The question hangs in the air like the last stubborn note of a hymn—how does John Proctor feel about Reverend John Hale? Not Reverend Parris, despite what you might remember from school assignments. Let me untangle this for you, because there’s a world of difference between these two ministers, and mixing them up misses the heart of what makes The Crucible so devastating.
John Proctor’s relationship with authority, especially religious authority, is the quiet engine driving much of the drama. And when it comes to the ministers who shape the spiritual climate of Salem, his feelings aren’t simple. He’s not naive about the church, but he’s also not blind. They’re layered, angry, disappointed—and ultimately, tragic Still holds up..
Real talk — this step gets skipped all the time.
What Is the Relationship Between John Proctor and Reverend Parris?
Reverend John Hale isn’t Reverend Parris. That’s the first thing we need to clarify It's one of those things that adds up..
Reverend Parris is the minister of Salem, the man whose house catches fire—literal and metaphorical—every time a new play gets staged in the living room. He’s paranoid, self-serving, and more interested in maintaining his position than in true spiritual leadership. He’s the guy who screams about his trousers during Christmas dinner, worried more about his reputation than the well-being of his congregation.
John Proctor, on the other hand, is a farmer. Now, a man of the land, of honest labor, but also of sharp tongue and sharper conscience. Here's the thing — he’s not a theologian, but he thinks hard about what it means to live righteously. And he sees—often with growing disgust—how the church in Salem has gone rotten at the roots Surprisingly effective..
So how does Proctor feel about Reverend Parris?
Honestly? He tolerates him. Barely Turns out it matters..
Proctor doesn’t respect Parris as a man of God. He sees him as a coward in a silk suit, more concerned with appearances than truth. When Parris accuses Elizabeth of witchcraft early in the play, Proctor rolls his eyes so hard you can hear the whirring sound. Think about it: he’s not surprised by the accusations—because he knows how much Parris fears losing power. But he’s disgusted by the hypocrisy.
And here’s the thing—Proctor’s feelings toward Parris mirror his broader disillusionment with the church. It’s not that he rejects faith. It’s that he rejects the corruption of it And that's really what it comes down to..
Why Does This Matter?
Because understanding Proctor’s feelings toward Parris—and the wider religious establishment—is key to understanding the play’s central tragedy.
Arthur Miller wrote The Crucible as an allegory for McCarthyism, but it’s also deeply personal. At its core, it’s about the cost of integrity in a world that worships power. And John Proctor? He’s every one of us who’s ever wanted to say something true, even when it costs them everything.
Short version: it depends. Long version — keep reading.
Parris represents everything Proctor hates about institutional religion—the performative piety, the fear-based control, the willingness to sacrifice truth for comfort. It’s symbolic. When Parris accuses Elizabeth, it’s not just personal. It’s the moment when the church’s politicking collides with human lives Worth knowing..
And Proctor can’t stand idly by.
That’s why his anger isn’t just directed at Parris. Also, it’s why he eventually calls out the hypocrisy so publicly. It’s directed at a system that lets people like Parris speak in God’s name while living in self-interest. It’s why his final decision—to hang himself rather than falsely confess—lands with such force.
How Proctor’s Feelings Evolve
Let’s walk through how Proctor’s feelings shift over the course of the play, because they don’t stay static.
Act I: Suspicion and Dismissal
From the beginning, Proctor doesn’t trust Parris. Practically speaking, not because he’s evil—most of the time—but because he’s petty. When Parris starts ranting about his stolen goods during the opening scene, Proctor listens with a mixture of amusement and irritation Most people skip this — try not to..
He’s heard enough sermons about loyalty and godliness. What he sees in Parris is the opposite.
There’s also the matter of Proctor’s past. Day to day, he had an affair with Abigail Williams, and when she accuses the girls in the woods, it’s clear that both she and Parris want to cover up the scandal. Parris’s fear of being exposed—his real fear—is that Proctor knows too much. And so he uses his influence to turn the town against him.
Proctor resents this. Not just the accusation, but the idea that a man like Parris gets to play judge and jury in God’s name.
Act II: Frustration and Fear
By Act II, Proctor is desperate. Consider this: elizabeth is imprisoned. The accusations are spiraling out of control. And Parris is still playing his games, trying to save face while the town burns.
Proctor tries to reason with him. On the flip side, he even attempts to get Parris to use his influence to help Elizabeth. But Parris refuses. Which means not out of malice, exactly—out of self-preservation. He doesn’t want to look weak. He doesn’t want to be seen as taking sides But it adds up..
