Women: Protagonists in a Synodal Church

Many Catholic women followed the October 2023 and 2024 sessions of the Synodal Assembly For a Synodal Church with a sense of hope and anticipation. When, following an extensive global consultation, the document for the continental stage, “Enlarge the Space of your Tent” devoted more space to women’s experience than to any other issue, they began—after a long exile—to feel seen and heard. That report recorded the “urgent and critical” necessity of rethinking women’s participation at every level of ecclesial life. Women, who constitute “the majority of the practicing … and active members of the church” and were “most committed to the synodal process” consistently experience themselves as misunderstood and their contributions as not valued. While they share a “common baptismal dignity” with all other members of the church, lay and religious women in every cultural context find few spaces to “make their voices heard” as they are systematically “excluded from decision-making processes.”

Three principal issues emerged and were proposed as means to foster a substantial increase in women’s participation in ecclesial life: “the active role of women in the governing structures of the Church bodies, the possibility for women with adequate training to preach in parish settings and a female diaconate.” The media and many North American groups have focused so much on the last of these considerations—the ordination of women to the diaconate—that important progress in other areas risks being neglected or lost from view.

The Synthesis Report of the first session of the assembly devoted an entire section of reflections and proposals to “Women in the Life and Mission of the Church,” affirming the equality of their baptismal dignity and co-responsibility. It urged that women be considered not “as an issue or a problem,” but rather as “protagonists, without subordination, exclusion and competition.” Further, it commended an increase in opportunities for the participation of women in processes of decision-making and for greater responsibility in pastoral ministry. It advocated for just working conditions and a fair wage, greater access to theological studies and an increase in the presence of women in centers of theological education, seminary formation and canonical tribunals.

While in some cultures women are just beginning to overcome these barriers, they are unlikely to strike North American women as revolutionary. Since the Second Vatican Council, women on this continent have enjoyed access to theological studies. They serve on parish and diocesan councils, shoulder a large share of pastoral ministry, work as catechists, formators, spiritual directors, canon lawyers, diocesan chancellors, professors of theology and more.

The first generations of women to step into these new roles following the Second Vatican Council discovered a new consciousness of their baptismal identity as perhaps the greatest source of their liberation. Yet to this day, few receive material support from their local communities as they pursue their education and training for ministry. Often, they navigate the path of vocational discernment and formation in the absence of structures or processes of accompaniment. As the synodal consultation revealed, their positions remain highly precarious, not meaningfully integrated into diocesan structures. Too often taken for granted, their contributions are not valued and at times are perceived as a direct threat to clerical power. A synodal conversion is needed if we are to overcome the competitive dynamic that inhibits the full witness of women and men in communion. Such a conversion might also pave the way toward a welcoming of women’s gifts in a fully restored permanent diaconate—a question that remains open, as the final document affirms.

The second session focused on the structural dimensions of synodality, the how, asking what needs to change in the structures and practices of the church at every level for a more synodal and participative culture to take root. The question of women’s participation was not relegated entirely to a study group. Each time the final document reflects on the participation and co-responsibility of the baptized faithful in any aspect of ecclesial life, it envisions women and men collaborating and witnessing together.

A much-neglected area of progress relates to the inclusion of women’s stories in the prayer and teaching of the church, in addition to the use of inclusive language. The final document asks, “that more attention be given to the language and images used in preaching, teaching, catechesis and the drafting of official Church documents, giving more space to the contributions of female saints, theologians and mystics.” While this plea might seem a small thing and has yet to be met by concrete action, it is no small achievement. After decades of counterproductive debate on the correct approach to the translation and adaptation of liturgical texts, or the need to include a wider selection of biblical stories that reflect women’s experience, an inclusive approach is now proposed as an obligatory path for every local church, for translations into every language and for the acts of the universal church. Such a commitment must be seen as the fruition of the painstaking effort of women scholars who have sought to retrieve the forgotten voices of women in the scriptures and the broad tradition of the church.

In recent weeks Pope Francis has continued to follow the trajectory sketched out by the Synod on Synodality by naming competent women to positions of leadership within the Roman Curia and to the Council of the Synod. There is still a long road ahead before the vision of the synod takes flesh in the local churches. Without women as full protagonists, there can be no synodal renewal.

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Catherine E. Clifford, is a professor at Saint Paul University, Ontario.

The Catholic Abuse Crisis Is So Over

It was probably inevitable that American Catholics would eventually move on from the clergy sexual abuse crisis. But I’m still surprised that when they did, it wasn’t a matter of “scandal fatigue” as much as a conscious decision that sex abuse really wasn’t that big of a deal after all. That’s effectively what happened when a clear majority of Catholic voters—and nearly six in 10 white Catholic voters—went for serial sex pest Donald Trump over Kamala Harris in the presidential election last November. Catholic enthusiasm for Trump makes the Catholic cohort Trump’s most reliable religious voting bloc after white evangelicals and, given the strategic importance of the Catholic vote in swing states, Catholic votes made Trump the next president. The outcome of the presidential balloting also made sexual predation a feature of the nation’s preferred leadership model rather than a disqualification.

How is it that Catholics who professed to being so scarred by the church’s betrayal in covering for abusive clerics that they stopped going to Mass suddenly found themselves ready and willing to flock to the voting booth to pull the lever for someone like Donald Trump? How is it that they could be fine with the incoming president picking men like Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. and Matt Gaetz and Pete Hegseth and Elon Musk as top officials and advisers despite the slurry of appalling allegations of sexual misconduct and infidelities, cover-ups and even sex trafficking?

