The Acolyte and the Catholic Church

Jedi, predator priests, and broken systems.

Spoilers ahead.

Trigger Warning: this post contains references to the sexual assault and abuse of children by clergy.

Introduction

There are plenty of reasons to dislike the Acolyte that have been well-documented through the very public review bombing of the show (really, Star Wars fans??). But despite this online displeasure, the story does, in fact, do what Sci-Fi is supposed to: show us a reflection of ourselves. SF has a long history of social commentary disguised as gadgetry, plot devices, or theme, and the Acolyte tells the story of systemized religion and power dynamics — a story that, dare I say it, should have been told in the prequel trilogy, which could have set up the humanist Qui-Gon-Jinn against the rigid traditions of Mace Windu, Yoda, and the rest of the high council.

In Episode III we could have had a political thriller with undertones of the separation of church & state, the ethics of religious indoctrination, and the power of the self. In the film’s novelization by Matt Stover, Anakin faces pressure from both the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic and the Jedi council to act in ways that further their own interests. The fall of Anakin Skywalker, if told solely from the perspective of Anakin Skywalker, could have been a dark, twisting plotline where he slowly realizes that no one close to him (except perhaps Kenobi & Padme) has his best interests at heart, therein waking him up to the grooming behaviors of Palpatine and the religious manipulation of the Jedi.

Instead, we got “I don’t like sand.”

The Acolyte, released at a cultural moment of religious deconstruction, attempts to tell the story that Lucas should have spun around the Chosen One.

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Star Wars fans have grown up since 2005. We’ve seen it with Andor, with Ahsoka, and now with The Acolyte. We as fans are connecting with more complex storylines and more difficult themes. Gone are the days of black and white. Now, the heroes we see on-screen are shades of light gray; the villains, shades of darkening black.

Andor illustrates the brutality of the dictatorship that is the Empire; the total loss of personhood and freedom under an authoritarian state. The Mandalorian posits that the galaxy is an ugly, dangerous place, but there are good people who try to do the right thing. Ahsoka, the fallen-away Jedi, tells us that not all parts of the lives we cast off are bad, but some parts deserved to be left behind.

Enter the Acolyte, a show that is ultimately about a failed system that still retains great political power — and how people within a failed system perpetuate that system’s failure. It is the precursor and foreshadowing to the fall of Anakin Skywalker.

We’re used to seeing the Jedi as this force for good: the bright light against the darkness, above reproach. This picture, painted with Christ-figures and chosen ones who always make the right decisions (so long as they follow the Jedi code), both defined the franchise and reflected the cultural hopefulness of the 70s, 80s, and 90s.

Then, in the 2000s, we got the prequels. It was easy to tell the good guys from the bad because, conveniently, the bad guys telegraphed their evil with red lightsabers, deformed bodies, and face tattoos. Mentors always had their students’ best interests at heart, and the Jedi order knew what was best for the galaxy because they had been ordained by the Force as guardians. This last sentiment, especially, is much how I was taught to trust the Catholic Church as a child — both the institution and the people who worked for her.

“The Jedi are the guardians of peace and freedom in the galaxy.”

“The Jedi are selfless. They only care about others.”

“Priests receive special gifts from the Holy Spirit to enact their ministry”

“In the confessional, the priest ceases to be human and acts as a direct conduit to God.”

“Priests want to help you. You can tell them anything. You can trust them. They’ve heard it all before. You can tell them your most shameful sins, and they will forget you’ve ever told them.”

But in 2002, the world was confronted the horrific reality of clergy abuse, publicized for the first time in the Boston Sex Abuse Trials. This lead to a cascade of accusations, which lead to meetings, official inquiries, updated policies, and promises by the Church that they would do better.

Except they didn’t, in most cases.

Instead of abusers being reprimanded, laicized, and turned over to the authorities, victims of predator priests were still being silenced. Crimes covered up. Abusers were shuffled into different parishes where they started abusing all over again, many times with the knowledge of their superiors. Don’t believe me? Check out the 463-Page Maryland Attorney General’s report, published in 2023. It details this culture of abuse and cover-up in the Archdiocese of Baltimore. And that’s just one Archdiocese. There are 32 in the US alone.

And, unfortunately, this is not “just” a United States Problem, as credible allegations of the systemic cover up of abuse internationally are commonplace. See the 2,500 page report the Catholic Church in France released in 2021 admitting that, since 1950, over 216,000 (yes, you read that number right) children were victims of clergy sexual abuse. The report also admits that there were between 2,900 and 3,200 abusers during that time.

And that’s just in France.

So, what the hell does this have to do with Star Wars?

The Jedi & The Catholic Church

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Leslie Headland knew exactly what she was doing when she wrote Sol’s character. On the surface, he appears to be a likable man, trying to do what he feels is best in the world. He’s the picture of everything a Jedi should be — he’s calm, collected, competent. He shows genuine emotion and seems to wear his intentions on his sleeve. He’s a little Qui-Gon-Jinn, a little Obi-Wan-Kenobi. He just feels trustworthy to the viewer.

