions in Poland than in other Eastern Bloc countries. Catholic officials made good use of this breathing room, building institutions and networks that helped sustain the church in the difficult decades to come.4 Cardinal August Hlond returned to Poland from wartime exile on July 27, 1945, carrying with him a papal mandate to rebuild the Catholic Church in Poland. The task before him was immense: Thousands of churches lay in ruins; large numbers of clergy and religious had been killed or displaced; interwar Poland’s dense network of Catholic institutions (schools, seminaries, hospitals, newspapers, societies, and so on) had been thoroughly ravaged. In the time remaining before his death in 1948, Hlond oversaw the reorganization and redeployment of church resources. The changes affected the office of primate itself: In 1946 the Vatican severed the Archdiocese of Gniezno’s link with Poznań, fusing it instead with Warsaw. Hlond became the first archbishop of Gniezno and Warsaw, an office that carried with it the title of primate. Hlond’s most controversial initiative concerned the ecclesiastical reorganization of the German territory east of the Oder and Neisse that the Allies assigned to Poland, pending the acquiescence of a future German state, in the Potsdam Accord of 1945. Hlond interpreted his mandate to encompass this territory, and he sought to integrate Catholics living there into the church in Poland. He dismissed the German ordinaries remaining in the region from their posts, divided the region into five apostolic administrations, and appointed Polish prelates to run them. German Catholics expelled from the territory bitterly protested their fate, and their lamentations echoed loudly in the Vatican, which for nearly three decades refused to recognize the ecclesiastical structures Hlond had erected. Such canonical ambiguities hardly mattered to the millions of Polish Catholics

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who poured into the region, eager to rebuild their lives. There were plenty of church buildings (formerly Protestant, in most instances) at their disposal, but clerical personnel were in short supply. Hlond also sought to revive a distinctly Catholic understanding of Polish national identity, which had been suppressed during the Nazi occupation and was coming under assault by the communists. Toward this end, in the summer of 1946 he orchestrated the dedication of the Polish nation to the Immaculate Heart of the Virgin Mary. The process called for ceremonies at the parish level all across Poland, which were followed by celebrations at the diocesan level, and which culminated at the national level at Jasna Góra on September 8. On that occasion an estimated 1.5 million Poles joined the entire episcopate in pledging their fealty to Mary’s Immaculate Heart. Of all the ecclesiastical appointments of this period, the most consequential was the consecration of Stefan Wyszyński (1901–1981) as bishop of Lublin in 1946 and his promotion to archbishop of Gniezno and Warsaw in 1948.5 Wyszyński was ordained a priest of the Diocese of Włocławek in western Poland in 1924, and after training in canon law at the Catholic University of Lublin (Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, or KUL) and abroad he returned to teach in the seminary in Włocławek. After the German invasion his ministry attracted the attention of the Gestapo, and he fled to Warsaw to avoid arrest. While in Warsaw he assumed a number of dangerous assignments, including providing pastoral care for the Polish Home Army. Bishops who came to know him, including Hlond, were impressed by Wyszyński’s intelligence, courage, and capacity for leadership. The decision to elevate him, despite his relative youth and inexperience, to the pinnacle of the church’s hierarchy turned out to be providential. Destined to lead the church in Poland for over three difficult decades, Wyszyński fostered a high degree of internal cohesion and esprit de corps, which amplified the church’s influence in society. In addition to its efforts to meet the sacramental and pastoral needs of the Catholic population, the church sought to address the broad humanitarian crisis that stalked a population ravaged by six years of war. Toward that end it reestablished a Polish branch of Caritas. Over the next several years Caritas founded hundreds of institutions across Poland to serve vulnerable populations, including soup kitchens, nurseries and kindergartens, homeless shelters, and community centers.

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Church officials quickly moved to reclaim their traditional role in providing education at all levels. As part of their early conciliatory stance toward the church, the communists who dominated Poland’s provisional government allowed for religious instruction in public schools, and many clergy and religious stepped up to serve in this capacity. Religious communities and dioceses also erected dozens of private Catholic schools in these years, in many instances building on prewar foundations. Not long after the German retreat from Lublin in the summer of 1944, the KUL reopened its doors. For decades to come it played an important role in sustaining a vibrant Catholic intellectual life in Poland. In 1945 the Dominican priest Bernard Przybylski resumed his prewar engagement in university ministry by initiating Caritas Academica, an agency committed to pastoral work at universities across Poland. The immediate postwar years also witnessed the reflowering of the lively Catholic press culture that characterized the interwar era. Catholic newspapers and journals of various persuasions sprang up. Most were limited in terms of audience and quality, but a few came to exercise decisive influence in Polish Catholic circles. The most noteworthy example in this regard was Tygodnik Powszechny (The Universal Weekly), a newspaper launched in March 1945 at the instigation of Cardinal Sapieha. Edited for over five decades by Jerzy Turowicz, the weekly was distinguished from the start by a talented staff and high journalistic standards. It soon became essential reading in Catholic intellectual circles and attracted contributions from an array of prominent Polish thinkers and writers, including Karol Wojtyła, Czesław Miłosz, Władysław Bartoszewski, and Stanisław Lem. Despite the limitations created by government censors, Tygodnik Powszechny provided its readers with one of the most reliable sources of news in Poland and a window onto trends and developments in the church and the world on a global level.6 The consolidation of communist control over Poland coincided with a significant change of leadership. Bolesław Bierut, a Stalinist hard-liner, assumed ultimate control within the party and the government, displacing Władysław Gomułka, advocate of a distinctly Polish road to socialism that included, among other things, a measured tolerance of Catholicism. Bierut unleashed a comprehensive campaign to weaken and discredit the church. A torrent of attacks soon poured forth from state-controlled media, portraying Catholic officials as corrupt, opposed to the interests of the working

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classes, and in league with Poland’s enemies, above all West Germany. The Vatican’s refusal to recognize the ecclesiastical structures created by Hlond in the western and northern territories played directly into this narrative. This poisonous propaganda was accompanied by the arrest of hundreds of priests and religious, who were subsequently tried on spurious charges of subversive activity. By 1950 over five hundred clergy and religious were languishing in prison.7 The government launched a frontal assault on the church’s public influence and institutional autonomy. By 1949 it had banned all lay Catholic associations and public religious gatherings except for annual processions on Corpus Christi. It drove the church from the health care field and from providing charitable assistance to the needy, seizing control of Catholic hospitals and Caritas. In March of 1950 the Sejm unanimously passed legislation nationalizing much of the church’s property, leaving intact only places of worship, office space, living quarters, and those landholdings that provided for the subsistence of certain sectors of the clergy. In 1950 the government established the Bureau of Confessional Affairs, which claimed jurisdiction over the internal operations of religious organizations. The bureau waded deeply into church administration, going so far as to appoint officials to advise bishops on the running of their dioceses or replace them. The state also took more invidious steps designed to foment division within the church. It began drawing a clear distinction between “patriotic” priests who sympathized with the communist project and “reactionary” priests who did not. Communist officials orga nized the patriotic priests into a formal movement, complete with conferences and periodicals, and lured new members with inducements such as tax reductions, vacations, and promotions. Those deemed reactionary, meanwhile, could expect harassment and libelous attacks in the media. More than a thousand priests affiliated themselves to some degree with the patriotic priest movement, but they typically had to cope with being ostracized by fellow Catholics.8 Toward this same end the state supported Pax, a Catholic organization founded in 1947 and led by Bolesław Piasecki, an ideologically agile layman who pivoted from his prewar advocacy of fascism to an embrace of Marxism in the postwar era.9 Pax sympathized with much of the communist agenda and repeatedly broke with the bishops, and it reaped numerous

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benefits in return. In particular it enjoyed considerable freedom to publish books and journals, while the bishops and other Catholic organizations faced increasing restrictions. Cardinal Wyszyński regarded Pax as a “Trojan horse” designed to undermine the church’s unity, but for a number of years the movement enjoyed a measure of support among Catholic intellectuals.10 Appointed primate in 1948, Wyszyński was charged with leading Poland’s Catholic Church in an exceedingly difficult hour. He reckoned that the church was in no position to resist the challenges posed by the communist government. Having only recently emerged from the travails of a brutal war, it still needed time and space to strengthen itself from within. Although he protested against many of the state’s initiatives, Wyszyński also signaled his willingness to find a modus vivendi with the communists. Wyszyński’s strategy appeared to bear fruit when the state and the bishops signed a formal accord on April 14, 1950. The nineteen-point agreement placed a number of obligations on the church and guaranteed it certain privileges. The bishops committed themselves, among other things, to honor the authority of the state and its laws, to support the reconstruction of the nation, to take into consideration Poland’s interests in its dealings with the Vatican (specifically by pressing for the establishment of formal dioceses in the western and northern territories), and to oppose the underground resistance movement. The government pledged to allow religious instruction in public schools and pastoral care in prisons and hospitals, and it acquiesced to the existence of KUL, a number of Catholic presses and periodicals, and certain Catholic associations. Catholics who hoped that the 1950 accord would inaugurate a more harmonious relationship with the state were quickly disabused of the illusion. In fact, the next six years proved to be the most difficult period of the communist era. For government leaders, the accord was merely a propaganda tool, a means of reiterating their commitment to a list of lofty values. They promptly violated the terms of the accord time and again, justifying these violations by citing the clergy’s disloyalty to Poland. In short order the state closed Catholic private schools and created impediments for priests and religious, the traditional providers of religious instruction, to teach in public schools. It placed roadblocks in the way of Catholic publishers, preventing them from fulfilling their obligations. On October 23, 1950, the state demanded that the bishops regularize the

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church’s presence in the western and northern territories, transforming the apostolic administrations Hlond had created into formal dioceses. The canonical authority to effect such changes rested with the Vatican, not Poland’s bishops, and the Vatican was constrained by its unwillingness to offend Catholics in West Germany. On January 26, 1951, Poland’s government took matters into its own hands, banning the five apostolic administrators from the western and northern territories and demanding that the cathedral chapters of each of the administrations elect new leaders who were acceptable to the state. These elections took place under heavy duress. Wyszyński ultimately recognized the authority of the men who were chosen in order to prevent a schism. The state interfered with the training and work of the clergy in a variety of ways. Between 1952 and 1956 it shuttered fifty-nine seminaries in Poland and sought to dictate how seminarians were to be trained in the seminaries that remained. It continued to harass those clergy who resisted its demands, sometimes arresting them on spurious charges and subjecting them to show trials and heavy punishments. One high-profile victim was Czesław Kaczmarek, bishop of Kielce, who in 1951 was accused, among other crimes, of collaborating with Nazi Germany and spying for the United States. While in police custody he was tortured repeatedly, and he ultimately confessed to his alleged crimes, resulting in a twelve-year sentence. Years later he was exonerated on all counts.11 In blatant disregard of the 1950 church–state accord and the 1952 Polish constitution, the state issued a decree on February 9, 1953, that placed the appointment of clergy to church offices under its jurisdiction.12 This policy was intended to definitively subordinate the church to the state, and for Wyszyński and his fellow bishops it was a step too far. On May 8, 1953, they stood their ground, jointly signing a memorial to Bierut titled “Non possumus” (We cannot). The document catalogues the many abuses the church had suffered at the hands of the communists in recent years, and it concludes with a firm refusal to cooperate with the policy concerning clergy appointments: And if it happens that external factors prevent us from appointing appropriate and competent people to priestly assignments, we are determined not to fill them rather than place positions of spiritual leadership in unworthy hands. Whoever dares to accept an ecclesiastical position

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from another authority should know that he risks incurring the heavy penalty of excommunication. Similarly, if we are faced with the alternative of relinquishing ecclesiastical jurisdiction or making a personal sacrifice, we will not hesitate. We will follow the call of our apostolic vocation and priestly conscience, proceeding with inner peace and the knowledge that we did not cause the persecution we face, and that our suffering is rooted in our participation in the cause of Christ and the Church of Christ. We are not permitted to sacrifice the things of God on the altar of the emperor. Non possumus!13

This act of resistance has acquired a legendary allure in Polish Catholic circles. The church took a principled stand against violations of its essential character, the argument runs, and it was forced to pay a heavy price. The bishops’ defiance prompted the police to arrest Wyszyński on the evening of September 25, 1953, and for nearly three years he remained locked away, cut off from the church he was charged to lead. This instance of resistance and the punishing consequences that followed have come to be seen as emblematic of the wider Catholic experience in the Stalinist era. The truth of the matter is more complex than the legend. Faced with unrelenting pressure from a hostile regime and surrounded by countries where the churches often faced even graver circumstances, Catholics in Poland more often than not chose compromise over open conflict with the state, hoping to preserve a measure of religious freedom in a state led by militant atheists. After Wyszyński’s arrest, and under threat of more arrests to come, the bishops soon capitulated to the state’s demand to oversee appointments to church offices. Making tactical capitulations of this sort was less than heroic, perhaps, but it may have spared the church from still graver persecution. The church emerged from the Stalinist era bloodied but more or less intact, and it was well positioned to benefit from the less oppressive era to follow.

The Gomułka and Gierek Eras Stalin’s death in 1953 touched off a power struggle in the USSR, with Nikita Khrushchev eventually prevailing over his rivals. In an effort to revitalize popular support for communist rule and to bolster his authority, Khrushchev gave a detailed account of Stalin’s crimes during a secret, four-hour speech at the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party

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in February 1956. The contents of the speech were soon disseminated widely in Poland, which, in conjunction with Bierut’s mysterious death in Moscow not long thereafter, cast the upper echelons of the PZPR into turmoil. Stalinist hard-liners within the party found themselves on the defensive as reformists demanded a course correction, including greater independence from the USSR and expanded freedoms for the Polish people. The case for reform was bolstered by a palpable restiveness within a population frustrated with a planned economy focused on the expansion of heavy industry rather than consumer goods. This frustration spilled out in the open in Poznań in June, when a workers’ strike touched off a popular uprising, which the military suppressed with deadly force. Such pressures created an opening for Władysław Gomułka to return to power, promising a moderate and distinctly Polish path to socialism. A brief period of greater freedom ensued, known as the “thaw,” followed by a tightening of the party’s control. The rising chorus of reform demands included calls for greater religious freedom and the personal freedom of Poland’s primate. Even under arrest, Wyszyński deftly demonstrated the continued authority he enjoyed among the people. In keeping with the Polish Catholic tradition of celebrating significant anniversaries, he laid the groundwork for a public commemoration of the three-hundredth anniversary of the 1656 proclamation by King Jan Kazimierz naming the Blessed Virgin as Queen of Poland. The event, planned for August 26, 1956, at Jasna Góra, received no coverage in the press, but word spread through informal Catholic channels, and hundreds of thousands of Catholics made the pilgrimage. Gathered in a large field outside the monastery’s walls, they faced a platform featuring the Black Madonna adjacent to a chair adorned with a bouquet of flowers, signaling the primate’s enforced absence. The celebration culminated in a public affirmation of vows to the Blessed Virgin written by Wyszyński himself. The vows focused on adhering to the strictures of the Catholic faith, raising children to do the same, and guarding against godlessness and immorality. After each vow was read, the massive crowd chanted, “Queen of Poland, we promise!”14 Once back in power, Gomułka set about placing the state’s relationship with the Catholic Church on a more stable footing. He entered into negotiations with Wyszyński, with the aim of ending the primate’s confinement and winning his support for Gomułka’s reformist course. Wyszyński

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certainly preferred Gomułka to the Bierut regime, but he made it clear that a more harmonious relationship required certain concessions. These included the withdrawal of the 1953 decree granting state control over clergy appointments, the release of imprisoned clergy and religious, the restoration of properly chosen Catholic ordinaries to the apostolic administrations in the western and northern territories, and the resumption of religious education in public schools. Gomułka conceded on all points, and Wyszyński gained his freedom. He returned to a hero’s welcome in Warsaw. Prior to October 1956, the only lay Catholic organization tolerated by the state was Pax, which enjoyed continued favor by lending its support to, among other things, the patriotic priest movement, the trial and sentencing of Kaczmarek, and the incarceration of Wyszyński. When the government barred Jerzy Turowicz and his staff from publishing Tygodnik Powszechny in 1953, the paper was turned over to Pax. The organization’s uncritical obeisance to the state eroded the credibility it had once enjoyed in lay Catholic circles, and it went into decline. In the heady atmosphere of the thaw, a kind of Catholic civil society sprang to life. A talented group of lay Catholic intellectuals launched an array of organizations and publications, warily tolerated by the state, that were designed to facilitate the exchange of ideas, the cultivation of community, and the exercise of political influence. Those most closely involved with these initiatives formed a coherent milieu and shared a common vision. They were at once loyal to the bishops and committed to building an active and autonomous lay presence in the church and society. They were also attracted to some of the more progressive currents animating the global church in the years leading up to and including the Second Vatican Council. One pillar of this milieu was Tygodnik Powszechny, which Gomułka turned back over to Turowicz toward the end of 1956. Another leading element was the Club of the Catholic Intelligentsia (Klub Inteligencji Katolickiej), which the government allowed to exist in Warsaw, Kraków, Poznań, Wrocław, and Toruń. A leader of the Warsaw branch, the Catholic writer Jerzy Zawieyski, was also a driving force behind a related initiative known as Znak (Sign). Znak sponsored Więż (Link), a respected Catholic periodical edited by Tadeusz Mazowiecki. The government allowed it to field a few candidates for membership in the Sejm. Too small to exercise any real influence, Znak parliamentarians at least possessed a

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more prominent platform from which to express their views, which they used cautiously in the years to follow. Wyszyński took advantage of the thaw to reinforce a national-Catholic vision of Polish identity very much at odds with the communist program. Once again he found a momentous date to advance his agenda. The year 1966 marked the millennial anniversary of Mieszko’s baptism, which from the vantage of the Polish Catholic tradition signified the birth and baptism of the entire nation. An isolated celebration, the primate reasoned, could hardly do justice to an event of such magnitude. Instead, he proposed something much more audacious. Adapting the nine-day Catholic prayer cycle known as a novena, Wyszyński announced that the nation would honor the anniversary by participating in the Millennium Novena, a nine-year period of prayer and ritual reflection beginning in 1957 and culminating in 1966, with each year devoted to a particular religious theme. Over the course of the novena, a copy of the Black Madonna would travel from parish to parish throughout the country, and the Catholic faithful would pledge their commitment to the freedom of the church and the fatherland and to the rule of Mary.15 The entire process was designed to promote moral renewal and strengthen Catholic identity and solidarity.16 As the image of the Black Madonna slowly wound its way across Poland, parishes and dioceses rose to the occasion, staging elaborate receptions in its honor. In sermons, speeches, and catechetical programs, priests and bishops throughout the country wove core images and narratives of the Polish Catholic tradition together with the themes of the novena, inviting the faithful to more closely identify with a kind of theology of the nation. As they monitored these phenomena, communist officials grew increasingly alarmed. The program “is becoming a massive event whose character is extremely fanatical,” one observed. “The ‘wonderworking’ surrounding the ‘miraculous’ picture that is being trumpeted by the clergy is raising the attractiveness of the Marian cult and mobilizing believers around these ceremonial events.”17 Not long after the onset of the thaw, a new chill ran through Poland. The bold use Poles made of their newly won freedoms, including the various Catholic initiatives that were being launched, caused communist officials to fear losing control of the country. The change in course was evident by 1958, and it led to a number of unwelcome policies from the church’s point of view. In 1961 the government passed a new law that

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banned religious instruction in public schools for the first time in the postwar era. Henceforth, Catholics would have to catechize their children outside of the school day. Around the same time, Poland’s abortion law was liberalized, making it easier to obtain abortions on demand.18 Communist officials sought to revitalize the patriotic priest movement, and they intervened more aggressively in the promotion of regime-friendly clergy personnel. This helps explain the selection of Karol Wojtyła to succeed Eugeniusz Baziak as archbishop of Kraków in 1963. Wyszyński previously had nominated seven other prelates to fill this lofty perch in the hierarchy, but the government rejected them all. The communists were holding out, it seems, for a man they regarded as unseasoned and politically naïve.19 In retrospect, this was a colossal blunder. Wojtyła served as archbishop of Kraków until his election to the papacy in 1978. Pope Paul VI appointed him to the College of Cardinals in 1967. State pressure against the church reached a new crescendo in late 1965 and well into 1966 in response to a remarkable letter Poland’s bishops sent to their counterparts in West Germany in November 1965.20 To appreciate this gesture, it first helps to recall how acrimonious the relationship between West Germany and Poland was in the first two decades after the war. West Germany was home to millions of refugees expelled from the German territories assigned to Poland after the war. In order to appeal to this voting bloc, all the major parties in West Germany publicly supported refugee demands for redress of some kind and refused to recognize the finality of the Oder-Neisse border. In turn, Poland’s communists magnified the threat posed to Poland by a revanchist West Germany and its NATO allies, which they used to justify their policies. In the waning days of the Second Vatican Council, Poland’s Catholic bishops made a daring attempt to break the impasse. They were inspired in part by the council itself, in which reconciliation formed a central theme, as well as by their hope that West Germany’s bishops would help celebrate the culmination of the Millennium Novena in Poland. Archbishop Bolesław Kominek of Katowice composed the letter, and the other Polish bishops in Rome for the council signed it. Raised in the ethnic border zone of Upper Silesia, Kominek was intimately familiar with the complex legacy of German– Polish relations and the silences that had to be broken in order to improve the situation. The signatories of the letter described the terrible suffering of the millions of ethnic Germans expelled from their homes at the end

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of the war, marking the first time in the postwar era that prominent Polish officials spoke so plainly and publicly about this sensitive issue. The bishops not only acknowledged the expulsions, they apologized on behalf of Poles who had taken part in it, which they coupled with forgiveness for German crimes against Poles during the war. In the most memorable line of the letter, the bishops wrote, “We offer forgiveness and ask for forgiveness.” They further proposed that Germans and Poles jointly move beyond past wrongs into a more harmonious and cooperative future.21 The letter illustrates the unique position the Catholic Church had come to occupy in communist-era Poland. In a country where genuine political opposition had been largely eviscerated, the church was the only institution that had the capacity to enunciate messages clearly at odds with the state that would be broadly heard. The letter enraged communist officials, who interpreted it as an inappropriate meddling in foreign affairs and a liability to Poland’s foreign policy interests. They recognized that in writing the letter the bishops had moved out well in front of Polish popular opinion, leaving themselves vulnerable to attack. The communists immediately pounced, launching a massive media campaign to discredit the bishops in the eyes of patriotic Poles. The bishops, it was argued, were harming Polish interests and antagonizing the Soviets by opening up for discussion Poland’s claim to the western and northern territories. The bishops were libeling the Polish people by suggesting that Poles had anything for which to apologize to the Germans. The communists also sought to exploit divisions within the church, encouraging clergy and laypeople who disagreed with the bishops to speak out. The state’s campaign against the bishops initially seemed to have an impact. Most Poles had been blindsided by the letter’s contents; nothing in Polish public life up to that point had encouraged an honest reckoning of the expulsions or the viewpoint that Poles were anything but victims during the war and its aftermath. The evidence suggests that many Polish Catholics, including some members of the clergy and episcopate, were offended by aspects of the 1965 letter. The signatories understood this, and in public statements in the weeks that followed they qualified their earlier apology and offer of forgiveness. In the end, however, the communists failed to discredit the bishops in any lasting way. By this point they lacked the requisite moral authority, and their attacks only made the regime look ridiculous. Two incidents

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during the culmination of the millennial celebrations illustrated the diverging fortunes of the bishops and the regime. In their ongoing attempts to derail the Millennium Novena, the communists ordered the seizure of the Black Madonna icon that was being circulated from parish to parish, thus preventing its further peregrination. In response, church officials resorted to circulating an empty picture frame, which eloquently testified to the government’s contempt for a symbol at the heart of Polish Catholic religious life. Meanwhile, in the liturgical celebration at Jasna Góra on May 3, part of the culmination of the Millennial Novena, Wyszyński unequivocally defended the 1965 letter. The massive audience rallied to his side, chanting repeatedly, “We forgive, we forgive!”22

Outdoor Mass at Jasna Góra on May 3, 1966—a high point of the millennial celebrations. Pope Paul VI expressed the desire to visit Poland during the celebrations, but government officials denied him entry. This explains the framed picture of him to the left of the altar. Photograph by Mirosław Stankiewicz.

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Jan Józef Lipski, a literary historian and prominent member of the political opposition in Poland in the 1970s and 1980s, famously referred to the 1965 letter as “the bravest and most visionary act of Polish postwar history.”23 It was also consequential, signaling to West German politicians and activists interested in moving beyond the Cold-War stalemate that they might find willing partners in Poland. It was one factor that helped animate the Ostpolitik of West German Chancellor Willy Brandt and his Social Democratic Party, which pivoted away from confrontation with the Eastern Bloc and toward peaceful coexistence. This new direction resulted in formal treaties between West Germany and the USSR (1970), Poland (1970), East Germany (1972), and Czechoslova kia (1973), which created frameworks for diplomatic and economic cooperation. This new era coincided with a change in leadership in Poland. Gomułka, who returned to power in 1956 on a wave of public support, gradually lost both his popular mandate and his standing in the PZPR. The final blow fell when the government announced price hikes on basic foodstuffs in 1970, which provoked protests in a number of northern cities in December. The protests were brutally suppressed, resulting in dozens of deaths and over a thousand injuries. Gomułka resigned under pressure, and Edward Gierek, a rising star within the PZPR, replaced him as the party’s first secretary.24 He promptly reversed the controversial price increases and promised to lead Poland in a more worker-friendly direction. Gierek’s earliest gestures presaged the larger strategies that would undergird his rule. He calculated that quelling popular unrest required more attention to satisfying pent-up consumer demand. Taking advantage of improved relations with the countries of Western Europe, Gierek borrowed heavily from western banks and agencies to fund an ambitious program of industrial modernization focused on improving living standards in Poland. The strategy worked in the short term, though the government was eventually forced to make hard choices when it came time to pay the nation’s creditors. The conciliatory atmosphere extended to church-state relations. The government treated Wyszyński with newfound respect and proved more amenable to such church initiatives as the creation of new seminaries and houses of worship. Gierek went so far as to arrange a private audience with Pope Paul VI in 1977, anticipating that the meeting would enhance his standing in the eyes of Polish Catholics.