American Catholics who had been furious over the church’s clergy abuse crisis suddenly had no problem supporting a president and nominees for top education and law enforcement positions who would be barred from ever working in a Catholic school or parish. Nor were these Catholic voters too concerned about opening the church up to the kind of jabs they would have once decried as intolerable Catholic baiting: “GOP to quietly move Matt Gaetz to a new parish,” as one social media commenter quipped when Gaetz was finally forced to withdraw as Trump’s nominee for attorney general.

No pushback was possible, and none was forthcoming. To denounce the alleged abusers would have hurt Team Trump. Perhaps this outcome was also foreseeable. Catholics who had for decades seen the church primarily as another useful front in the culture wars naturally saw the abuse scandal as another useful weapon against their foes. The victims were secondary. In 2002, at the height of the abuse crisis, the conservative law professor and future ambassador to the Holy See, Mary Ann Glendon, criticized church reform efforts sparked by the scandal and famously declared that “awarding the Pulitzer Prize to the Boston Globe would be like giving the Nobel Peace Prize to Osama bin Laden.” 

In her recent memoir, Glendon did not attempt to revise or even moderate her opinion but instead doubled down on her criticism of the media for its “misleading” coverage and defended John Paul II as the one whose guidance the church should have followed—despite the damning evidence that has continued to emerge of the late pope’s terrible failures to address the abuses. Similarly, conservative culture warriors like the Catholic League’s Bill Donohue have continued to frame the abuse crisis as the fault of gay priests who he regularly defamed as equivalent to pedophiles. Donohue recently went so far as to tar the National Catholic Reporter as “ideologically responsible for the clergy sexual abuse scandal.” That redefines chutzpah given that NCR more than any other outlet was responsible for breaking the clergy abuse scandal.

Last summer, when the Vatican expelled leaders of an elite conservative Peruvian religious community following allegations of physical and sexual abuse, cult-like behavior and “sadism and violence,” among other things, American friends and allies of the disgraced leaders of the society rushed to their defense. “The problem with the Vatican’s latest intervention is the odor of excess, canonical looseness, ecclesial payback, personal vendetta and ideological resentment that clings to it,” Francis X. Maier, a friend and admirer of many of the accused, wrote in one of several articles defending the SCV in the journal First Things.

That First Things hosted such attacks against victims and defenses of abusers is especially resonant given that the journal’s late founder and editor, Richard John Neuhaus, used those same pages to categorically defend Father Marcial Maciel Degollado, founder of the Legionaries of Christ, and one of the most depraved clerical abusers who benefited from decades of studious incuriosity during the papacy of John Paul II. 

The saga of former cardinal Theodore McCarrick is another case in point. In June 2018, Pope Francis removed McCarrick, by then 88 and long retired, from ministry and eventually laicized him following credible accusations of child abuse. But conservatives suddenly found in the McCarrick case a chance to appear as crusaders against abuse by trying to hang the McCarrick case on Francis and on any bishop seen as allied with the pope’s reformist vision for the church. This propagandizing required a prodigious amount of historical rewriting and bottomless credulity, but the partisans would not be deterred. The latest iteration of this dynamic occurred when Francis this month named San Diego’s Cardinal Robert McElroy to Washington. Conservative critics mobilized, bending space and time so as to make McElroy—separated by decades and an entire continent from McCarrick—somehow responsible for the former cardinal’s predatory career. It would be absurd if it weren’t so awful, and ironic.

The consistent through line of the Catholic abuse crisis has always been that the bishops were the bad guys and that lay Catholics would be the ones with the sense of justice and moral outrage to set things right. That narrative doesn’t hold any longer. Combatting sexual abuse was supposed to be a unifying commitment in a polarized church, and an issue that Catholics would be remembered for. The presidential vote and other developments show instead that the sexual abuse scandal was for all too many Catholics just another tool to advance an agenda—diminishing real abuse to protect their allies and generating imagined scenarios to hurt their foes.

It feels like we are back where we started.

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David Gibson is a journalist and author and director of the Center on Religion and Culture at Fordham University. 

Traditions and Tourist Attractions

The December 8 reopening ceremonies of Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris following a whirlwind restoration in the wake of the 2019 fire that nearly felled the famed Gothic edifice drew worldwide attention. Along with St. Peter’s Basilica, it stands as one of the most recognized and revered church structures in the world, as evinced by the outpouring of memories on social media channels during the fire. The rededication also notably took place during the Advent season (more specifically on the solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, a feast of Mary to whom the Cathedral is dedicated), when Catholics prepare to celebrate Christmas, the second most significant feast of the liturgical year and one celebrated lavishly both in churches and in households.

For many, Notre-Dame and Christmas both represent celebrations of traditions built up throughout the ages. Indeed, many may combine the two by giving or receiving the Notre-Dame LEGO set released earlier this year. Yet, in both cases, what appear to be perennial traditions represent a kind of pastiche reflecting centuries of accretions and deletions. Both have been in continuous, if uneven, development for centuries.

