The Uprising (The Movie)

 

The Uprising is a 2026 action film written, produced, and directed by Paul Greenglass and starring Andrew Garfield as the "Ploughman." It is a cinematic dramatization of the 1381 English "Peasants' Revolt" (historically more accurately termed "Wat Tyler's Rebellion") which occurred in the aftermath of the Bubonic Plague ("the Black Death") that had killed off half the country's population, starting in June 1348. The violent events of 1381 have long been considered a major crisis moment in English history.

In 1381, England's king was the 14-year-old Richard II, too young to rule on his own, although he did in fact play a prominent part in the rebellion's actual events. In the film he (Woody Norman) is haunted by terrifying nightmares, which in some sense reflect the haunting of the entire realm in the aftermath of the plague (referred to in the film as "the sickness"). He has an ambivalent relationship with his aristocratic council, which governs in his name, as does his mother, Joan of Kent (Katherine Waterston). Meanwhile, in addition to the economic dislocations caused by the plague, England is engaged in the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453) with France and desperately needs more revenue, requiring an increase in taxes. Unable politically to tax the Church or the rising merchant class in London, the royal council (composed apparently of nobles and bishops) increases taxes on the peasants, who complain to the local tax collector that they can no longer survive if they have to pay higher taxes.

Enter a "Ploughman" (Andrew Garfield), a widowed farmer whose wife and children had died in the plague. The collector demands that the Ploughman pay death taxes again on his family since he lacks documentary proof of their death seven years prior. The enraged Ploughman accosts the tax collector, and kills a soldier who tries to arrest him. This inspires peasants' revolts across the country, led by the Ploughman and actual historical characters from 1381 - a former soldier Wat Tyler (Cosmo Jarvis), and a previously imprisoned, apparently apocalyptically inclined priest, John Ball (Jamie Bell). The rebels march on London, where complete chaos erupts, while the rebels (mainly the Ploughman) negotiate with the King, whom the rebels treat with the veneration that his sacred status confers and that somehow sets him apart from the hated rich. Richard apparently gives in to the rebels and seems to betray his Council. In the end he seems to ally with the rising merchant class, represented by the Lord Mayor of London. The King then betrays the peasants and has Wat Tyler killed. Many of the rebels are massacred, but the Ploughman and a handful of associates escape.

One year later, the king and his mother are traveling through the forest when they are ambushed by the Ploughman and his fellow outlaws. Ultimately the Ploughman spares the King's life, leaving him to live in fear. The film ends with the King haunted as he was at the beginning. This fictional ending seems to evoke the legend of Robin Hood, who, however, historically predated these events by almost two centuries. (Historically, Richard II was ultimately deposed in 1399 by Henry IV, which remotely set the stage for the later Wars of the Roses)

The 14th-century aftermath of the plague was a period of economic dislocation and political transition. The merging merchant class were perhaps the prime beneficiaries (as the film suggests), although historically the peasants also benefited since their reduced numbers increased their power as an economic class, despite repeated legal efforts to keep them in their previous subordinate status. Their violent revolt was a long-remembered component of the chaos that occurred at that time. It continues to fascinate historians (especially those given to class analysis). The film avoids overt references to contemporary populist responses to today's economic and political conflicts, and the rebels' veneration of the sacred person of the King keeps the film firmly situated in its medieval ambience. On the other hand, the setting of the story in a haunted world traumatized by plague perhaps gives it a certain resonance in today's traumatized post-pandemic society, similarly haunted by its own versions of elite corruption and populist rage.

The Only Bridge to Heaven

 

Twenty-five years ago today, this church was filled to overflowing, following the infamous terrorist attack which we had experienced in this city just three days before. Even more than Christmas Midnight Mass, this was the occasion when I saw this great church so completely filled to capacity - filled incidentally as it was originally designed to be. But, on that unforgettable September day, when we assembled that day for Mass, we did what the Church always does on September 14. We celebrated the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the symbol of our salvation. As our first pastor, Paulist founder Servant of God Isaac Hecker, expressed it, The only bridge to heaven is over the cross.  The gates of paradise are only opened with the key of the cross. [Unpublished Spiritual Notebook, 1854]

Historically, this feast commemorates the dedication, on September 13, 335, of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem – built by the Roman Emperor Constantine over the traditionally recognized sites of Christ’s crucifixion and of his burial and resurrection. The next day, the relic of the True Cross (which had been discovered by Constantine’s mother, the Empress Saint Helena in 320) was publicly venerated in the new basilica. Eventually, September 14 became the feast celebrated today throughout the Universal Church.