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The Vatican welcomed Gierek’s overtures. Echoing Brandt’s Ostpolitik, its foreign policy vis-à-vis the Eastern Bloc was predicated on the assumption that the communist system was an enduring reality that the church needed to work with rather than combat. Some Polish prelates shared this assumption, but others, including Cardinal Wojtyła, remained committed to struggle. Wojtyła regarded the division of Europe orchestrated at Yalta as a grave historical injustice, and he recognized more clearly than most of his contemporaries how fragile the communist system really was. Despite outward signs of greater harmony, all was not sweetness and light for the church in Gierek’s Poland. The regime continued to regard the church as a dangerous rival, and in some respects the SB ramped up its effort to monitor the clergy and intimidate activists. In 1973 it created a special division known as “Independent Group D,” which sought to disrupt religious events and foment division through all manner of chicanery.25 On the whole, however, the church had more room to maneuver, which it used to improve pastoral care and exert its moral authority. One significant achievement in this period was the normalization of church structures in the western and northern territories. West Germany’s parliament ratified the 1970 accord between Poland and West Germany in 1972, thereby offering provisional recognition of the Oder-Neisse border and an end to German claims to lost territory. This freed the Vatican to finally recognize the apostolic administrations functioning there as formal dioceses. Shortly thereafter Pope Paul VI announced the creation of the new dioceses of Opole, Gorzów, Szczecin-Kamień Pomorski, and Koszalin-Kołobrzeg. Another achievement was the building of dozens of new churches to accommodate the postwar baby boom. State officials stymied church construction in the 1950s and 1960s by limiting the number of permits and access to building materials, which resulted in outsized parishes and longer commutes for parishioners. When the state liberalized its procedures in the 1970s, Catholic officials quickly took advantage, and a new generation of churches cropped up. In this period the bishops continued to challenge the communist regime on policies they regarded as contrary to the nation’s character and interests. One prominent example came in response to Gierek’s 1975 initiative to modify the Polish constitution by explicitly defining Poland as a communist state and acknowledging its “unbreakable fraternal bond” with

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the USSR. These changes provoked considerable discontent, which the bishops adroitly channeled in articulating their opposition to the changes. The identification of Poland as a communist state, the bishops argued, contradicted the pluralist character of the political sphere that the communists claimed to support. Talk of an “unbreakable fraternal bond,” meanwhile, called into question Poland’s sovereignty. These criticisms squarely hit the mark, and proposed changes were watered down. Gierek emerged diminished from the contest.26 The church’s capacity to speak out against the government’s policies in the name of the Polish people earned it the respect of a growing cohort of secular intellectuals disaffected with the regime. They included the historian, journalist, and activist Adam Michnik. Michnik’s political orientation was decidedly leftist, but he lost faith in the integrity of Poland’s ruling party when he came of age in the 1960s. Briefly imprisoned for his public protests against government abuses, he remained engaged in oppositional efforts to achieve a freer and fairer society. He came to appreciate the church as an ally in that struggle, and in 1976 he penned an influential account of their shared interests.27 Michnik anticipated the emergence of an unlikely alliance that posed a serious threat to the political status quo.28

Solidarity with the Opposition As the charged contest between the church and the Polish state unfolded over the late 1960s and 1970s, a fundamental shift in the balance of power was in the offing. The charismatic archbishop of Kraków was steadily gaining stature within the highest echelons of the Catholic hierarchy, first through his contributions during the Second Vatican Council, and subsequently through encounters with his fellow cardinals. After Pope Paul VI died on August 6, 1978, knowledgeable insiders recognized the possibility that Wojtyła might be chosen to succeed him, but in the end the vote went to a safer Italian choice. However, John Paul I died only a month after taking office, and when the College of Cardinals reconvened for a second conclave, their decision shocked the world. The vote this time went for Wojtyła, the first non-Italian pope in 455 years. John Paul II broke the papal mold through his atypical patrimony, relative youth, and irrepressible charm, and his election caused a sensation

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throughout the Catholic Church. When word reached Poland, the entire country erupted in spontaneous celebration. It was immensely satisfying to see a native son reach the very pinnacle of a vast, global institution with which most Poles identified strongly. For a people long accustomed to military defeat and foreign domination, his election was a kind of validation of the nation’s worth. John Paul quickly emerged as the most recognizable emblem of Poland itself, and the warmth, intelligence, and boldness he demonstrated in office gradually transformed Poland’s image in the eyes of the world. From the moment of his election, Polish Catholics were keen to follow John Paul’s every word and gesture, and the government felt compelled to allow them access. The pope had the unprecedented opportunity to speak directly to an enthralled nation, and he was determined to use it. Not long after his installation, John Paul expressed his wish to return to Poland in early May of 1979 to celebrate the nine-hundredth anniversary of the martyrdom of Saint Stanisław, his distant predecessor as archbishop of Kraków. The communist authorities could hardly prevent the pilgrimage, so they decided to manage it to their advantage. They sought to decouple the visit from the celebration of a saint understood to have been murdered for protesting his king’s abuse of power, lest people draw unflattering analogies to the present regime. Instead, they proposed a visit in June, which they linked to the thirty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the Polish People’s Republic. The pope, the state-controlled media explained, was coming to celebrate this happy occasion. The authorities also agreed to allow extensive media coverage of the nine-day pilgrimage, calculating that this would limit the size of the crowds at papal events. Armed with immense moral authority, prodigious media savvy, and an intimate familiarity with how information was manipulated in communist societies, John Paul effortlessly circumvented the state’s attempts to define his visit. Determined to reflect on the meaning of Stanisław’s life, for instance, he simply postponed the celebration of the saint’s feast day until his June visit. In the many sermons and talks he delivered in Gniezno, Częstochowa, Auschwitz, Kraków, Warsaw, and elsewhere, he repeatedly emphasized Poland’s indelible Christian character and the inviolability of human rights, and he summoned Poles to stand fast in defense of the same.29 Across the country, Poles listened in rapt attention. Every papal event attracted enormous crowds, culminating in a Mass on the Kraków

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commons attended by well over a million people. It has been estimated that fully one-third of the population witnessed the pope in person, and nearly everyone charted his journey on television, radio, and print. An essential component of communist hegemony in Poland and elsewhere was the monopoly on public discourse. Communist officials carefully managed the messages articulated in the media and in significant public events, making them conform to and reinforce the communist ideology. For nine days in June of 1979 John Paul broke this monopoly, offering a compelling vision of Polish history and culture rooted in Catholicism.30 Meanwhile, millions of Poles reveled in the intoxicating climate of papal ceremonies and spontaneous celebrations completely free of communist control. The cumulative effect was transformative. As Adam Michnik described it in a poignant essay, the pope’s visit offered Poles a powerful “lesson in dignity.”31 No longer willing to abide the restricted freedoms and compromised ambitions inherent in the communist system, they soon proved less easily governed. Many observers have discerned the effects of the pope’s “lesson in dignity” fourteen months later, as a wave of strikes washed over Poland in protest against sharp increases in the price of certain staple foods. The worker uprising in the Lenin Shipyard in Gdańsk, led by the electrician Lech Wałęsa, emerged as the epicenter of the movement, which from the start had a pronounced religious character. Some of the most memorable iconography of the movement’s early days include the shuttered gates of the shipyard adorned with images of John Paul and the Black Madonna and the impromptu religious services organized for large throngs of striking workers. The workers demanded the retraction of the price hikes, increased wages, and the right to create a truly independent trade union. Dissident intellectuals, including Adam Michnik, Jacek Kuroń, and Tadeusz Mazowiecki, rallied to their cause. On August 27 Poland’s bishops issued a communiqué supporting their demands. The striking workers and their allies entered negotiations with the government that resulted in an accord by the end of August, which included provisions for the creation of a free trade union known as Solidarity. This was just the first step for an emboldened opposition, and it was already a step too far for the communist government and their Soviet sponsors, who viewed Solidarity as a threat to Poland’s communist system. Tensions escalated over the next fifteen and a half months, as the state sought to stymie

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reform, Solidarity organized strikes to advance its agenda, and the Polish economy foundered. Led by General Wojciech Jaruzelski, the Polish military finally intervened to break the impasse, save socialism, and prevent a possible Soviet invasion. Starting at midnight on December 13, it arrested key opposition leaders, suspended the government, and deployed the military widely to ensure calm. The period of martial law had begun. Martial law was intended to be a temporary measure, sidelining the opposition and creating space for the civilian government to resume control. The government, however, now lacked legitimacy, and the popular desire for reform remained strong, sustained in critical ways by the church. On December 15, 1981, Poland’s Bishops’ Conference issued a communiqué condemning the imposition of martial law, calling for the release of imprisoned Solidarity leaders, and advocating a new political framework based on negotiations with the opposition. This would remain the church’s basic position for the next eight years. During his second pilgrimage to Poland in 1983, a somber John Paul assured his fellow Poles that he stood with them in their time of trial, “especially with those who are most acutely tasting the bitterness of disappointment, humiliation, suffering, of being deprived of their freedom, of being wronged, of having their dignity trampled on.”32 And then of course there were priests like Popiełuszko, who risked their lives protesting injustice. In time the communist party fractured into hard-line and reformist camps, with the latter favoring dialogue with the opposition. The reform position eventually won the day, leading to the remarkable Round Table Negotiations between the government and Solidarity in February 1989. Both sides agreed to free elections in June for 35 percent of the seats in the Sejm and all of the seats of a newly created Senate. Solidarity had just two months to master the complex election rules and field candidates against an experienced and well-funded communist party that enjoyed an enormous media advantage. It benefited immensely from the unabashed support of the Catholic clergy, who recognized the election as an unprecedented opportunity to roll back the communist system. Priests across Poland instructed the faithful on the voting rules and advocated for Solidarity candidates. When the election finally took place on June 4, the communist party suffered a humiliating defeat. Solidarity won all of the 161 seats in the Sejm it contested and 99 out of 100 seats in the Senate. The era of communist hegemony was drawing to a close.33

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Arrested Aggiornamento The traumatic disruptions of the Second World War strengthened religious life in much of western Europe, as residents sought refuge in traditional sureties. There was an uptick in religious practice, and by many measures the position of the churches appeared strong. Nearly all Christian children were formally socialized in the faith, and Christian moral tenets exercised prodigious influence on legal codes. Laws in many countries shielded the churches from disrespectful treatment in the public sphere; the clergy and religious were broadly esteemed; and healthy numbers of people were drawn to ministerial careers. All these indexes of religious health stalled in the late 1950s and declined notably in the 1960s and 1970s. Industrialization and urbanization led to the erosion of one-time bastions of piety, especially in the countryside where religious identity and practice were deeply embedded in traditional social structures and ways of life. A generalized prosperity provided western Europeans with the luxury to experiment with styles of living less rooted in traditional social norms and obligations. This dovetailed with a rising spirit of individualism and a concomitant distrust of institutions and conformism. A new set of values at odds with traditional Christian norms gained broad currency, including a positive disposition toward sexual expression and the imperative to achieve full equality for women, ethnic and racial minorities, homosexuals, and other marginalized populations. In the wake of such changes, the churches came to be seen by many as repressive institutions out of step with the times.34 Just as this period of political, social, and cultural ferment was beginning to unfold, and for unrelated reasons, Pope John XXIII announced his intention to convene the Second Vatican Council. His overarching goal was aggiornamento, bringing the teachings and practices of the Catholic Church into greater harmony with the contemporary age. The council fathers took their charge seriously, and they eventually produced sixteen documents that, while explicitly rooted in Catholic tradition, encouraged a rethinking of certain practices and habits of mind. Among the signal legacies of the council was an expansive vision of the church as the “people of God,” pivoting away from a more traditional emphasis on the clergy and inviting the laity to more active engagement. The council fathers also took greater cognizance of the individual right of conscience, especially in

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matters of faith, and acknowledged the value of liberal political models that enshrine religious liberty as a basic right. In a notable shift toward greater ecumenical sensitivity, they affirmed the value inherent in other Christian churches and non-Christian religions. In addition, they endorsed certain adaptations to the liturgy, which soon resulted in a new model for celebrating the Mass known as the Novus Ordo. The wider context of the “1960s” influenced how Catholics evaluated the council’s efforts at renewal. There was widespread interest in the council, especially among Catholics sanguine about the tenor and direction of the culture around them. Some of the council’s most enthusiastic supporters saw it as a mandate for continued transformation. Among those Catholics who were more disturbed than encouraged by contemporary cultural change, many took a dim view of the council and how it was subsequently employed to justify religious experimentation. Catholic opinion grew increasingly polarized on the issues at stake. As the Catholic Church began to suffer the kinds of decline afflicting many other denominations (a precipitous drop in vocations to the priesthood and religious life, declining rates of lay participation in the sacraments, the erosion of the clergy’s moral authority, and so on), Catholics often attributed such decline to the council, either in and of itself, the jettisoning of traditions it inspired, or the ways its purportedly progressive vision was thwarted by conservative church leaders. The distinctive circumstances the Catholic Church confronted in communist Poland shielded it somewhat from the concomitant currents of renewal and decline that were reshaping the church throughout much of Western Europe. Compared to its Western counterparts, the postconciliar church in Poland remained stubbornly traditional. At the same time, clerical vocations flourished, the clergy exercised a lofty degree of influence, and the laity practiced their faith at rates that Catholic leaders in other countries could only envy. Cardinal Wyszyński played an especially important role in shaping the Polish church’s course in the postwar era. He enjoyed enormous prestige in Poland, enhanced by the persecution he suffered in the early 1950s and the resistance he posed to an increasingly unpopular regime. Wyszyński placed a high premium on maintaining unity within the church hierarchy, and his authority was such that the large majority of the clergy and bishops, including powerful prelates such as Cardinal Wojtyła, reflexively

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deferred to his leadership. Wyszyński was also keen to maintain the aura of mystery and holy otherness that traditionally had surrounded the clergy in their relations with the laity, and he effectively discouraged priests from blurring the boundaries between lay and ordained. This may have helped the Polish church avoid the hollowing out of clerical authority experienced in other Catholic societies. After Wyszyński’s death in 1981, the episcopate began to fracture somewhat along ideological lines, and individual bishops showed a growing willingness to defy Wyszyński’s successor, Józef Glemp. These trends were held partially in check by Pope John Paul II, who intervened repeatedly in the name of clerical cohesion. Wyszyński attended the various sessions of Vatican II with the Polish delegation, but he responded with decided coolness to the theological vision articulated in council documents and the innovations they inspired. His conservatism in this regard ensured that the Polish church was only lightly touched by the council during the remainder of his tenure as primate. A Polish-language version of the Novus Ordo Mass was introduced on November 29, 1970, but other mandates and opportunities for change were largely ignored. The Polish church did not choose to train and ordain permanent deacons, for instance, and it was slow to encourage more lay involvement in its operations. Meanwhile, Wyszyński continued to cultivate the traditional devotional practices that were falling out of favor in many Western dioceses, recognizing them as integral to the church’s strength in his native country. The Archdiocese of Kraków was something of an exception within Poland. The Second Vatican Council exercised a profound influence on Wojtyła. He discerned the Holy Spirit at work in the council, and he was eager to share something of the experience with Catholics in his archdiocese. His most notable initiative was the eight-year-long Synod of Kraków, during which time some five hundred study groups were formed to read and discuss council documents and his reflections on them. In addition, Wojtyła made a number of high-profile ecumenical gestures in these years, encouraging his flock to move beyond traditional suspicions of non-Catholics. The theology of Vatican II also resonated among Catholic intellectuals in Poland, such as readers of Tygodnik Powszechny and Więż and members of the Club of the Catholic Intelligentsia. Issues like lay involvement in the church, ecumenism, and social justice figured among their concerns already in the 1940s and 1950s, and the council reinforced these

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commitments, but their advocacy on these matters ultimately was of limited impact. Throughout the communist era, the priesthood remained a highly respected and financially comfortable career. This partially explains the steady growth in vocations, though few priests would trace their ordinations to such mundane calculations. In 1945 there were an estimated 10,300 priests in Poland, or roughly one for every 2,300 Catholics. By 1982 the priestly population had roughly doubled, with a ratio of one priest for every 1,750 Catholics. The population of male and female religious also grew significantly in these years. The election of John Paul II to the papacy touched off a veritable boom in vocations that lasted throughout his papacy. The pope wrote and preached at length about the spiritual grandeur of the priesthood, and his own charismatic example inspired thousands of young Polish men to emulate him. Postwar Polish society passed through the same cluster of developments that theorists have identified in accounting for secularization in Western Europe (urbanization, rising standards of living, higher rates of education, and so on), and yet Polish Catholics did not abandon their faith practices to nearly the same degree as their western counterparts. Ironically, much of the credit must go to the communist system. Its economic inefficiencies blunted the potentially secularizing impact of a robust consumer culture, and the tight limits it placed on the flow of information shielded Poles from the heady mix of ideas that inspired millions of Westerners to abandon Christianity in favor of a different religion or worldview. Meanwhile, the repressiveness of the regime helped valorize the Catholic Church as a refuge and locus of resistance. Credit should be given as well to the strength of the Polish family, wherein family-based religious practices were sustained even as families migrated in search of economic opportunity. The hard work and faithful examples of thousands of priests and religious surely contributed as well. When one measures the vitality of the Polish church in the communist era, the lingering effects of history continue to surface. The most religiously vibrant regions of Poland (measured by factors such as Mass attendance and religious vocations) were those lands that during the partition era had belonged to Catholic Austria, where Catholicism was allowed to flourish by a generally sympathetic state. Catholic practice was more lackluster in parts of central Poland that had been under Russian control

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during the partition era. Another area of relative religious weakness included the western and northern territories, which were severely disrupted by the expulsion of the resident German population and resettlement of Polish refugees from the east.35 Polish communities outside of Poland occupied something of an intermediate position between the traditionalism of the Catholic Church in Poland and the modernizing and secularizing trends that manifested among Catholics in many Western countries.36 Poles living in North America and Western Europe experienced considerable upward mobility during the long postwar economic boom. As they assimilated into their host societies, many gravitated toward more affluent addresses, abandoning the immigrant neighborhoods and Polish Catholic parishes they had once inhabited. In doing so, they left behind structures that had so effectively reinforced the ethnic and religious identities of earlier generations. At the same time, there were other forces holding them within the Polish Catholic orbit. Many maintained ties with family and friends back in Poland and came into contact with a steady stream of new Polish immigrants.37 They tended to follow events in Poland closely, including the population’s struggle for greater freedom and dignity and the role of the Catholic Church therein. Polish émigrés provided critical financial support to loved ones in Poland. The church in Poland, meanwhile, continued to show solicitude to the religious needs of Poles living abroad by, among other things, assigning Polish priests and religious to minister to them. Finally, there was John Paul II, who inspired Poles both at home and abroad.

A Changing Church Although the Catholic Church in Poland bucked some of the most notable trends that shaped the global church in the postwar era, this is not to say that it remained suspended in amber. On the contrary, it evolved considerably. In this section I touch on three areas of change: the church’s response to the legacy of Polish antisemitism, ecclesial architecture, and the proliferation of new devotional practices and lay ecclesial movements. As noted in the last chapter, the antisemitic paranoia that echoed throughout much of Europe in the interwar era was clearly audible in Poland. It rumbled loudly in the Catholic press and in the homilies and pronouncements of many clerics, which no doubt encouraged Polish Catholic

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passivity toward or even active collaboration with the genocidal campaign of the Nazis during the war. Despite the boundless depravity of the Holocaust and the fact that it took place mainly on Polish soil, one can find scarce evidence of Polish Catholic soul-searching during the first several decades after the war. When it was discussed, guilt was reflexively transferred to Nazi outsiders. Old hatreds remained largely uncontested and, therefore, available for reactivation. This helps explain the shocking pogrom that unfolded in Kielce on July 4, 1946. Townspeople and security personnel unleashed their fury upon the remnant of the city’s Jewish population, only recently reassembled, after a rumor emerged that a Christian child had been kidnapped by a member of this community.38 Poland’s communist government trafficked casually in antisemitic rhetoric and employed it repeatedly to discredit its enemies, most notably in the interparty shake-up of 1956 and in caricaturing those involved in popular protests in 1968. The responses of church officials to such instances left much to be desired. After the Kielce pogrom, for instance, the bishops issued a pastoral letter that condemned violence in general but made no specific reference to Kielce and the targeting of Jews. The Catholic papers Tygodnik Powszechny and Gość Niedzielny, to their credit, spoke more directly. On a global level, the Holocaust inspired a rethinking of Catholic teaching on Judaism and Jewish–Christian relations, which found expression in Nostra Aetate (1965), a declaration issued during Vatican II that affirmed the spiritual integrity of Judaism, condemned antisemitism, and rejected the traditional beliefs that the Jews were collectively responsible for the death of Christ and cursed to suffer as a result.39 This document initially did not make much of an impact in Poland. By the 1980s, though, a number of developments challenged Polish Catholics to seriously ponder their assumptions about Jews and Polish Catholic culpability vis-à-vis the Holocaust. One was the example of John Paul II, who had a deeply personal love for the Jewish people and publicly embodied the teachings of Nostra Aetate in ways that captured the imaginations of Catholics in Poland and around the world.40 Another was Shoah (1985), the potent documentary by the director Claude Lanzmann about the Holocaust. The over nine-hour film offers a portrait of a Polish society still marked by a deep-seated antipathy toward Jews. This unflattering treatment sparked outrage in Poland, but it also pricked the con-

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sciences of many. A similar dynamic unfolded in 1987 when the literary critic Jan Błoński published a lyrical and provocative essay in Tygodnik Powszechny that urged Poles to consider the degrees to which they shared responsibility for the Holocaust. “Did we stand with [Jews] in solidarity? How many of us determined that it was not our business? There were also those (and I am not referring to common criminals) who were quietly delighted that Hitler had solved the Jewish ‘problem’ for us. . . . In short, instead of haggling and justifying ourselves, we should first do some soul-searching, considering our own sins and weaknesses. This moral revolution is essential in light of the Polish-Jewish past. It is the only way we can gradually cleanse our desecrated soil.”41 Praising the essay as “one of the most noble and beautiful texts ever written in the Polish language,” Adam Michnik credits it for helping to break the silence in Poland on this difficult topic.42 A tangible step by the church in Poland toward an honest reckoning of its past relationship with the Jewish community was the creation of the Commission for Dialogue with Judaism in 1986. The commission was charged with promoting greater understanding between the two faiths. Some initial steps took place already in the 1980s, with more substantial progress unfolding after 1989. Another aspect of postwar Polish Catholic life that proved open to innovation was ecclesial architecture. Communist officials generally were slow to approve the construction of new churches, but in the 1970s they became more accommodating. Church officials across Poland seized the opportunity to address the shortage of worship spaces, and they often opted for architectural plans quite at odds with tradition. In part this was a matter of economy, as modern materials and designs typically proved more affordable, but such decisions were also shaped by the desire to satisfy modern tastes and to reflect new liturgical and ecclesiological paradigms. The 1970s and 1980s were not especially fortuitous years for Polish architecture in general, but some of the churches built in this era stand out as exceptions. The highest-profile project of this type was Our Lady Queen of Poland Church, other wise known as the Ark of the Lord, located just east of Kraków in Nowa Huta. Communist authorities established Nowa Huta as a model communist city in 1949, and they invested heavily in the building of imposing apartment blocks according to the dictates of socialist realism, which were to house workers employed at the adjacent Lenin Steelworks.

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Planners intentionally excluded a church from their designs, but many residents lamented this lack. They began petitioning for a church already in the 1950s, and they won support from Karol Wojtyła (auxiliary bishop of Kraków as of 1958), who began a tradition of celebrating Christmas Eve Mass for the local population in an open field outside of the town. State authorities finally issued a permit for church construction on October 13, 1967, and Wojtyła organized a groundbreaking ceremony the next day. The actual construction process dragged on for years, however, on account of state machinations. The project moved forward in earnest in the 1970s, and Wojtyła dedicated the church on May 15, 1977. Designed by Wojciech Pietrzyk, the Ark of the Lord is patterned after Le Corbusier’s Notre Dame du Haut Chapel in Ronchamp, France, a modernist masterpiece. The arresting structure, the profile of which shifts dramatically with each angle of view, is defined by a series of deceptively simple, curving panels, which are encrusted with small stones from across Poland. Its bulging, asymmetrical roofline resembles the hull of a ship, an impression reinforced by the mast-like cross towering over the structure. The spacious interior is strikingly original and decorated with novel works of liturgical art. Suspended in the middle of the space is a massive sculpture of Christ crucified, crafted by Bronisław Chromy and cast by local steelworkers. The tabernacle, a gift from an Austrian diocese, is a bronze orb surrounded by steel rings that evoke the solar system. The Ark of the Lord generated worldwide interest from the start, and it remains a major magnet for tourists, pilgrims, and architectural aficionados. A much more obscure example of modernist church architecture, as well as a testament to the possibilities and pieties of postwar Polish Catholicism, is the Church of the Divine Mercy in Kalisz. Church officials received permission to build the church in 1956 at the beginning of Gomułka’s thaw, and they commissioned Warsaw architects Andrzej Fajans and Jerzy Kuźmienko to execute the project. The central element of their bold design is an undulating concrete skin that rises dramatically at the center and spans roughly 1,000 square meters. Between the folds of this skin rise walls of stained glass. The design won a major award in 1957, but civil authorities suddenly suspended the building permit, leaving the project in limbo for the next seventeen years. When the suspension was lifted in 1974, builders dusted off the original design. The church was finally consecrated in 1993.

Church of the Divine Mercy, Kalisz. Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

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Church officials dedicated the church to the Divine Mercy, an increasingly popular devotion in the communist era. Although relatively new, the devotion encompassed a set of components (mystical revelations, a holy image, a prescribed cycle of prayers) that resonated with the traditionalist ethos of modern Polish Catholicism. Its early champion, Father Michał Sopoćko, succeeded in spreading the word about the devotion in postwar Poland and in creating a new women’s community that Sister Faustina Kowalska had envisioned, the Sisters of the Merciful Jesus. Efforts to win the Vatican’s imprimatur, however, initially proved disastrous. In 1959 Kowalska’s writings were placed on the Index of Forbidden Books, Sopoćko was reprimanded for his role in promoting her, and the devotion was banned. Not long thereafter, Wojtyła came to the movement’s defense. He authorized an investigation into Kowalska and a new translation of her writings. These efforts resulted in the lifting of the ban on the devotion and a formal Vatican inquiry into Kowalska’s sanctity. Wojtyła’s sympathy for the Divine Mercy greatly augmented its appeal for Catholics in Poland and, after his election to the papacy, the rest of the Catholic world. Catholics in postwar Poland also demonstrated a growing interest in lay ecclesial movements. These movements were a global Catholic phenomenon, in keeping with the Second Vatican Council’s call for greater lay involvement and a more expansive vision of church. Each movement has had its own specific character, but in general they have offered participants opportunities to experience community and to expand their faith lives beyond routine participation in the sacraments. The most successful of these movements spread rapidly around the world and managed to penetrate the Iron Curtain. One example is Focolare, the origins of which are traced back to a powerful religious experience of its founder, Chiara Lubich, in the Italian city of Trent in 1943. The experience inspired Lubich to dedicate her life to promoting peace and interreligious unity. In both respects Lubich anticipated key themes of the Second Vatican Council and values widely shared within a new generation of Catholics. Members forged common bonds by participating in retreats, working together on charitable projects, and by reading and contributing to the movement’s publications. Focolare spread to Poland through the efforts of Professor Janina Bieniarzówna, who first encountered it during a visit to East Germany in 1966 and shared the experience with fellow Catholics in the Archdiocese of Kraków. She helped organize

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the first Focolare retreat in Poland in the southern resort town of Zakopane in 1969. The movement steadily grew thereafter, thanks in part to the encouragement of Cardinal Wojtyła. The postwar era also witnessed the emergence of lay movements indigenous to Poland, the most successful of which have since proliferated abroad. An early example is the Light-Life Movement (also known as Oasis), founded by Franciszek Blachnicki (1921–1987), a priest of the Katowice Diocese. Drawing from his experiences leading parish retreats in the 1950s, Blachnicki developed a program designed to guide participants beyond an inherited adherence to Catholicism toward a more vibrant, consciously chosen faith. The signature element of the program is an intensive, fifteen-day retreat. In the 1970s and 1980s the Light-Life Movement spread to parishes throughout much of Poland and made inroads into other countries as well.43

As the Second World War drew to a close, Catholics in Poland were confronted with a new challenge: The terms of their country’s future existence would be determined largely by the USSR. The communist regime that came to power in Poland was ideologically opposed to Catholicism, but its specific policies toward the church varied over time. It was most confrontational in the late 1940s and early 1950s, sharply limiting the church’s public role in Polish society, aggressively interfering in its internal affairs, and punishing officials who resisted. These moves were widely perceived as persecution in what was now an overwhelmingly Catholic society, and they undermined the PZPR’s standing. In other periods, the regime pursued subtler methods to divide the church from within and weaken its hold on the hearts and minds of Poles. Throughout most of the communist era, the church in Poland was led by the politically savvy Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, who leveraged his considerable moral authority—enhanced by his years of imprisonment— to defend the church’s interests and preserve its unity. He also dared to challenge the regime’s control over public discourse with bold assertions of the nation’s Catholic character, none more audacious than the Millennium Novena. The regime’s clumsy responses to these challenges, along with its inability to satisfy consumer demand, weakened its position. The church’s capacity to influence popular opinion and frame the political

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debate was magnified further by the stunning election of Cardinal Karol Wojtyła to the papacy. His triumphal return to Poland in June 1979 electrified the nation, awakening a desire for change that pitched the country into crisis. As they engaged in the political arena, Catholic leaders typically advocated for caution and dialogue. Their approach was one factor behind Poland’s relatively peaceful transition to democracy. With the Second Vatican Council and the cultural and political ferment associated with the 1960s, the Catholic Church entered a period of transformation and turmoil. Ensconced behind the Iron Curtain and locked in a high-stakes contest with the communist regime, the church in Poland was somewhat insulated from the forces reshaping the global church. As the societies of Europe grew increasingly secular, Polish Catholics held fast to their faith, and Poland gradually emerged as something of an island of religious observance in a sea of deepening indifference. On Wyszyński’s watch, the country was only lightly touched by religious impulses unleashed by Vatican II. At the same time, there were signs of religious change, including a new willingness to confront the Shoah and the emergence of new devotional practices and lay ecclesial communities. When the PZPR’s monopoly on power unraveled in 1989, Poland’s Catholic Church had good reason to take pride and partial credit for these revolutionary events. What it could not foresee were the profound challenges in store for the institution in the new era of enhanced freedom that was dawning.

10

From Triumph to Turmoil (after 1989)

On the morning of April 10, 2010, a Russian-made Tupolev 154 crashed during an attempted landing in heavy fog in the Russian city of Smolensk. All ninety-six passengers on board were killed, including Polish President Lech Kaczyński, his wife, Maria, and dozens of top government officials, military leaders, and dignitaries. The tragedy reverberated powerfully through Polish society. Its impact was compounded by the fact that the victims had been en route to a commemoration of the seventieth anniversary of one of the signal tragedies in modern Polish history, the 1940 massacre in the Katyń Forest, in which over 20,000 Polish officers and other elites were systematically murdered by the Red Army. In the immediate aftermath of the crash, one prominent Polish theologian lamented, “It’s our Katyń trauma all over again.”1 Catholic symbols, sites, and rituals were woven throughout the extended period of national mourning that followed. A funeral Mass for the presidential couple took place in Kraków’s venerable Saint Mary’s Basilica, and their remains were interred in the crypt of the Wawel Cathedral. Kaczyński’s supporters later planted a large cross in his honor near the Presidential Palace in Warsaw. Many Poles complained, however, that the polarizing former president did not merit burial in Poland’s most sacred shrine. Some discerned political maneuvering in the religious gestures of Kaczyński’s supporters. The religious honors bestowed on a Polish head of state and the controversy they generated reflect just how much Poland has changed in the two decades since the collapse of communism. Catholicism has come to enjoy greater prominence in the public sphere, after decades of conflict with the communist state. At the same time, this vaunted profile has the capacity to engender passionate resistance within sectors of the Polish population. During his tenure in office, Kaczyński alienated many Poles through his attempts to bring Polish law and public life into greater accord

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with conservative Catholic values. The overwhelming majority of Poles still identify as Catholics, but in a context of expanded freedoms and democratic government they honor their faith commitments in increasingly divergent ways.