The restoration of Notre-Dame notably does not return it to its original medieval condition—if that could even be described or recovered with complete accuracy at this juncture—but rather to a 19th-century renovation (famous for the large spire that collapsed during the fire) carried out by Eugéne Viollet-Le-Duc in the wake of Victor Hugo’s celebrated novel Notre-Dame de Paris. Notre-Dame had famously experienced some tribulations in the previous centuries, including a stint as the Temple of Reason (and then the Supreme Being). Viollet-le-Duc’s Notre-Dame restoration was joined in monumental, tourist-attraction Paris by the street plan of Baron Haussmann, designed in part to eliminate spaces for the revolutionary demonstrations that had animated the city since 1789. Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre was built for similar political purposes. The new restoration raises Viollet-le-Duc’s renovation—enshrined by the rise of photography and tourism shortly after its completion—to a kind of canonical status. This was certainly the safest approach, and better than some possible alternatives, but raises questions about the vitality of Notre-Dame as the cathedral of a living, changing Catholic community.

Pope Francis notably declined the invitation to Notre-Dame’s restoration, choosing instead to take a trip to Corsica (a location with whose denizens the French have a fraught history) in part to emphasize the suffering of migrants who come ashore there in their crossing of the Mediterranean from North Africa. This approach does not reject the value of structures such as Notre-Dame but places them in the context of a faith whose core beliefs speak to the dignity of the human person and community.

Like Notre-Dame, our celebrations of Christmas have historical layers that sometimes go unnoticed. In the English-speaking world, Christmas celebrations famously went into abeyance for several hundred years following the Reformation; Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and higher-church Anglican liturgical developments helped to revive the holiday. Seemingly perennial traditions such as the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at King’s College in Cambridge are just over a century old. Santa Claus, beloved giver of gifts to children, merges the real-life Saint Nicholas, Coca-Cola merchandising and various European traditions concerning gift-giving figures. There is nothing inherently wrong with any of this, but it is a helpful prophylactic to nostalgia to understand how our traditions are always in flux even as they might appear unchanging.

It is a common but facile argument to claim that because a tradition is constructed or a pastiche that this takes away from its meaning. We see this every Christmas when skeptics point out the relationship of its celebration to the Winter Solstice and the nature of Matthew and Luke’s infancy narratives as texts (and their deep inconsistencies with one another). Yet the true meaning of Christmas, to paraphrase many a TV special, stands or falls on the deeper reality the celebration signifies—the Incarnation of God as human in Jesus Christ—and on its connection to the Paschal Mystery (it is no coincidence that Christmas and Easter have historically had many overlapping musical and other motifs). Like any tenet of the faith, this is worth questioning and considering in its own right, but is stronger and more serious than mere “Christmas magic.”

Not far from its more famous namesake, on the outskirts of Paris sits the less famous church of Notre-Dame du Raincy. This church, built in 1922 as a monument to World War I, is built of concrete with large walls of glass. Its brightly lit interior evokes almost four decades in advance the “opening of the windows” that John XXIII hoped for from Vatican II. It anticipates buildings such as St. Joseph’s Cathedral in Hartford, which takes a similar approach in less “pure” form. Yet its stark interior might evoke fascist architecture for some, and its steeply raised altar reinforces clericalism in the liturgy. Even the best modern designs and updates to the tradition are still waystations on a pilgrimage.

Tradition, then, is not a tourist attraction meant to be packaged and admired, but an evolving reality respondent to the signs of the times and the needs of the community. We can celebrate its past glories while being clear-eyed about the need for reform and renewal. Pope Francis has attempted to do this by focusing the church on synodality, but his reforms—especially on crucial issues like women’s roles in the church—have stopped short of even some seemingly modest reforms such as a female diaconate. In the U.S., snazzily packaged (literally) versions of the tradition—up to and including the documents of Vatican II—by outfits such as Word on Fire have attempted something parallel to what I would argue the French government has achieved: a Catholicism safe to consume for contemporary Americans.

This Christmas, as we reflect on our traditions and indeed celebrate Notre-Dame’s survival and restoration, we might well attend to the words of the prophet Malachi that make up my favorite aria in another Christmas tradition (though its totality is arguably more appropriate for Eastertide), Handel’s Messiah: “But who may abide the day of His coming, and who shall stand when He appeareth? For He is like a refiner’s fire.”

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Daniel A. Rober is a systematic theologian and Catholic studies professor at Sacred Heart University.

From the Other Side of the Border

The Feast of the Nativity, we know, is a story beginning with a journey: the beleaguered family searching fruitlessly for safety and shelter. It includes a questionable border crossing: was the Holy Family free to enter Egypt? Every Christmas cycle calls us, as Christians, to search for ourselves in that journey of Divine Incarnation, where we see humanity in its essence—in short, humanity in need—embodied in the Christ child. For people of faith, Christmas isn’t meant to be marking a historical event, but it is the journey of discovering God with us, in us and for us. Yet our place in the journey of the Holy Family this year, in North America, seems neglected (or perhaps distorted).

The U.S. enters this Christmas having chosen—with the support of a majority of Catholics—a political path that promises drastic reduction of immigration and deportation of millions already in the country. The targeting of “the other,” “the foreigner” is sadly a perennial human vice. Canada has caught this anti-immigrant trend as well. On both sides of the border, arguments create a scapegoat for our social ills: inflation, job/housing shortages, homelessness, the list goes on. We say immigrants are “sneaking in illegally” and destroying the lifestyle we believe is our (God-given) right. Few seem willing to critique our institutions and economic priorities in order to recognize and address social inequalities that exist regardless of immigration. It is easier to blame the newcomer, the refugee, for our current problems.

When we, as Catholics, jump on the anti-immigration bandwagon, we are abandoning the Christmas journey, choosing the comfort of the inn that turned away the poor couple, exhausted, homeless, about to give birth to their first child. Once we are ensconced in the “inside” with others guarding their privilege and security, we conveniently forget that overwhelmingly in the U.S. and Canada, Catholics are an immigrant people. Historically, except for our Canadian provinces of Québec and New Brunswick, Catholics have lived as a minority within the various jurisdictions—wanderers seeking shelter, wanting to belong.

