Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 0.5 nanoseconds since my last bout of sheer, unadulterated fury at the state of European politics. The Holy Father himself, Pope Leo the Whatever-We’re-Calling-Him-This-Week, has parachuted into the Canary Islands to have a good, long gander at the migrant crisis. A crisis, I might add, that His Holiness’s flock in Britain has been bleating about for years, demanding the EU do something, anything, other than sitting on its hands and pretending the Mediterranean is just a particularly wet motorway.
But let us not be churlish. The Pope’s mission is, on the surface, a noble one. He is there to witness the suffering, to offer comfort, to remind us that these are human beings, not just statistics on a spreadsheet. And yet, one cannot shake the feeling that this is also a masterclass in political theatre. The Pope, in his pristine white cassock, stands on the shores of Lanzarote or wherever, while a few miles away, a rubber dinghy packed with souls bobs on the waves. He waves. They wave back. It is all very touching, very cinematic. The sort of thing that gets you a Best Director nomination at the Vatican Oscars.
Meanwhile, back in Blighty, our beloved leaders have been performing their own little dance. They have been demanding, with the kind of righteous indignation usually reserved for finding a scone without clotted cream, that the EU take action. Action, they cry! Do something! Build a wall! No, not a wall. That would be too obvious. Perhaps a moat? Filled with crocodiles? No, no, the crocodiles would need visas. It is all so terribly complicated.
And so the Pope descends, like a dove, or possibly a very large albatross, to do what politicians cannot: look a human being in the eye and acknowledge their existence. He will wash feet, he will pray, he will probably say something about the Good Samaritan. All of which is admirable, all of which is necessary. But let us not pretend that this is a solution. This is a sticking plaster on a gaping wound. The wound is caused by war, climate change, economic collapse. The plaster is a prayer and a photo op.
Of course, the cynic in me, the man whose blood is 40% gin and 60% righteous indignation, suspects the Pope’s mission is also about shoring up his own dwindling flock. The Church is losing relevance faster than a snowflake in a sauna. What better way to remind people you exist than by turning up at the most tragic place on Earth and looking suitably concerned? It is a PR stunt, albeit a very well-meaning one.
But here is the real kicker. The British government, which has been so vocal about the EU’s inaction, is now conspicuously silent. They cannot very well criticise the Pope, can they? That would be a PR disaster. And so they smile, they nod, they mutter something about “welcome initiatives” while privately fuming that a man in a funny hat has done more in a weekend than they have in a decade.
The migrants themselves, I imagine, are less impressed. They do not need prayers. They need jobs, homes, safety. They need a future. But the Pope offers them hope, which is something. It is more than the politicians offer, which is usually just a clipboard and a form to fill in.
So, here is the gospel according to Biff. The Pope’s mission is a beautiful, hopeless, necessary gesture. It is a reminder that we are all human, that we all deserve dignity. But it is also a reminder of how utterly useless our leaders are. They talk, they demand, they blame. The Pope acts, even if his actions are largely symbolic. I will raise a glass of airport gin to that. Cheers, Your Holiness. Now, about that migrant crisis...