A Catholic Country? With the collapse of communist rule in 1989, a new political era dawned in Poland, characterized by vibrant, if somewhat chaotic, multiparty democracy. The Catholic Church emerged from the transition intact and with tremendous prestige, having helped fill the void created by the lack of a political opposition in a state dominated by one party.2 Church leaders had grown accustomed to speaking on behalf of the population, and they continued doing so after 1989, only now they pursued a bolder agenda. Convinced that Poland was a Catholic country, they sought to enact laws favorable to the church and its values. Lacking a widely feared and loathed adversary, the church quickly overplayed its hand. Its pronouncements touched off ripples of popular anticlericalism not seen in Poland for decades. Recently esteemed as the voice of the voiceless, growing numbers began to question the church’s ambitions and its commitment to democracy. In some respects, the new political paradigm resembled the dynamic of the interwar era, the last time Poland enjoyed relative freedom.3 Spearheaded by the bishops, the church advanced a number of priorities with its allies in government and achieved a series of high-profile victories. One of the first occurred in August 1990, when the Ministry of Education issued a surprise decision allowing religious instruction to take place in public schools, reversing a ban in place for nearly thirty years. Critics complained about the lack of parliamentary debate on the policy and questioned its constitutional legality.4 This policy, which is still in place, requires the state to pay the salaries of religion instructors, who in almost every instance are representatives of the Catholic Church. Students may be exempted from the Catholic curriculum, but alternatives are not always available.5 Concerned about the rising tide of media content it found offensive, the church successfully lobbied for the inclusion of a clause concerning “respect for Christian values” in the radio and television broadcasting law approved by the Sejm in 1992, which empowers the state to revoke the

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licenses of broadcasters deemed guilty of violating the provision. In a society recently freed from oppressive state censorship, this provision raised disturbing associations in the minds of many. One of the highest legal priorities of church leaders in this period was the dismantling of communist-era abortion laws. After years of effort, this goal was realized on January 7, 1993, when the Polish government enacted one of the toughest sets of abortion restrictions in Europe. The law forbids abortion in all but three instances: when the woman’s health or life is endangered by the pregnancy in question, when the pregnancy is the result of a criminal action, or when a severe defect or incurable illness is detected in the fetus. To the dismay of abortion opponents, the statute did not include penalties for women found guilty of receiving an abortion.6 Church leaders savored another accomplishment later in the year, when Poland and the Vatican signed a concordat on July 28, 1993.7 The document was designed to promote harmonious cooperation between church and state and to guarantee the church’s freedom in light of the repression it suffered during the communist era. As Pope John Paul II reflected in celebrating the agreement, “We cannot forget the totalitarian system of government imposed on Poland when our nation was subjected to many humiliations, injustices and the restriction of its freedom. There was an effort to eliminate the Church from social life and to impede her activity by subjecting her to systematic persecution.”8 Critics charged that the concordat blurred the constitutional boundary between church and state, expanded the state’s obligation to support the church, and privileged it over other religious bodies. One source of opposition was the Democratic Left Alliance (Sojusz Lewicy Demokratycznej, or SLD), a retooled version of the former communist party, which emerged as a dominant member of the ruling coalition in parliamentary elections in September 1993. The SLD managed to delay the final ratification of the concordat for a number of years. In addition to their legal agenda, church leaders sought to influence the outcome of elections in a newly democratic Poland. In the presidential elections of 1990, their support for Lech Wałęsa was plain, and he won a resounding victory in the second round of voting on December 9. In the parliamentary elections of 1991, the bishops publicly vowed not to endorse a particular party, in part perhaps because their natural allies on the right had fractured into rival factions. Nevertheless, they repeatedly reminded

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their flocks that Christians were obliged to support candidates who shared their religious values. A similar dynamic emerged in the presidential election of 1995, when incumbent Lech Wałęsa faced Aleksander Kwaśniewski of the SLD. The bishops refused to make a formal endorsement, but they discouraged Catholics from voting for a candidate who had participated in the former system of “totalitarian rule,” an unmistakable reference to Kwaśniewski. Cardinal Józef Glemp expressed concern about Kwaśniewski’s “neo-pagan” values. Not surprisingly, the church’s political opponents complained loudly about its outsized influence in Warsaw and its vision for Poland’s future. More surprising was the friendly fire the church absorbed from some of its sympathizers and allies. Its critics included Leszek Kołakowski, a philosopher of immense prestige in Poland, whose mature writings had helped inspire popular resistance to communism in the 1970s and 1980s. Although not a churchgoer, Kołakowski was kindly disposed toward theism and the value of religion in human life, but the church’s recent political course troubled him. In an article appearing in the liberal daily Gazeta Wyborcza in 1991, he lamented that the church was seeking to establish legal punishments for actions it considered sinful.9 Józef Tischner, a widely admired priest and intellectual, raised similar concerns in a 1993 article in Tygodnik Powszechny. The actions of church leaders, he suggested, led one to wonder about their commitment to the democratic process.10 The church’s agenda also stirred discontent within the population as a whole. Having recently emerged from forty years of communist rule, in which core freedoms were constrained in the name of ideology, most Poles were deeply committed to the newly established liberal democratic order. Human freedom stands at the heart of such an order, and diversity of opinion and action is the inevitable by-product. Although the overwhelming majority of Poles identified as Catholics, most opposed the efforts of church leaders to bring Polish society and law into greater conformity with their religious convictions. The curtailment of newly won freedoms was simply too great a price to pay. Polling data from this period reveal the limited appeal of the church’s initiatives and the steady erosion of its moral authority. In a 1991 survey, 74 percent of Poles questioned disapproved of the church’s recent political activity. Asked in 1993, less than 40 percent supported without reservation the law pertaining to religious education in public schools. A 1995 survey

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revealed that only 32 percent supported the new restrictions placed on abortion, while 52 percent favored liberalizing the law. In 1989, 90 percent of Poles surveyed ranked the church as the most respected institution in Polish public life. When the same question was asked two years later, only 58 percent shared that opinion, and the figure fell further still in subsequent years.11 Public discontent with the church’s political profile likely influenced the outcome of the presidential election in 1995. Wałęsa’s popularity plummeted over the course of his presidency, in part because of Poland’s painful transition to a free-market economy and in part because of Wałęsa’s unrefined political style. This created an opening for what would have been unthinkable just a few years earlier: the election of Kwaśniewski, a former communist functionary. The church lobbied hard for Wałęsa in the final weeks of the campaign, but the effort may well have backfired. According to the Catholic intellectual Marcin Krol, “There was a big percentage of voters who voted for Kwaśniewski because of the negative feelings they had about Wałęsa, and the church’s approval of Wałęsa added to that.”12 Setbacks like the 1995 election and the rising chorus of bad press tempered the enthusiasm of Poland’s prelates for political activism. A turning point, in the eyes of Józef Tischner and others, came in 1997, partly because of the influence of John Paul II. His fifth pilgrimage to Poland took place in May and June of that year, just as Poland was gearing up for a new round of parliamentary elections in September. In the many addresses he gave over his eleven-day visit, the pope all but ignored the campaign and the specific policies in play. Instead he talked at length about culture and the church’s role in nurturing a culture informed by its spiritual values. This can have a bearing on political life, he suggested, but direct engagement in politics is the work of others. As he noted in an address at Gniezno, “The greatness of the role of political leaders is to act always with respect for the dignity of every human being, to create the conditions of a generous solidarity which never marginalizes any citizen, to permit each individual to have access to culture, to recognize and put into practice the loftiest human and spiritual values, to profess and to share one’s religious beliefs.”13 John Paul II reiterated this perspective explicitly in a letter to the Polish episcopate later that summer. This shift in approach was also nurtured by several notable developments in 1997 that helped stabilize Poland’s external relations and internal

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affairs. A formal invitation in June to join the European Union and the finalization of its membership in NATO in July strengthened Poland’s alliances with its western neighbors. In May a majority of Poles voted to ratify a new constitution. The previous constitution, enacted in 1952 at the height of the Stalinist era, was almost universally regarded as unacceptable, and discussions concerning a new document were in full swing by 1990. Early in the process, some church leaders had hoped to inscribe a privileged role for the church in the nation’s new charter. The document ratified in 1997 was the product of necessary compromise between rival parties and factions, including former communists in the ruling coalition, and as such it fell far short of some early Catholic hopes. It is hardly inimical to church interests, though. While lacking an invocatio Dei, it acknowledges the nation’s Christian inheritance. It guarantees the freedoms of conscience, religious education, and religious upbringing, and it assures the state’s impartiality toward the religious or philosophical convictions of its citizens. In deference to Catholic sensibilities, there is no reference to the “division” of church and state, a formulation discredited by its association with the 1952 constitution. Instead, article 25.3 reads: “The relationship between the State and churches and other religious organizations shall be formed on the principle of respect for their autonomy and the mutual independence of each in its own sphere, as well as on the principle of cooperation for the good of the individual and the common good.”14 The bishops showed newfound restraint during the parliamentary elections of 1997, and they were rewarded with what they regarded as a more favorable outcome. An expanded coalition of right-leaning factions and parties assembled under a common banner known as Solidarity Electoral Action (Akcja Wyborcza Solidarność, or AWS), and together they won the largest share of the vote (33.8 percent) and assumed power. The consequences for church-state relations were made clear in short order. In January 1998 the Sejm and the Senate voted to ratify the 1993 concordat. Although the bishops may have grown more circumspect in the political arena, other individuals and organizations embraced the cause of imprinting Catholic values and symbols more deeply onto Polish law and public life. They included the archconservative Catholic radio network known as Radio Maryja and it television affiliate TV Trwam. In the early 1990s Catholic leaders took advantage of the opportunity to expand their media presence in Poland, and they parceled out the task to various reli-

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Election campaign billboard of Solidarity Electoral Action (Akcja Wyborcza Solidarność, or AWS), 1997. AWS employed advertisements like this one to emphasize its historical ties to Pope John Paul II and the Solidarity movement. The advertisement depicts the pope before a large crowd and a Solidarity banner. The tagline reads: “We remember . . . we are.” Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

gious orders. The Redemptorist Fathers launched Radio Maryja in 1991, and the initiative has since prospered under the controversial leadership of Father Tadeusz Rydzyk. Dozens of transmitter stations have extended its reach across most of Poland, and its mixture of religious programming and political and social commentary has attracted a loyal audience of generally older, devout Catholics, many of whom presumably have felt threatened by the rapid pace of change in the postcommunist era. For over two decades it has trafficked in fears of moral decline in Poland, highlighting such threats as homosexuality, decadent influences from the United States and Western Europe, and the purported machinations of Jews and Freemasons. Its inflammatory content has led to repeated public rebukes from a number of Polish bishops and the Vatican, along with ineffective attempts to rein in its programming. Radio Maryja has marked the political landscape in Poland by calling attention to its favored issues and promoting socially conservative parties that sympathize with its views. These parties have included Self-Defense of the Republic of Poland (Samoobrona Rzeczpospolitej Polskiej, or SRP),

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a party founded in 1992 by the mercurial Andrzej Lepper with a platform combining economic populism and social conservativism. SRP wallowed in obscurity in the 1990s before making major gains in the 2001 parliamentary elections, rocketing to third place in the balloting and capturing 53 seats in the Sejm out of a total of 460. Two of the other parties Rydzyk favored also did well: the League of Polish Families (Liga Polskich Rodzin, or LPR) and Law and Justice (Prawo i Sprawiedliwość, or PiS). LPR was founded in part by Roman Giertych, a scion of a political family with prominent roots in National Democracy before the war, and the party initially identified itself as the inheritor of the Endeks mantle, championing traditional social values, Polish nationalism, and Catholic identity. Founded by twin brothers Lech and Jarosław Kaczyński, PiS has emphasized social conservativism, the promotion of law and order, anticorruption, and decommunization. This triad of parties remained in the minority in 2001, as the SLD formed a governing coalition. The situation changed with the parliamentary elections of September 2005. PiS triumphed, capturing 155 seats in the Sejm and 49 of the 100 seats in the Senate. A month later, Lech Kaczyński won the presidency. Radio Maryja’s sympathetic handling of PiS and the Kaczyński brothers during the campaign is thought to have improved their prospects, and this alliance endured over the years that followed. The Kaczyński brothers defended the media company against its critics and offered it privileged access to certain newsworthy events. After a short-lived experiment leading a minority government, PiS forged a governing majority with the LPR and SRP in 2006, with Jarosław Kaczyński serving as prime minister. For the next two years a conservative Catholic vision colored the coalition’s initiatives, albeit with modest results. In 2006, for instance, LPR representatives sought to further tighten restrictions on abortion, calling for a ban on the procedure in cases of incest, rape, and a severely compromised fetus. The Kaczyński brothers resisted the proposal, recognizing its dim prospects and the negative fallout that would ensue, and the proposal never saw the light of day. Later in the year, lawmakers from the PiS and the LPR introduced a resolution identifying Jesus Christ as the honorary king of Poland, echoing the seventeenth-century decree that named the Virgin Mary Poland’s queen. This drive was inspired in part by the private revelations of Rozalia Celakówna (1901–1944), a mystic who believed she had been divinely sum-

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moned to lead a movement to enthrone Christ as king of Poland and, eventually, of all nations. To the bitter disappointment of the initiative’s supporters, Poland’s bishops did not help rally the faithful to the cause. Bishop Tadeusz Gocłowski spoke for many of his colleagues when he observed that the Sejm should “deal with passing better laws that we need.” The initiative fell well short of the votes required for passage. The failure of these proposals illustrated the limited appeal of the vision of an overtly Catholic state. They also contributed to the erosion of the ruling coalition’s political mandate. This led to an early parliamentary election in October 2007, in which the opposition party Civic Platform (Platforma Obywatelska, or PO) emerged victorious. The LPR and SRP fared miserably, each failing to win the minimum 5 percent of the vote required to seat members in the Sejm.15 A more recent development was the surprising success of Palikot’s Movement (Ruch Palikota, or RP), which captured roughly 10 percent of the vote in the parliamentary elections held in November 2011. Named after its founder Janusz Palikot, a businessman-turned-politician with a penchant for gaudy publicity stunts, RP was overtly anticlerical, calling for the elimination of state subsidies for the Catholic Church, the end to religious education in public schools, the removal of crucifixes from public buildings, and the legalization of same-sex marriage. It polled especially well among young Poles, who have little or no memory of the church’s contributions in the communist era, who cherish their personal freedoms, and who generally are drawn to contemporary European norms. RP’s early success proved fleeting, but it has sowed further doubt concerning the church’s influence and the privileges it has enjoyed in the postcommunist era.

Increasingly Plural and Secular The faltering project to bring Catholic values to bear on Polish law and public life is directly related to significant developments within the Catholic population since 1989. During the communist era, the church’s struggles with the state encouraged Catholics to close ranks with one another, which augmented the church’s capacity to foment effective resistance. The revolution of 1989 deprived the church of this great unifying mechanism. It also exposed Catholics to an intoxicating mix of freedom

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and new possibility. Ideological divisions within the ranks of the church’s leadership became more apparent, chipping away at the institution’s earlier esprit de corps.16 Judging from survey data and a wealth of anecdotal evidence, church teachings have come to exert less suasion than they once did over attitudes and actions of individual Catholics. Tygodnik Powszechny has served as a prominent focal point of progressive Catholic thought in the postcommunist era. Many of the writers featured on its pages have called for a less authoritarian church that is receptive to the benefits of Poland’s newly won freedoms and willing to dialogue with the contemporary world. In the first years after 1989, the periodical’s long-term editor, Jerzy Turowicz, repeatedly challenged church leaders not to succumb to the temptation of totalitarianism. “The state is the common good of all citizens, regardless of their confession, their nationality, or persuasion. Poland is not the exclusive domain of Catholics.”17 Tadeusz Pieronek, who served as auxiliary bishop of the Sosnowiec Diocese (1992–98) and rector of the Pontifical Academy of Theology in Kraków (1998–2004), offered similar counsel. Pieronek repeatedly spoke out in the name of tolerance, taking issue in particular with the extremist rhetoric on Radio Maryja.18 He also helped promote the causes of democratic governance and the defense of human rights. In marked contrast to this tolerant orientation, many Catholic leaders, including numerous high-ranking prelates, have raised the alarm against the dangers lurking in postcommunist Poland, most notably the threats posed by liberal Western culture. In response they have tended to advocate an insular and defensive posture toward the outside world. An early example of this thinking can be found in a 1991 pastoral letter by Bishop Józef Michalik of the Gorzów Diocese, in which he warns: “Before it was the East, and now it is the West that is demanding that Poland accept complete social, political, ideological, and religious liberalization. We are being confronted with a new form of totalitarianism.”19 Writing in 1992, Adam Michnik described an emerging trend in Catholic discourse: “In this view—one hears it frequently nowadays—the aggressive atheism of communist society is being replaced by the practical atheism of consumer society. Western liberalism thus fills the recently vacated slot as the apocalyptic enemy of Catholicism.”20 If suspicion of Western liberalism has been widespread among Catholic leaders, they have been divided regarding the degree and nature of the

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threat. Some have distanced themselves from Radio Maryja for taking to extremes its message of moral danger, promoting outlandish conspiracy theories, and making inflammatory statements concerning Jews. At the same time, efforts to silence Rydzyk’s media empire have foundered because other bishops have stood steadfast in its corner. Its defenders have included Bishop Ignacy Dec of the Świdnica Diocese, who noted the following during a 2006 pilgrimage to Częstochowa: “The anti-Christian attitude of some masters of Europe today is clearly expressed through the promotion of abortion, euthanasia, homosexual marriage, feminist movements, and recently it was manifested in an aggressive assault against Poland, including against Radio Maryja and TV Trwam.”21 Pope John Paul II was painfully aware of the deepening fissures within the church’s ranks. In his communications with Catholic leaders in the 1990s and early 2000s he repeatedly sought to coax them toward a common center. In a 1995 letter to Jerzy Turowicz marking the fiftieth anniversary of Tygodnik Powszechny, he gently upbraided the journalist for not defending the church forcefully enough in the face of criticism from the left in the early 1990s. “In this difficult period, unfortunately, the church did not find in the Tygodnik the kind of support and defense that it had a right to expect.”22 During his 1997 pilgrimage to Poland, by contrast, the pope seemed to challenge some of the more conservative voices in the church hierarchy. One of the notes he touched on repeatedly in his addresses was the value of freedom. The church, far from fearing freedom, should be its herald. During a closed-door session with the Polish Conference of Bishops in the summer of 2002, the pope did not mince words in summoning them to get their house in order. Excessive factionalism was undermining the church’s proper influence at a critical juncture of the nation’s history. The defense of true freedom—as opposed to license—was an enduring theme of John Paul II’s pontificate. He believed that the Catholic Church has an attractive proposal to make to a contemporary world marked by a deep and pervasive spiritual crisis. Rather than fearing the world, he counseled, Catholics should engage it. In the postcommunist era, Catholic leaders often have emphasized fear over engagement. This orientation has had a major impact on the church in Poland, and not always for the better. Poland is still an overwhelmingly Catholic country, and by European standards the Catholic Church in Poland remains exceedingly vibrant.

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And yet one can find ample evidence of decline in recent years. Survey data from the 1980s revealed that over half of the Polish population attended Mass weekly. More recent statistics put the figure below 40 percent. In 1990 Poland was home to 8,554 seminarians and candidates for religious orders. In 2008 that population had dropped to 5,583.23 When it comes to ethical decision making, Polish Catholics have been showing a strong tendency to rely on their own consciences rather than the teachings of church authorities. To cite just two examples, a majority of Poles opposed the abortion restrictions imposed in 1993, and a strong majority have supported the use of artificial contraception. When asked about core doctrines of the Catholic faith, many professed Catholics show bracing levels of ignorance. This helps explain a surprising proposal advanced by Warsaw’s Archbishop Kazimierz Nycz in 2009. The Catholic Church in Poland, he argued, needs to cultivate a missionary spirit in order to reach the substantial numbers of unchurched or underchurched Poles.24

Movements, Controversies, and Scandals As a lived experience, Polish Catholicism in the postcommunist era has continued to be defined to a great extent by venerable traditions nurtured over many generations. Instead of celebrating birthdays, Polish Catholics still honor their “name days” on the feast days of their eponymous saintly patrons. On All Saints Day, a national holiday, they venture en masse to cemeteries to decorate the graves of deceased kin with flowers and candles. Christmas Eve would not be complete without families gathering to exchange fragments of unleavened wafers (opłatki), symbolic reminders of the body of Christ. On Holy Saturday they bring decorated baskets full of staple foodstuffs to their parish church to be blessed by a priest. Since 1989 it has been much easier for Poles to travel abroad, and many Polish émigrés have brought their Catholic commitments and customs with them. Poles have been lured abroad by the promise of greater economic opportunities, with the most popular destinations being the countries of Western Europe (Great Britain, Ireland, and Germany, in particular). The likelihood of employment has been enhanced by Poland’s acceptance into the European Union in 2004, leading to a spike in migration. The trend has softened since 2008, as economic troubles in many parts of Europe has dampened the appeal of foreign job markets. According to

Couple waiting to wed at Holy Trinity Church in Stęszew. Despite its recent struggles, Catholicism remains deeply embedded in contemporary Polish life. Photograph by Robert E. Alvis.

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recent estimates, over 2.2 million Poles currently work in other EU countries, and the actual figure is thought to be substantially higher. The influx of large numbers of practicing Polish Catholics has had a significant impact on the churches in their host countries. This is especially true of Great Britain, where Polish Catholics now form a substantial minority of the total Catholic population. The Polish Catholic Mission of England and Wales was created to meet their needs, and in 2012 the organization claimed that more than a hundred priests were ministering to Polish Catholics in their native language at over two hundred sites across the country.25 A Polish Catholic Mission also has been created in Germany, and it was recently estimated that Polish-language masses were being offered in 377 churches and chapels across the country.26 The emergence of such émigré communities has provoked a variety of reactions among their non-Polish coreligionists. Many have welcomed the energy Poles have brought to parishes and dioceses with dwindling rolls of practicing members. However, Cardinal Cormac Murphy-O’Connor, archbishop of Westminster and president of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales, expressed his concern about the ethnic fragmentation of Catholic life in the country, and he urged Catholic Poles to assimilate into existing church structures rather than remaining in their own enclaves. His comments gave rise to a minor controversy.27 It has also been observed, with concern or satisfaction depending on one’s point of view, that the substantial Polish Catholic presence is pulling the Catholic Church in Great Britain in a more traditional direction. According to Paul Woolley, director of the think tank Theos, “Migration is not only increasing Catholic numbers, but it’s also shaping theology. It’s making it not only orthodox, but perhaps more conservative than it has been in the past.”28 As Poles have fanned out across the world and influenced the character of Catholicism abroad, the global church has been reshaping Polish Catholicism. In 1992 John Paul II instituted far-reaching changes to the administrative structures of the church in Poland. Concerned that many Polish dioceses were simply too big for effective episcopal oversight, he created thirteen new dioceses, raised eight dioceses to the rank of metropolitan archdioceses, and adjusted the boundaries of some metropolitan provinces. He also transformed the office of primate, which historically had been quite strong and could render other bishops too passive. While

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allowing Cardinal Glemp to retain the title during his lifetime, the pope decreed that henceforth the office of primate would no longer entail the union of the Gniezno and Warsaw archdioceses, reverting instead to its traditional connection to Gniezno alone. It would also become more of an honorary title. In the future, the bishops of Poland would elect a president from their own ranks, in keeping with the practices of conferences of bishops in many other countries. Developments have also occurred in relation to the celebration of the Eucharist, the sacramental center of Catholic life. As noted in the last chapter, the Novus Ordo Mass was introduced in Poland in 1970, but the Polish church otherwise clung fast to many traditional practices. Poles attended Mass frequently but rarely took communion. When they did, it was almost exclusively on the tongue rather than in the hand, and communion was distributed by priests alone. Since 1989 there has been a perceptible increase in the frequency of communion taking. Poland’s bishops have also authorized the practice of receiving communion in the hand, but this remains rather rare.29 In recent years some bishops have allowed nonordained “extraordinary ministers” to distribute communion, but this is still uncommon. Another feature of Polish Catholic life in recent years, in keeping with trends among Catholics in other countries in Europe and North America, is an increasing polarization between progressive and conservative camps. The aforementioned changes in Eucharistic practice offer one example. Progressive Polish Catholics have welcomed these developments as affirmations of the dignity of the lay faithful. By contrast, conservative Catholics have complained that such practices demean the dignity of the sacrament. When the regulations allowing communion in the hand were introduced, Maciej Giertych, an LPR delegate to the European Parliament, warned that it would undermine respect for the Eucharist, and he called for the faithful to protest the decision. The interest Polish Catholics showed in lay ecclesial movements (Focolare, the Light-Life Movement, and so on) in the 1970s and 1980s has endured in the postcommunist era. A survey on the topic published in the year 2000 describes 150 such movements and communities present in contemporary Poland.30 Precise statistics are lacking, but it has been estimated that over 5 percent of Poles belong to a lay ecclesial movement. Members tend to be more zealous about the faith than the typical Polish

Sweden

Latvia Li

th

ni

Gdańsk Elbląg

Olsztyn

Szczecin or ń Toruń

Łomża

Praga

Warsaw W w

Zielona Góra

Siedlce

Łowicz

Kalisz

ist

Wrocław W

ul

a

Łódź Radom

Świdnica

Lublin

K Kielce Opole Gliwice

E lbe

Czech Republic

Częstochowa

i Sandomierz

Sosnowiec

Katowic e

w Tarnów

Rzeszów

Kraków Bielsko

o Sl

Przemyśl

va k i a

Zamość

U

Legnica

Białystok Drohiczyn c

Gniezno

Poznań

V

Germany

W Włocławek Płock

kra ine

Bydgoszcz

B e l arus

Ełk

Pelplin

Oder

a

Russia Koszalin

ua

Danube Catholic diocesan / archdiocesan see Diocese / archdiocese

sz a

Au st r i a Ti

H u n g a r y

Boundary of ecclesiastical province

The Catholic Church in Poland, ca. 2004

Romania

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Catholic, and they gravitate to the priesthood and religious life at a much higher rate than those who have no connection to such movements. The growth of lay ecclesial movements can be attributed in part to the warm endorsements of John Paul II, whose statements continue to carry immense weight in Poland. It also has been suggested that some have joined in response to the experience of alienation and anomie in a contemporary culture less rooted in traditional forms of community and religious conviction.31 Whatever the causes, the expansion of lay ecclesial movements helps nuance our understanding of the recent history of Polish Catholicism. Although many Polish Catholics no longer practice their faith as actively as before, some have expanded their involvement well beyond weekly attendance at church. A less edifying feature of the postcommunist period has been a series of painful controversies and scandals Catholics have had to endure. In addition to causing considerable embarrassment, these trials have challenged Catholics to rethink some long-held assumptions about their church. In some respects this has led to a more realistic assessment of the church’s past and a greater appreciation of the moral frailty of its members. The legacy of Polish antisemitism and the Holocaust has been one of the challenges Polish Catholics have wrestled with in these decades. Two themes have dominated their collective memory of the traumatic years of Nazi occupation: the martyrdom Catholics suffered and the heroic resistance they offered against overwhelming odds. It has proven exceedingly difficult for Polish Catholics to complicate this memory by acknowledging that a great many among their ranks manifested a shocking indifference to the fate of their Jewish neighbors and that some actively engaged in gross offenses against Jewish dignity and life. When accusations of this type have emerged, Poles commonly have dismissed them as inaccurate and unfair attacks. At the same time, one can point to encouraging signs of progress toward greater historical honesty. An especially wrenching conflict that reopened the question of Polish antisemitism and cast an unflattering light on the country throughout much of the 1990s concerned the presence of a convent and crosses near the Auschwitz concentration camp. Auschwitz was ground zero of Nazi Germany’s genocidal campaign against the Jewish people, and over a million Jews were systematically murdered there. Jews constituted roughly 90 percent of Auschwitz’s victims, but tens of thousands of Polish Catholics