How disappointing it is when “wanting to belong” results in forgetting how we came here (who we subjugated), who we are following and who we could be. The recent election reinforces the extent to which Catholics in Canada and the U.S. have become “just like everyone.” Forgetting where we came from—an immigrant people, searching for a better life—we close our hearts to the cry of the world’s poor and the laments of those whom we displaced. Regardless of which side of the border we call home, we accept as “reasonable” the anti-immigration rhetoric that immigration (legal or not) threatens our “scarce” resources in economically challenging times (although we live in two of the wealthiest countries in the world). We prioritize our fear over our compassion. We, who are called to be in the world but not of it, set aside our prophetic call in favor of standing in unison with the men of this world.

Thankfully, Church leaders have spoken out. In response to the election of Donald Trump, the president of the U.S. bishops’ conference, Archbishop Broglio, reminded us that the United States must show concern for “those outside our borders and [be] eager to offer assistance to all.” Echoing this sentiment, Cardinal Cupich said, “We must never tire of living our tradition of service to the needy, of welcoming the stranger, of respecting the dignity of human life, care of the planet and outreach to all those living at society’s margins.” Catholic bishops have spoken out against the dehumanization of immigrants and advocated for the need to strengthen our Catholic commitment to the Church’s social teachings. But their words are not enough: you and I must stop our acquiescence to the anti-immigrant, anti-refugee blame game!

As Christians, we cannot give up our vocation of witnessing the Gospel in exchange for stability, comfort and acceptance by the mainstream. Rather, we must remember that at the core, our faith is the faith of a wandering people who journeyed through the desert, lost, but with hope of a future home. We want to find true comfort and solace in following Christ, our Lord, born homeless, whose parents then had to flee with him to a foreign land. Our faith compels us to be a people of welcome and compassion. Borders are not the answer to that critical question: “And who is my neighbor?”  In Luke (10:37), even the lawyer recognized that “neighbor” was not defined by law, but by mercy.

Merry Christmas! Christ is Born!

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Myroslaw Tataryn is professor emeritus at St. Jerome’s University, Canada, and a Ukrainian Greco-Catholic priest.

New Cardinals, an Aging Pope and the Upcoming Conclave

Pope Francis turns 88 on December 17th. Depending on how one keeps score, that will make him something like the fifth or sixth oldest man ever to occupy the Chair of Peter. According to legend, Pope Saint Agatho holds the all-time record. A Benedictine hermit from Sicily, he was supposedly 104 years old (some say perhaps even 107) when he died in the late 7th century as Bishop of Rome. Nonetheless, Agatho, who was called the Wonderworker, had a short reign. He did not even become a cardinal until he was 99 years old. And he was already 101 when elected pope.

More than fourteen centuries later, another 99-year-old will finally become a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church. He’s Archbishop Angelo Acerbi, a retired papal nuncio who is among 21 men who will receive the red hat from Francis during a December 7th consistory in St. Peter's Basilica. No one seriously expects that the same fate awaits Acerbi as that of the ancient St. Agatho, though stranger things have happened—some would say even in this current pontificate! But more than doing strange things, Francis has deliberately been disruptive, putting forth new challenges and instituting reforms of various magnitudes at many different levels throughout the Church. He's done this to rouse a tired institution that is helplessly watching its center of gravity dramatically shift away from Europe towards Africa and Asia. He's done this to shake the Church from its complacency and self-preservation, its tendency to wallow in self-absorption.

This year's Advent consistory, the tenth of the Francis pontificate, is the Jesuit pope's latest "shock to the system." Among the 20 new cardinals who are under the age of 80, and thus still able to participate in a conclave, are men with a wide variety of talents and experience. Seventeen are still under the age of 70, thirteen of them are 65 or younger, and seven have not yet reached their 60th birthday. These younger members—like Frank Leo, 53, the archbishop of Toronto; Baldassare Reina, 54, vicar of Rome; and Roberto Repole, 57, archbishop of Turin—will likely become increasingly influential in the Church's life over the coming decades. The pope certainly expects them to be major actors in ensuring that his ambitious project of synodality takes root throughout the Church. Francis has also chosen impressive, more senior men to be members of the College of Cardinals. Keep an eye, especially, on two Divine Word Missionaries. The first is Tarcisio Kikuchi, 66, who is archbishop of Tokyo and president of Caritas Internationalis. The second is Ladislav (László) Német, 68, a polyglot Hungarian who is archbishop of Belgrade (Serbia). But perhaps the most interesting in this otherwise “younger” group is 79-year-old Timothy Radcliffe, the English Dominican and former head of the worldwide Order of Preachers. A scripture scholar and popular author and speaker, he was the chief spiritual director and preacher at the past two Synod assemblies. Those gatherings focused on ways to make synodality an essential component of the Church’s life, witness and decision-making. By making Radcliffe a cardinal, the Jesuit pope has ensured that the Dominican theologian’s voice will be heard during (or at least in the closed-door meeting before) the next conclave to elect his successor as Bishop of Rome.

