Political differences remain, but a happy, confident Catholicism unites the Poles
HOW MANY statues of Pope John Paul does it take to forge a national consciousness? A thousand? Ten thousand? Who knows? A man who set himself the task of counting the number to be found in Poland would need to have a lot of time at his disposal.
A happy and confident Catholicism is in plain sight everywhere in this country, in the well-filled churches in the cities, the wayside Marian shrines along country roads, the smiling priests in their long soutanes and the clutches of grave young nuns.
This Catholicism, and the nation's tragic history, together make up the dominant narrative: Poland was split into three and annihilated as an independent nation by its rapacious neighbours, Russia, Prussia and Austria. It recovered its independence for just 20 years; then it was snatched away again by the cruel collusion of Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia.
In 1945, with Germany defeated, it was betrayed by its western allies, who watched from a distance as the Polish bride was left to the tender mercies of the brutal Russian bridegroom, a marriage made in hell.
There is nothing much wrong with this narrative except it leaves some things out: the story of Poland's Jews is just one, though arguably the most important. Polish Catholicism, to an outside observer, seems warm, fulfilling and contented, perhaps content with itself.
The Mass for Solidarity celebrated on Monday evening by Gdansk archbishop Slavoj Leszek Glodz at St Bridget's basilica, with the attendance of President Lech Kaczynski, was the most impressive religious ceremony I have ever attended. Not the biggest and not the most lavish, but the most impressive.
It was not merely that Archbishop Glodz was assisted by two other bishops and a round dozen of priests. It was not the military brass band or even the veterans of Solidarity in their safety helmets or the veterans of the second World War with their fine uniforms and splendid beards and whiskers. It was not even that Archbishop Glodz spoke confidently without a note for well over half an hour. No, it was the congregation - men, women, well-scrubbed children - and their obvious plain and uncomplicated oneness with what was being celebrated on the altar.
A Polish Mass involves a lot more singing than an Irish one. The hymns (Hail Mary, Queen of Poland) are more anthemic and sung with spirit. The effect, particularly with the addition of the crescendos and stirring percussive emphases of an excellent brass band, was uplifting. There also seemed to be a large number of particularly sweet sopranos among the well-upholstered matrons who surrounded me. If I were to return to the bosom of the Church, to recline in the warm bath of belonging, it is certainly in Poland that it would happen.
Outside we waited as the Solidarity men and veterans lined up in rows with their flags and banners. Then there was a stir, and a phalanx of plainclothes security men moved slowly down the avenue, faces anxiously examining the crowd. The crowd applauded and roared "Bravo! Bravo!".
Somewhere in there we could spot the top of the red biretta of Archbishop Glodz. Perhaps President Kaczynski was there too. We could not tell. Neither is a tall man. We followed the crowd, marching in the centre of the procession as if we too were important invited guests. Soon we arrived at the shipyard where there were speeches.
More speeches. The words used in the basilica and the shipyard were similar:communism, liberalism, globalisation, Poland. The first three are bad.
President Kaczynski was wildly applauded by the now smaller crowd when he launched an attack on the free market policies of the current liberal (Civic Platform) government. How, he inquired, could such a huge plant as the Gdansk shipyards now employ so few people? He might ask his twin brother Jaroslav, who until quite recently was prime minister and would have had as much say as anyone in the matter.
With the president's speech finished many in the crowd started to leave, though some stayed to boo Gdansk's Civic Platform mayor, Pawel Adamovicz. Was Lech Walesa here, we asked? No, he would not come here: he would be booed too. Strange, Lech Walesa booed at Gdansk shipyards.
There is much to admire in Poland and particularly in its people: their moral seriousness - almost wholesomeness, their flair, their care for their traditions and their talent for work and, it must be said, trading and capitalism. But it is good also to see some salt as well as sweetness in the mix, some difference of opinion, some challenge to the threat of uniformity, of single belief.
And how many statues of John Paul does it take to make the nation? I am sorry, we cannot say. It's a mystery.