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died there as well. Two of the camp’s victims, Father Maximilian Kolbe and Sister Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein), came to be identified as Catholic saints. For these reasons, some Polish Catholics have sought to honor that legacy through the use of Christian symbols. In 1984 a community of Carmelite sisters established a convent close to the camp in a house the Nazis had used to store Zyklon-B, with the intention of devoting their lives in prayerful reparation for the evil committed there. The convent deeply disturbed many within the Jewish community, who regarded the camp as first and foremost a place of Jewish suffering and death. In their view, the presence of Christian symbols obscured this essential fact. Talks between Jewish and Christian leaders led to a 1987 agreement that called for the Carmelites to move to the grounds of a new interfaith center to be built near the camp, but many Polish Catholics were clearly unhappy with what they regarded as a denial of their right to honor their martyrs and an infringement on national sovereignty. The Carmelites seemed to share this disgruntlement. In 1988 they arranged for the erection of a twenty-six-foot-tall cross in a field adjacent to Auschwitz where more than a hundred Polish resistance fighters had been executed, and they subsequently missed the deadline for vacating their convent. Polish Catholic dissatisfaction burst into the open in 1989 in response to the provocative actions of a small group of Jewish protesters at the Carmelite convent and the curial offices in Kraków. Kraków’s Archbishop Franciszek Macharski suspended plans to build the interfaith center, and some Catholic leaders, including Cardinal Glemp, voiced their frustration with Jewish protesters in ways that reinforced ugly stereotypes of Polish intolerance. The Vatican ultimately intervened to break the impasse. Plans for the interfaith center moved forward, and in 1993, after a personal appeal from the pope, the Carmelites abandoned their quarters. The large cross remained in place, however, and its proposed removal in 1998 inspired devout Poles to plant hundreds of smaller crosses nearby. A painful wound had been reopened, and it has yet to fully heal.32 Just as the controversy over Auschwitz was receding, another crisis erupted in 2000 when the historian Jan Gross, a Polish Jew who emigrated to the United States in 1969, published Neighbors, a careful, scholarly account of the 1941 massacre of approximately 1,600 Jews by their Christian neighbors in the small town of Jedwabne in northeastern Poland.33

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The book touched off a passionate debate in Poland.34 As with the earlier controversy over Auschwitz, many Polish Catholics pushed back against what they interpreted as a libelous attack on the Polish people. A number of right-wing Catholic media outlets gave voice to this anger, including Radio Maryja and its newspaper affiliate, Nasz Dziennik. LPR politicians publicly denied the veracity of Gross’s argument, and it is thought that the party’s success in the September 2001 elections was attributable in part to this stance. The book also inspired soul-searching in certain Catholic circles, which resulted in public acknowledgments of Polish culpability for Jewish suffering that were unprecedented in their seriousness and lack of qualification. On May 27, 2001, fifty bishops gathered at Saint John’s Cathedral in Warsaw for a reconciliation ser vice, in which they asked forgiveness for the crimes committed against the Jews of Jedwabne and condemned all instances of intolerance and antisemitism.35 In recent years, Polish Catholics also have been challenged to rethink their collective memory concerning the church’s relationship with the communist party and the shadowy Służba Bezpieczeństwa (SB). During the communist era the church came to be widely recognized as the people’s advocate against a repressive regime, and its officials were thought to have stood shoulder to shoulder with popular resistance movements. After the communist system collapsed, this assumption could be tested by the examination of the files the SB kept on those it spied on and the informants who aided its work. For years the bishops refused to inquire into the matter, despite growing pressure to do so. They defended this refusal in part by noting, quite fairly, that SB records were not entirely reliable, and false information could unjustly tar innocent people. No doubt they also feared the information such an inquiry might yield and its effect on the church’s reputation. Finally bowing to mounting pressure, the bishops committed the church to greater transparency on the issue. On October 18, 2006, they created the Church Historical Commission (Kościelna Komisja Historyczna), which was responsible for researching the actions of clergy suspected of collaboration. Before the commission got very far in its work, Tadeusz IsakowiczZaleski, a priest of the Archdiocese of Kraków, made the issue of clerical collaboration a subject of national conversation. In the 1980s he lent his support to the Solidarity movement, and for his troubles he was brutally assaulted twice by SB personnel. In 2005 he learned of the existence of

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the file the SB had kept on him, and he exercised his right to examine it. He discovered that a number of his brother priests had informed on him, and further research revealed that over three dozen priests of the archdiocese had collaborated with the SB, including several who had risen to the rank of bishop. Isakowicz-Zaleski was discouraged by the unwillingness of his superiors to engage the issue. He persevered regardless, publishing his findings in a 2007 book that captured widespread attention.36 Just as the bishops were cautiously advocating transparency, accusations of collaboration reached the highest echelons of the church. After twenty-five years of ser vice as archbishop of Warsaw, Cardinal Glemp retired in 2006, and his successor was rumored to be Bishop Stanisław Wielgus of the Diocese of Płock. In November accusations surfaced that Wielgus once had been an SB informer. On December 6 the Vatican announced its selection of Wielgus as the next archbishop of Warsaw, and the following day he publicly denied having collaborated with the SB. More detailed accusations emerged later in the month, but Wielgus managed to retain the confidence of Pope Benedict XVI. Just days before his installation as archbishop, Wielgus finally bowed to pressure from his fellow bishops to have his SB file examined by the Church Historical Commission, and the inquiry yielded discouraging news: He had in fact collaborated far longer and more extensively than he had ever admitted. Wielgus took canonical possession of the archdiocese in a private ceremony on January 5, two days before his public installation. On January 7 a large crowd of bishops, priests, politicians, and dignitaries gathered in Warsaw’s cathedral to witness the event, only to be informed that Pope Benedict had accepted Wielgus’s resignation two hours before. The Wielgus affair proved deeply embarrassing for the Polish church, and the bishops responded by ordering the Church Historical Commission to explore all existing SB files on sitting bishops in order to avoid future scandals. The commission released the results of its inquiry on March 11, 2009, offering a terse assurance that current members of the episcopate were untainted by past collaboration. The report’s brevity and defensive tone generated a new round of criticism. In the eyes of their detractors, the bishops had yet to internalize the degree of transparency expected in a free society. When one thinks of scandals in the contemporary Catholic Church, the issue of clergy sex abuse invariably comes to mind. This crisis has rever-

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berated across the Catholic world, and it has had a devastating effect on the church in the United States, Ireland, Belgium, and other countries, resulting in plunging morale, a drop in membership, and heavy financial indemnities. A number of abuse cases have also emerged in Poland, most notably the charge that Archbishop Juliusz Paetz of Poznań molested some of his seminarians, which led to his resignation in 2002. Thus far the scandal’s impact on the church in Poland has been relatively light, however. The limited number of accusations against Polish priests could mean that this population has exercised greater self-control than their counterparts in other countries, and that Poland’s bishops have been more effective in terms of enforcing discipline and rooting out potential offenders. A more troubling possibility is that many instances of abuse occurred that have yet to be reported. One abuse victim articulated this possibility in a 2010 interview published in Gazeta Wyborcza, explaining that the threat of social stigmatization forces many abuse victims to remain silent. “Can you imagine what life would be like in a small town or village for [a victim] who decided to talk? I can already see the defense committees rallying to the side of their accused priests.”37 In the judgment of a number of those familiar with the inner workings of the church in Poland, the bishops have yet to establish adequate measures for identifying abusive priests and for responding to accusations of abuse. On the contrary, they appear to be following the same strategies that have compounded the crisis in other countries, such as transferring abusive priests to new assignments where they may commit new offenses and hushing up accusations in order to defend the church’s reputation.38

The Church and European Integration The collapse of the Eastern Bloc ruptured Poland’s existing alliances and created new foreign policy options, including greater integration with the countries of Western Europe and North America. Western integration was broadly popular in Poland in the early years after 1989, and the goal was pursued by the political constellations descended from the Solidarity movement and by the SLD, resulting in a series of concrete achievements. In May 1990 the government of Prime Minister Tadeusz Mazowiecki applied to begin talks concerning Poland’s accession into the European Union (EU). On February 1, 1994, Poland achieved associated country status,

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opening up the possibility of full membership in the EU in ten years. NATO invited Poland to join the organization in 1997, and it formally granted the country full membership in 1999. As Poland moved closer toward its western neighbors, however, stiffer resistance emerged from various corners of the political spectrum, motivated by fears that the country would suffer politically, economically, culturally, and/or morally from such a course. Anti-integration parties like the SRP and LPR gained a larger profile in the early 2000s. Polish Catholic leaders were divided on the issue of Poland’s membership in the EU. Among those in favor of membership, no one was more passionate and influential than John Paul II. Although he was well aware of the increasingly secular character of Western European society, he remained optimistic about the church’s prospects there. From his perspective, European culture was built on Christian foundations, and the gravitational pull of this heritage, in addition to the faith’s capacity to satisfy the longing inherent in human hearts, was sufficiently strong to keep Europe in a Christian orbit. Poland was an integral part of Europe, the pope believed, and its eventual membership in the EU might advance the reevangelization of the continent. In a 1997 address to Poland’s bishops, the pope reasoned: “After years of isolation, we are returning to the world of Western culture, a culture quite familiar to us, because for centuries we made our own rich contribution to it. Today we cannot refrain from following the path we have been shown. The Church in Poland can offer Europe, as it grows in unity, her attachment to the faith, her tradition inspired by religious devotion, the pastoral efforts of her bishops and priests, and certainly many other values on the basis of which Europe can become a reality endowed not only with high economic standards but also with a profound spiritual life.”39 There were also outspoken opponents of European integration, who feared that the fidelity of Poland’s Catholics would be undermined by immoral and irreligious influences from the West. Such fears were articulated regularly on Radio Maryja, TV Trwam, and a number of archconservative Catholic newspapers. In her study of the political content on Radio Maryja in the 1990s and early 2000s, Izabella Zandberg argues that anti-Europeanism formed a major theme in its oppositional discourse. “At the very moment when Poland is being considered for membership in the European Union, Radio Maryja constructs Europe . . . as

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‘the Other,’ a morally inferior but powerful oppressor aiming at enslaving the nation, and against whom Poles should unite. Poland, in contrast, is seen as spiritually and morally superior, defending true values, especially Catholicism, which requires standing up to the European ‘invasion.’ ”40 Poland’s bishops espoused a range of opinions on the possibility of membership in the EU, but by the late 1990s most supported the initiative. The pope’s position played an important role, as did a 1997 visit to the European Commission in Brussels, where the bishops came to a greater appreciation of the values they shared with EU officials. The bishops subsequently issued a series of documents in which they emphasized the evangelical imperative to pursue integration, while acknowledging the challenges that such a course entailed. They noted the following in 2002: “The Church in general, and thus the Church in Poland, supported the process [of European unification] from the beginning. From the Church’s perspective, Europe is not merely an economic and political entity, but above all a community sustained by a common history, culture, and ideas and traditions based on Roman law, Greek philosophy, and enduring spiritual values of the Judeo-Christian tradition.”41 The debate over Polish membership in the EU grew especially intense in the run-up to a popular referendum on the issue on June 7–8, 2003. John Paul II urged his fellow Poles in no uncertain terms to support the initiative. In a statement issued on May 19, 2003, he noted: “Poland has always been an important part of Europe and today cannot abandon this community which . . . constitutes a family of nations based on the common Christian tradition. Poland’s entry into the structures of the European Union, with equal rights to the other countries, is for our nation and for the neighboring Slav nations an expression of historical justice and . . . constitutes an enrichment for Europe. Europe needs . . . Poland. The Church in Europe needs the Pole’s witness of faith. Poland needs Europe.”42 The explicitness of the pope’s appeal surprised many observers and effectively undercut the anti-EU rhetoric offered by Radio Maryja, the LPR, and a number of other conservative Catholic sources. It is widely assumed that his words had a significant impact on how Poles voted. Polling data prior to the referendum suggested that the vote would be close, but in the end over 77 percent of voters voiced their support for EU membership. The vote helped clear the path for Poland’s formal entry into the union on March 1, 2004. In a certain respect, the support lent by John Paul II

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and Poland’s bishops calls to mind the baptism of Duke Mieszko discussed in chapter 1. Just as church officials helped mediate the nascent Polish kingdom’s integration into Western Christendom in the tenth century, church officials in the 1990s and early 2000s helped defuse concerns that might have stymied Poland’s entry into a descendant of Western Christendom, the EU. EU membership has enjoyed broad popular support in Poland, which suggests that its benefits significantly outweigh the costs. Yet the dream that Poland might help revive Christianity’s fortunes in Europe has yet to be realized. The head wind that Polish Catholics have faced in this regard is perhaps best illustrated by the struggle over the preamble to a proposed European constitution, which was heating up just as Poland gained membership status. The Polish bishops pushed hard for the inclusion of an invocatio Dei and reference to Christianity, arguing that both are integral components of Europe’s cultural heritage. The campaign failed to gain sufficient traction, meeting stiff resistance from those convinced that such references signaled intolerance toward nonbelievers. The defeat was a painful lesson in the realities of EU politics and the modest leverage Poland possessed within the union.

In 1964 Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński ventured to the former Cistercian monastery at Jędrzejów to honor the memory of its most renowned member, Blessed Wincenty Kadłubek. Identifying him as the “first Polish historian,” the cardinal celebrated his historical vision. Kadłubek fostered “a consciousness of national unity, by carefully delving into our known past and setting it down in his chronicle, the first history of Poland. . . . Everything which recalled the national past was dear to [him], and he presented it with enthusiasm and reverence. His writings might be described as textbooks of patriotism and the Catholic faith.” Conscious of the approaching culmination of the Millennium Novena, Wyszyński offered his own reflections on why Poland’s history mattered for his contemporaries. “So it is with the nation, and with our generation in 1964, in whose veins there flows the blood of our parents and forefathers, and whose spiritual formation is the outcome of our entire history and of a thousand years of labor in Christ’s Church,” the cardinal argued. “For a nation is an organism, like the human body, but a moral one, and its moral and social ties

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constitute an historical continuity. We who stand here are linked . . . with those who walked these hills and worshipped in this church in the days of [Wincenty Kadłubek].”43 Wyszyński dwelled on the Polish Catholic tradition time and again in his homilies, speeches, and writings, and he was strongly inclined to idealize it, emphasizing its internal coherence, continuity, moral clarity, and grandeur. His historical vision was forged in the crucible of two devastating world wars and a decades-long struggle with Poland’s communist regime. Over the course of these experiences, he came to regard the church as the repository and stronghold of Poland’s highest values, an essential resource that enabled the nation to endure against even the most fearsome of enemies. He invited his fellow Poles to internalize the stirring narratives he related, thereby equipping them to resist the heavy pressures that were being brought to bear against the church in his day. The present volume was written with a very different purpose in mind: to offer an evenhanded, scholarly assessment of its subject. Not surprisingly, its tone and arguments differ substantially from those enunciated by the cardinal (or Kadłubek, for that matter). I have commented on the contributions of a variety of outstanding Catholics in the Polish lands and diaspora—Hedwig of Andechs, Stanisław Konarski, and Maximilian Kolbe, to name just a few—whose unwavering conviction, courage, and commitment to the common good justly elicit our admiration. I have also described the historical legacy of many all-too-human agents, including the political machinations of Zbigniew Oleśnicki, the moral dissolution of Gabriel Podolski, and the heinous crimes committed by the villagers of Jedwabne. An exclusive focus on the first category perhaps would make for more edifying reading, but it would not accurately capture the complexity of Polish Catholic history. Over the course of its existence, we have seen numerous examples of the church’s capacity to engender the sense of shared purpose required to meet significant challenges. One can point, for example, to the church’s unifying role during the long era of Piast infighting, its rallying effect during the Swedish Deluge, and Wyszyński’s masterly effort to consolidate resistance to communist designs. At other times, the church’s potential has been blunted by internal discord, timidity, or lack of vision. Influential Catholics lined up on both sides of many significant debates, such as the proper limits of royal authority in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,

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the loyalty Poles owed to the partitioning powers, and the political role the church should play in the postcommunist era. The church’s capacity to foster a common identity could also sharpen distinctions between insiders and outsiders, sometimes to baleful effect. Polish Catholicism’s power to unify and motivate its adherents has been rooted in collective memory, an assemblage of ideas and narratives, carefully cultivated over time, that elicit powerful, analogous emotions among those belonging to the tradition. Of these ideas and narratives, none has proven more potent than the Black Madonna, an icon that has epitomized the sense of common destiny among Polish Catholics and the special relationship they enjoy with the Virgin Mary. This image has brought immense comfort in dark hours and has inspired remarkable displays of courage. Another example is Saint Stanisław of Kraków, who, despite being linked to a treasonous plot by his earliest biographer, came to be remembered for his courageous resistance to the immoral deeds of a powerful king. Cognizant of the potency of this story, communist officials went to great lengths to avoid giving Pope John Paul II occasion to retell it during his 1979 visit to his native land. The coherence and appeal of the collective memory at the heart of Polish Catholicism has required not only the reiteration of favored ideas and narratives but also the obfuscation or strategic forgetting of more troublesome deposits. Examples include the bishops who championed Russia’s cause during the waning days of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the heretical indiscretions of Mickiewicz, and the long history of Polish Catholic hostility toward Jews. For all of their attention to memory, at times Polish Catholics have either not learned from the past or allowed it to obscure their appraisal of the present. One thinks, for instance, of the self-defeating defensiveness displayed by Catholic officials during the interwar and postcommunist eras. The practice of memory often entails a leveling of the past, smoothing over discrepancies in the pursuit of consistent meanings over time. The careful study of history usually yields more complicated results. The account offered in this volume is marked by deep disjunctions and ironic turns, reflecting a church that has adapted itself to changing conditions. In contrast to the state-sponsored persecution Wyszyński knew all too well, throughout much of its history the church in Poland was a privileged institution deeply enmeshed in the workings of government. The defen-

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siveness and insularity that has marked the Polish church in the modern era stands very much at odds with its earlier legacy as a conduit linking Poland to the wider Christian world. If the church helped galvanize resistance to oppressive regimes during the Second World War and under communism, during the era of the partitions its leading prelates counseled quiescent acceptance of the status quo. The reputation for intolerance Polish Catholics have acquired in the modern era makes for a jarring juxtaposition with Poland’s earlier history as a genuine haven for persecuted Jews and Protestants. In short, the legacy of Catholicism among the Polish people cannot be reduced to a handful of simple, stable ideas. Over the course of ten centuries and among so disparate a body of believers, the church has been about a great many different things. If there is a consistent theme in this variegated experience, it is something Wyszyński understood clearly: From its earliest stirrings to the present, Catholicism has always mattered profoundly in Poland. It has accompanied the Polish people during their often tumultuous history, lending a celebratory grandeur to their greatest triumphs and a comforting balm during their darkest tragedies. Along the way it has accumulated a set of associations that can trigger powerful emotions and underscore core principles among its adherents. One simply cannot make sense of Poland’s history without coming to terms with the impact of its dominant religion. For that matter, the significance of Polish Catholicism to the broader history of Christianity is considerably greater than is commonly understood. Whether Catholicism will continue to influence Poland’s future as thoroughly as it shaped the country’s past is yet to be determined. Membership in the EU has accelerated Polish integration into the political, economic, social, and cultural life of contemporary Europe. This is especially obvious among younger, better educated, and more well-to-do Poles. It remains to be seen whether the Catholic Church in Poland will witness the same stark decline that has bedeviled the church throughout much of Europe. It may remain vital well into the future, perhaps even playing the role of an evangelizing vanguard that John Paul II envisioned for it. It may be, however, that the country’s particular history merely has delayed Poland’s date with a more common European destiny.

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Acknowledgments

In the process of writing this book, I have accrued debts to far more scholars than I can possibly mention. My bibliography offers a glimpse of the rich intellectual contributions I have been able to draw on. I am especially grateful to Paul Knoll, Daniel Stone, Keely Stauter-Halsted, James Bjork, and James Felak for taking the time to share insightful comments on drafts of some of my chapters. Theodore Weeks and an anonymous reviewer read the entire manuscript and provided invaluable observations that guided me toward a final draft. I am grateful as well to my colleagues at Saint Meinrad Seminary and School of Theology. Their friendship has helped sustain me, and their commitment to excellence in their respective fields of endeavor has been a source of inspiration. I am thankful to Saint Meinrad as an institution for the generous faculty development grants I have received and the sabbatical in the spring of 2012 I was able to enjoy. I offer a special word of appreciation to Dan Kolb and Mary Ellen Seifrig at Saint Meinrad’s Archabbey Library, who responded with unfailing graciousness to my seemingly endless requests for research materials. My contacts at Fordham University Press consistently have impressed me with their helpfulness and professionalism. In particular I thank Fredric Nachbaur, Will Cerbone, Eric Newman, Katie Sweeney, and AnnChristine Racette. I also acknowledge Daniel Huffman for the beautiful maps he prepared and Teresa Jesionowski for her expert editing. Over the course of this project, my greatest source of support has been my wife, Andrea. She accompanied me on my intellectual journey when I needed it and patiently endured many a late night and working weekend. One could not ask for a better friend and partner. I dedicate this book to our children, Magda and Leo, whose sense of wonder and zest for life bring us so much joy.

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Notes

Preface 1. Stefan Wyszyński, The Deeds of Faith, ed. and trans. Alexander T. Jordan (New York: Harper, 1966), 137–41.

1. Baptized into Christendom (966–1138) 1. Ottonian Germany: The Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg, trans. and annotated by David A. Warner (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2001), 193–94. 2. “Milenijny triumf polskiego Kościoła,” Nasza Arka: Miesięcznik Rodzin Katolickich, no. 5 (2001), http://www.nasza-arka.pl/2001/rozdzial.php?numer =5 &rozdzial=11. This and subsequent translations from non-English sources are my own, unless other wise indicated. 3. See Nora Berend, Przemysław Urbańczyk, and Przemysław Wiszewski, Central Europe in the High Middle Ages: Bohemia, Hungary and Poland c. 900–c. 1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 88–89. 4. For more on the competing efforts of the Eastern and Western churches to evangelize the Slavic tribes in eastern Europe in this time period, see A. P. Vlasto, The Entry of the Slavs into Christendom: An Introduction to the Medieval History of the Slavs (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1970). 5. For a detailed account of Poland’s early political history, see Tadeusz Manteuffel, The Formation of the Polish State: The Period of Ducal Rule, 963–1174, trans. Andrew Gorski (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1982). 6. For an early vita in the original Latin and English translation, see Gábor Klaniczay, ed., Saints of the Christianization Age of Central Europe (Tenth–Eleventh Centuries) (Budapest: Central European University, 2013), 77–182. 7. The Annals of Jan Długosz: A History of Eastern Europe from A.D. 965 to A.D. 1480, ed. and trans. Maurice Michael (Chichester: IM Publications, 1997), 9, 11. 8. For more on Vojtěch’s life, see Ian Wood, The Missionary Life: Saints and the Evangelization of Europe, 400–1050 (Turnholt: Brepols, 2001), 207–25. A more detailed study can be found in Gerard Labuda, Święty Wojciech: Biskup-męczennik,

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notes to pages 6–12

patron Polski, Czech i Węgier (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2004). 9. See Gerard Labuda, “Die Gründung der Metropolitanorganisation der polnischen Kirche auf der Synode in Gnesen am 9. und 10. März,” Acta Poloniae Historica 84 (2001): 5–30. 10. Historical treatments of the imperial-Polish relationship usually emphasize conflict, but there were also examples of cooperation. See Paul W. Knoll, “Economic and Political Institutions on the Polish– German Frontier in the Middle Ages: Action, Reaction, Interaction,” in Medieval Frontier Societies, ed. Robert Bartlett and Angus MacKay (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), 151–74. 11. For an in-depth study of the chronicle of Gallus Anonymous, see Czesław Deptuła, Galla Anonima mit genezy Polski: Studium z historiozofii i hermeneutyki symboli dziejopisarstwa średniowiecznego (Lublin: Instytut Europy ŚrodkowoWschodniej, 2000). 12. Gesta Principum Polonorum: The Deeds of the Princes of the Poles, trans. and annotated by Paul W. Knoll and Frank Schaer (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2003), 79. 13. Ibid., 97. 14. See Tadeusz Grudziński, Boleslaus the Bold, Called also the Bountiful, and Bishop Stanislaus: The Story of a Conflict, trans. Lech Petrowicz (Warsaw: Interpress, 1985). 15. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 157. 16. See Zbigniew Dalewski, Ritual and Politics: Writing the History of a Dynastic Conflict in Medieval Poland (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 17. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 168–69. 18. Ibid., 197. 19. See Przemysław Nowak, “Die polnische Kirchenprovinz Gnesen und die Kurie im 12. Jahrhundert,” in Römisches Zentrum und kirchliches Peripherie: Das universale Papstum als Bezugspunkt der Kirchen von den Reformpäpsten bis zu Innozenz III., ed. Jochem Johrendt and Harald Müller (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), 191–206. 20. Piotr Górecki, Parishes, Tithes, and Society in Earlier Medieval Poland c. 1100–c. 1250, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1993), 21. 21. Klaniczay, Saints of the Christianization Age, 261. 22. See Marian Plezia, “Księgozbiór katedry krakowskiej wedle inwentarza z r. 1110,” Silva Rerum 1 (1981): 16–29. 23. Quoted in Górecki, Parishes, Tithes, and Society, 23. 24. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 177.

notes to pages 13–20

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25. The Latin original and an English translation of Bruno’s hagiography of the Międzyrzecz martyrs can be found in Klaniczay, Saints of the Christianization Age, 195–313. The quotations are found on 269 and 273. 26. The first monks are thought to have come from Brauweiler near Cologne. Richesa, Kazimierz’s mother, was from the region, and her parents helped found the abbey at Brauweiler in 1024. 27. A vita of Andrzej was penned by Bishop Maurus of Pécs in 1061. The Latin original and its English translation can be found in Klaniczay, Saints of the Christianization Age, 325–37. The quotation is on 331. 28. Annals of Jan Długosz, 1–2. 29. Ottonian Germany, 358. 30. Ibid., 362. 31. Annals of Jan Długosz, 22. 32. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 79. 33. Ibid., 131. 34. For a detailed study of Vojtěch’s cult in the Middle Ages, see Wojciech Danielski, Kult świętego Wojciecha na ziemiach polskich w świetle przedtrydenckich ksiąg liturgicznych (Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe KUL, 1997). See also Karol Potkański and Gerard Labuda, Święty Wojciech w polskiej tradycji historiograficznej: Antologia tekstów (Warsaw: Pax, 1997). 35. Pierre David, “The Church in Poland, from Its Origin to 1250,” in The Cambridge History of Poland, vol. 1, From the Origins to Sobieski (to 1696), ed. W. F. Reddaway, J. H. Penson, O. Halecki, and R. Dyboski (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950), 61. 36. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 105–9. 37. Thomas Wünsch, “Kultbeziehungen zwischen dem Reich und Polen im Mittelalter,” in Das Reich und Polen: Parallelen, Interaktionen und Formen der Akkulturation im hohen und späten Mittelalter, ed. Alexander Patschovsky and Thomas Wünsch (Ostfildern: J. Thorbecke, 2003), 356–400. 38. The most recent edition of this prayer book is Modlitwy księżnej Gertrudy z Psałterza Egberta z Kalendarzem, ed. Małgorzata H. Malewicz and Brygida Kürbis (Kraków: Polska Akademia Umiejętności, 2002). 39. Gesta Principum Polonorum, 275. 40. For an insightful study of the evolution of Polish values and social norms in this era, see Przemysław Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai: Values and Social Identity in Dynastic Traditions of Medieval Poland (c. 966–1138) (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 41. See Norbert Kersken, “God and the Saints in Polish Historiography,” in The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c. 1000–1300), ed. Lars Boje Mortensen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), 153–94.

284

notes to pages 20 –31

42. For a brief survey of this subject, see Priva Gross, “Some Aspects of Medieval Church Architecture in Poland,” Polish Review 12, no. 2 (1967): 41–67. 43. For more on this topic, see Michał Walicki, ed., Sztuka polska przedromańska i romańska do schyłku XIII wieku, 2 vols. (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1971). See also Zygmunt Świechowski, Katalog architektury romańskiej w Polsce (Warsaw: Wydawn. DiG, 2009).