And when might that happen? No one—except, perhaps, Francis himself—can say for sure. The first-ever pope to come from the Society of Jesus and the New World is still extremely busy. But it cannot be denied that he is increasingly showing signs of slowing down. He has good days and, more and more, days that are not so good. He is sometimes short of breath and his voice is audibly weaker, which is only normal. Still, he is determined to soldier on, some say stubbornly so. Before he marks his 88th birthday, he will not only have held the cardinal-making consistory, but he will also make a day trip to the neighboring French island of Corsica (roughly a one-hour flight from Rome). The fact that he’s decided to go there instead of to Paris for the inauguration of the newly restored Notre Dame Cathedral has angered many in France and dismayed some more classical-minded Catholics from around the world. Their discontent over the “papal snub,” as many have called it, demonstrates that they still have failed to understand what Francis holds as top priority—people (especially those on the existential and spiritual margins), rather than church buildings and artifacts (especially those ornate ones bankrolled for cultural or political reasons).

After blowing out the 88 candles on his birthday cake, the Argentine pope will officially open the Church’s latest Holy Year on Christmas Eve at the Vatican. A few months later—on March 13, specifically—he will mark the 12th anniversary of his election as Bishop of Rome. That number is especially significant for the Jesuits, whose superiors (with the exception of the Father General in Rome) usually serve terms of six years. Thus, it will be the equivalent of two such terms for Francis, who, in this span of time, has never returned to his “former diocese” (as he likes to call it) in Buenos Aires or to his native Argentina. For the last several years, he’s occasionally mentioned that he’d like to visit his South American homeland again, “maybe next year.” But “next year” has never come. Perhaps, in the coming months? There has been no serious talk of such a visit, but the pope of surprises could easily decide to make one at the drop of a hat. One trip abroad seems all but certain—a visit to Turkey to celebrate with the ecumenical patriarch of Constantinople the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicaea. Patriarch Bartholomew has said that is likely to take place in May. And then after that?

Again, the question arises: could Francis retire? If he were to do so, it would make papal resignations normal, rather than something that occurs once every six or eight centuries. It would also further demythologize the Roman papacy and give the cardinals greater confidence to choose a younger man for pope with the understanding that he would not cling to office until death. But if Francis dies before relinquishing the papacy, Benedict XVI’s resignation in 2013 will remain an exception rather than the “institution” that Francis himself has said it should be seen as. It's interesting to note that the last Roman Pontiff to resign voluntarily was not Celestine V in 1294, but Gregory XII in 1415. During a time of rival popes, he stepped down in order to end the Western Schism. Next July 4th marks the 610th anniversary of Gregory's resignation. Incidentally, he was 88 years old.

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Robert Mickens has been a “Roman observer” of the papacy, Vatican and the Catholic Church since moving to Italy in 1986. He is currently on sabbatical.

What Should a Synodal Church Look Like?

Pope Francis is clearly of the opinion that synodality is the future of the church. But here’s the problem we need to address in the United States: while the rest of the world, especially Asia, Africa and Latin America, is working hard to implement synodality, even at the level of bishops’ conferences, here at home it seems to have little or no purchase. Estimates vary but it appears that no more than about 1% (yes, that would be “one” percent) of American Catholics have had any direct involvement with the synodal process, and very few at all followed up the 2023 Synod’s parting request that we all digest their preliminary findings in synodal gatherings. In my home diocese, I am assured, only one parish (mine, as a matter of fact) took seriously the request to gather in dialogue and debate.

Why are American Catholics, historically pro-papal, ignoring Francis’s insistence that we practice synodality? One explanation is the deplorable level of leadership on the topic from bishops and pastors, probably because it doesn’t suit their understanding of authority. A second is the well-documented passivity of major segments of the 47% of Catholics who attend mass at least once a month (the other 53% are Christmas and Easter Catholics, if that). And a third is the suspicion of the Francis papacy, once again led by an episcopate that is so hung up on the pro-life issue that it provided zero leadership in the pre-election period over the last few months on other serious issues, especially on immigration and climate change. Perhaps even they will finally have to respond to the expected amoral excesses of the incoming administration. But don’t count on it.

But the major drag on the possibility of converting our parishes into hotbeds of synodality is the American disease of excessive individualism, which is a cultural rather than an ideological phenomenon. Democrats are as likely to be guilty of this as Republicans, churchgoers as nones. Individualism belongs in the past, you know. The problems that beset our world today are so gigantic that only concerted communal discernment and action have a hope of solving any of them. What can you or I do as an individual to address gun control, arms sales, drug abuse or climate change?

This brings us to the question of what a synodal parish needs to look like, and the clues to this are to be found in the final document issued by the 2024 Synod on Synodality, a document so pleasing to Pope Francis that he declined to write the customary papal response. No need, the document says it all.

The first clue to answering this question is to look at the photographs of the gatherings of the Synod on Synodality in October 2023 and 2024. At any table you can see cardinals, bishops and young lay Catholics sitting together and given equal time to speak of how the Spirit is moving them. Maybe not everyone had equal power in the church, and certainly not everyone had equal knowledge of the tradition, but everyone’s contribution was treated with equal dignity. The phrase that summarizes this in the final document is “a differentiated co-responsibility of all for mission.” Pope Francis saw these assemblies not only as discussing synodality but also, and perhaps more importantly, modeling it for the global church.

We need to expect our bishops to practice and model synodality. Synodality is also expected of the clergy, which is a more challenging call for them. They are locked in a career structure with top-down accountability as the norm and obedience to that kind of authority is the path—perhaps the only path—to what is unfortunately called “advancement.” Synodality is also expected of the laity. In their case, it is not only a matter of being open to conversations among lay Christians, but also requires the courage to insist on remaking structures of the church in a more synodal way, so that, as the final document clearly states, we are all called to mission, and we are all accountable – even bishops. As section 99 of the final document so eloquently puts it, “While accountability to one’s superiors has been practiced over the centuries, the dimension of authority’s being accountable to the community is in need of restoration.” So, look out bishops: the people of God expect moral leadership that is timely, courageous and most definitely not “single issue.”