And that’s when Proctor’s frustration turns to something darker. Even so, he starts to see Parris not just as a flawed man, but as a symbol of everything wrong with the Salem church. A man who claims to serve God but serves himself instead That's the part that actually makes a difference..
There’s a moment in Act II where Proctor says, “I speak my own sins; I am not master of them.” It’s a line that echoes through the rest of the play. In practice, it’s about personal accountability. It’s about refusing to let someone else define your truth Not complicated — just consistent..
And it’s also about rejecting Parris’s version of righteousness Worth keeping that in mind..
Act III: Confrontation and Catharsis
Act III is where things come to a head. The court arrives in Salem. John Hale comes, full of zeal, convinced of the girls’ innocence. And Parris—still trying to look authoritative—backs the proceedings wholeheartedly.
Proctor confronts the court directly. Even so, he challenges Abigail’s accusations. He demands evidence. And when they turn on him, accusing him of slander, he doesn’t back down Less friction, more output..
“I speak my own sins; I am not master of them,” he repeats, but this time it’s defiant. This time, it’s a declaration of independence from the whole system.
And Parris? He’s terrified. Think about it: not because of the court, but because Proctor is starting to matter. A man who speaks truth to power—even when that power is a court—threatens the delicate balance Parris has built.
So when Parris tries to silence Proctor, calling him a liar and a sower of discord, you can hear the desperation in his voice. He’s not just attacking Proctor. He’s attacking the idea that one man’s conscience can stand up to the collective judgment of the church.
Proctor hates that. And you can see it in the way he stands there, unafraid, even as the noose tightens.
Act IV: Tragedy and Redemption
By Act IV, Parris is just a background figure. The court has moved on. The judges are in full swing, and the real power lies with figures like Danforth and Hathorne, not Parris Most people skip this — try not to..
But Proctor’s feelings toward Parris have already crystallized into something final: disappointment. In real terms, the corruption of sacred office. Not in Parris personally, but in what Parris represents. The willingness to sacrifice truth for power And that's really what it comes down to..
And in the end, when Proctor chooses to hang rather than confess to a lie, he’s not just rejecting the court. He’s rejecting Parris’s world. The world where a man in a collar gets to decide what is true and what is false.
What Most People Get Wrong
Here’s what a lot of readers miss: Proctor doesn’t hate Reverend Parris because he’s evil. He hates him because he’s ordinary.
That’s the real tragedy. Consider this: he’s a man who’s traded his integrity for security. Consider this: parris isn’t a monster. And Proctor recognizes that.
confident in his methods, but gradually becomes disillusioned as the trials spiral into madness. His shift mirrors Proctor’s own journey—from complicity to resistance. Yet unlike Proctor, Hale’s awakening comes too late to save the innocent. Practically speaking, he pleads with the accused to confess, not out of malice, but out of a desperate hope to spare their lives, even if it means compromising their integrity. This compromise, however, is precisely what Proctor refuses to accept.
Abigail, too, embodies this moral mediocrity. Still, similarly, the judges—Danforth and Hathorne—are not villains but men entrenched in their own self-interest, unwilling to admit error because doing so would unravel their authority. She’s not a mastermind but a product of a society that rewards manipulation over honesty. Her accusations stem from fear and ambition, not grand malevolence. Miller forces us to confront the unsettling reality that such figures aren’t aberrations but reflections of human frailty, capable of both good and evil depending on the pressures they face.
The play’s enduring power lies in its refusal to simplify these complexities. His final act—choosing death over a lie—becomes a quiet rebellion against a world where truth is negotiable and power dictates morality. Proctor’s redemption isn’t about defeating Parris or the court; it’s about reclaiming his own humanity in the face of systemic corruption. In this light, Parris’s ordinariness isn’t just tragic; it’s universal. He represents the ease with which institutions can calcify into instruments of harm when individuals prioritize self-preservation over principle The details matter here. Took long enough..
Not the most exciting part, but easily the most useful.
Miller’s message transcends the Salem witch trials. Here's the thing — it’s a warning about the fragility of justice and the complicity required to sustain it. Consider this: the real horror isn’t the hysteria but the silence of those who could speak but choose not to. Proctor’s defiance, then, isn’t just heroic—it’s revolutionary. It challenges us to ask: In a world where truth is contested, what price are we willing to pay for integrity? The answer, as Miller shows, often defines not just our actions but our very souls.