2. Chaos and Consolidation (1138–1333) 1. For more on Hedwig’s life and how it has been collectively remembered, see Robert E. Alvis, “The Modern Lives of a Medieval Saint: The Cult of St. Hedwig in Twentieth-Century Germany,” German Studies Review 36, no. 1 (2013): 1–20. 2. The Annals of Jan Długosz: A History of Eastern Europe from A.D. 965 to A.D. 1480, ed. and trans. Maurice Michael (Chichester: IM Publications, 1997), 111. 3. His progeny Bolesław I the Tall and Mieszko IV Tanglefoot eventually reestablished their rule in Silesia. 4. For more on Pomerania’s relationship to Poland in the thirteenth century, see Paul Milliman, “The Slippery Memory of Men”: The Place of Pomerania in the Medieval Kingdom of Poland (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 23–93. 5. For an insightful study of the development and use of this idea in Poland, see Janusz Tazbir, Polskie przedmurze chrześcijańskiej Europy: Mity a rzeczywistość historyczna (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Interpress, 1987). 6. Mikołaj Gładysz explores how the idea of the crusades resonated in Poland in The Forgotten Crusaders: Poland and the Crusade Movement in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Leiden: Brill, 2012). 7. Annals of Jan Długosz, 116. 8. For insight into the broader context, see Iben Fonnesberg-Schmidt, The Popes and the Baltic Crusades: 1147–1254 (Leiden: Brill, 2006). 9. See Eric Christiansen, The Northern Crusades: The Baltic and the Catholic Frontier, 1100–1525 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980), 79–88, 100–109. 10. Przemysław Mrozowski, “Formy i stylizacje Orła Białego w średniowieczu,” in Orzeł Biały—herb państwa polskiego, ed. Stefan Kuczyński (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo DiG, 1996), 61–72. 11. Annals of Jan Długosz, 156. 12. Długosz notes the following: Kadłubek “grants it in perpetuity eleven sheaf tithes and seven monetary tithes from the villages around Czehów. The revenue this brings in pays for the cathedral’s wine, candles and other necessities, and provides the prelates and canons frequenting the cathedral with a daily portion.” Ibid., 161.

notes to pages 32–39

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13. Piotr Górecki, Parishes, Tithes, and Society in Earlier Medieval Poland c. 1100– c. 1250, Transactions of the American Philosophical Society (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1993), 49. 14. See ibid. for a detailed study of tithing practices in Poland in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 15. Eugeniusz Wiśniowski, “Parish Clergy in Medieval Poland,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 119–48. 16. In the twelfth century, a community of Benedictines founded an abbey atop Bald Mountain in Little Poland, a site once hallowed by pagans. After coming into possession of a purported fragment of the True Cross, they renamed their foundation Holy Cross, which burgeoned in time into a major shrine, attracting nobles and commoners alike. Subsequent Benedictine monasteries were founded at Ołbin (Elbing), Lubiąż (Leubus), and Kreszów (Grüssau). 17. See David H. Williams, “East of the Oder: An English Introduction to Its Medieval Cistercian Settlement and Economy,” Cîteaux 29, no. 3–4 (1978): 228–67. 18. For a fine survey of the Dominican movement in medieval Poland, see Jerzy Kłoczowski, “Dominicans of the Polish Province in the Middle Ages,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 73–118. 19. For a detailed study of the Franciscan movement in medieval Poland, see Dariusz Karczewski, Franciszkanie w monarchii Piastów i Jagiellonów (Kraków: Avalon, 2013). 20. Wiśniowski, “Parish Clergy in Medieval Poland,” 137. 21. Annals of Jan Długosz, 156. 22. For a recent Polish translation of Kadłubek’s chronicle, see Mistrz Wincenty Kronika Polska, trans. Brygida Kürbis (Warsaw: Ossolineum, 1996). For the Latin original and its German translation, see Die Chronik der Polen des Magisters Vincentius, ed., trans., and introduction by Eduard Mühle (Darmstadt: WBG, 2014). For an analysis of the chronicle’s contents, see Jacek Banaszkiewicz, Polskie dzieje bajeczne mistrza Wincentego Kadłubka (Wrocław: Wydawn. Leopoldinum, 2002). 23. For more on the chronicle, see Wolfgang-Valentin Ikas, “Martinus Polonus’ Chronicle of the Popes and Emperors: A Medieval Best-seller and Its Neglected Influence on English Medieval Chroniclers,” English Historical Review 116 (2001): 327–41. 24. See Piotr Górecki, “Viator to Ascriptitius: Rural Economy, Lordship, and the Origins of Serfdom in Medieval Poland,” Slavic Review 42, no. 1 (1983): 14–35.

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notes to pages 40 –45

25. For more on the various legal frameworks governing towns and the role of towns in the medieval Polish economy, see Piotr Górecki, Economy, Society, and Lordship in Medieval Poland, 1100–1250 (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1992). 26. Ronald Modras, The Catholic Church and Antisemitism, 1933–1939 (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic, 2000), 6. 27. Annals of Jan Długosz, 205. 28. For more on the role of the clergy in Catholic life, see Wiśniowski, “Parish Clergy in Medieval Poland.” 29. Annals of Jan Długosz, 202. 30. Jerzy Kłoczowski, A History of Polish Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 27. 31. Norbert Kersken, “God and the Saints in Polish Historiography,” in The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c. 1000–1300), ed. Lars Boje Mortensen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), 180. 32. For more on Wincenty of Kielce, see Gerard Labuda, “Twórczość hagiograficzna i historiograficzna Wincentego z Kielc,” Studia Żródłoznawcze: Commentationes 16 (1971): 103–37. There is a substantial literature on Stanisław and his cult. See Tadeusz Grudziński, Boleslaus the Bold, Called Also the Bountiful, and Bishop Stanislaus: The Story of a Conflict, trans. Lech Petrowicz (Warsaw: Interpress, 1985); Marian Plezia, Dookoła sprawy świętego Stanisława (Bydgoszcz: Homini, 1999); Gerard Labuda, Święty Stanisław biskup krakowski, patron Polski: Śladami zabójstwa—męczeństwas—kanonizacji (Poznań: Instytut Historii UAM, 2000). 33. Annals of Jan Długosz, 136–37. 34. For more on Florian’s cult in Poland, see Kazimierz Dobrowolski, Dzieje kultu św. Florjana w Polsce do połowy XVI w. (Warsaw: Wyd. Kasy Pomocy dla Osób Pracujących na Polu Naukowem im. Mianowskiego, 1923). 35. The fifteenth-century vita of Kinga offers an informative window into medieval conceptions of sanctity. See “About the Life and Miracles of Saint Kinga,” in Michael J. Mikoś, Medieval Literature of Poland: An Anthology (New York: Garland, 1992), 173–74. See also Maria Helena Witkowska, “Vita Sanctae Kyngae ducissae Cracoviensis jako źródło hagiograficzne,” Roczniki Humanistyczne 10, no. 2 (1961): 41–166. 36. For more on these practices, see Aleksandra Witkowska, “Function of Votive Practices and Revitalization Rites in Folk Religiousness of the Late Middle Ages,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 217–44. 37. Annals of Jan Długosz, 197. 38. For a thought-provoking study of this phenomenon, see Rachel Fulton, From Judgment to Passion: Devotion to Christ and the Virgin Mary, 800–1200 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005).

notes to pages 46–54

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39. Stanisław Litak, “Rise and Spatial Growth of the Parish Organization in the Area of Łuków District in the Twelfth to Sixteenth Centuries,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 154. 40. The oldest known version of the poem, a modernized Polish version, and an English translation can be found in Bogdana Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica: The First Four Centuries of Polish Poetry (Ann Arbor: Michigan Slavic Publications, 1989), 8–9. 41. Annals of Jan Długosz, 383. 42. See Jadwiga Irena Daniec, The Bronze Door of the Gniezno Cathedral in Poland ([New York]: Polish Institute of Arts and Sciences in America, [1966]).

3. Baptized into Power (1333–1506) 1. Polish law did not acknowledge the possibility of queens exercising royal authority. It also failed to define kingship as the exclusive preserve of men, so Jadwiga was afforded this designation. 2. For a treatment of Jadwiga’s life, a portrait of her times, and rather vaunted claims regarding her historical significance, see Oscar Halecki, Jadwiga of Anjou and the Rise of East Central Europe, edited with a foreword by Thaddeus V. Gromada (Boulder, Colo.: East-European Monographs, 1991). 3. See Paul W. Knoll, The Rise of the Polish Monarchy: Piast Poland in East Central Europe, 1320–1370 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972). 4. The Annals of Jan Długosz: A History of Eastern Europe from A.D. 965 to A.D. 1480, ed. and trans. Maurice Michael (Chichester: IM Publications, 1997), 298. 5. Ibid., 302. 6. For background on this topic see S. C. Rowell, Lithuania Ascending: A Pagan Empire within East-Central Europe, 1295–1345 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). 7. An eminently readable one-volume survey of the long partnership between Poland and Lithuania is found in Daniel Stone, The Polish-Lithuanian State, 1386– 1795 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001). 8. Annals of Jan Długosz, 455. 9. Ibid., 467. 10. Jogaila ordered that a number of Orthodox churches be turned over to Catholics for their use, including the Orthodox cathedral in Przemyśl. See Sophia Senyk, A History of the Church in Ukraine, vol. 2, 1300 to the Union of Brest (Rome: Pontifico Instituto Orientale, 2011), 147. 11. Ibid., 73–74. 12. For a detailed treatment of Poland’s struggle with the Teutonic Knights, see Eric Christiansen, The Northern Crusades: The Baltic and the Catholic Frontier,

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1100–1525 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1980). See also Marian Biskup, Walki Polski z Zakonem Krzyżackim (1308–1521) (Gdańsk: Marpress, 1993). 13. Annals of Jan Długosz, 466. 14. For a study of Oleśnicki’s leadership as bishop, see Maria Koczerska, Zbigniew Oleśnicki i Kościół krakowski w czasach jego pontyfikatu (1423–1455) (Warsaw: Wydawnictwo DiG, 2004). 15. Examples include Władysław Oporowski (Gniezno, 1449), Jan Gruszczyński (Włocławek, 1451), Jan Lutek (Warmia, 1457), Jan Sprowski (Gniezno, 1453), and Uriel Górka (Poznań, 1479). 16. Annals of Jan Długosz, 538. 17. For more on Fryderyk and his times, see Natalia Nowakowska, Church, State, and Dynasty in Renaissance Poland: The Career of Cardinal Fryderyk Jagiellon (1468–1503) (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2007). 18. Annals of Jan Długosz, 329. Data from the fourteenth century suggest that the papacy’s financial claims on the church in Poland were actually rather light. See Stanisław Szczur, Annaty papieskie w Polsce w XIV wieku (Kraków: Uniwersytet Jagielloński, 1998). 19. Christiansen, Northern Crusades, 223–32. 20. Alexander was succeeded by Cardinal Baldassarre Cossa, who took the name John XXIII. He appears to have held Polish support for a time. Długosz observes the following regarding the year 1411: “Władysław [the king] sends Zbigniew of Oleśnicka his secretary and two others to present Pope John XXIII with . . . tokens of his obedience” (Annals of Jan Długosz, 406). 21. Leading advocates of conciliarism at Kraków included Jakub of Paradyż, Wawrzyniec of Racibórz, Benedykt Hesse, and Jan Elgot. 22. See Thomas Wünsch, Konziliarismus und Polen: Personen, Politik und Programme aus Polen zur Verfassungsfrage der Kirche in der Zeit der mittelalterlichen Reformkonzilien (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1998). 23. Annals of Jan Długosz, 412. 24. Ibid., 324. 25. Ibid., 507. 26. Nowakowska, Church, State, and Dynasty in Renaissance Poland, 73. 27. Ibid., 81. 28. Eugeniusz Wiśniowski, “Parish Clergy in Medieval Poland,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 135, 139. 29. Nowakowska, Church, State, and Dynasty in Renaissance Poland, 85. 30. See Robert Maniura, Pilgrimage to Images in the Fifteenth Century: The Origins of the Cult of Our Lady of Częstochowa (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2004). 31. Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 1, The Origins to 1795, rev. ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 80.

notes to pages 66–74

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32. The institution was renamed the Jagiellonian University in the nineteenth century in honor of the dynasty’s contributions. For more on its history, see Janusz J. Tomiak, “The University of Kraków in the Period of Its Greatness, 1364–1549,” Polish Review 16, no. 2–3 (1971): 25–44, 87–94. 33. Much of what we know of Gregory’s life comes from Buonaccorsi’s Vita et mores Gregorii Sanocei, written in 1476. See Harold B. Segel, Renaissance Culture in Poland: The Rise of Humanism, 1470–1543 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989), 18–36. See also Andrzej Nowicki, Grzegorz z Sanoka, 1406–1477 (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawn. Naukowe, 1958). 34. See Stanisław Bylina, Wizje społeczne w herezjach średniowiecznych: Humiliaci, begini, begardzi (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1974). 35. Several Kraków theologians had ties to the same intellectual circles that nurtured Jan Hus and subsequently distanced themselves from the principles that led to his execution. The scholar Jędrzej Gałka was forced to flee Kraków after his Hussite sympathies became known. 36. Annals of Jan Długosz, 347, 292, and 446. 37. “Conversation of a Master with Death: De Morte Prologus,” in Bogdana Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica: The First Four Centuries of Polish Poetry (Ann Arbor: Michigan Slavic Publications, 1989), 35–59. 38. Ibid., 63–71. 39. Annals of Jan Długosz, 563. 40. Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica, 63–71. 41. Annals of Jan Długosz, 468. 42. Ibid., 300. 43. Ibid., 509. 44. A contemporary of Simon’s, Jan of Dukla (1414–1484; canonized in 1997), was a conventual Franciscan before gravitating toward the stricter Bernardines later in life. He spent his final years in Lviv, blind but still capable of powerful preaching. After death, his renown as a miracle worker swelled, with one of his greatest accomplishments being the saving of Lviv from a potentially devastating siege in 1648. 45. Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica, 17. 46. See Paul Crossley, Gothic Architecture in the Reign of Kasimir the Great: Church Architecture in Lesser Poland, 1320–1380 (Kraków: Ministerstwo Kultury i Sztuki, 1985). 47. See Anna Różycka-Bryzek, Freski bizantyńsko-ruskie fundacji Jagiełły w kaplicy zamku lubelskiego (Lublin: Muzeum w Lubelski, 2000). 48. Długosz blames this on the king’s Jewish concubine, who convinced him to afford Jews “unusual freedoms and privileges, which seriously offend the majesty of God and whose stench endures to this day” (Annals of Jan Długosz, 306). 49. Ibid., 310.

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notes to pages 75–86

50. Jakub Sawicki, “ ‘Rebaptisatio Ruthenorum’ in the Light of 15th- and 16thCentury Polish Synodal Legislation,” in The Christian Community of Medieval Poland, ed. Jerzy Kłoczowski (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1981), 57–72. 51. Annals of Jan Długosz, 479.

4. The Promise and the Peril of Liberty (1506–1648) 1. Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 1, The Origins to 1795 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 160. 2. Tomicki was the most important churchman in this cohort. For more on his life and work, see Anna Odrzywolska-Kidawa, Biskup Piotr Tomicki, 1504–1535: Kariera polityczna i kościelna (Warsaw: Semper, 2004), and Anna OdrzywolskaKidawa, Podkanclerzy Piotr Tomicki (1515–1535): Polityk i humanista (Warsaw: Semper, 2005). 3. For more on Zygmunt August, see Anna Sucheni-Grabowska, Zygmunt August: Król polski i wielki książe litewski 1520–1562 (Warsaw: Krupski i Spółka, 1996). 4. The classic and still indispensable guide to this topic remains Władysław Konopczyński, Liberum Veto: Studium porównawczo-historyczne (Kraków: A. S. Krzyzanowski, 1918). 5. When Zygmunt was first elected, there were thirty-eight Protestants in the Senate. By the time he died, there were only two. Daniel Stone, The PolishLithuanian State, 1386–1795 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2001), 136. 6. The union agreement of 1569 transferred a vast swath of territory (much of which falls within the borders of present-day Ukraine) from the Grand Duchy of Lithuania to Poland, which allowed Polish nobles access to these lands. The grand duchy retained its northern territories. 7. A seminal study of this culture can be found in Janusz Tazbir, Kultura szlachecka w Polsce: Rozkwit, upadek, relikty (Warsaw: Wiedza Powszechna, 1978). 8. Significant numbers of Orthodox nobles in the grand duchy converted to Calvinism in 1550s and 1560s. Many would subsequently convert to Catholicism. Protestantism served in these instances as a bridge from Eastern to Western Christianity. See Timothy Snyder, The Reconstruction of Nations: Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, Belarus, 1569–1999 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 22. 9. For more on the relative tolerance enjoyed in Poland, see Janusz Tazbir, A State without Stakes: Polish Religious Toleration in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1973). See also Janusz Tazbir, Reformacja, kontrreformacja, tolerancja (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie, 1996). 10. Joanna Kostyło, “Commonwealth of All Faiths: Republican Myth and the Italian Diaspora in Sixteenth-Century Poland-Lithuania,” in Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth: Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1550–1772, ed. Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 184.

notes to pages 87– 92

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11. David Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2013), 3. 12. Felicia Roşu, “Monarch, Citizens, and the Law under Stefan Bathory: The Legal Reform of 1578,” in Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth: Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1550–1772, ed. Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 28–29. 13. See Roman K. Mazierski, A Concise History of the Polish Reformed Church (London: Council of the Polish Reformed Church in Great Britain, 1966). 14. See George Huntston Williams, The Polish Brethren: Documentation of the History and Thought of Unitarianism in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and in the Diaspora, 1601–1685 (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press for Harvard Theological Review, 1980). 15. This agreement excluded the Polish Brethren. The signers of the agreement regarded them as theologically extreme on account of their rejection of the Trinity and socially dangerous on account of their pacifism and egalitarianism. 16. Hozjusz spent the final decade of his life in Rome, passing on his episcopal responsibilities in Warmia to his coadjutor bishop, Marcin Kromer. He served as Poland’s representative at the Vatican. For more see Henry Damien Wojtyska, Cardinal Hosius, Legate to the Council of Trent (Rome: Institute of Ecclesiastical Studies, 1967). 17. Regarding Jesuit education in Poland, see Bronisław Batoński, “Szkolnictwo jezuickie w dobie kontrreformacji,” in Z dziejów szkolnictwa jezuickiego w Polsce, ed. Jerzy Paszenda (Kraków: WAM-Księża Jezuici, 1994), 29–57. See also Ludwik Grzebień and Stanisław Obirek, eds., Jezuici a kultura polska (Kraków: WAM, 1993). 18. Their ranks included many future bishops, such as Piotr Kostka, Jerzy Radziwiłł, Hieronim Rozdrazewski, Bernard Maciejowski, Benedykt Wojna, and Marcin Szyszkowski. 19. Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors, 148. 20. For more on Skarga, see George Huntston Williams, “Peter Skarga,” in Shapers of Religious Traditions in Germany, Switzerland, and Poland, 1560–1600, ed. Jill Raitt (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 175–94. See also Janusz Tazbir, Piotr Skarga: Szermierz kontrreformacji (Warsaw: Wiedza Powszechna, 1978). 21. In 1581 Cardinal Jerzy Radziwiłł staged a bonfire of Protestant books that his father had paid to be printed. 22. For more on this topic, see Jan Dzięgielewski, “Sprawa compositio inter status w latach 1632–1635,” Kwartalnik Historyczny 90, no. 1 (1983): 81–91. 23. See Jan Dzięgielewski, O tolerancję dla zdominowanych: Polityka wyznaniowa Rzeczypospolitej w latach panowania Władysława IV (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1986).

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notes to pages 93– 97

24. For a fuller treatment, see Ryszard Łużny, Franciszek Ziejka, and Andrzej Kępiński, eds., Unia brzeska: Geneza, dzieje i konsekwencje w kulturze narodów słowiańskich (Kraków: Universitas, 1994). See also Bert Groen and Wil van den Bercken, eds., Four Hundred Years Union of Brest (1596–1996): A Critical Reevaluation (Leuven: Peeters, 1998). 25. A fascinating view of the mounting tensions between Catholics, Uniates, and Orthodox in the wake of Brest can be found in Frank E. Sysyn, Between Poland and the Ukraine: The Dilemma of Adam Kysil, 1600–1653 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985). 26. Salo Wittmayer Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews, vol. 16, Poland-Lithuania, 1500–1650, 2nd rev. ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), 35. 27. For more on Mortęska’s thought, see Karol Górski, Od religijności do mistyki: Zarys dziejów życia wewnętrznego w Polsce (Lublin: Tow. Naukowe Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1962). 28. Piotr Stolarski makes a compelling case that the Dominicans were the unsung heroes of Catholic renewal in Poland in this era. See Stolarski, Friars on the Frontier: Catholic Renewal and the Dominican Order in Southeastern Poland, 1594– 1648 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010). 29. For more on the early history of the Carmelites in Poland, see Tadeusz M. Trajdos, U zarania Karmelitów w Polsce (Warsaw: Instytut Historii Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 1993). For a history of the Discalced Carmelites in Poland, see Andrzej Ruszała, Cztery wieki Karmelitów Bosych w Polsce 1605–2005 (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Karmelitów Bosych, 2005). For a study of Polish Carmelite liturgical practices, see James J. Boyce, Carmelite Liturgy and Spiritual Identity: The Choir Books of Kraków (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008). 30. See Henryk Barycz, ed., Maciej z Miechowa 1457–1523: Historyk, geograf, lekarz, organizator naukowy (Wrocław: Zakład narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1960). 31. A number of valuable studies of Copernicus and his era were published around the five-hundredth anniversary of his birth. They include Bogdan Suchodolski, ed., Poland: The Land of Copernicus, trans. Bogusław Buczkowski et al. (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1973); Maria Bogucka, Nicholas Copernicus: The Country and Times, trans. Leon Szwajcer (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1973); and Jan Adamczewski, Nicolaus Copernicus and His Epoch (Philadelphia: Copernicus Society of America, 1974). 32. For a detailed study of the Polish-language Bibles to emerge in this period and the polemics that accompanied them, see David A. Frick, Polish Sacred Philology in the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation: Chapters in the History of the Controversies (1551–1632) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 33. See Dariusz Kuźmina, Katechizmy w Rzeczypospolitej XVI i początku XVII wieku (Warsaw: Stowarzyszenie Bibliotekarzy Polskich, 2002).

notes to pages 97–106

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34. See Andrzej Franciszek Dziuba, Mikołaj z Mościsk, teolog moralista XVII wieku (Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, 1985). 35. Stolarski, Friars on the Frontier, 104. 36. Maria Bogucka, The Lost World of the “Sarmatians”: Custom as the Regulator of Polish Social Life in Early Modern Times (Warsaw: Polish Academy of Sciences, Institute of History, 1996), 47. 37. See Trajdos, U zarania Karmelitów w Polsce, 153–67. 38. Other Calvary shrines were developed at Góra Kalwaria outside of Warsaw, Wejherowo on the Baltic Coast, and Werki outside of Vilnius. 39. For insight into Marian piety and the culture of pilgrimage at this time, see Aleksandra Witkowska, “The Cult of the Jasna Góra Sanctuary in the Form of Pilgrimages till the Middle of the Seventeenth Century,” Acta Poloniae Historica 61 (1990): 63–90. 40. See Waldemar Kapeć, Różaniec w tradycji dominikańskiej (Kraków: Bractwo Różańcowe, 2004). 41. In addition to nods to his royal parentage, the iconography associated with Saint Kazimierz often includes two right hands. This curious feature is commonly interpreted as a symbol of the saint’s generosity, but it likely is the accidental by-product of a portrait painter who revised his placement of Kazimierz’s right hand and arm without successfully obscuring his initial effort. 42. A valuable, wide-ranging guide to this topic can be found in Samuel Fiszman, ed., The Polish Renaissance in Its European Context (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988). See also Harold B. Segel, Renaissance Culture in Poland: The Rise of Humanism, 1470–1543 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1989). 43. “What Do You Want from Us, Lord?,” in Bogdana Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica: The First Four Centuries of Polish Poetry (Ann Arbor: Michigan Slavic Publications, 1989), 137–39. 44. Ibid., 217. 45. For an introduction to artistic and architectural trends in Renaissance Poland, see Helena Kozakiewicz and Stefan Kozakiewicz, The Renaissance in Poland (Warsaw: Arkady, 1976). See also Jan Białostocki, The Art of the Renaissance in Eastern Europe: Hungary, Bohemia, Poland (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1976). 46. For a history of the building of the chapel, a detailed description of its ideological program, and copious illustrations, see Stanisław Mossakowski, King Sigismund Chapel at Kraków Cathedral (1515–1533) (Kraków: IRSA, 2012).

5. Deluge and Illusions (1648–1764) 1. Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 1, The Origins to 1795, rev. ed. (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), 342.

294

notes to pages 107–15

2. Barbara Skinner, “Khmelnytsky’s Shadow: The Confessional Legacy,” in Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth: Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1550–1772, ed. Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 151. 3. For a detailed treatment of the religious dimension of Cossack discontent in this period, see Serhii Plokhy, The Cossacks and Religion in Early Modern Ukraine (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 4. Robert I. Frost provides a fine-grained account of the domestic and international politics of this era in After the Deluge: Poland-Lithuania and the Second Northern War, 1655–1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 5. See Robert I. Frost, The Northern Wars, 1558–1721: War, State, and Society in Northeastern Europe (Harlow: Longman, 2000). 6. Jerzy Lukowski, Disorderly Liberty: The Political Culture of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the Eighteenth Century (London: Continuum, 2010), 27. 7. For an insightful treatment of Polish thought concerning freedom and reform in early eighteenth-century Poland-Lithuania, see Benedict Wagner-Rundell, Common Wealth, Common Good: The Politics of Virtue in Early Modern PolandLithuania (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). 8. Maria Bogucka, The Lost World of the “Sarmatians”: Custom as the Regulator of Polish Social Life in Early Modern Times (Warsaw: Polish Academy of Sciences, Institute of History, 1996), 200. 9. J. T. [Jerzy] Lukowski, “The Papacy, Poland, Russia, and Religious Reform, 1764–68,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 39, no. 1 (1988): 68–70. 10. See Maria Bogucka, “Polish Towns between the Sixteenth and Eighteenth Centuries,” in A Republic of Nobles: Studies in Polish History to 1864, ed. and trans. J. K. Fedorowicz (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 135–52. 11. Magda Teter, Jews and Heretics in Catholic Poland: A Beleaguered Church in the Post-Reformation Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 55. 12. Royal Prussia’s distinctive place within the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in this era is treated in Karin Friedrich, The Other Prussia: Poland, Prussia, and Liberty, 1569–1772 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 13. Prominent Catholic authors who decried Protestants in print in the eighteenth century include Jerzy Ancuta, Józef Andrzej Załuski, and Benedykt Chmielowski. 14. See L. R. Lewitter, “Intolerance and Foreign Intervention in Early Eighteenth-Century Poland-Lithuania,” Harvard Ukrainian Studies 5, no. 3 (1981): 283–305. 15. Claudia Carlen, The Papal Encyclicals, vol. 1, 1740–1878 (Wilmington, N.C.: McGrath, 1981), 41–44. 16. Teter, Jews and Heretics in Catholic Poland, 81.

notes to pages 115–21

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17. By one count, from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries there were sixty-seven accusations of ritual murder by Jews in the commonwealth that led to formal trials and, in some instances, execution. See Zenon Guldon and Jacek Wijaczka, Procesy o mordy rytualne w Polsce w XVI–XVIII wieku (Kielce: DCF, 1995). 18. Gershon David Hundert, “Identity Formation in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth,” in Citizenship and Identity in a Multinational Commonwealth: Poland-Lithuania in Context, 1550–1772, ed. Karin Friedrich and Barbara M. Pendzich (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 145–46. 19. Ibid, 129–48. 20. There is a growing body of scholarship on this topic. See Michael M. Ostling, Between the Devil and the Host: Imagining Witchcraft in Early Modern Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). See also Wanda Wyporska, Witchcraft in Early Modern Poland, 1500–1800 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). To date, the definitive study is Małgorzata Pilaszek, Procesy o czary w Polsce w wiekach XV–XVIII (Kraków: Universitas, 2008). 21. See Jerzy Dygdała, “U początków katolickiego oświecenia w Polsce? Z działalności kościelnej biskupów Andrzeja Stanisława Załuskiego i Adama Stanisława Grabowskiego,” in Między barokiem a oświeceniem: Nowe spojrzenie na czasy saskie, ed. Krystyna Stasiewicz and Stanisław Achremczyk (Olsztyn: Ośrodek Badań Nauk. Im. W. Kętrzyńskiego, 1996), 181–88. 22. See Stanisław Litak, Od reformacji do oświecenia: Kościół katolicki w Polsce nowożytnej (Lublin: Tow. Naukowe Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1994), 55–67. 23. Richard Butterwick, “Catholicism and Enlightenment in PolandLithuania,” in A Companion to the Catholic Enlightenment in Europe, ed. Ulrich L. Lehner and Michael Printy (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 300. 24. The Jesuits began moving in this direction, drawing in part from reformist currents stirring in other corners of the international order’s vast educational system. Among other things, they placed greater emphasis on learning modern languages, mathematics, and the natural sciences. They built five new colleges in the late 1740s and early 1750s, raising the total number of Jesuit colleges to sixty-six. 25. For a collection of his most significant writings, see Stanisław Konarski, Pisme Wybrane, ed. Juliusz Nowak-Dłużewski, 2 vols. (Warsaw: PiW, 1955). 26. William T. Cavanaugh explores the uses of claims regarding the “wars of religion” in The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 27. These developments are explored with considerable acuity in Brad Gregory, The Unintended Reformation: How a Religious Revolution Secularized Society (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2012). 28. Teter, Jews and Heretics in Catholic Poland, 102.

