(Wis 6:3-6) Give ear, you that rule the people, and that please yourselves in multitudes of nations: For power is given you by the Lord, and strength by the most High, who will examine your works: and search out your thoughts: Because being ministers of his kingdom, you have not judged rightly, nor kept the law of justice, nor walked according to the will of God. Horribly and speedily will he appear to you: for a most severe judgment shall be for them that bear rule.
This week the Church of St. Paul the Apostle in Manhattan, the Jesuit-minded parish famous for rainbow banners and Broadway Masses, offered a sacrament that would have baffled every catechism before 1962. ABC News anchor Gio Benitez, openly homosexual and civilly “married” to another man, received the sacrament of confirmation with his husband standing beside him as sponsor. If this same priest had said a Latin Mass without permission he would have been suspended. Instead, cameras rolled. Applause followed. Father James Martin, ever the apostle of affirmation, commented beneath the video with a single word: “Welcome!”
No one in authority objected. No one questioned whether the rite was valid, licit, or simply insane. In the new ecclesiology, publicity is proof of holiness.
Confirmation, by every traditional definition, seals the soul already living in fidelity to the creed it professes. It means renouncing sin and the world, not canonizing them with lighting and applause. Yet the modern liturgy of “inclusion” has turned the sacrament from a weapon of grace into a prop of self-expression. The Spirit no longer descends as fire; it poses for photos.
Benitez marked the occasion online with a caption fit for a meditation app: “I found the Ark of the Covenant in my heart, stored there by the One who created me … exactly as I am.” To a generation catechized by Francis rather than Trent, that line sounded profound. To anyone who remembers that grace perfects nature by correcting it, not indulging it, the statement was pure sentimental heresy.
Benitez thanked the late Francis for inspiring him with “a legacy of inclusivity.” That legacy, amplified now under Leo XIV, has made “inclusion” the eighth sacrament. The old catechism begins with the question, Why did God make you? The new one begins with Why shouldn’t He affirm you?
The tragedy here is a clergy class eager to baptize confusion for clout. They could have guided him toward repentance; instead, they staged a photo shoot. The same priests who agonize over whether kneeling during Communion is “divisive” will cheer as a same-sex couple approaches the altar, because that spectacle tells the world that the Church has finally caught up. It has caught up, that is, with the world it was sent to convert.
The Church was never a therapist’s couch. It is a hospital for the soul, and the first medicine it offers is truth. Mercy without conversion becomes morphine. “Love one another” was never permission to ignore the moral law; it was the command to will another’s salvation, even when that love wounds pride. The sentimental Gospel on display in Manhattan was not Christianity, but emotional relativism.
The old catechism still whispers beneath the din: grace and public contradiction do not cohabit. Either the Cross reshapes the person, or the person refashions the Cross. Only one of those is Catholic.
Epilogue: Back to the Narrow Door
From Manhattan to Munich to the mortuary chapel in Freising, the revolution preaches one creed: you are fine as you are. It has its theologians, its sacraments, and its saints; none of whom require a change of life. But the Gospel does not share the delusion. “If any man will come after Me,” says Christ, “let him deny himself.” Denial is the mark of discipleship.
A Church that confirms the unrepentant, theologizes disobedience, and cosplays resurrection will keep attracting cameras but not converts. The applause of the world is the laughter of hell. The saints were mocked for warning souls away from sin; today they would be canceled for “pastoral insensitivity.” Yet only their path leads anywhere but the grave.
The true renewal of the Church will not come from synodal listening sessions or ecological conferences. It will come from silence before the tabernacle and the rediscovery of the fear of God. That fear is not servile; it is the beginning of wisdom. Without it, mercy curdles into sentimentality, theology into poetry, and worship into pantomime.
The door remains narrow. The way remains hard. No amount of fog, hashtags, or press releases will widen it. But for those who still kneel, who still confess, repent, and adore, the light beyond that door has not dimmed.
The rest may find their Ark of the Covenant wherever they like; the Church’s treasure is still nailed to a Cross.
Cardinal Müller: “As a dogmatic theologian I don’t want to be diplomatic. The Catholic Church must proclaim the truth but also contradict lies.”
7. Others stood in prayer with their hands tied behind their backs like criminals; their faces, darkened by sorrow, bent to the earth. They regarded themselves as unworthy to look up to Heaven. Overwhelmed by the embarrassment of their thoughts and conscience, they could not find anything to say or pray about to God, how or with what to begin their prayers. But filled with darkness and a blank despair, they offered to God nothing but a speechless soul and a voiceless mind.