TV Rewind: Midnight Mass Is a Balm for Survivors of Religious Trauma
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Much like the enigmatic Father Paul, by the time Mike Flanagan unveiled the project of his heart, viewers were ready to follow him just about anywhere. Even if we had no idea where he would take us.
That, perhaps, was the point.
Flanagan’s first Netflix series, The Haunting of Hill House, dropped onto the streamer in 2018 to instant acclaim, and was followed by the similarly well-received The Haunting of Bly Manor in 2020. Both series were loosely based on existing works of literature: Hill House on Shirley Jackson’s 1959 novel of the same name, and Bly Manor on Henry James’ 1898 novella The Turn of the Screw. So too would be his next couple Netflix series, with 2022’s The Midnight Club based on the novel by Christopher Pike, and 2023’s The Fall of the House of Usher adapted from the works of Edgar Alan Poe. But with Midnight Mass, Flanagan drew from a different sort of source material: his own life.
Rather than adapting someone else’s work, this time, Flanagan poured all of his struggles with alcoholism, religion, faith, forgiveness, and second chances into his own original story. The result is arguably his most intimate work, which can barely even be called horror until its final couple episodes. Until you’re in too deep to turn back.
Shot during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020, Midnight Mass brought viewers to the isolated town of Crockett Island, where everyone is barely scraping by and no one ever leaves, or at least not for good. Case in point, protagonist Riley Flynn (Zach Gilford, who will always be Matt “7” Saracen from Friday Night Lights in my heart; I’d like to think the Se7en poster hanging in Riley’s room is a nod to his time as a Dillon Panther), who attempts to escape his hometown after high school, only to wind up right back in his parents’ house a few years later after a night of drinking ends in him running over a teenage girl with his car.
Upon his return, the former altar boy finds himself deeply at odds with the sleepy, timeless norms of Crockett Island, affectionately dubbed “the Crock Pot” by its inhabitants—a cozy nickname that nods to the homogeneity that the islanders expect of their town. People may enter the Crock Pot as individuals, but once they’re left to cook long enough, they either all take on the same flavor, or get spit out.
One of the central ingredients of the Crock Pot’s signature stew is St. Patrick’s Church, helmed by the archaic Monsignor Pruitt… until Pruitt fails to return from a trip to Jerusalem, and in his place, the magnetic Father Paul (Hamish Linklater) takes up residence in the rectory. It doesn’t take long for the charismatic and soft-spoken priest to win over the hearts and minds of the Crock Pot, even the skeptical Riley, who lost his faith during his years away, but still attends mass at St. Patrick’s in order to not upset his devout parents. When Father Paul learns that Riley has to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings on the mainland as a condition of his parole, he proposes a solution: he will start up a chapter at St. Patrick’s, so that Riley can meet his obligation and find healing right there on the island.
And for a while, he does. With Father Paul’s assistance, Riley begins to wrestle with some of his inner demons and make amends. In the process, he rekindles his relationship with Erin Greene (Kate Siegel), who also tried to escape the Crock Pot as a teenager only to return pregnant several years later after fleeing an abusive marriage. The two of them find comfort in each other, even though Erin’s life has led her back to the church, and Riley’s has driven him away.
Meanwhile, Father Paul’s rousing homilies draw the residents of Crockett like moths to a flame, packing the pews of St. Patrick’s. Eventually, it’s easier to list the townsfolk who aren’t at daily mass than the ones who are: the scientifically minded town doctor, Sarah Gunning (Annabeth Gish); Sheriff Hassan (Rahul Kohli), a practicing Muslim; and Joe Collie (Robert Longstreet), the town drunk.
If it was hard to live as a religious outsider in a town like Crockett before Father Paul came to St. Patrick’s, it becomes practically impossible once he has won over the majority of the Crock Pot. Hassan’s Muslim faith, once politely ignored by his neighbors, becomes a point of contention, especially once his son Ali (Rahul Abburi) expresses an interest in attending St. Patrick’s in order to fit in more with his friends, while his father’s refusal to attend mass is met with disdain and hostility. It doesn’t seem to matter that Hassan is a good person, a good father, and a man of deep faith. Unless “faith” fits neatly within the clapboard walls of St. Patrick’s, the residents of Crockett Island refuse to recognize it. Some even view it as a threat.
It doesn’t seem like something Father Paul intends; the town just can’t help themselves. After all, Father Paul is kind and smart, stalwart in his faith and oozing earnestness with every carefully considered word. He is a natural leader, and the Crock Pot wants nothing more than to follow him. Surely he knows best. Surely he has the answers. Surely his intentions are pure. Anyone who doesn’t see it that way cannot be trusted.