296

notes to pages 121–32

29. Lukowski, Disorderly Liberty, 73. 30. Jerzy Lukowski, “Stanisław Konarski (1700–1772): A Polish Machiavelli?,” in Enlightenment and Catholicism in Europe: A Transnational History, ed. Jeff rey D. Burson and Ulrich L. Lehner (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014), 447. 31. Teter, Jews and Heretics in Catholic Poland, 80. 32. Bogdana Carpenter, Monumenta Polonica: The First Four Centuries of Polish Poetry (Ann Arbor: Michigan Slavic Publications, 1989), 379. 33. See Andrzej Baranowski, “The Coronation of Miraculous Images of the Holy Madonna in Poland, Bohemia, and Moravia: A Cultural and Artistic Phenomenon,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 64 (2002): 197–225. 34. Florian Jaroszewicz, Matka swiętych Polska albo zywoty swiętych, błogosławionych, wielebnych, swiątobliwych, poboznych Polakow i Polek: Wzelkiego stanu y kondycyi kazdego wieku od zakrzewioney w Polszcze chrzescianskiey wiary osobliwą zycia doskonałoscią słynących: Z roznych authorow y pism tak polskich iako y cudzoziemskich zebrine y spisane (Kraków: n.p., 1767). 35. For a more thorough survey of the liturgical year in Poland, see Bogucka, Lost World of the “Sarmatians,” 134–42. 36. See Juliusz Antoni Chróścicki, Pompa funebris: Z dziejów kultury staropolskiej (Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1974). 37. Ibid., 71–89. 38. David Frick, Kith, Kin, and Neighbors: Communities and Confessions in Seventeenth-Century Wilno (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2013), 94. 39. For an introduction to the legacy of Baroque art and architecture in Poland, see Mariusz Karpowicz, Baroque in Poland (Warsaw: Arkady, 1991).

6. Reform, Romance, and Revolution (1764–1848) 1. For a detailed treatment of the confederation, see Władysław Konopczyński, Konfederacja barska, 2 vols. (Warsaw: Volumen, 1991). 2. In an intimidating show of force, Russian troops surrounded the site where nobles gathered in September 1764 to cast their votes. Poniatowski was their unanimous choice. 3. For a popular biography of Stanisław August, see Adam Zamoyski, The Last King of Poland (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1997). For a scholarly treatment of the king’s ambitions and his fascination with England, see Richard Butterwick, Poland’s Last King and English Culture: Stanisław August Poniatowski, 1732–1798 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). 4. See Emanuel Rostworowski, “Religijność i polityka wyznaniowa Stanisława August,” in Życie kulturalne i religijność w czasach Stanisława Augusta Poniatowskiego, ed. Marian Marek Drozdowski (Warsaw: Wydawn. Sejmowe, 1991), 11–24.

notes to pages 132–37

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5. For an extended selection of this work see Stanisław Konarski, Pisme Wybrane, ed. Juliusz Nowak-Dłużewski (Warsaw: PiW, 1955), 1:105–356. 6. For a serviceable English-language biography of Krasicki, see David J. Welsh, Ignacy Krasicki (New York: Twayne, 1969). For an example of his writings, see Ignacy Krasicki, The Adventures of Mr. Nicholas Wisdom, trans. Thomas H. Hoisington with an introduction by Helene Goscilo (Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1992). In what is widely regarded as the first Polish novel, Krasicki leads his protagonist through a series of adventures that inculcate within him a more reasonable sense of social responsibility. 7. See Elżbieta Aleksandrowska, ed., “Monitor,” 1765–1785: Wybór (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1976). 8. One of its first students was Tadeusz Kościuszko, a young Lithuanian destined to figure prominently in the final phase of the commonwealth’s history, as well as to play a role in the United States in its infancy. 9. See George Tadeusz [Jerzy] Lukowski, The Szlachta and the Confederacy of Radom, 1764–1767/68: A Study of the Polish Nobility (Rome: Institutum Historicum Polonicum Romae, 1977). 10. See J. T. [Jerzy] Lukowski, “The Papacy, Poland, Russia, and Religious Reform, 1764–68,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 39, no. 1 (1988): 66–94. 11. A very fine introduction to the push to reform the commonwealth after the first partition can be found in Daniel Stone, Polish Politics and National Reform, 1775–1788 (Boulder, Colo.: East European Quarterly, 1976). 12. See Bogdan Suchodolski, Komisja Edukacji Narodowej na tle roli oświaty w dziejowym rozwoju Polski (Warsaw: Wiedza Powszechna, 1972). 13. See Michał Marian Grzybowski and Kazimierz Leń, Kościelna działalność Michała Jerzego Poniatowskiego biskupa płockiego 1773–1785 (Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, 1983). 14. For his approach to education, see Hugo Kołłątaj, Wybór pism naukowych (Kraków: Państwowe Wydawn. Naukowe, 1953). 15. Richard Butterwick, The Polish Revolution and the Catholic Church, 1788– 1792: A Political History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 69. 16. Richard Butterwick, “Catholicism and Enlightenment in PolandLithuania,” in A Companion to the Catholic Enlightenment, ed. Ulrich L. Lehner and Michael Printy (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 317–20. 17. See Julian Bartyś, Rzeczpospolita Pawłowska na tle reform włościańskich w Polsce w XVIII wieku (Warsaw: Iskry, 1982). 18. For a biography of Massalski, see Tadeusz Kasabuła, Ignacy Massalski— biskup wileński (Lublin: Red. Wydawnictwo Katolickiego Uniwersytetu Lubelskiego, 1998). 19. See Hugo Kołłątaj, Listy anonima i prawo polityczne narodu polskiego, ed. Bogusław Leśnodorski and Helena Wereszycka, 2 vols. (Warsaw: PWN, 1954).

298

notes to pages 137–46

For a brief overview of Kołłątaj’s thought, see Anna Łysiak-Łątkowska, “Hugo Kołłątaj (1750–1812),” in Enlightenment and Catholicism in Europe: A Transnational History, ed. Jeff rey D. Burson and Ulrich L. Lehner (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014), 455–71. 20. See Zofia Chyra-Rolicz, Stanisław Staszic (Warsaw: Państ. Wydaw. Naukowe, 1980). 21. For more on the constitution’s genesis and significance, see Samuel Fiszman, ed., Constitution and Reform in Eighteenth-Century Poland: The Constitution of 3 May 1791 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997). 22. Their ranks included Kacper Cieciszowski (Kiev), Adam Stanisław Krasiński (Kamianets-Podilskyi), Adam Stanisław Naruszewicz (Lutsk), Antoni Onufry Okęcki (Poznań), Józef Ignacy Rybiński (Kuyavia), Krzysztof Hilary Szembek (Płock), and Feliks Paweł Turski (Kraków). See Butterwick, Polish Revolution, 257–58. 23. Opponents of the new constitution included Massalski, Kossakowski, and Wojciech Skarszewski (Chełm). 24. This transfer took place, but only for one year. See S. Mystokowski, “Konstytucja 3 Maja a uroczystość św. Stanisława,” Przegląd Katolicki 61 (1923): 294. 25. See Andrzej Woltanowski, ed., Kościół katolicki a powstanie kościuszkowskie: Zapomniana karta z dziejów insurekcji 1794 r.: Wybór źródeł (Warsaw: Wydawn. Archidiecezji Warszawskiej, 1995). 26. For an insightful study of the Vatican’s priorities and policies during the final decades of the commonwealth, see Larry Wolff, The Vatican and Poland in the Age of the Partitions: Diplomatic and Cultural Encounters at the Warsaw Nunciature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988). 27. The suppressed dioceses were restored under the milder rule of Emperor Paul I (1796–1801). 28. See Martyna Deszczyńska, “ ‘As Poor as Church Mice’: Bishops, Finances, Posts, and Civil Duties in the Duchy of Warsaw, 1807–13,” Central Europe 9, no. 1 (2011): 18–31. 29. Robert E. Alvis, Religion and the Rise of Nationalism: A Profile of an EastCentral European City (Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 2005), 81. 30. Ibid., 100. 31. A fascinating view of Polish political life from the end of the eighteenth century through the first three decades of the nineteenth century is offered in Hubert Zawadzki, A Man of Honour: Adam Czartoryski as a Statesman of Russia and Poland, 1795–1831 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). 32. The Jesuits demonstrated too much independence from the state, too much fidelity to Rome, and an evangelizing zeal that led to some high-profile conversions of nobles and government officials.

notes to pages 147–57

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33. See Krzysztof Rafał Prokop, “Krakowianin Andrzej Alojzy Ankwicz— pierwszy prymas Galicji i Lodomerii,” Teki Krakowskie 3 (1996). 34. For a survey of Polish liberal thought in the nineteenth century, see Maciej Janowski, Polish Liberal Thought before 1918, trans. Danuta Przekop (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004). 35. See Jerzy Łojek, Szanse powstania listopadowego: Rozważania historyczne, rev. ed. (Warsaw: Pax, 1980). 36. After suppressing the uprising, Russian authorities removed Skórkowski from the diocese and prevented his return. He remained the bishop of Kraków until his death in 1851, but others administered the diocese. After his death, the see remained vacant for nearly three decades. His ashes were interred in the Wawel Cathedral in 1913. See Robert W. Szwed, Działalność społeczna i polityczna biskupa krakowskiego Karola Skórkowskiego (Częstochowa: Wydawn. Wyższej Szkoły Pedagogicznej w Częstochowa, 2003). 37. Gregory XVI, Cum primum, http://www.papalencyclicals.net/Greg16/ g16cumpr.htm. 38. See Peter Brock, Polish Revolutionary Populism: A Study in Agrarian Socialist Thought from the 1830s to the 1850s (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1977). 39. Alvis, Religion and the Rise of Nationalism, 145–81. 40. See Przemysław Matusik, Wiosna Ludów (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Miejskie, 2008). 41. See Robert E. Alvis, “The Chapel of the Polish Kings: History, Religion, and the Boundaries of an Imagined Nation,” in Religion and the Conceptual Boundary in Central and Eastern Europe, ed. Thomas Bremer (Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 121–45. 42. For an extraordinary biography of Mickiewicz that illuminates the times in which he lived, see Roman Koropeckyj, Adam Mickiewicz: The Life of a Romantic (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2008). 43. Adam Mickiewicz, The Books and the Pilgrimage of the Polish Nation, trans. Krystyn Lach-Szyrma (London: James Ridgway, 1833), 20–21. 44. Andrzej Walicki explores the philosophical dimensions of Polish Romantic nationalism and places it in its wider intellectual context in Philosophy and Romantic Nationalism: The Case of Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982). 45. See Przemysław Matusik, Religia i naród: Życia i myśl Jana Koźmiana, 1814–1877 (Poznań: Wydawn. Poznańskie, 1998). 46. In 1842 he published new editions of the hagiographical collections originally published by Piotr Skarga in the seventeenth century and Florian Jaroszewicz in the eighteenth century. Jaroszewicz’s work emphasized the Polish heritage of the saints and holy individuals described therein. See Tomasz Kamusella, Silesia and Central European Nationalism: The Emergence of National and Ethnic Groups

300

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in Prussian Silesia and Austrian Silesia, 1848–1918 (West Lafayette, Ind.: Purdue University Press, 2007), 68.

7. The Gospel and National Greatness (1848–1914) 1. Patrice M. Dabrowski, Commemorations and the Shaping of Modern Poland (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 95. 2. Brian Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland: Catholicism, Modernity, and Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 120, 161. Faith and Fatherland is an especially insightful examination of Polish Catholicism in the modern period. 3. Brian Porter, “Thy Kingdom Come: Patriotism, Prophecy, and the Catholic Hierarchy in Nineteenth-Century Poland,” Catholic Historical Review 89, no. 2 (2003): 213–39. 4. For a treatment of his life and thought, see Hieronim Wyczawski, Arcybiskup Zygmunt Szczęsny Feliński 1822–1895 (Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej, 1975). 5. Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland, 220. 6. Feliński was beatified by John Paul II in 2002 and canonized by Benedict XVI in 2009. 7. See Dennis Dunn, The Catholic Church and Russia: Popes, Patriarchs, Tsars, and Commissars (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2004), 50–71. 8. For more on Russian policy after 1863, see Theodore R. Weeks, Nation and State in Late Imperial Russia: Nationalism and Russification on the Western Frontier, 1863–1914 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois Press, 1996). 9. See Lech Trzeciakowski, The Kulturkampf in Prussian Poland, trans. Katarzyna Kretkowska (Boulder, Colo.: East European Monographs, 1990). 10. See John J. Kulczycki, School Strikes in Prussian Poland, 1901–1907: The Strug gle over Bilingual Education (Boulder, Colo.: East European Monographs, 1981). 11. See Dabrowski, Commemorations and the Shaping of Modern Poland, for a thorough and fascinating account of this subject. 12. Keely Stauter-Halsted, The Nation in the Village: The Genesis of Peasant National Identity in Austrian Poland, 1848–1914 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2001), 60. 13. Prussia emancipated its peasantry gradually over the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century. Austria introduced similar legislation in 1848. In Russia the peasantry received significant freedoms in 1864. In many cases, emancipation soon gave way to new forms of dependency and exploitation. 14. As Stauter-Halsted argues, Polish peasants were not merely passive vessels waiting to be filled with the nationalist ideas of traditional elites. Rather, they creatively appropriated nationalist tropes in keeping with their interests. The in-

notes to pages 169–78

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terpretation of Polish history and culture became a field of contestation between different sectors of society. 15. Brian Porter, When Nationalism Began to Hate: Imagining Modern Politics in Nineteenth-Century Poland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 43–57. 16. Ibid., 135–232. 17. See Brian Porter, “Marking the Boundaries of the Faith: Catholic Modernism and the Radical Right in Early Twentieth-Century Poland,” in Studies in Language, Literature, and Cultural Mythology in Poland: Investigating “the Other,” ed. Elwira M. Grossman (Lewiston-Lampeter, Wales: Edwin Mellen Press, 2002), 261–86. 18. Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland, 224. 19. Ibid., 225. 20. Porter, “Marking the Boundaries of the Faith,” 263. 21. Their ranks included Adam Woroniecki (1878–1949), born in Lublin to a noble family, who studied in Germany and Switzerland before returning to Poland as Father Jacek Woroniecki, OP. Two priests from the Diocese of Włocławek, Idzi Radziszewski (1871–1921) and Antoni Szymański (1881–1941), spent a number of years studying at the Catholic University of Leuven. These three learned priests eventually would play seminal roles in the founding of the Catholic University of Lublin during the interwar era. 22. For insight into Semeneńko’s spirituality, see Piotr Semeneńko, The Interior Life: A Study in Ascetical Theology (Rome: n.p., 1969). See also Edward T. Janas, “Father Peter Semenenko, C.R., and His Message,” Polish American Studies 13, no. 1–2 (1956): 1–18. 23. Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland, 126–27. 24. See Stanisław Pałach, Ksiądz Stanisław Stojałowski: Obrońca ludu polskiego (Marki: Michalineum, 1999). 25. Porter, “Marking the Boundaries,” 266–68. 26. Józef Sebastian Pelczar, Obrona religii katolickiej, vol. 1, Jak wielkim skarbem jest religia katolicka i dlaczego ta religia ma dzisiaj tylu przeciwników (Przemyśl: Andrzej Juszyński, 1920), 310–23. 27. For a detailed treatment of Polish Catholic religious life in the late nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, see Daniel Olszewski, Polska kultura religijna na przełomie XIX i XX wieku (Warsaw: Pax, 1996). 28. Stauter-Halsted, Nation in the Village, 142–84. 29. See Dioniza Wawrzykowska-Wierciochowa and Antoni Podsiad, “Boże, coś Polskę”: Monografia historyczno-literacka i muzyczna (Warsaw: Instytut Wydawniczy Pax, 1999). 30. A good introduction to the author’s life and the significance of his trilogy can be found in Mieczysław Giergielewicz, Henryk Sienkiewicz: A Biography (New York: Hippocrene Books, 1991).

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31. See Joanna Rusin, Człowiek świętego imienia: Legenda Traugutta w piśmiennictwie polskim XIX i XX wieku (Rzeszów: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Rzeszowskiego, 2002). 32. Szczepan Zachariasz Jabłoński, Jasna Góra ośrodek kultu maryjnego (1864– 1914) (Lublin: Red. Wydawnictw KUL, 1985). 33. See Józef Bilczewski, Królowa Korony Polskiej: List pasterski Józefa Bilczewskiego z okazji odnowienia ślubów Jana Kazimierza na Kongresie Maryańskim we Lwowie (Lviv: Drukarnia Katolicka Józefa Chęcińskiego, 1904). 34. Stefan Laube, “Nationaler Heiligenkult in Polen und Deutschland: Ein erinnerungspolitischer Vergleich aus dem 19. Jahrhundert,” in Nationalisierung der Religion und Sakralisierung der Nation im östlichen Europa, ed. Martin Schulze Wessel (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2006), 46. 35. See Jerzy Peterkiewicz, The Third Adam (London: Oxford University Press, 1975). The quote from Kozłowska can be found on page 10. 36. Humanum Genus, http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/leo_xiii/encyclicals/ documents/ hf_l-xiii_enc_18840420_humanum-genus_en.html. 37. Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland, 284. 38. See Theodore R. Weeks, From Assimilation to Antisemitism: The “Jewish Question” in Poland, 1850–1914 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2005). See also Theodore R. Weeks, “The ‘International Jewish Conspiracy’ Reaches Poland: Teodor Jeske-Choiński and His Works,” East European Quarterly 31, no. 1 (1997): 21–41. See also Krzysztof Lewalski, Kościoły chrześcijańskie w Królestwie Polskim wobec Żydów w latach 1855–1915 (Wrocław: Fundacja na Rzecz Nauki Polskiej, 2002). 39. John Radzilowski, “A Social History of Polish American Catholicism,” U.S. Catholic Historian 27, no. 3 (2009): 28. 40. The most thorough scholarly treatment of Chicago’s Polish Catholic community from its origins to the peak of its vibrancy remains Joseph John Parot, Polish Catholics in Chicago, 1850–1920: A Religious History (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1981). 41. James S. Pula, “Polish-American Catholicism: A Case Study in Cultural Determinism,” U.S. Catholic Historian 27, no. 3 (2009): 6. 42. Roger Daniels, Coming to America: A History of Immigration and Ethnicity in American Life (New York: Harper Collins, 1990), 222. 43. See Dorota Praszałowicz, “Polish American Sisterhoods: The Americanization Process,” U.S. Catholic Historian 27, no. 3 (2009): 45–57. 44. Frank Renkiewicz, For God, Country, and Polonia: One Hundred Years of the Orchard Lake Schools (Orchard Lake, Mich.: Center for Polish Studies and Culture, 1985), 31–32.

notes to pages 189– 97

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8. From Captivity to Cataclysm (1914–1945) 1. For a full biography of Kolbe, see Diana Dewar, Saint of Auschwitz: The Story of Maximilian Kolbe (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1982). 2. For more on this important prelate, see Bronisław Bozowski, “Ks. Kardynał Aleksander Kakowski,” Więż 5 (May 1973): 99–113. 3. Norman Davies, God’s Playground: A History of Poland, vol. 2, 1795 to the Present (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), 382. 4. For a fascinating study of religious and national identity in the ethnic borderland of Upper Silesia, see James E. Bjork, Neither German nor Pole: Catholicism and National Indifference in a Central European Borderland (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2008). 5. Brian Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland: Catholicism, Modernity, and Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 242. 6. Guido Hitze, Carl Ulitzka (1873–1953), oder, Oberschlesien zwischen den Weltkriegen (Düsseldorf: Droste, 2002), 357–58. 7. Norman Davies, Heart of Europe: A Short History of Poland (New York: Oxford University Press, 1984), 218. 8. For a reliable guide to the complex political landscape of interwar Poland, see Antony Polonsky, Politics in Independent Poland, 1921–1939: The Crisis of Constitutional Government (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972). 9. Konstytucja marcowa z 1921 roku, http://www.infor.pl/prawo/konstytucja/ teksty-polskich-konstytucji/76621,Konstytucja-marcowa-z-1921-roku.html. 10. Maria Piłsudska, née Koplewska, was previously divorced and thus could not marry in the Catholic Church. For a treatment of Piłsudski’s personal religious orientation, see Neal Pease, “The Marshal and the Almighty: Piłsudski and Religion,” Polish Review 56, no. 1–2 (2011): 47–56. 11. For more on the intense polarization surrounding moral and cultural issues in the Piłsudski era, see Eva Plach, The Clash of Moral Nations: Cultural Politics in Piłsudski’s Poland, 1926–1935 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2006). 12. For a biography of Hlond, see Jerzy Lis, August Hlond, 1881–1948: Prymas Polski, kardynał, działacz społeczny, pisarz (Katowice: Katowickie Tow. SpołecznoKulturalne, 1987). 13. Roman Dmowski, Kościół, naród i państwo (Warsaw: Nakładem Obozu Wielkiej Polski, 1927). 14. See Bogumił Grott, Nacjonalizm i religia: Proces zespalania nacjonalizmu z katolicyzmem w jedną całość ideową w myśli Narodowej Demokracji, 1926–1939 (Kraków: Uniwersytet Jagielloński, 1984). 15. For more on this phase of Piasecki’s career, see Mikołaj Stanisław Kunicki, Between the Brown and the Red: Nationalism, Catholicism, and Communism in 20th-Century Poland—The Politics of Bolesław Piasecki (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2012), 28–51. Another example is Father Jerzy Pawski, editor of the right-wing

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magazine Pro Christo. See Ronald E. Modras, The Catholic Church and Antisemitism: Poland, 1933–1939 (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic, 2000), 79–85. 16. See Neal Pease, “The ‘Unpardonable Insult’: The Wawel Incident of 1937 and Church-State Relations in Poland,” Catholic Historical Review 77, no. 3 (1991): 422–36. 17. For a detailed history of the Catholic Church in interwar Poland, see Zygmunt Zieliński and Stanisław Wilk, eds., Kościół w II Rzeczypospolitej (Lublin: Katolicki Uniwersytet Lubelski, 1980). 18. To give just a couple of examples, the Diocese of Vilnius was over ten times the territorial size of the Diocese of Katowice. The Archdiocese of Warsaw encompassed nearly ten times the population of the Diocese of Lutsk. 19. See Krzysztof Krasowski, Episkopat katolicki w II Rzeczypospolitej (Warsaw: Redakcja Naukowa, 1992). 20. Lucjan Adamczuk, “Struktura organizacyjno-terytorialna Kościoła,” in Kościół Katolicki w Polsce 1918–1990: Rocznik statystyczny, ed. Lucjan Adamczuk and Witold Zdaniewicz (Warsaw: Główny Urząd Statystyczny, Zakład Socjologii Religii SAC, 1991), 102–27. 21. It has been estimated that 45 percent of all religious houses and 42 percent of all religious were located in Galicia and Upper Silesia in 1937. 22. Filip Burno, “Kościoły rzymskokatolickie kresów II Rzeczpospolitej,” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki 50, no. 3–4 (2005): 115–42. 23. Regarding evolving attitudes toward the nation in the Polish diaspora, see Gabriela Pawlus Kasprzak, “Patriotic Priests and Religious Consuls: Religion and Nationalism in the Polish Diaspora, 1918–1939,” Polish American Studies 68, no. 2 (2011): 13–42. 24. For more on this remarkable prelate, see Morality and Reality: The Life and Times of Andrei Sheptyts’kyi, ed. Paul R. Magocsi (Edmonton: Canadian Institute of Ukrainian Studies), 1989. 25. Timothy Snyder, The Reconstruction of Nations: Poland, Ukraine, Lithuania, Belarus, 1569–1999 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), 124–31. 26. Neal Pease, Rome’s Most Faithful Daughter: The Catholic Church and Independent Poland, 1914–1939 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2009), 135. Pease’s book offers an outstanding account of Catholicism in interwar Poland. 27. The organization Revival first emerged at the University of Warsaw in 1919 and quickly spread to university communities in Lviv, Vilnius, Lublin, Kraków, and Poznań. Inspired by prewar organizations like Friends of Youth and the journal Prąd (Current), the priest and educator Edward Szwejnica (1887–1934) founded Juventus in Warsaw in 1921. Other chapters soon emerged in Poznań and Vilnius. The association continued to thrive under the leadership of Edward Detkens, before his arrest by the Gestapo and murder at Dachau.

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28. See Czesław Lechnicki, “Prasa katolicka Drugiej Rzeczypospolitej,” Kwartalnik Historii Prasy Polskiej 23, no. 2 (1984): 45–69. 29. Witold Zdaniewicz, “Akcja Katolicka,” in Historia katolicyzmu społecznego w Polsce, ed. Czesław Strzeszewski, Ryszard Bender, and Konstanty Turowski (Warsaw: Ośrodek Dokumentacji i Studiów Społecznych, 1981), 417–51. 30. Porter-Szücs, Faith and Fatherland, 34. 31. In 1826 a deeply pious French woman named Pauline Marie Jaricot (1799– 1862) developed this novel way of communal recitation of the prayer cycle. It calls for groups of fifteen people to form a “rose,” in which each member is responsible for saying one of the fifteen mysteries of the rosary each day. Variations on the practice found their way to the Polish territories by the late nineteenth century and steadily gained practitioners. It remains popular to this day. 32. The ZZP (Zjednoczenie Zawodowe Polskie, or Polish Trade Association) originated among Polish workers in the Ruhr region of Germany in the early twentieth century. Its leaders transferred their headquarters to Katowice in the interwar era, and the union took on a nationalist, corporatist, and antisocialist ethos. At the height of its influence, the ZZP claimed a membership of several hundred thousand. Founded in 1921, the ChZZ (Chrzescijańskie Zjednoczenie Zawodowe, or Christian Trade Federation) enjoyed strong links with Christian Democracy and claimed over 100,000 members at its peak. See John J. Kulczycki, The Polish Coal Miners’ Union and the German Labor Movement in the Ruhr, 1902–1934: National and Social Solidarity (New York: Berg, 1997). 33. For more on Polish Freemasonry, see Leon Chajn, Polskie wolnomularstwo, 1920–1938 (Warsaw: Czytelnik, 1984). 34. See André Gerrits, “Anti-Semitism and Anti-Communism: The Myth of ‘Judeo-Communism’ in Eastern Europe,” East European Jewish Affairs 25, no. 1 (1995): 49–72. 35. The most thorough English-language source on this topic remains Modras, Catholic Church and Antisemitism. See also Brian Porter, “Antisemitism and the Search for a Catholic Identity,” in Antisemitism and Its Opponents in Modern Poland, ed. Robert Blobaum (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2005), 103–23. 36. Modras puts it well: Kolbe “did not exhibit animosity toward religious or traditional Jews. But he was anti-liberal, anti-Masonic, and anti-secular. He was hostile to any proponent—Jew or Gentile—of modern, secular culture. He believed that secularists, Polish or Jewish, must be resisted militantly, as a danger to the church and to Poland. . . . His attitude toward Jews was very much like that of Pope Pius XI and the Catholic orthodoxy of his day: anti-racist but conversionary, anti-Nazi but laboring under several of the stereotypes that Nazis and others were touting about supposed Jewish economic and cultural influence.” Modras, Catholic Church and Antisemitism, 398.

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37. August Hlond, “O Kościelnych sprawach majątkowych,” http://www.ak .rumia.pomorskie.pl/index. php?s=25. 38. Pease, Rome’s Most Faithful Daughter, 118. 39. Hlond, “O Kościelnych sprawach majątkowych.” 40. For a detailed account of the Polish experience during the war, see Halik Kochanski, The Eagle Unbowed: Poland and the Poles in the Second World War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2012). 41. John S. Conway, The Nazi Persecution of the Churches, 1933–1945 (New York: Basic Books, 1968), 324–25. 42. For an insightful treatment of this issue in Upper Silesia, see Juliane Haubold-Stolle, Mythos Oberschlesien: Der Kampf um die Erinnerung in Deutschland und in Polen 1919–1956 (Osnabrück: Fibre Verlag, 2008). 43. See Jacek Czajowski, Kardynał Adam Stefan Sapieha (Wrocław: Ossolineum, 1997). 44. Biernacka is one of 108 Poles murdered in the war and beatified by Pope John Paul II in 1999. By the Catholic Church’s reckoning, they died on account of their religious principles and thus merit to be considered martyrs. 45. See Dariusz Libionka, “Antisemitism, Anti-Judaism, and the Polish Catholic Clergy during the Second World War, 1939–1945,” in Antisemitism and Its Opponents in Modern Poland, ed. Robert Blobaum (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2005), 233–64. 46. A recent treatment of this chilling topic can be found in Jan Tomasz Gross and Irena Grudzińska Gross, Golden Harvest: Events at the Periphery of the Holocaust (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 47. Władysław Bartoszewski and Zofia Lewin, eds., Righteous among Nations: How Poles Helped the Jews, 1939–1945 (London: Earlscourt, 1969), 672.