The last word is mission, which is where a synodal church can have a prophetic function in the wider world. God knows we need less polarization and more compassion. As Francis has said so well, the traditional image of Christ is one knocking on the door of our hearts, wanting to be welcomed in. No longer! Christ is already with us. Now he is knocking on the door of the church, begging to be let OUT! Synodality leads to mission, and the mission is simply to spread the love of God in the world, to carry Christ out into the world. And that’s a job for all of us.

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Paul Lakeland is emeritus professor of Catholic Studies at Fairfield University.

Hold on to Joy

For one brief, shining moment, we allowed ourselves to talk about joy.

Those of us living north of the 49th parallel are always heavily invested in American politics, and likely never more so than in the election just passed.

When Kamala Harris and Tim Walz emerged as the Democratic ticket, we were initially surprised—and then delighted—to hear people use words like joy and joyful in describing Harris’s laugh and Coach Walz’s corny dad jokes. Suddenly, joy became a topic people were discussing in the public arena, and it was a refreshing change. Joy is something we welcome, but in a tired, troubled world it is not something we allow ourselves to value or take seriously as a political topic.  

Of course, the economy is critically important and, as the leader of the free world, the United States needs to be concerned with world events and other weighty issues. But the right to be happy—to laugh and to smile—should never be discounted, even though we rarely talk about it as an issue of any importance.

That doesn’t mean the type of laughter heard and smiles seen at the Al Smith dinner but a healthy appreciation for the simple, positive pleasures of life, and the happiness that comes from building connections and community.

Ultimately, joy was not enough to carry the day for the Democratic ticket. Still, I hope the issue doesn’t fade away but remains a serious goal to underpin healthy societies in these dark times.

Recently, I took part in a panel of women discussing the Synod on Synodality, and one of the themes that emerged was that this synod revealed a new way of being Church in a manner that means there is no turning back.

I hope it will be the same with the recognition of joy, and especially so for Catholics. Our faith is rooted in the ultimate joy and so we shouldn’t be afraid to seek it—or offer it to others. We have a responsibility to work against the rising tide of negativity and selfishness we are witnessing take hold around the world.

Joy can be found in gestures as basic as the simple kindness of smiling at a stranger or offering a seat on the bus to someone who is obviously exhausted after a long day at work. It is egalitarian in our ability to engage.

But joy can also flow from government policy, whether in helping migrants find safe haven or offering quality healthcare to an impoverished single mother in spite of her lack of funds or any number of supports that improve lives. Working across the aisle for the sake of the common good should bring joy, as should civil, respectful conversations.

It feels as if we are a long way away from attaining this, and I am in no way downplaying the complexity involved in issues of maintaining a social safety net.

Something, however, must change. We emerged from the pandemic warier, angrier and more fearful of the world. Not exactly a healthy way to live, and no way for people who proclaim the gospel to approach the world.

As Pope Francis has reminded us so often, joy matters. The gospel is a story of joy, and we are called to reflect that. In a cynical world, it is easy to discount the importance of happiness, but from happiness flow health and creativity and innovation, all building blocks of a successful society.

As Canada awaits a federal election call at some point in the next year, I can only hope that joy becomes an issue for us, too. We need it!

In the meantime, as our border braces for a flood of migrants fleeing the new reality in the U.S., I pray that our government can continue to find reasonable ways to be able to answer the timeless questions the disciples asked Jesus: “When was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food…and when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you?”

May the scales fall from the eyes of those who cannot see what matters and may those of us who will no doubt be dismissed as Pollyannas continue to seek the presence of joy and share it as widely as possible.

After all, happiness is not a government policy but a basic human right.

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Catherine Mulroney is a communications officer at the University of St. Michael's College in the University of Toronto.

Synodality and the Election

The past month, I have been swamped writing about two major events, the election and the synod. In many ways, these events were distinct. The election was a national event that, like all elections, involved endless negative advertising and drawing distinctions between the parties and the candidates. The synod was a global event aimed at fostering much-needed conversations across a range of demographic and ideological divisions. And not just any conversation, but one whose real objective was to listen attentively to the always soft whisper of the Holy Spirit!

The synod is now complete and the election results are in. If the Church is to play any constructive role in American society, our first task must be to make synodality an intrinsic quality of ecclesial decision-making and missionary activity. We must find ways to reach across the divides within the church, to build solidarity among the members of the Body of Christ and to remind ourselves that our common baptism has conferred on all of us a far deeper and greater affinity than any other point of division.

This will not be easy. People now go parish shopping. Catholics tune in to Catholic media that reinforces their prior attitudes and ideologies. Children learn at an early age that they are consumers of what they want to hear, their earphones bringing them information from within whatever silo they find comforting. Broadcasting is a thing of the past; narrowcasting is the coin of the realm in the world of media.

Overcoming such hurdles will require leadership, starting with the bishops. I have seen dioceses that embrace synodality and the effect that embrace has on both people and pastors. I have also seen dioceses that paid lip service to synodality. Only if the bishop takes the lead and requires pastors and others in ecclesial roles to embrace synodality will it be a success. Now is the time for everyone to get on board as the synodal process moves from the global to the local, national and continental levels.