Mike Flanagan is a horror director, and like all of his other shows, Midnight Mass is a horror series. But the true horror of Midnight Mass lies not in its monster, but in the ways its characters walk willingly into its clutches with their eyes wide open and grow suspicious of anyone who doesn’t, led by someone they all trust without reservation. It is horrifying to witness people’s good faith weaponized against them. It is horrifying to see how people can turn on their neighbors for no more reason than the crime of being different. It is horrifying to think about the ways we can deceive ourselves, especially when we desperately want the lie to be true. And it is horrifying to realize how one small, easily justifiable moral compromise can lead to another, and another, and another, until you are covered in blood and surrounded by fire.
Flanagan has talked openly about how he moved from Catholicism to atheism, a journey that he replicated in Riley Flynn. But Midnight Mass is not just a show for the jaded and skeptical. Flanagan may have closed the door on his own faith, but Midnight Mass leaves them all open, except perhaps the door to religious hypocrisy. In so doing, the series works not as a scathing indictment on Christianity and organized religion, nor as an act of evangelism, but as an honest and moving dialogue between devotion and doubt, faith and curiosity, performance and piety.
The latter is embodied in Bev Keane (Samantha Sloyan), perhaps the most horrifying figure in any of Flanagan’s shows to date, certainly more monstrous than the visitor Father Paul smuggles into the Crock Pot. Bev works at the church and acts as the de facto town leader, despite the town already having a mayor, sheriff, and priest. With a better memory for Biblical scripture than the priest himself, Bev is a master at shutting down any argument or guiding any conversation in the direction she wants through her emphatic deployment of carefully chosen Bible verses.
There’s a saying that I have heard for years, although I have no idea where it came from: you can make the Bible argue anything if you pick the right verses and ignore the rest. Bev takes that concept to heart.
I think that most people have met a Bev or two in their lives. Especially for those who have spent a significant amount of time in religious circles, Bev is probably very familiar. Someone who never actually says anything wrong or cruel, yet somehow everything they say is wrong and cruel. Someone who knows how to twist words so that they mean one thing when you read them, but another when she speaks them out loud. Someone who never has to convince anyone to change their mind; she only has to convince them that they already agreed with her.
Before the end of the series, Bev has used the Bible to argue for everything from hiding a body to committing mass murder. Most real-life Bevs won’t ever get the opportunity to go that far. But for anyone who has known a Bev—especially in the context of an environment like St. Patrick’s—Midnight Mass acts almost as an affirmation. Yes. I see them, too. You were right. This is really what they’re like.
And there are so many moments like that in the series. Between the supernatural and the screams, Midnight Mass quietly validates the experience of walking through religious abuse. Just like how people don’t join a toxic organization or harmful system on purpose, neither do the people of Crockett Island knowingly sign up for their eventual fates. It all seems fine at first. If the red flags are there at all, they’re too small to notice. By the time they’re big enough to see, most don’t want to look anymore, and those who do are too intimidated to speak up. And by the time no one has the luxury of looking away, it’s too late. The harm is done. The scars are permanent.
Spoilers, I suppose, but not really, since that’s how so many stories of abuse tend to go. Too many people already know their beats by heart. But within the broader story of Crockett Island, Midnight Mass makes room for individual experience, hearing testimony from characters who span the spectrum of belief, and telling each of them, I get it. Every character in the series walks a gauntlet of faith; some come out galvanized while others get pummeled into dust. Similarly, some viewers may come away from Midnight Mass with their faith rattled; others, with it restored, but regardless, it’s hard to view the series in the context of a religious background and not feel seen.
Midnight Mass is a horror series, or at least, it ends that way. But for some, it may also be a salve for deep wounds. For many who have experienced trauma, it can be validating for others to simply acknowledge that it happened. That’s what it feels like Midnight Mass does in every episode, as it marches Riley, Erin, Hassan, and the other residents of Crockett Island toward their own destruction, even as some of them try desperately to avoid it. The steps seem familiar, because so many of us have walked them before. And in between the monsters and the blood and the flames, there is an element of peace. Yes, some may say as they watch, That is what it feels like. Someone else gets it.
And if someone else gets it, you’re not alone.
Lauren Thoman is a Nashville-based freelance pop culture writer whose writing has appeared in numerous online outlets including Parade, Vulture, and Collider. She is also the author of the novel I’ll Stop the World. Find her at her website, or on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook.
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