9. From Stalinism to Solidarity (1945–1989) 1. Jerzy Popiełuszko, “Kazanie z 4 grudnia 1983 roku,” http://kspopieluszko .blogspot.com/2010/06/kazanie-z-4-grudnia-1983-roku.html. 2. There are numerous biographies of Popiełuszko in English and Polish. See Grażyna Sikorska, Jerzy Popiełuszko: A Martyr for the Truth (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1985). See also Ewa Czaczkowska and Tomasz Wiścicki, Ksiądz Jerzy Popiełuszko (Warsaw: Świat Książki, 2004). 3. See Norman Naimark, Fires of Hatred: Ethnic Cleansing in Twentieth-Century Europe (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), 108–38. 4. See Jan Żaryn, Kościół a władza w Polsce (1945–1950) (Warsaw: Wydawn. DiG, 1997). See also Michael Fleming, Communism, Nationalism, and Ethnicity in Poland, 1944–1950, BASEES/Routledge Series on Russian and East European Studies (London: Routledge, 2010).

notes to pages 221–29

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5. For a biography of Wyszyński, see Andrzej Micewski, Cardinal Wyszynski: A Biography (San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1984). 6. See Stanisław Pamuła, The Role of “Tygodnik Powszechny” in the Process of Democratic Transformation in Poland (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Papieskiej Akademii Teologicznej, 1994). 7. Jan Żaryn, “In Conflict with the Communist State: The Catholic Church and Catholic Political Organizations in Poland,” in Christian Democracy in Europe since 1945, vol. 2, ed. Michael Gehler and Wolfram Kaiser (London: Routledge, 2004), 122. 8. See Bożena Bankowicz, “Ruch księży patriotów 1949–1955, czyli ‘koń trojański’ w polskim Kościele katolickim,” in Ze studiów nad dziejami Kościoła i katolicyzmu w PRL, ed. Bożena Bankowicz and Antoni Dudek (Kraków: PiT, 1996), 5–24. 9. For a biography of Piasecki that casts valuable light on church-state relations in communist Poland, see Mikołaj Stanisław Kunicki, Between the Brown and the Red: Nationalism, Catholicism, and Communism in 20th-Century Poland— The Politics of Bolesław Piasecki (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2012). 10. Paweł Kądziela, Kościół a Państwo w Polsce 1945–1965 (Wrocław: Biblioteczka “Nowego Życia,” 1990), 39. 11. See Jan Śledzianowski, Ksiądz Czesław Kaczmarek biskup kielecki 1895–1963 (Kielce: Jedność, 2008). 12. Article 82 of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of Poland declared the principle of church-state separation and guaranteed the free exercise of religion. It was the first Polish constitution not to privilege Roman Catholicism over other religions. 13. “Memoriał Episkopatu Polski ‘Non possumus,’” in Kościół katolicki a państwo w świetle dokumentów 1945–1989, vol. 1, Lata 1945–1959, ed. Peter K. Raina (Poznań: W drodze, 1994), 426. 14. Antoni Dudek, Państwo i Kościół w Polsce 1945–1970 (Kraków: PiT, 1995), 41. 15. For a collection of documents related to this celebration, see Peter K. Raina, ed., “Te Deum” narodu polskiego: Obchody tysiąclecia chrztu Polski w świetle dokumentów kościelnych (Olsztyn: Warmińskie Wydawn. Diecezjalne, 1991). Maryjane Osa argues that the Great Novena helped lay the groundwork for the success of the Solidarity movement in the 1980s. See Solidarity and Contention: Networks of Polish Opposition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 59–80. 16. James Bjork argues that Catholicism in postwar Poland was a “bundle of loosely connected religiosities” and that the events surrounding the Great Novena “should not be interpreted as a summoning of a pre-existing, well-developed mass Polish-Catholic identity, but rather a laborious attempt to create one.” See Bjork, “Bulwark or Patchwork? Religious Exceptionalism and Regional Diversity in Postwar Poland,” in Christianity and Modernity in Eastern Europe, ed. Bruce R.

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Berglund and Brian Porter-Szücs (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2010), 129–53. 17. Osa, Solidarity and Contention, 74. 18. The abortion law issued in 1956 allowed for abortions for certain reasons, such as when the life of the mother was threatened or when a pregnancy was the result of criminal behav ior such as rape or incest. The interpretation of this law grew more expansive over the course of the 1960s and 1970s, making it easier to procure an abortion. See Eleonora Zielińska, Przerywanie ciąży: Warunki legalności w Polsce i na świecie (Warsaw: Wydaw. Prawnicze, 1990). 19. George Weigel, Witness to Hope: The Biography of Pope John Paul II (New York: Harper Perennial, 2005) 184–85. 20. See Piotr H. Kosicki, “Caritas across the Iron Curtain? Polish-German Reconciliation and the Bishops’ Letter of 1965,” East European Politics and Societies 23, no. 2 (2009): 213–43. 21. Oskar Golombek, Die Katholische Kirche und die Völkervertreibung (Cologne: Wienand Verlag, 1966), 160–61. 22. Edith Heller, Macht, Kirche, Politik: Der Briefwechsel zwischen den polnischen und deutschen Bischöfen im Jahre 1965 (Cologne: Treff-Punkt, 1992), 171. 23. Ibid., 192. 24. For a detailed account of church-state relations in the Gomułka era, see Hanna Diskin, The Seeds of Triumph: Church and State in Gomułka’s Poland (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2001). 25. See Henryk Dominiczak, Organy bezpieczeństwa PRL w walce z Kościołem katolickim 1944–1990 (Warsaw: Bellona, 2000). 26. Polish Catholicism’s stubborn vitality not only confounded communist officials, it also defied the long-held theory that modernization and secularization advance hand in hand. Maciej Pomian-Srzednicki offers a thought-provoking sociological analysis of the phenomenon in Religious Change in Contemporary Poland: Secularization and Politics (Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982). 27. Adam Michnik, The Church and the Left, trans. David Ost (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). 28. See Keith John Lepak, Prelude to Solidarity: Poland and the Politics of the Gierek Regime (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988). 29. For an example, see “Homily of His Holiness John Paul II,” Victory Square, Warsaw, June 2, 1979, http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/homilies /1979/documents/hf_jp-ii_hom_19790602 _polonia-varsavia _en.html. 30. Jan Kubik offers a fascinating study of the battle to define the pope’s 1979 visit in The Power of Symbols against the Symbols of Power: The Rise of Solidarity and the Fall of State Socialism in Poland (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1994), 129–52. 31. Michnik, Church and the Left, 222–31.

notes to pages 238–51

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32. John Kifner, “Pope in Warsaw, Makes a Firm Plea for the ‘Wronged’,” New York Times, June 17, 1983, http://www.nytimes.com/1983/06/17/world/pope-in -warsaw-makes-a-firm-plea-for-the-wronged.html. 33. A vivid account of the Solidarity movement and its impact can be found in Timothy Garton Ash, The Polish Revolution: Solidarity (London: Granta, in association with Penguin, 1991). 34. Hugh McLeod treats this subject well in The Religious Crisis of the 1960s (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007). 35. See Bjork, “Bulwark or Patchwork?” 131–40. 36. For greater perspective on the character of Catholic life within a maturing Polonia, see Paul Wrobel, Our Way: Family, Parish, and Neighborhood in a PolishAmerican Community (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame University Press, 1979). Wrobel offers an anthropological study of a Polish American parish in a working-class neighborhood in Detroit in the early 1970s. 37. For a revealing study of the complex dynamics between Polish immigrants and third-, fourth-, and fifth-generation Polish Americans in Chicago in the 1970s and 1980s, see Mary Patrice Erdmans, Opposite Poles: Immigrants and Ethnics in Polish Chicago, 1976–1990 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998). 38. See Jan T. Gross, Fear: Anti-Semitism in Poland after Auschwitz: An Essay in Historical Interpretation (New York: Random House, 2006), 81–166. 39. See John Connelly, From Enemy to Brother: The Revolution in Catholic Teaching on the Jews, 1933–1965 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2012). 40. John Paul II made a number of high-profile gestures of respect toward the Jewish people and their religion. In 1986 he became the first pope to visit the synagogue in Rome, and he prayed at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem in 2000. He repeatedly acknowledged Christianity’s links to Judaism, referred to the Jews as the “elder brothers” of Christians, and condemned antisemitism. See Frank J. Coppa, The Papacy, the Jews, and the Holocaust (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006), 255–95. 41. Jan Błoński, “Biedni Polacy patrzą na getto,” Tygodnik Powszechny, January 11, 1987, http://tygodnik.onet.pl/kraj/biedni-polacy-patrza-na-getto/qbh36. 42. Adam Michnik, In Search of Lost Meaning: The New Eastern Europe (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 174–75. 43. See Grażyna Sikorska, Light and Life: Renewal in Poland (Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1989).

10. From Triumph to Turmoil (after 1989) 1. Kate Connolly, “ ‘They Were Wiped Out. It’s Our Katyń Trauma All Over Again,’ ” Guardian, April 11, 2010, http://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/apr /11/poland-president-plane-crash-kaczynski.

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2. “The irony,” Neal Pease notes, “is that it was the experience of war and Communism that made the Catholic Church in Poland in fact, at least for a crucial forty-five-year span, what it had only claimed to be during the interwar years: the genuine and generally acknowledged representative and moral voice of the Polish nation.” Rome’s Most Faithful Daughter: The Catholic Church and Independent Poland, 1914–1939 (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2009), 216–17. 3. A thorough survey of the church’s role in Poland in the first years of the postcommunist era can be found in Jarosław Gowin, Kościół po komunizmie (Kraków: Znak, 1995). See also Mirella W. Eberts, “The Roman Catholic Church and Democracy in Poland,” Europe-Asia Studies 50, no. 5 (1998): 817–42. 4. “The law introducing religion classes into public school was in conflict with several regulations, including the Statute on Education and the constitutional principle of church-state separation,” argues Krystyna Daniel. See “The ChurchState Situation in Poland after the Collapse of Communism,” Brigham Young University Law Review 1995, no. 2 (1995): 408. 5. For an overview of the Catholic Church’s approach to public education in Poland from the era of the partitions to the present, see Robert E. Alvis, “Catholic Identity and Religious Education in Modern Poland,” in Prisms of Faith: Perspectives on Religious Education and the Cultivation of Catholic Identity, ed. Robert E. Alvis and Ryan LaMothe (Eugene, Ore.: Pickwick Publications, 2016), 52–72. 6. For historical background on this issue and a detailed review of the postcommunist abortion debate, see Andrzej Kulczycki, “Abortion Policy in Postcommunist Europe: The Conflict in Poland,” Population and Development Review 21, no. 3 (1995): 471–505. 7. “The Polish Concordat of 1993,” in Jerzy Gruca, Spór o konkordat (Warsaw: Adam, 1994), article 1. 8. “Address of the Holy Father Pope John Paul II,” March 25, 1998, http://www .vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/speeches/1998/march/documents/hf_jp-ii _spe_19980325 _polonia-rat_en.html. 9. Leszek Kołakowski, “Krótka rozprawa o teokracji,” Gazeta Wyborcza, August 24, 1991. 10. Józef Tischner, “Czy Kościół nas okłamał . . . ?,” Tygodnik Powszechny, January 10, 1993. 11. Daniel, “Church-State Situation in Poland,” 401–19. 12. Jane Perlez, “Walesa’s Defeat Called Big Setback for Polish Catholic Church,” New York Times, November 23, 1995, http://www.nytimes.com/1995/11 /23/world/walesa-s-defeat-called-big-setback-for-polish-catholic-church.html. 13. “Message of Pope John Paul II to Heads of State,” June 3, 1997, http://www .vatican .va / holy _ father /john _ paul _ ii / travels /documents / hf _ jp -ii _ mes _03061997_presidents_en.html.

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14. Konstytucja Rzeczypospolitej Polskiej, http://www.sejm.gov.pl/prawo/ konst/polski/kon1.htm. 15. Gerald J. Beyer offers a thought-provoking analysis of postcommunist Poland’s political and social life in Recovering Solidarity: Lessons from Poland’s Unfinished Revolution (South Bend, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010). He suggests that the ethic at the heart of the Solidarity movement has been largely abandoned as the country has pursued a more neoliberal course. 16. For an early observation of this fracturing, see Jacek Zakowski, “Dwa Kościoły, czyli katolewica, katoprawica i katonerwica,” Gazeta Wyborcza, May 16, 1993. 17. Jerzy Turowicz, “Skąd i dokąd idziemy,” Tygodnik Powszechny, March 25, 1990. 18. “Biskup Pieronek kontra Radio Maryja,” Gazeta Wyborcza, April 18, 2008. 19. Józef Michalik, “Przypatrzcie się bracia powołaniu waszemu” (Gorzów Wielkopolski: Gorzowskie Wydawnictwo Diecezjalne, 1991). 20. Adam Michnik, Preface to The Church and the Left, ed. and trans. David Ost (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), xv. 21. Simona Guerra, “Eurosceptic Allies or Euroenthusiast Friends? The Political Discourse of the Roman Catholic Church in Poland,” in Representing Religion in the European Union: Does God Matter?, ed. Lucjan N. Leustean (New York: Routledge, 2012), 146. 22. “List Jana Pawła II do Jerzego Turowicza,” Magazyn Gazety Wyborczej, June 2, 1995, 17. 23. Elżbieta Bilska-Wodecka, “Secularization and Sacralization: New Polarization of the Polish Religious Landscape in the Context of Globalization and European Integration,” Acta Universitatis Carolinae Geographica 44, no. 1–2 (2009): 10. 24. “Misjonarz w metropolii,” Tygodnik Powszechny, July 12, 2009, http:// tygodnik.onet.pl/kraj/misjonarz-w-metropolii/1zssl. 25. http://www.pcmew.org/. 26. http://www.pmk-niemcy.eu/de/index.html. 27. Dorota Bawolek, “Are the Polish Immigrants the Hope of the British Church?,” Niedziela, July 2008, http://sunday.niedziela.pl/artykul.php?dz=polacy &id_art= 00019. 28. Olly Barratt, “Polish Influx Changing the Face of UK Catholic Church,” Deutsche Welle, September 15, 2010, http://www.dw.de/dw/article/0,,6005169,00 .html. 29. Cardinal Glemp authorized the practice in the Archdiocese of Warsaw in 2005 under three conditions: The recipient had to be confirmed, to love Jesus Christ very much, and to position the hands correctly. Not long thereafter, the

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Conference of Polish Bishops decreed that if the faithful request communion in the hand by holding out their hands in the proper manner, priests should oblige. 30. Alina Petrowa-Wasilewicz, Leksykon ruchów i stowarzyszeń w Kościele (Warsaw: Katolicka Agencja Informacyjna, 2000). 31. Alina Petrowa-Wasilewicz, “Liczne drogi, jeden dom,” Miesięcznik Znak, September 2001, http://www.miesiecznik.znak.com.pl/petrowa556.html. 32. For a detailed study of the controversy and what it reveals about Polish identity, see Geneviève Zubrzycki, The Crosses of Auschwitz: Nationalism and Religion in Post- Communist Poland (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006). 33. Jan T. Gross, Neighbors: The Destruction of the Jewish Community in Jedwabne, Poland (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). 34. Many of the contours of this debate are captured in The Neighbors Respond: The Controversy over the Jedwabne Massacre in Poland, ed. Antony Polonsky and Joanna B. Michlic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004). The editors have assembled the most important documents issued in the debate, and they provide a helpful introduction that sets the context. 35. A discouraging coda to the controversy over Neighbors was the more recent “Lemański Affair,” which revealed how fraught with tension the issue of Polish Catholic culpability vis-à-vis the Jews remains. It also revealed the erosion of the hierarchy’s moral authority in the eyes of many lay Catholics. See Natalie Smolenski, “The Father Lemański Affair: Personal versus Institutional Sanctity in Contemporary Poland,” Journal of Religion in Europe 7, no. 1 (2014): 26–50. 36. Tadeusz Isakowicz-Zaleski, Księża wobec bezpieki na przykładzie archidiecezji krakowski (Kraków: Znak, 2007). 37. Roman Daszczyński, “Niegodny w oczach Boga,” Gazeta Wyborcza, July 4, 2010, http://wyborcza.pl/1,76842,7741159,Niegodny_w_oczach_Boga.html. 38. Jonathan Luxmoore, “Clerical Power Thwarts Victims in Poland,” National Catholic Reporter, February 8, 2012, http://ncronline.org/news/accountability/ clerical-power-thwarts-victims-poland. 39. “Message of John Paul II to the Polish Bishops,” June 10, 1997, http://www .vatican.va /holy_ father/john _paul _ ii /travels/documents/hf _jp -ii _ mes _ 0806 1997_bishops_en.html. 40. Izabella Zandberg, “Civil Society, Radical Mass Media, and the Oppositional Public Sphere in Post-Communist Poland: The Case of ‘Radio Maryja,’ ” Electronic Journal of Communication 13 (2003), http://www.cios.org/EJCPUBLIC/ 013/4/01344.HTML. 41. Polish Episcopal Conference, “Pasterze Europy,” Tygodnik Powszechny, http://www.tygodnik.com.pl/numer/275113/episkopat.html.

notes to pages 273–75

313

42. “Address of John Paul II to the Pilgrims Who Had Come for the Canonization of Józef Sebastian Pelczar and Urszula Ledóchowska,” May 19, 2003, http:// www .vatican .va / holy _ father / john _ paul _ ii /speeches /2003 /may/ documents/hf_jp-ii_spe_20030519_pelczar-ledochowska _en.html. 43. Stefan Wyszyński, The Deeds of Faith, ed. and trans. Alexander T. Jordan (New York: Harper, 1966), 129–34.

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Index

1950 church–state accord, 224, 225 1965 bishops’ letter, 230–31 abortion: communist-era law on, 230, 308n18; Polish attitudes on, 255, 261, 262; postcommunist-era restrictions on, 253, 258 Adamski, Father Stanisław, 170 Aggiornamento, 239 Aleksander Jagiellon (king), 58 Alexander I (tsar), 145, 178 Alexander II (tsar), 164 All Saints’ Church (Warsaw), 215 Ankwicz, Archbishop Alojzy, 146–47 anticlericalism, 137, 193, 196, 252, 259 anti-Judaism, 40, 71, 74, 83, 98, 114–15 antisemitism, 170, 181, 197, 207–9, 243–44, 257, 267–69 Antoniewicz, Father Karol, 174 Apostolate of Prayer, 204 Armenian Catholics, 118, 146, 201 Art Nouveau style, 167 ascetic practices: 14, 24, 44, 70, 119, 135 August II (king), 109–10 August III (king), 110 Auschwitz, 188, 215, 236, 267–68 Austria: and 1683 Battle of Vienna, 109; and control of Polish territory, 141–42, 166–67, 172, 173–74, 179, 242; loyalism to, 147, 190; and partitions, 130, 133, 140 AWS (Solidarity Electoral Action), 256, 257

baptism: early modern practice of, 125–26; and Jews, 207, 214; of Jogaila, 49, 53; of Mieszko I, 1, 229; Orthodox, 74–75 Baroque architecture, 36, 102–3, 127–28 Barzyński, Father Wincenty, 183 Basilians, 93 Basilica of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus (Kraków), 167 Basilica of Our Lady of Sorrows, Queen of Poland, 158 Basilica of Saint Francis (Kraków), 167 Bathory, Stefan (king), 80, 81 Battle of Grunwald, 54, 56, 60, 167 Battle of Varna, 56 Belarus, xi, 54, 191, 213, 215 Benedict XVI (pope), 270 Benedictines, 11, 12–14, 17, 34, 95, 127, 285n16 Bernardines, 65, 70–71, 99, 289n44 Bieniarzówna, Janina, 248–49 Biernacka, Maria Anna, 213 Bierut, Bolesław, 222, 225, 227 Bilczewski, Saint Józef, 172, 175, 179 Birkowski, Fabian Adam, 97–98 bishops, Polish: 1965 letter to German bishops, 230–31; and clergy collaboration with SB, 270; collaboration among, 28, 31, 95, 198, 265; competition between, 31, 63–64, 117; and diocesan governance, 10, 32, 48, 64, 118; and ecumenical councils, 38, 41, 61, 241; and EU, 273, 274; and Silesian plebiscite, 192

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Bismarck, Chancellor Otto von, 165–66 Blachnicki, Father Franciszek, 249 Black Madonna icon: early history of, 66, 73–74; importance to Polish Catholics, 276; and Lenin Shipyard, 237; and Millennium Novena, 229, 232; and Sobieski, 109; and Swedish Deluge, 106 Blessed Wincenty Kadłubek’s Church (Jędrzejów), 36 Błoński, Jan, 245 “Bloodbath of Toruń,” 114 Bobola, Saint Andrzej, 123, 195 Bodzęta, Bishop Jan, 50–52, 59–60 “Bogurodzica,” 46 Bohemian Brethren, 87–88 Bolesław I Chrobry (king), 4–7, 16, 153–54 Bolesław II Rogatka (duke), 28 Bolesław II Śmiały (king), 7–8, 43 Bolesław III Krzywousty (duke), 8–9, 14, 18, 19, 25–26 Bolesław Wstydliwy (duke), 42, 44 Bolshevism. See communism Bonaparte, Napoleon (emperor), 142–43, 156 Books of the Polish Nation and the Polish Pilgrimage (Mickiewicz), 155 “Boże coś Polskę,” 178 Brandenburg-Prussia, 108–9 Brzostowski, Father Paweł, 135 Buonaccorsi, Filippo, 67 Bureau of Confessional Affairs, 223 Calvary shrines, 99, 293n38 Calvinism, 87, 88, 91, 290n8 canon law, 26, 28, 33, 60 canons regular, 14 Capistrano, Saint Giovanni, 65, 70 Caritas, 221, 223 Caritas Academica, 222 Carmelites, 95–96, 268 Capuchins, 173, 176 cathedral chapters, 11, 28, 32, 59

Cathedral of Aleksandr Nevskiy (Warsaw), 201 Cathedral of Christ the King (Katowice), 199 Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist (Warsaw), ix, 81, 270 Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist (Wrocław), 25 Cathedral of Saints Stanisław and Wacław (Kraków). See Wawel Cathedral. Catherine the Great (empress), 131, 136, 139, 141 Catholic Action, 203 Catholic Church in Poland: devotional life (medieval), 17–20, 42–46, 70–74; devotional life (early modern), 98–103, 106, 121–28; devotional life (modern), 152–53, 157–58, 173–74, 179–80, 203–4, 241, 248–49, 262, 265–67; dioceses and provinces (medieval), 9–10, 30–31, 59; dioceses and provinces (early modern), 117; dioceses and provinces (modern), 140–41, 146, 220, 234, 264, 266; and education (medieval), 34, 65, 66; and education (early modern), 96–97, 119, 121, 134–35; and education (modern), 149, 172, 176–77, 183–84, 202, 222; hierarchical organization of (medieval), 10, 32, 59–60, 63–64; hierarchical organization of (early modern), 117; hierarchical organization of (modern), 156, 198, 265; media of, 203, 222, 224, 228, 256–57; and nobility, 32–33, 84, 91–92, 113; parish network of (medieval), 11–12, 32–33, 40, 64–65; parish network of (early modern), 117–18; parish network of (modern), 171, 182–83, 199; wealth of (medieval), 33–34, 42; wealth of (early modern), 94, 116; wealth of (modern), 140–41, 198

inde x 339 Catholic–Orthodox relations: and Cossack uprising, 107; eighteenth century, 118, 132–33; and Gertruda’s prayer book, 18; late medieval, 54, 58, 72–75; nineteenth century, 141, 165; twentieth century, 200–1; and Union of Brest, 92–93 Catholic Press Agency, 203 Catholic social teaching, 174–76, 205 Catholic University of Lublin (KUL), 202, 221, 222, 224 Celakówna, Rozalia, 258–59 censorship, 150, 203, 222, 237, 252–53 Chicago, 182–83 Christian Trade Federation, 205 Christmas, 42, 124, 246, 262 Church Historical Commission, 269, 270 Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden, 128 Church of Saints Peter and Paul (Kraków), 103 Church of the Divine Mercy (Kalisz), 246–47 Church of the Transfiguration (Warsaw), 174 church–state relations: communist era, 218–38; early modern, 78–82, 84–86, 91, 106–12, 113–14, 132–39; interwar era, 193–98; medieval, 3–9, 26–30, 49–58; partition era, 140–52, 161–71, 190–92; postcommunist era, 251–59, 272–74 Cistercians, 24, 34–35, 36, 38, 47, 101 cities: medieval founding of, 39–40; noble attitudes toward, 112; pastoral care in, 33, 65, 171; Protestant growth in, 85, 87; and secularization, 239; seventeenthcentury destruction of, 108; sixteenth-century growth of, 82 Civic Platform (PO), 259 clergy: behavior of, 65, 135; categories of, 33, 64; celibacy of, 31; education

of, 34, 65, 149; income of, 33–34, 41–42, 137; privileges, 84; and sex abuse scandal, 270–71; statistics on, 65, 117–18 Club of the Catholic Intelligentsia, 228, 241 Collegiate Basilica of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin (Wiślica), 52 Collegiate Church of Saints Peter and Paul (Kruszwica), 20 Commission for Dialogue with Judaism, 245 communism: antipathy to religion, 174, 220; Catholic opposition to, 193, 207; Catholic dialogue with, 176, 223 conciliarism, 62–63, 66 concordat of 1925, 194, 198 concordat of 1993, 253, 256 Confederation of Bar, 130–31, 133 Confederation of Torhovytsia, 139 confession, sacrament of, 41, 48, 70, 174, 180 Congress Kingdom of Poland, 145 Congress of Vienna, 143, 144, 145 Constitution of May 3, 1791, 137–38, 167 Constitution of the People’s Republic of Poland (1952), 225, 234, 256, 307n12 Constitution of the Republic of Poland (1997), 256 Constitution of the Republic of Poland (“April Constitution,” 1935), 196 Constitution of the Republic of Poland (“March Constitution,” 1921), 194 Copernicus, Nicolaus, 96–97 Corpus Christi Church (Poznań), 98–99, 116 Cossack Uprising, 107, 113, 118, 123 Council for the Aid of Jews (Żegota), 214, 215 Crusades, 29–30, 55, 56, 60–61 cult of the saints, 17–18, 70–71, 99–100, 123–24

340

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Cyril and Methodius, saints, 2–3 Czacka, Mother Elżbieta Róża, 205–6 Czesław, Saint, 37 Dąbrowski, Father Józef, 184 Dagome Iudex, 3 Dec, Bishop Ignacy, 261 Deeds of the Princes of the Poles (Gallus Anonymous), 7 Deluge, the, 108 democracy, 171, 193, 250, 252–54, 260 Democratic Left Alliance (SLD), 253, 254, 258, 271 Divine Mercy devotion, x, 204, 248 Długosz, Jan, 4, 100 Dmowski, Roman, 169–70, 190, 196–97, 200 Dominicans, 35–37, 44, 65, 95, 97–98, 99, 202 Drohojowski, Bishop Jan, 86 Droste-Vischering, Archbishop Clemens, 151 Dubravka (duchess), 3 Duchy of Warsaw, 143–44 Dunin, Archbishop Marcin, 151 Dymek, Bishop Walenty, 211 Działyńska, Klaudyna, 143 Easter, 19, 125 Ecclesiastical College of Saint Petersburg, 149, 165, 172 edict of toleration (1573), 77, 86, 94 education: communist era, 222, 228, 242; early modern era, 89, 95, 97, 121; eighteenth-century reforms of, 118–19, 134; at European universities, 38, 67, 96, 85, 88, 101, 119, 134; interwar era, 194; Jesuits and, 89, 119, 141, 295n24; medieval era, 11, 34, 66, 76; partition era, 147, 153, 164, 167, 172; and peasantry, 135, 169, 177; and Polish diaspora, 184; at Polish universities, 66, 202; postcommunist era, 252,

259; of priests, 65, 76, 135, 171–72; Salesians and, 199; during World War II, 211–12 Endeks (National Democracy), 169–70, 193–94, 196–97, 215, 258 Enlightenment, the, 120–21, 131–32, 134, 135, 152 Eparchy of Chełm, 165 Eucharist, 18, 98, 123, 174, 179, 265 European Union (EU), 264, 271–74 Fajans, Andrzej, 246 Felician Sisters, 173, 183–84 Feliński, Archbishop Zygmunt, 163–64 feminism, 181, 261 Ficek, Father Jan, 157, 175 Fijałkowski, Archbishop Melchior, 163 Five Holy Martyrs of Międzyrzecz, 11–13 flagellation, 41, 70 Florian, Saint, 43–44 Focolare, 248–49 Four-Year Sejm, 136–38 Fourth Lateran Council, 38, 41 Franciscans, 35–37, 44, 65, 188–89, 199, 203, 215 Frederick Barbarossa (emperor), 27 Freemasons, 180–81, 206, 207, 257 Friedrich Wilhelm III (king), 145 Gałecki, Bishop Antoni, 161–63 Galicia, 50, 145, 59, 191, 199 Gallus Anonymous, 7, 19 Gameren, Tyman of, 127 Gawlik, Zygmunt, 199 Gdańsk, 50, 72, 82, 140, 237 General Government for the Occupied Polish Territories, 211 Germanization, 148–49, 166, 211 Germany: and Holocaust, 267, 213; interwar era, 197, 201; and Ostpolitik, 233; partition era, 165–67, 171, 186; Poles living in, 182, 200, 262, 264; and the Polish

inde x 341 bishops’ letter, 230–31; and Vatican, 225; and World War I, 189–90, 192; and World War II, ix, 210–12, 219 Gertruda of Poland (princess), 18 Getter, Mother Matylda, 215 Gierek, Edward, 233–35 Glemp, Cardinal Józef, 218, 241, 254, 265, 268, 270 Głos Kapłana Polskiego, 163 Gniezno, 1, 10; Archdiocese of, 6, 9, 10, 30–31, 59, 63, 117; cathedral, 7, 8, 13; cathedral doors, 46; ecclesial link with Poznań, 146, 198, 220; ecclesial link with Warsaw, 265; and office of primate, 265; and Vojtěch’s shrine, 17, 19, 179 Gocłowski, Bishop Tadeusz, 259 Godlewski, Father Marceli, 215, 216 Golden Chapel (Poznań), 153–54 Gomułka, Władysław, 222, 227–28, 233 Goślicki, Wawrzyniec, 96 Gothic architecture, 47, 71–72, 152, 199 Grabowiecki, Abbot Sebastian, 101 Grand Duchy of Lithuania: alliance with Poland, 49, 53–54; dioceses in, 59; missionary work in, 37; Orthodox–Catholic relations in, 58; Protestantism in, 88; union with Poland, 78–79 Grand Duchy of Moscow: attacks on Lithuania, 81, 100; invasion of Poland-Lithuania, 107–8; 92–93; Polish-Lithuanian invasion of, 81–82; and Union of Brest, 92–93, 104 Grand Duchy of Poznań, 145 Great Northern War, 109–10 Great Poland: medieval, 2, 7, 9, 40, 63; partition era, 145, 158, 174; Protestantism in, 87, 88; Swedish Deluge and, 108; uprising of 1848, 152, 163; uprising of 1918, 190; and World War II, 210–11

