I was brought up a Catholic. I was baptised as an infant, made my first Communion, and was confirmed in the faith. Like many Chinese families, mine has a deep reverence for tradition, for continuity, for the belief that what has been passed down by our ancestors must not be cast aside lightly. This instinct naturally led me to admire the Catholic Church as it once was—an institution that stood immovable through the centuries, its teachings unbending, its authority unquestioned, its sacred rites untouched by the changing winds of fashion. It was, in every sense, a rock.
Yet today, looking at the Church under Pope Francis, I feel not admiration, but disgust. What should be a glorious and unshakable faith has been reduced to an institution ashamed of itself, a once-mighty citadel now apologising for its own existence. And at the head of this collapse is the man whom we are obliged to call the Holy Father.
The news of the Pope’s latest illness does not surprise me. He is old and frail, and his health has been failing for some time. It is natural to feel some concern—for the man, for the office he holds, and for the Church itself. He is the Pontifex Maximus, the successor of Saint Peter, the Vicar of Christ on Earth. Even for those of us who have found this particular pontificate to be a source of scandal and grief, respect for the office compels at least a moment’s pause. We should pray for his health, not for his sake alone, but for the Church.
And yet, is it even the Church anymore? That is the real question.
For the past decade, the Vatican has waged an unrelenting war against its own tradition. The Latin Mass—our inheritance from generations of saints and martyrs—has been virtually outlawed. The Latin language itself, the sacred tongue of the Roman Church for nearly two millennia, has been discarded in favour of the vulgar and the ephemeral. In seminaries, young priests are no longer taught to say Mass as their forebears did. The idea of Catholic worship being conducted in the same language and in the same form as it was in the age of Saint Thomas Aquinas, or even as far back as Saint Augustine, has been ridiculed and suppressed. In its place, we have a liturgy that is uninspired, ugly, and, worst of all, deliberately designed to make Catholicism seem just like everything else—ordinary, unthreatening, forgettable.
This is no accident. It is part of a larger transformation. The modern Church no longer sees itself as a guardian of eternal truths but as an institution desperate for relevance. It is obsessed with being “inclusive,” with being “welcoming,” with not offending anyone. It embraces every fashionable cause of the secular world. It parrots the empty slogans of environmentalism, of migration activism, of interfaith dialogue, all while avoiding any firm statement on matters of doctrine and morality. It will denounce the burning of the Amazon rainforest, but it will not condemn the destruction of the family. It will weep over carbon emissions, but it will say nothing about the moral corruption of our age. It speaks of “human fraternity” while remaining silent about sin.
Francis has been at the heart of this transformation. He has presided over it with a mixture of cunning and ruthlessness, wielding his authority to silence dissent and purge traditionalist elements from positions of influence. Bishops who defend orthodoxy are punished. Priests who refuse to celebrate the debased liturgy of Paul VI are exiled to the margins. Meanwhile, those who openly contradict Catholic teaching—whether on sexuality, on the nature of sin, or even on the necessity of Christ Himself—are rewarded with red hats and positions of power.
There was a time when the Church stood apart from the world. That is what made it strong. Its power came not from being popular, not from seeking approval, but from the unshakable belief that it alone held the truth. That is what inspired martyrs to die rather than renounce their faith. That is what led entire civilisations to kneel before the cross. But the Church of Francis does not demand anything from the world. It begs for its favour. It tries to make itself palatable to those who hate it. In doing so, it has lost its dignity and its authority.
In the past, a pope’s illness would be cause for universal Catholic sorrow. But how can we, in good conscience, lament the failing health of a man who has done everything to destroy the faith of our fathers? How can we mourn a shepherd who has led his flock into the wilderness and abandoned them to the wolves? Francis’s frailty is a reminder of the temporary nature of all things, including this present crisis. Popes pass away. Regimes collapse. Even the worst of times are not permanent.
The Church, battered though she is, will survive. The eternal truth of Catholicism is not diminished by the mediocrities who currently occupy its highest offices. It has survived persecutions, heresies, and schisms. It will survive this, too. The Latin Mass will return. The faith will be restored.
One can only pray that this happens sooner rather than later.
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