I loved his character. He was a Jedi who seemed more human, less rigid, more open to taking risks than the headstrong, dogmatic Knight, Yord, Master Venestra, or Sol’s [certifiably badass] apprentice, Jecki. He seemed like a human you’d want to get to know, a Jedi who would do the right thing. Someone willing to see past the institution’s rigidity to make a difference in the galaxy.

And I think Sol believed these things about himself, too. Which makes him all the more dangerous when he thinks his actions are ordained by the Force instead of reflections of his own desires. Sol wields tremendous power, as do all Jedi, which is why their code is centered around selflessness and the relinquishing of emotions. They are supposed to bend to the will of the Force, not impose their own will on the world.

As the show progresses, it’s communicated to the viewer that Sol has not yet taken a Padawan learner, and when he sees two vulnerable children use the Force on a planet that’s supposed to be deserted, uncovering a Force-cult of witches, he sets out to save them from this perceived threat.

Very quickly, he tells Indara, the Jedi Master directing the mission, that he feels a “Special Connection” to Osha, one of the twins, even though he hasn’t spoken more than fifteen words to her. This is common Star Wars speak for “the Force is guiding us together,” but it should set off the alarm bells for the viewer: this 35-year-old man is openly admitting he feels a “special connection” to a 9-year-old girl that he’s just met five minutes ago. Strip away the Jedi robes and mythos for one second, and the statement is at best cringe, at worst predatory. But we — the audience, have been conditioned that the Jedi do what’s right. We can trust them. They are the protectors of freedom and justice and have special powers that help them minister to the vulnerable citizens of the galaxy.

Unfortunately for literally everyone in the show, Sol’s actions have far-reaching consequences, and eventually result in the death of the twins’ mother, the entire coven of witches, and the (apparent) death of Osha’s sister.

After the drama of the botched “rescue,” Indara (the Jedi Master in charge) decides that it’s in the best interest of the Jedi Order to lie about what happened and tell the Jedi Council that Osha’s sister, Mae, who is assumed dead at this time, caused all of this death. Sol then lies to Osha about what happened and takes her on as a Padawan, promising to train her in the Jedi arts, leaning into the a lie to build their relationship, which should be built on trust.

Sol rationalizes all this by convincing himself that he’s “protecting” his new Padawan from the truth and that he had the best intentions, but boy, have I heard that before from trusted religious leaders who turned out to be absolute snakes.

If you’ve been paying attention to the Catholic Church for more than five minutes, you know that the Church is really into the whole “avoid the appearance of scandal” thing. Despite what your parish priest might tell you, the Church has known for centuries the political power that it holds and, historically, it has done really, really well at leveraging that power into influencing the political landscape.

I mean, Pope Leo literally crowned Charlemagne as emperor of Rome. This doesn’t sound a big a deal at first blush, but imagine the image painted for the average Roman citizen, not to mention the rest of the world: Charlemagne the Great kneeling before the pope, who, by placing the crown on his head, makes him the Holy Roman Emperor. This solidified the Catholic Church’s position at the time as an institution: an institution with the authority to make kings.

During the High Republic Era in the Star Wars universe, the Jedi also have realized their political power and the power their image holds: pious, emotionless monks, who renounce all passion and desire to serve the Republic and the greater good. The scandal that Sol created: the fifty or so witches who were (unintentionally) murdered by the Jedi, the abduction of one of their children to be trained, and the apparent death of that child’s twin sister would shatter the image that the Jedi had created.

It’s no wonder Indara decided to go full-on Watergate.

To Sol’s credit, he wanted to tell Osha the truth, face the council (and likely a Senate inquiry into the Jedi), and accept the consequences of his actions. But he is overruled by his superior and, instead of doing what he knows is right, he obeys and allows the injustice to continue. After all, he got what he wanted, didn’t he? An apprentice.

In the season finale, everything unravels. Osha and her sister discover Sol’s deception. In her anger, Osha murders Sol and solidifies her journey to the dark side. Sol’s actions also have resulted in the deaths of his friend, Yord, his apprentice, Jecki, and multiple other Jedi, as well as exposing a Sith threat.

Upon learning of this, Master Venestra, a Jedi close to the high council, perpetuates the cycle of deception. She paints Sol as a rogue Jedi who snapped, murdered his apprentice, closest friends, and betrayed everything the Jedi stood for, echoing Indara’s portrait of Mae 10 years prior and her cover-up tactics: find a scapegoat who cannot defend themselves to protect the image of the Jedi.

The senate inquiry committee (formed hastily in the penultimate episode) accept this lie as sufficient evidence to close their investigation, offering further commentary on the failure of systems to enact justice.

The Archdiocese of Baltimore

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The idea of predator priests have been with me for as long as I can remember. My parents were married by a priest named Fr. Brian Cox. In 2002, he was named in the Archbishop’s report as having sexual contact with multiple early-teenage boys and eventually had to register as a sex offender and was laicized.