Greek Catholics (Uniates): eighteenthcentury growth, 118; interwar era, 200; origins of, 92–93, 104; partition era, 141–42, 149, 165; seventeenth-century persecution of, 118, 123 Gregorian Reform, 26–28, 48 Gregory VII (pope), 7–8, 12 Gregory XVI (pope), 147, 149, 151, 156 Gregory of Sanok, Archbishop, 67 Gross, Jan, 268–69 Gutkowski, Bishop Jan Marceli, 149, 150–51 Hedwig of Andechs, Saint, 24–25, 29, 32, 35 Henryk I Brodaty (duke), 24, 29, 33 Henryk of Sandomierz, 29 heresy, 55, 67–68, 85, 87, 113, 121–22 historical consciousness: collective memory, 13, 100, 153, 178, 267, 269, 276; Poland as bulwark, 4, 29, 109, 178, 192, 207; Poles as chosen people, 122, 124, 154, 170 Hlond, Cardinal August, 196, 198, 200, 205, 208–9, 220–21 Hodur, Bishop Franciszek, 185 Hohenzollern, Grand Master Albrecht von, 87 Holocaust, 214: complicity with, 214; memory of, 244–45, 267–69; resistance to, 214–16 Holy Roman Empire, 3, 7, 12, 26, 27, 30 Home Army, 212, 221 Hozjusz, Cardinal Stanisław, 79, 88–89 humanism, 66–67, 78–79, 84, 97, 101 Humanum Genus (Leo XIII), 180–81 Hus, Father Jan, 54–55, 68 Hussites, 55, 87, 289n35 Index of Forbidden Books, 85, 155, 248 indulgences, 55, 70 Industrial Revolution, 174 Innocent III (pope), 28, 31, 32, 35, 38

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intelligentsia: communist era, 228–29, 235, 241–42; Enlightenment, 120–21; interwar era, 202, 206, 222, 224; partition era, 156, 176–77, 178; postcommunist era, 260 Investiture Controversy, 7–8 Isakowicz-Zaleski, Father Tadeusz, 269–70 Jacek, Saint, 37, 44, 95 Jadwiga of Anjou, Saint, 49, 53, 68 Jagiellon, Cardinal Fryderyk, 57–58 Jagiellon, Saint Kazimierz, 100, 293n41 Jagiellonian dynasty, Jagiellonian University, 55, 62, 66, 134, 177 Jakub of Żnin, Archbishop, 10, 26–27 Jan Kazimierz (king), 106, 107, 108–9 Jański, Father Bogdan, 156–57 January Uprising (1863), 164, 178–79 Jasna Góra monastery: 1946 celebration at, 221; 1956 celebration at, 227; founding of, 66; Millennial Novena celebration at, 232; pilgrimage to, 73–74, 109, 179; Swedish attack on, 106 Jędrzejów Abbey, 34, 36, 38, 274 Jedwabne, 214, 268–69 Jesuits: in Austria, 173; canonization of, 100; churches of, 103; and devotions, 123, 204; and education, 134, 141, 295n24; expulsion from Russia, 146, 298n32; role in Catholic Reformation, 89–91 Jews: and anti-Judaism, 40, 71, 74, 83, 98, 114–15; and antisemitism, 170, 181, 197, 207–9, 243–44, 257, 267–69; defense of, 214–16; economic activity of, 83, 94, 207–8; Holocaust and, 210, 213–15, 244–45, 267–68; persecution of, 74, 107, 115, 126, 208, 213–14, 244, 268; settlement of, 40, 74 Jogaila, 49, 53–56, 61, 63, 75, 98

John Paul II (pope), x: 1979 visit to Poland, 236–37; 1983 visit to Poland, 238; canonizations by, 44, 49, 172, 188; and Catholic unity, 241, 261; and ecclesial governance, 264–65; election as pope, 235–36; and Jews, 244, 309n40; and postcommunist politics, 253, 255, 257, 272–73; and secularization, 243, 272; and vocations, 242. See also Wojtyła, Cardinal Karol Jordan, Bishop, 1, 18 Josephinism, 141 Juventus, 202, 304n27 Kaczmarek, Bishop Czesław, 225, 228 Kaczyński, Lech, 251–52, 258 Kadłubek, Bishop Wincenty, 8, 28, 31, 35–36, 38, 43, 274–75 Kajsiewicz, Father Hieronym, 156–57 Kakowski, Cardinal Aleksander, 190, 191–92, 203 Katyń Forest massacre, 211–12, 251 Kazimierz I Odnowiciel (king), 7, 31 Kazimierz III Wielki (king), 50–52, 74 Kazimierz IV (king), 57, 74 Kazimirowski, Eugeniusz, 204 Khmelnytskyi, Bohdan, 107 Kietlicz, Archbishop Henryk, 28, 31, 41 Kiev, 75, 93, 108, 117, 141 Kievan Rus’: Catholic missionary work in, 37; Christianization of, 3; diocesan structures in, 59; Gertruda’s connection to, 18; Polish control of, 7, 29, 54 Kinga, Saint, 42, 44 Kingdom of Poland: boundaries of, 7, 30, 50, 54; culture of, 22, 66–67, 100–3; economy of, 39–40, 82–83; origins of, 7; politics of, 7–9, 25–30, 50–58, 78–79; society of, 24, 39–40, 74–75, 82–83

inde x 343 Kochanowski, Jan, 101 Kochowski, Wespazjan, 122 Kolbe, Saint Maksymilian, 188–89, 199, 203, 204, 208, 268 Kołakowski, Leszek, 254 Kołłątaj, Father Hugo, 134, 136–37 Kołobrzeg, Diocese of, 6, 15–16, 234 Kominek, Bishop Bolesław, 230 Konarski, Father Stanisław, 119, 132 Konstanz, Council of, 54–55, 60–61, 62, 63, 75 Korniłowicz, Father Władysław, 206 Kościuszko, Tadeusz, 137, 139–40 Kościuszko Uprising, 139–40, 142, 146, 167 Kossak-Szczucka, Zofia, 212, 214–15, 216 Kossakowski, Bishop Józef, 136, 139 Kostka, Saint Stanisław, 100, 103 Kowalska, Saint Maria Faustyna, 204, 248 Kozłowska, Mother Feliksa, 180 Koźmian, Father Jan, 156 Koźmiński, Blessed Honorat, 173, 174 Kraków: (Arch)diocese of, 6, 10, 31, 63–64, 117, 137, 198, 241; as capital, 7; celebrations in, 30, 45, 49, 160, 167, 179, 251; Dominicans in, 37; Free City of, 145; intellectual life in, 11, 55, 62, 65, 66, 67, 96, 134, 172, 177; and the Kościuszko Uprising, 139; and the November Uprising, 148; pastoral care in, 65; during World War II, 212, 213 Krasicki, Bishop Ignacy, 132, 135, 136 Kraszewski, Józef Ignacy, 167 Krol, Marcin, 255 KUL (Catholic University of Lublin), 202, 221, 222, 224 Kulturkampf, 165–66, 172, 173 Kuntsevych, Bishop Josefat, 93, 123 Kuyavia, 10, 20, 30, 50 Kuźmienko, Jerzy, 246 Kwaśniewski, Aleksander, 254, 255

labor unions, 204–5, 208, 218, 237–38 laity: active role of, 203, 228, 239, 241; authority over, 31, 48, 85; and communion, 55, 84, 86, 265; devotional writings for, 97; ecclesial movements for, 174, 204, 223, 248–49, 265–67; relations with clergy, 41, 76, 241 Lambert, Saint, 18 Lamennais, Father Hughes-Félicité Robert de, 147, 148, 151 Laski, 205–6, 212 Law and Justice (PiS), 258 League of Polish Families (LPR), 258–59, 265, 269, 272, 273 Lent, 19, 20, 125 Leo XIII (pope), 171, 174, 175, 180–81 liberalism: and Duchy of Warsaw, 143; Goślicki’s contribution to, 96; interwar era, 196; and Kulturkampf, 165; nineteenth century, 147, 152, 171; and November Uprising, 148–49; postcommunist era, 254, 260 liberum veto, 80, 110, 131–32, 134, 136, 325 Light-Life Movement, 249 Lipski, Jan Józef, 233 Little Poland: early modern, 97, 108; interwar era, 199; medieval, 4, 9, 56, 57; Protestantism in, 87–88 liturgical practices: diocesan standards for, 64; Greek Catholic, 58; and liturgical movement, 203; and liturgical year, 19, 124–25; and Novus Ordo, 240; and Polish diaspora, 184; Protestant, 84; and Romanticism, 152; and western medieval influences, 11 Lives of the Saints of the Old and New Testament (Skarga), 91 living rosary, 204 Łódź, 171, 172 Louis I of Hungary (king), 52

344

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loyalism: of clergy, 142, 145–46, 148, 149, 150, 185–86; toward Austria, 167, 190 LPR (League of Polish Families), 258–59, 265, 269, 272, 273 Lutheranism: early writings of, 85; in Poland, 87, 88, 114, 128, 201; in Saxony, 83, 109; in Sweden, 82, 106 Lutosławski, Wincenty, 177 Lviv, 106, 140; Archdiocese of, 59, 106, 117, 146, 147, 179, 198; cathedral, 106; education in, 141, 142, 172, 201; Greek Catholicism in, 142, 146, 201 Macharski, Archbishop Franciszek, 268 Maciej of Miechów, 96 Mączyński, Franciszek, 167, 199 Magdeburg, Archdiocese of, 3, 10, 59 Majchrowicz, Father Szymon, 121, 122 Majerczak, Bishop Maciej, 161 Mały Dziennik, 208 Marcin of Gniezno, Archbishop, 8 Maria Ewa of Providence, Sister, 215 Maria Marta of Jesus, Sister, 215 Marian Fathers, 119 Mariavites, 180 marriage: and Mariavites, 180; mixed, 150–51; regulations concerning, 40–41; ritual of, 126; same-sex, 259 martial law, 163, 238 Martin the Pole, 38–39 Marxism, 174, 176, 220, 223–24 Mary, Saint (Blessed Virgin): coronation of images of, 123; devotion to, 9, 45–46, 71, 123, 153, 157–58, 179; Immaculate Heart of, 221; and Mariavites, 180; Queen of Poland, 106, 258. See also Black Madonna icon Masonic Order. See Freemasons Mass: attendance, 174, 262; for fatherland, 218; lay participation in, 203; and national celebrations, 106, 160, 236; Novus Ordo, 240,

241, 265; in Nowa Huta, 246; and Polish diaspora, 264; as source of grace, 98; for sponsors, 33, 98, 126; standards of, 64; for students, 202; in vernacular, 86 Massalski, Bishop Ignacy, 136, 139 Mateusz of Kraków, 66 May Coup (1926), 194–95 Mazovia, 4, 45, 50, 108 Mazowiecki, Tadeusz, 228, 271 Michalik, Bishop Józef, 260 Michnik, Adam, 235, 237, 245, 260 Mickiewicz, Adam, 153, 155, 160–61, 276 Mieszko I (duke), 1–4, 15, 153–54 Mieszko II Lambert, 7 Mikołaj of Mościcki, 97 Militia Immaculata, 188, 204 Millennium Novena, 229, 230–32, 274, 307nn15,16 “Miracle on the Vistula,” 191–92 missionary work: in eastern borderlands, 37, 123; in medieval Lithuania, 37; in medieval Poland, 1–4, 9–10, 11, 12–14, 17–18; in modern Poland, 262; among pagan Prussians, 4, 15, 35; among Polish diaspora, 183, 264; mixed marriages, 150–51 modernist controversy, 176–77 Modrzewski, Andrzej Frycz, 85, 86 Mogilev, Archdiocese of, 140–41 Mongol invasion, 20, 24, 29, 44 Mortęska, Abbess Magdalena, 95 Mościcki, Provincial Melchior, 95 Nasz Dziennik, 269 National Democracy (Endeks), 169–70, 193–94, 196–97, 215, 258 National Education Commission, 134 National Radical Movement Falanga, 197 nationalism, 144; Polish, 145, 147–48, 151, 153; Ukrainian, 201

inde x 345 NATO, 230, 256, 272 Neighbors (Gross), 268–69 Nicholas I (tsar), 151 Niepokalanów, 188–89, 199 Nihil novi commune consensus, 58, 78–79 “Non possumus,” 225–26 Norbert of Xanten, Saint, 10 Nostra Aetate, 244 November Uprising (1830–31), 148–49, 150, 156, 157 Novus Ordo Mass, 240, 241, 265 Nowa Huta, 245–46 Nycz, Archbishop Kazimierz, 262 Odrowąz, Bishop Iwo, 36–37 Oleśnicki, Bishop Zbigniew, 55–57, 62, 63–64, 65 On the Effective Functioning of Councils (Konarski), 132 On the Improvement of the Commonwealth (Modrzewski), 85 organic work, 150, 169, 182 Orthodox–Catholic relations: and Cossack uprising, 107; eighteenth century, 118, 132–33; and Gertruda’s prayer book, 18; late medieval, 54, 58, 72–75; nineteenth century, 141, 165; twentieth century, 200–1; and Union of Brest, 92–93 Ostpolitik, 233 Otto I (emperor), 3 Otto III (emperor), 6, 12 Ottomans, 54, 56, 66, 92, 109, 122, 136 Our Lady Queen of Poland Church (Kraków), 245–46 Paetz, Archbishop Juliusz, 271 paganism in Poland, 1, 2, 7, 15–17, 154 Palikot’s Movement (RP), 259 papacy: and conciliarism, 61; connection to medieval church in Poland, 8, 9–10, 28, 31–32, 33, 40–41, 48, 57; and election of bishops, 28; and founding of

University of Krakow, 66; and Protestantism, 85–86, 111; and Teutonic Knights, 30, 60–61; and ultramontanism, 156; and Western Schism, 61–62 Papczyński, Saint Stanisław, 119 parish network: communist era, 234; early modern, 117–18; interwar, 199; medieval, 11–12, 32–33, 64–65; nineteenth century, 171; and Polish diaspora, 182–84, 200, 264 Parliamentary Sermons (Skarga), 91 partitioning of Poland, 130, 133, 139–40 patriotic priest movement, 223, 228, 230 Paul VI (pope), 230, 232, 233, 234, 235 Paulines, 14, 65–66, 73–74 Pax, 223, 224, 228 peasantry: and Confederation of Bar, 130; and Constitution of May 3, 138; economic difficulties of, 112; emancipation of, 164; enserfment of, 39, 83; identity of, 160, 168–69, 178, 179, 186; and Kościuszko, 139–40; migration of, 182; political parties of, 193; religious fidelity of, 136, 177; and Ściegienny, 151; well-being of, 175 Pelczar, Archbishop Józef, 172, 176–77, 181 penance, 41, 125 People’s Republic of Poland: boundaries of, 219; demography of, 219; economy of, 233, 237; education in, 222, 224; politics of, 219–20, 222–23, 227–28, 230, 233–34, 236–38 Peter’s Pence, 27 Piarists, 118–19, 123 Piasecki, Bolesław, 197, 223 Piast dynasty, 7, 26, 48, 50, 52, 56 Pieronek, Bishop Tadeusz, 260

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Pietrzyk, Wojciech, 246 pilgrimage: to Church of Our Lady of the Holy Linden in Masuria, 128; to Corpus Christi Church in Poznań, 99; interwar, 202; to Jasna Góra, 66, 227; to Marian shrines, 123; partition era, 157, 179; during World War II, 211 Piłsudski, Józef, 170, 189–90, 191, 193–94, 196, 197–98 PiS (Law and Justice), 258 Pius IX (pope), 165, 179 Pius X (pope), 176, 179 Pius XI (pope), 193–94, 195, 196, 203, 204, 305n36 plague, 59, 70 Płock, Diocese of, 9, 45, 61, 270 PO (Civic Platform), 259 Podolski, Archbishop Gabriel, 133 Polanians, 1–3, 6 Polish Brethren (Socinians), 88, 113 Polish Cathedral Style, 183 Polish diaspora, 150, 181–85, 199–200, 205, 243, 263–64 Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth: boundaries of, 81–82, 108, 133, 139, 140; economy of, 82–83, 112; founding of, 79; politics of, 79–80, 108–12, 131–34, 136–40; society of, 82–83, 111–12, 113–16 Polish messianism, 122, 155–56, 157 Polish National Alliance, 184 Polish National Catholic Church, 185 Polish Socialist Party (PPS), 170, 193, 207 Polish–Soviet War, 190–91, 207 Polish Trade Association, 205 Polish United Workers’ Party (PZPR), 219, 227, 233, 249 Polonia, 150, 181–85, 199–200, 205, 243, 263–64 Polska Żyje, 212 Pomerania, 2, 4, 9–10, 29–30, 31, 50, 57, 59

Poniatowski, Stanisław August (king), 131–32, 136, 139 Popiełuszko, Father Jerzy, 218–19, 238 Poznań, 1, 140, 143, 227; cathedral, 153–54; Diocese of, 28, 63, 146, 211; ecclesial link with Gniezno, 146, 198, 220; education in, 97, 148, 149, 172 Prawda, 212, 214 prayer: Apostolate of Prayer, 204; Carmelites at Auschwitz, 268; Divine Mercy Chaplet, 248; Gertruda’s prayer book, 18; Liturgy of the Hours, 34, 64; and Mariavites, 180; and monastic life, 24, 101; novena, 229; for Poland, 192; rosary, 99, 179, 204, 305n31; to saints, 66, 71, 157; teaching about, 65, 97 Přemyslid dynasty, 3 primate, office of, 63–64, 220, 264–65 Protestant movements, 83–92, 113–14 Prussia, Kingdom of, 133, 139–41, 146 Prussians (pagan tribe), 1, 4, 15, 16, 29–30, 35 Przegląd Poznański, 156 Przybylski, Father Bernard, 222 Przyłuski, Archbishop Leon, 152 PZPR (Polish United Workers’ Party), 219, 227, 233, 249 Quadragesimo Anno (Pius XI), 204 Raczyński, Archbishop Ignacy, 142, 143 Radio Free Europe, 218 Radio Maryja, 256–57, 258, 261, 269, 272–73 Radziszewski, Father Idzi, 202 Radziwiłł, Cardinal Jerzy, 91 Radziwiłł, Mikołaj “the Black,” 91 Ratti, Cardinal Achille. See Pius XI (pope) regalism, 57, 58, 78, 80–81 Reichsgau Wartheland, 210–11

inde x 347 religious toleration, 77, 84–86, 92–93, 112–16, 133 Renaissance in Poland, 66–67, 100–2 Repnin, Nikolai, 132–33 Rerum Novarum (Leo XIII), 174–75 Resurrectionists, 156–57, 173, 184 Revival (student organization), 197, 304n27 Romanesque architecture, 20, 46–47 Romanticism, 152–58 rosary, 99, 179, 204, 305n31 Royal Prussia, 57, 78, 87, 114 Russia: influence on Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, 109–10, 131, 133, 138–41; policies in partition era, 140–41, 145–46, 148–49, 164–65, 189–91 Russification, 164 Rutski, Metropolitan Josyf Veliamyn, 93 Rycerz Niepokalanej, 203 Rydzyk, Father Tadeusz, 257, 258, 261 sacraments, 69–70; baptism, 1, 49, 53, 74–75, 125–26, 207, 214, 229; confession, 41, 48, 70, 174, 180; Eucharist, 18, 98, 123, 174, 179, 265; marriage, 40–41, 126, 150–51, 180, 259 Sacred Heart of Jesus, devotion to, 122–23, 204 Saint Andrew’s Church (Kraków), 20, 21 Saint Anne’s Church (Vilnius), 72 Saint Kazimierz’s Church (Warsaw), 127 Saint Mary’s Church (Gdańsk), 72 Saint Mary’s Church (Kraków), 72 Saint Procopius’s Church (Strzelno), 46 Saint Stanisław Kostka’s Church (Warsaw), 218 Saint Stanisław Kostka’s Parish (Chicago), 183 Saints Cyril and Methodius Seminary (Orchard Lake, MI), 184 Salesians, 199 sanacja, 196

Sandomierz Agreement (1570), 88 Sapieha, Cardinal Adam, 172, 197–98, 212, 213–14, 222 SB (Security Service), 218, 234, 269–70 scholasticism, 67, 153 school strikes, 166 Ściegienny, Father Piotr, 151–52 Second Polish Republic: boundaries of, 190–91; politics of, 190, 193–98; society of, 192–93 Second Vatican Council, 230, 235, 239–40, 241–42, 244, 248 secularization, 186, 208, 239–40, 242, 243, 262 Security Service (SB), 218, 234, 269–70 Sejm: communist era, 223, 228–29, 238; disfunction of, 110; growing power of, 58, 78–80; interwar era, 196; and legislation concerning religion, 77, 85–86, 113; partition era, 143, 145; and the partitions, 133, 139; and political reform, 132, 136–38; postcommunist era, 252–53, 256, 258–59 Self-Defense of the Republic of Poland (SRP), 257–58, 259, 272 Semeneńko, Father Piotr, 156–57, 171, 173 Sendler, Irena, 215, 216 Sheptytskyi, Andrei, 201 Shoah, 214: complicity with, 214; memory of, 244–45, 267–69; resistance to, 214–16 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 178 Silesia: Bohemian control over, 50; ethnic identity in Upper, 211; German Catholics in Upper, 200; industrialization in, 171; medieval, 2–4, 9, 24, 29, 33; Piekary shrine in, 157; plebiscite in, 190, 192; Protestantism in, 87; temperance movement in, 175; vitality of Catholicism in Upper, 199

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Siostrzeńcewicz, Archbishop Bohusz, 140 Skarga, Father Piotr, 80, 91 Skórkowski, Bishop Karol, 148 SLD (Democratic Left Alliance), 253, 254, 258, 271 Sobieski, Jan (king), 109, 122, 167 social Catholicism. See Catholic social teaching Society of Christ for Poles Living Abroad, 200 Solidarity Electoral Action (AWS), 256, 257 Solidarity movement, 218, 237–38, 256, 257, 269 Sołtyk, Bishop Kajetan, 117, 133 Sopoćko, Michał, 204, 248 Soviet Union: communist era, 219, 231, 237, 238; interwar era, 195, 207; Poles living in, 200; and the Second World War, 210, 211–12 Springtime of Nations, 152 SRP (Self-Defense of the Republic of Poland), 257–58, 259, 272 Stalinism, 219, 222–26 Stanek, Father Józef, 212 Stanisław of Kraków, Saint, 8, 11, 42–43, 45, 138, 179, 236 Staszic, Father Stanisław, 137 Stein, Edith. See Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, Saint Stojałowski, Father Stanisław, 175–76, 179 Stomma, Stanisław, 202 Sulejów Abbey, 47 Sunday observance, 19, 124 Sweden, 80, 82, 106, 108–10, 113, 136 Świerad, Saint Andrzej, 14 Swieżawski, Stefan, 202 szlachta, 39; “golden freedom,” 77, 83, 84, 110; power of, 56, 78, 91–92, 111; Sarmatian culture, 82, 113, 121 Szymon of Lipnica, Saint, 70–71

temperance movement, 175 Teodorowicz, Archbishop Józef, 201 Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, Saint, 268 Teutonic Knights, 29–30, 50, 54, 57, 60–61, 87 thaw, 227, 228, 229 Thietmar of Merseberg, Bishop, 3 Third Polish Republic: politics of, 252–59, 271–74; society of, 261–62, 274 Thirteen Years’ War, 57 Thoughts of a Modern Pole (Dmowski), 169–70 Tischner, Father Józef, 254, 255 tithe, 16, 32, 33, 70, 84, 87 Tomicki, Bishop Piotr, 78, 88 Towiański, Andrzej, 155–56 Traugutt, Romuald, 179 Treaty of Riga, 191 Trent, Council of, 89, 95, 97 Truszkowska, Mother Maria Angela, 173 Turowicz, Jerzy, 197, 202, 222, 228, 260, 261 TV Trwam, 256, 261, 272 Tygodnik Powszechny, 222, 228, 241, 244, 260, 261 Tyniec monastery, 13–14 Uchański, Archbishop Jakub, 79, 86 Ukraine, 5, 54, 201 ultramontanism, 156, 163 Uniates. See Greek Catholics Union of Brest (1596), 92–93, 104, 107 Union of Florence (1439), 58, 75, 92 Union of Lublin, 79–80 Union of Polish Roman Catholics, 184 University of Kraków (Jagiellonian University), 55, 62, 66, 134, 177 Urban IV (pope), 32 Vasa dynasty, 80–81 Vatican II. See Second Vatican Council

inde x 349 Verbum, 206 Vilnius, 100, 107, 139, 140; (Arch) diocese of, 59, 141, 198; cathedral at, 53, 100; interreligious encounters in, 87, 126; Saint Anne’s Church in, 72; University of, 149, 202 Vistula Land, 164 Vojtěch, Saint, 4–6; combating paganism, 15; cult of, 10, 17, 19, 42, 46; as patron saint of Poland, 42, 46, 102, 103, 179 Volhynia, 50, 54, 191 Wałęsa, Lech, 237, 253–54, 255 War of the Monks (Krasicki), 135 Warmia, 31, 88, 96, 135 wars of religion, 86, 128 Warsaw: (Arch)diocese of, 146, 198, 265; Battle of (1920), 191; as capital, 82; cathedral in, ix, 269; ecclesial link with Gniezno, 220; education in, 149, 165, 202; Ghetto, 214, 215; during Kościuszko Uprising, 139; razing of Orthodox cathedral in, 201; rebuilding after the Deluge, 127; during Swedish Deluge, 108 Wawel Cathedral: and Florian’s relics, 43–44; fourteenth-century renovation of, 72; Jadwiga’s coronation in, 53; Jadwiga’s wedding in, 49; and jubilee year in 1451, 70; Kaczyński’s burial in, 251; Mickiewicz’s reburial in, 160–61; Piłsudski’s burial in, 197–98; and Stanisław’s relics, 45; and Zygmunt Chapel, 102 western and northern territories, 219; ecclesial organization of, 220–21, 223, 224, 228, 234; and Polish bishops’ letter, 230–31; religious weakness of, 243 Western Schism, 61–62 white eagle, 30, 143, 158 Wielgus, Archbishop Stanisław, 270

Więż, 228, 241 Wilson, President Woodrow, 189 Wincenty of Kielce, 43 witchcraft, prosecution of, 115–16 Władysław III (king), 56 Władysław IV (king), 80–81, 93, 107 Władysław Łokietek (king), 30 Włocławek, Diocese of, 10, 20, 86, 221 Włodkowic, Paweł, 60–61 Wojtyła, Cardinal Karol: and communist-era politics, 234; and Divine Mercy devotion, 248; episcopal appointment of, 230; and Focolare, 249; and Our Lady Queen of Poland Church, 245–46; seminary formation of, 213; and Vatican II, 241. See also John Paul II (pope) Wolicki, Archbishop Teofil, 148, 153 World War I, 189–90 World War II, 210–13 Woroniecki, Father Jacek, 202 Wysłouch, Father Izydor, 176 Wyspiański, Stanisław, 167–68 Wyszyński, Cardinal Stefan: and clergy cohesion, 240–41; episcopal appointments of, 221; imprisonment of, 226, 227–28; and Millennium Novena, 229, 232; Pax, 224; and Stalinist crackdown, 224–26; on Polish history, 1, 274–75; and Vatican II, 241; and Warsaw’s cathedral, ix; in World War II, 212 Załuski, Bishop Andrzej, 117 Załuski, Bishop Józef, 117, 133 Zawieyski, Jerzy, 228 Zdziechowski, Marian, 177 Zebrzydkowski, Mikołaj, 80, 99 Znak, 228–29 Zygmunt I Stary (king), 78–79, 85 Zygmunt II August (king), 79, 93, 95 Zygmunt III Vasa (king), 80, 91, 95