On one level, this feast was a celebration of Christianity’s triumph over Roman paganism. The date for the dedication of the Jerusalem Basilica may have been chosen to counteract the anniversary of the dedication of the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in Rome (the god known to the Greeks as Zeus, the Father of gods and men). That Roman site is, ironically, now the site of the Vittoriano, Italy’s 1911 monument to King Victor Emmanuel II, the first king of united Italy. It was a monument to the triumph of modern secularism over religion and of the power of the rising state over the power of the declining Church.  In the vicissitudes of history, such short-term triumphs clearly come and go, part of our perennial political noise and our overwhelming obsession with power, domination, and control.

In contrast, however, what we celebrate today is Christ’s triumph over our sad history of cosmic evil and human sinfulness  – now transformed, once and for all, through the triumph of Christ’s cross.

Evil and sin do not happen simply by accident – and neither did the cross. It didn’t just happen to Jesus one day, like some inexplicable misfortune – like various sufferings and setbacks, which, when they happen in our own lives, we sometimes all too glibly refer to as “crosses.” Christ’s cross was a direct consequence of his confrontation with worldly power, domination, and control and became the means by which he overcame cosmic evil and human sin.

In Jesus, the cross has become our doorway to salvation. A dreaded instrument of disgraceful death, the cross is now, thanks to Jesus, our gateway to freedom and new life, a triumphant sign of glory. And that is why we celebrate the Cross. As Saint Augustine said in a sermon somewhere around the year 400, You’re a Christian, you carry on your forehead the cross of Christ [Sermon 302, 3].

In the familiar story we just heard, [Numbers 21:4b-9], God punished his perpetually complaining people with serpents, which bit the people so that many of them died. But, when Moses interceded on the people’s behalf, he was instructed to make an image of a serpent, mounted on a pole, and whenever anyone who had been bitten by a serpent looked at it, he lived.

Like the people in the desert, we experience all sorts of sufferings and setbacks and are prone to discouragement. But the mystery of the cross invites us to see our situation differently. It invites us to turn away from our obsessive, dead-end focus on ourselves, and to turn instead to Christ – to delight, as Saint Augustine said in that same sermon, not in the sign of the wood, but in the sign of the one hanging on it. 

The mystery of the cross invites us to turn away once and for all from our obsessive, dead-end focus on ourselves – from both our constant competition for power, wealth, status, and whatever else seems to excite us, and from the seemingly endless sufferings and setbacks that continue to break our hearts - and to turn instead to Christ, so that we may journey through the desert of this treacherous life with hope instead of fear, under the sign of the cross, which alone can conquer in our conflict-ridden, war-torn, terrorized, and religiously and politically polarized world.

Homily for the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 14, 2025.

 

A City United in Memory

 

On September 11, 2001, in the immediate aftermath of that morning's horror, Cardinal Edward Egan, New York's Archbishop at the time, celebrated a hastily arranged special Mass at Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Later, highlighting the extraordinary bravery, selflessness, and sacrifice of firefighters, police officers, and emergency medical workers (now recalled in a mural near the cathedral's main door), Egan highlighted how that terrible tragedy had revealed "New York at its best."

New York was at its best again, 25 years later, as the city came together this week to remember. The usual ceremonies took place at Ground Zero recalling that day's almost 3000 victims, and various commemorations took place around the city on the anniversary itself and in the days leading up to it. All four living former presidents — Joe Biden, Barack Obama, George W. Bush and Bill Clinton — and their First Ladies attended the Ground Zero ceremony, along with Vice President JD Vance. Former mayors attended along with the city's current mayor and other public officials.

On the eve of this anniversary, Saint Patrick's Cathedral again served as the city's spiritual heart. New York's new Archbishop, Ronald Hicks, flanked by concelebrating priests, bishops, and a cardinal (Tobin of Newark), celebrated a special Memorial Mass for families of those lost on 9/11, members of the city's uniformed services, and public officials (present and former). Seated in the very first row were former President Biden, New York Governor Kathy Hochul, and Mayor Zohran Mamdani. Watching the livestream, I was especially moved to see how the Archbishop pointedly stopped to greet the three of them as the procession arrived at the entrance of the sanctuary.