The accusations go as far back as 1984. According to my own father, the revelation that Brian Cox was a predator shocked the local community. Cox had ingratiated himself to my father’s family after my grandmother passed away when my father was in high school. According to my father, Cox appeared to not just be a good priest, but a good man, often visiting after his mother died and checking on my grandfather, taking groups of young men to his farm for quality time, and making himself available to the community.

According to the diocese’s own records, in the late 1980s Cox tried to talk to a superior about his pedophilia, who told him: “You’re a fine priest. Don’t worry about it.”

Fortunately, I never met him, or if I did, I was too young to remember. He was a bogeyman of sorts to me — the representation of every parent’s worst fear: a trusted person in a position of authority who abuses that power to their own ends. In 2012, I met him at my grandfather’s funeral. An old man walked into the funeral home, stayed for several minutes under glares from the men in the family, and then left. I never saw him again.

There are numerous documentaries and podcasts that document the failure of the Church to bring predators to justice:

The Keepers on Netflix follows the story of Fr. James Maskell, who worked at Seton Keough high school in Baltimore, abused countless teen girls, and murdered the a nun who worked to expose him. Despite numerous women coming forward to speak to Maskell’s abuse, the Church allowed him to continue in his “ministry,” simply transferring him to different parishes around the Archdiocese and even paying off the police force to look the other way.

Dear Alana is an investigative podcast that details the mental anguish that conversion therapy had on Alanna Chen, a high school student, at the hands of church officials. She ultimately took her own life.

The Turning is a podcast that interviews former members of the Sisters of Charity, detailing sexual and physical abuse by those in positions of power within the order: credible allegations ignored by Mother Theresa herself.

Believer is a Substack by journalist Jenn Morson, detailing the sexual and emotional abuse a Franciscan University student experienced at the hands of her spiritual director and university chaplain, David Morrier. Despite numerous reports to university officials, nothing was done, and people in Morrier’s inner circle, including university employees and professors, enabled and assisted in the abuse.

Believer hit especially close to home for me because I attended Franciscan University while these heinous acts were taking place. David Morrier was the chaplain of the track team. I was the captain of the track team. Morrier was my roommate’s spiritual director for a time. Morrier touted himself as the “campus exorcist.” Students, myself included, thought he was a little strange but, hey, isn’t that what happens when you cast out demons on the reg?

Morrier hid behind this strangeness: the exorcisms, the image he built for himself, so he could move with impunity and without fear of students’ suspicions. All the while, he quietly subjected a student to sexual abuse while grooming countless others. And yet, even after that abuse was reported multiple times to university officials, (who, by the way, told the victim they’d “pray for her” and “to be careful what she said so as not to tarnish the name of a good priest”) the university threw Morrier a going away party when he was transferred.

In 2022, David Morrier pled guilty to sexual battery. He is now a registered sex offender as a result of the courageous actions of his victim and the work of the Steubenville Police department. He lives in Montana at a home with other priests accused of sexual assault.

Conclusion

All of these examples are real-life illustrations of what the Acolyte attempted to portray. The show is WAY less about “The Jedi abduct children, HAHA religion is evil,” and more about how unregulated systems allow evil to flourish. I argue that this is not “wokism” (vomit) but a necessary story to tell for our cultural moment.

I’m sure there are Catholics fuming at this point in the essay. I’m sure someone, somewhere, at some point, will send me that article that alleges that Catholic priests actually have a lower incidence of sexual abuse than other religious denominations. I’m sure some of you will send me articles about how secular organizations also have rampant sexual abuse, potentially at greater incidence than Catholic priests.

You’re missing the fucking point.

Systems either work or they don’t. They either produce a desirable result or an undesirable one. Right now, religious systems are giving us undesirable results. To hope and pray for a different result from the same system is insanity. Until the Catholic Church address the root cause of abuse, abusers will continue to flourish. And, most often, abusers like Brian Cox and Dave Morrier seek out trusted positions of power in organizations that absolutely do not want their image tarnished as “good, moral, upstanding leaders with your best interests at heart” specifically because those organizations are so concerned at maintaining their public image.

Despite its shoddy writing at times, the Acolyte did something brave that George Lucas didn’t have the courage or creative vision to do in 2005: show the dark underbelly of an organization touted as a “net good” for the galaxy. But, unfortunately, we don’t live in a galaxy far, far away.

For me, the Acolyte is about the Catholic Church, but it doesn’t have to be. Its message is far-reaching, transposable, and could be a commentary on any other failed institutions.

Institutions and systems aren’t perfect simply because you believe they are ordained by God. That’s the sort of thinking that got us into this mess. All systems, whether religious, systems of government, corporations, political parties, nonprofits, and economic systems should be criticized and questioned — not for the sake of questioning — but for the sake of the people dependent on them. For the sake of humanity. And we should not be afraid to discard systems that no longer serve us simply because they’ve always been there.

Many Catholics will make the excuse for the church that “it’s a perfect institution filled with flawed people.”

Quite honestly, that’s bullshit.

Let the past die. Kill it if you have to.