Then, and only then, can the Church bring to the ambient culture the balm of the Gospel. Then, and only then, can the Church help our polarized society learn how to talk to one another again.

The most important statement about Catholic social teaching to come from the Second Vatican Council is not found in the three texts most closely associated with our social magisterium: Gaudium et Spes, Dignitatis Humanae and Nostra Aetate. No, the most vital statement is found in Lumen Gentium, the Dogmatic Constitution on the Church. There we read that the Church is “in Christ like a sacrament or as a sign and instrument both of a very close-knit union with God and of the unity of the whole human race.” If we Catholics remain at each other’s throats, we cannot be a sign and sacrament of unity. Or charity for that matter.

The nation and the Church are both at a fork in the road. Powerful interests thrive on division and the status quo. Deeply held attitudes are not lightly set aside, even for a greater good. Half the country was thrilled with the election result and a little less than half is despondent. There is no easy roadmap that will help us overcome polarization in our society. But if the Church follows the lead Pope Francis has charted and pursues a synodal path in which the unity of the whole is always more important than any particular agenda, we might, just might, provide a real service and witness to the nation. That may be just a prayer, but it is a fine prayer.

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Michael Sean Winters is a journalist and writer for the National Catholic Reporter.

The Church’s Fetish for Forgiveness

On the eve of the 2024 Synod for Synodality, the pope led the delegates on a prayer of forgiveness for the sins of the Church. While I appreciated the gesture, after reading the final document, I couldn’t help but think of this opening ritual as some kind of fetishized performance of forgiveness-seeking.

To offer more context: at the end of September, the city of San Francisco (where I live) hosts the annual Folsom Street Fair, which is an internationally known BDSM and sexual kink festival that spans several blocks and takes place over an entire weekend (BDSM stands for bondage, domination, sadism and masochism). As I witnessed people walking around the city wearing leather and all sorts of sexually provocative attires, I began to think about the meaning of these sexual performances which, rather than intending to hurt or oppress, are reenacted by the kink community as a form of liberative sexual expression, exploration and enjoyment.

A few days after the 2024 Folsom Street Fair, I read the news that Pope Francis had led the synod delegates in a prayer for forgiveness and I could not help but think about the BDSM of it all.

By making this claim, I don’t wish to minimize the importance of forgiveness or of BDSM. Forgiveness is an important and incredibly meaningful part of the healing journey—interpersonally, intrapersonally and communally—so I am happy to see that the Church is readily and openly admitting that it has sinned and is asking for forgiveness. Similarly, BDSM, for many people, is a meaningful and pleasurable exploration of their sexuality through consensual relationships that subvert sexual norms and make room for things society deems “indecent.” In other words, when intentionally practiced, BDSM can serve as an avenue for sexual liberation. Both forgiveness and BDSM can be good things!

However, without the right framing or intentions, both practices can become problematic and oppressive.

BDSM becomes oppressive when it focuses on the pleasure of one partner while disregarding the well-being of the other, or when one partner seeks pleasure at the total expense of the other. Consent and consideration for the other’s well-being (to a reasonable extent even in the most “extremely painful scenarios”) is at the heart of the BDSM experience, and that—I believe—is where the virtue of the practice lies. Even in these “extreme” cases of sex-pain performances, the masochistic partner (who enjoys receiving pain) has voluntarily opted to engage in that practice and finds the pain pleasurable up to a certain limit which should be clearly communicated to the sadistic partner (who enjoys inflicting pain) beforehand.

Without consent, BDSM is a heinous crime. However, even if there is consent, without concern for the well-being of the other, it can perpetuate oppression by erasing a person’s humanity (often women’s) for the sake of sexual pleasure. This hedonistic disregard for the other’s well-being, though it may be pleasurable, represents an empty and disingenuous practice of BDSM by removing one of its central virtues: consensual solidarity between the partners grounded in communication and concern for each other’s enjoyment and well-being.

Similarly, when forgiveness is performed without a genuine concern for the human beings being hurt and without an intention to change, it can become an empty gesture that can bring about some sort of psycho-spiritual pleasure without the desire for transformation.

To expound on this observation, I go back to my 3rd grade catechism lessons in Puerto Rico, where a nun taught me the five steps for a good confession: 1) examination of conscience, 2) contrition, 3) intent to not sin again, 4) telling your sins to the confessor and 5) completion of penance. From my lessons, I recall the nun’s insistence that the most important part of this reconciliation process was “contrition.” However, as I grow older, I have come to realize that there is far more value in the “intention to not sin again” than in internal “contrition.” Without an intention to change, especially when the sin involves hurting another person, feeling sorry for one’s sins seems like an empty or disingenuous gesture. Furthermore, intention to not sin again should spark within the penitent a curiosity for the ways in which one can avoid continuing the hurt. Therefore, the third step to a good confession, in my view, is the true measure of and the foundation for the contrite heart.

When the Catholic hierarchy celebrates a ritual of forgiveness before a synod, pious as it may be, but shows no other sign of intending to change, it resembles an oppressive form of BDSM where a performance of pain (of asking for forgiveness) and pleasure (of feeling forgiven by a merciful heavenly Father figure) disregards the actual well-being of those hurt by the sin.