The presence of the three of them together in the front row, along with many other present and past public officials, was a vivid reminder of how united this city was in the immediate aftermath of the attacks and how united we could still be. Archbishop Hicks himself highlighted how in this city people of every religion and way of life "stand together, pray together, listen together, and seek the common good together." 

Another very important New Yorker, the present President of the United States, had also been invited, as was his Catholic-convert Vice President. Their absence added additional symbolism to the presence of the former President and of the state and city's current leaders. According to one published account of the evening, President Biden remained for an hour after the Mass, talking to members of the congregation who were there to remember their dead family members. Meanwhile, the presence of the city's first Muslim mayor was a powerful reminder of how this city has especially embodied the unique American experience of immigration (recalled and celebrated artistically in the murals at the cathedral's entrance) - the great American experience of diverse nations and religions coming together here to form something new and special. As Archbishop Hicks noted, one of the lessons from the events being remembered, is how "we need each other."

Needing each other is what causes fragile human beings to come together in families and civil society. Needing each other is the glue that holds a fragile society together and in the end its ultimate strength - something that sadly some of those who were not present at the cathedral Thursday night seem to have forgotten.

Photo: 9/11 Memorial Tablet at Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY.

25 Years

 

Church bells will ring throughout the city tomorrow morning at 8:46 a.m. to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the terrorist attack on New York, Washington, DC, and, by extension, the entire United States. That time - 8:46 a.m. - corresponds to the exact moment when the World Trade Center's North Tower was struck, a moment and a day which (as the saying goes) "will live in infamy." Tomorrow, as on each of these 25 somber anniversaries, the names of the almost 3000 people who lost their lives in that attack will be read out loud. Meanwhile, our own recollections inevitably turn to that terrible day 25 years ago, a day still marked in memory, so terrible to remember that it lacks even a name and is known only by its numerical date, 9/11.

On September 11, 2001, I was next door at the time of the attack, casting my vote in the NY Democratic party primary, preparing to nominate candidates eager to run for mayor to replace the then unpopular, lame-duck incumbent. It was an inadvertent coincidence, but it remains a reminder that it was our distinctively American constitutional democratic order that was attacked on that terrible day, that the American constitutional democratic order is still very much in jeopardy (albeit in different ways and maybe more from domestic rather than foreign threats), and that the defense of this exceptional constitutional democratic order is an ongoing responsibility which we dare not shirk.

It was a absolutely beautiful late-summer morning. Many of us who were here in New York then remember how the sunny serenity of an that beautiful late summer New York City morning was suddenly transformed into an experience of horror beyond anything most of us had ever imagined we’d see so close to home. And how quickly, everything changed! Our country and our city were being suddenly and savagely attacked, and we all got to see the ugly face of evil in a way my generation had hardly really experienced it before.

 

Soon, even the corner Starbucks shut down, as police barricades went up, closing our street to regular traffic. For days that stretched into weeks, we went around in a daze, past lowered flags, past churches and firehouses draped in black, past posted pictures of missing persons who would never be found, staring at the vacant place in the skyline, as military jets patrolled the now grimly gray, but otherwise empty sky. We watched over and over again as TV told and retold the story, punctuated by occasional accounts of heroic courage and poignantly loving final conversations – powerful lessons not just about how to face death, but how to live a life that makes sense.

 

We still remember – and mourn – those whose lives were wickedly cut short on that day of terror. Our ability to remember one another is one of the things that makes us most distinctly human. When we remember those who have died, we acknowledge our common humanity with them. And we also recognize our continued relationship. Remembering the dead is a fundamental and universal human need, which we neglect at our peril. (Benjamin Franklin is supposed to have said that, to understand a community, one should visit their cemetery.)

From earliest times (and down to today in the Church’s daily prayer and in every Mass), the Church also has honored the memory of the dead and offered prayers on their behalf. Saint Monica famously said to her son Saint Augustine: “I ask only this of you, that you remember me at the altar of the Lord, wherever you may be.” So, besides being a fundamental and universal human need, remembering the dead is also a religious duty, that expresses our faith and our hope.