As I read through the final document produced by the synod, I was encouraged by the emphasis on the sensus fidelium, the openness to have diversity in the Church as different local contexts grow in different ways, the encouragement to go to the margins and include all voices through active listening, the call for accountability and transparency in the synodal process and the explicit mandate to ongoing listening and consultation on behalf of Church leaders. However, I also noticed that some of the most controversial issues, incidentally involving some of the most oppressed members of our Church (e.g., inclusion of LGBTQ+ persons—especially transgender persons—and women’s ordination), were not mentioned. In fact, there was a regurgitation of the human anthropology of gender that perpetuates hurt against trans folks.

While some of the synod delegates assured Catholics that the synod delegates were more friendly toward these issues than in the previous session, probably due to the interpersonal relationships they had cultivated with each other over the past three years, many Catholics (including myself and many of my Catholic friends) explicitly yearn to see from our leaders a more genuine and decisive concern for the wellbeing of LGBTQ+ persons and the ability of women have equal access to all levels of Church.

Until such concern is made explicit and acted upon, any ritual of forgiveness seems like an empty fetishization of contrition, like a problematic version of spiritual BDSM that might be pleasurable but lacks substantive concern for those hurt by the sins of the Church.

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Ish Ruiz is the assistant professor of Latinx & queer decolonial theology at Pacific School of Religion. 

Descent into Hell

In August, I undertook the pre-semester ritual of updating my syllabi, in particular for my elective course on beauty and justice, which I taught for the first time last year. As I looked at the topics covered, I knew one in particular needed to be added: What do we do with the art of moral monsters? The question is perennial but has been subject to renewed attention following the revelations of the #MeToo era. The change to my syllabus, however, was prompted not by that wider social reckoning alone, but by the fact that this question has come to our own campus in the form of credible abuse allegations against Fr. Marko Rupnik, principal artist behind the mosaics and windows in the university’s Chapel of the Holy Spirit.

The investigations into allegations against Rupnik have been unfolding over the last several years, testing the strength of the Vatican’s anti-abuse measures. Rupnik has been credibly accused of sexual, psychological and spiritual abuse of as many as 20 of the 41 members of the Loyola community of sisters. In the summer of 2023, he was dismissed from the Jesuits and shortly thereafter accepted into priestly ministry in the Diocese of Koper in his native Slovenia. In October 2023, Pope Francis lifted the statute of limitations on the case and ordered that the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith begin a judicial process, after detecting “serious problems in the handling of the Father Marko Rupnik case and lack of outreach to victims.” We await the outcome of that trial.

I gave my students this information about the allegations and response thus far, as well as two short articles: one arguing that we ought to separate the art from the artist, and the other detailing the decision by the Knights of Columbus to cover their own mosaics crafted by Rupnik and the Centro Aletti mosaic team with whom he works, at least until the conclusion of the DDF investigation. With these varying perspectives in mind, we headed to the Chapel of the Holy Spirit to have our discussion. Two points from our conversation stood out to me. First, the students struggled with the tension between the beauty of the artwork and the ugliness of the artist’s actions—most said the knowledge of Rupnik’s actions did not stop them from seeing the art as beautiful, but it disturbed them that such beauty could come from someone who caused so much harm. Second, they claimed that the question of what to do with the art has different stakes when the art is in a religious space than when it is in a museum or another public space.

There are intricate questions to be asked about just these two points, but implicit in both is a sense that there is a dynamic relationship between the viewer, the artwork and the artist. Such that when we discover abusive or otherwise morally villainous acts by the creator of an artwork that we have found formative, we feel a sense of betrayal, which may be intensified when the formative work of that art is explicitly spiritual or ethical. Because of this relational triad, the philosopher of art Berys Gaut suggests that the artist’s ethics may be a factor in our judgment of the work, but that “the test must be whether, in light of one’s knowledge of the artist’s attitudes outside his work, one can detect in the work traces of these attitudes.”

Do we find any traces of Rupnik’s abusiveness within the artwork? To this question, I have received various answers from students and colleagues. The main mosaic in the Chapel of the Holy Spirit centers on a depiction of the Harrowing of Hell, as Christ dramatically liberates Adam and Eve. When I look at the mosaic these days, I cannot help but recall the words of one of Rupnik’s alleged victims, who described the psychological, spiritual and sexual abuse she underwent at Rupnik’s hands as a “descent into hell.” For me, the triumph of the image sits in stark contrast to the “hell” the artist plunged these women into—a “hell” from which they have not yet emerged, and which the institutional reluctance to hold Rupnik accountable has deepened.

Religious spaces, as my students noted, are not the same as other public spaces, in the sense that they intentionally address themselves to the spiritual reality of the human being. This intensifies both the possible meaning and possible harm of the symbols and actions within these spaces. By choosing to cover their mosaics, at least for now, the Knights of Columbus have used Catholic symbolism in support of solidarity with Rupnik’s victims. We cover images in our churches at the end of Lent as part of our fasting and repentance, and covering these mosaics makes space for us to repent of the abuses carried out not only by Rupnik but thousands of clergy and laypeople. Thinking of Sacred Heart’s chapel, covering the image would also open up the symbolic meaning of the Harrowing of Hell—which begins first from the claim that after Jesus died, as his body was wrapped in burial cloth, “he descended into hell.” This act of covering might prompt us to reflect: What does it mean for Jesus to be with Rupnik’s victims in their metaphorical hell? How do we as church imitate this solidarity, recognizing that perhaps now is not the time for the triumph of Resurrection but the lament of Holy Saturday? Such a response, it seems to me, both centers the victims and acknowledges that we continue to work out the relationship between ourselves, the artwork and the artist.

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Callie Tabor is an assistant professor in the Department of Catholic Studies at Sacred Heart University.