Meanwhile, of course, life goes on. The events of that tragic day continue to take their toll in lives, as many have sickened as a result of their exposure to toxins on that day. It is estimated that maybe more have died since then as a result than were killed on that day itself. At the same time, the world, with its seemingly intractable social and political problems and conflicts continues to challenge us. Both international politics and domestic politics have changed immeasurably in these 25 years. We have lost the brief and seemingly ephemeral sense of unity of purpose which characterized our response to that tragedy, We remember September 11, 2001, as individuals each bringing his or her own worries, fears, and hopes, and also as citizens collectively concerned for the security of our country, conscious – as world events continue to remind us – of how perilous life can be and how fragile the network of social bonds on which we depend for our survival. 

Violent attacks upon our country and our constitutional way of life have tragically punctuated our history, in each case requiring a response sufficient to restore our sense of national purpose. A proponent of unity and reconciliation in service of the American Dream, Abraham Lincoln famously ended his First Inaugural, in which he had called out the specific threats the nation faced with entreated from those who had also rejected the constitution the rule of law, and the will of the people in elections, with this entreaty: We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

That appeal fell on deaf ears then. 

What might we hope for now in our politically polarized place and time?

Labor Day

 

When I was growing up back in the Bronx in America’s post-war Golden Age, I loved Labor Day, because it meant back to school. I was a nerdy kid, who loved to read, and loved to learn new things. Of course, that was not a fashionable view, so even then I learned the social imperative to conceal one's real feelings. Years later, as a grad student, I dreaded Labor Day because the University library would close the whole weekend for its annual sprucing up before the start of school. In those days, when so few places were air-conditioned, that meant not only no place to read, study, and socialize, but also no place to keep cool and to breathe pollen-free air. 

Labor Day has been a federal holiday since 1894, but it long ago joined most of our other national holidays in losing much of its original civic significance to become just a "holiday weekend" – an opportunity for shopping and other diversions. Even when the American labor movement was still strong and the traditional Labor Day Parade still defined New York’s Union Square, Labor Day was already becoming as much about the end of summer vacation, the last day for women to wear their white shoes and men their straw hats - and less of a serious civic celebration of American workers (and the affluence their astounding productivity had helped to produce).

That great post-World War II quarter century or so of unprecedented, nation-wide, across-the-board prosperity and a strong labor movement seems such a distant memory now in the present era of increasing economic inequality. Millions of Americans now suffer from unemployment, or underemployment, or are working but living in poverty as their basic needs too often go unmet, a situation that we should recognize represents a serious economic and moral failure for our nation. Certainly, one dimension of this failure is our diminished appreciation of the importance of productive work for a fulfilling human life and a flourishing economy. Work is more than just paying the bills. It’s how we realize our potential as productive people and active citizens, and contribute to the common good.

 

The Evangelist Matthew tells us that when Jesus came home to Nazareth, the hometown crowd dismissed him as “the carpenter’s son” [Matthew 13:55]. The context suggests it was familiarity with him a someone ordinary that most upset the people. In thus dismissing the ordinary workman in their midst, however, the Nazarenes missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

Today, we are surrounded by workers, whose omnipresence and familiarity make them almost invisible, out of sight, out of mind – the health-care workers who care for our increasingly elderly population, the nannies who watch over the next generation, the drivers and cyclists who do all the deliveries that make our extravagant consumer lifestyle so easy. That so many members of today’s working class are immigrants - that we need to find them from somewhere else -  only highlights how essential they are, while making them that much more vulnerable.

And now, even the educated classes – previously so privileged – feel more and more like proletarians. Soon they may be unemployed, overeducated proletarians, if runaway AI technology continues to have its way. Progress – that most unchristian of concepts – is rapidly rendering obsolete so much of what used to be taken for granted. All of which only makes it that much more urgent to recover an authentic understanding of human nature and human solidarity – and of fulfilling human labor as an essential component of a good life and a good society.

Homily for Labor Day, Saint Paul the Apostle Church, NY, September 7, 2026.

(Photo: The first Labor Day Parade, New York, September 5, 1882, 

https://barbarasbookstores.com/the-first-labor-day-parade/)