Our Lady of Pride

— Santa Muerte Loves Her Queer Children

By Andrew Chesnut

Santa Muerte, a folk saint of death, opens her arms to all LGBTQ+ people. Although there are many queer-coded saints within the Catholic Church, from Saint Sebastian to Joan of Arc to Juana Inés de la Cruz, none is more comforting to many LGBTQ+ Mexicans and other LGBTQ+ individuals around the world than La Santísima. It may seem strange that people who fight for their identities and existence on a daily basis would embrace a figure of death, but for queer devotees A.B. and Ash Mestizo, she is a source of solidarity and comfort.

A.B. is a nonbinary person living in Canada who was raised in the Catholic Church but parted ways with it many years ago due to continued homophobia and transphobia. They have struggled with mental illness all their life, acknowledging that “it is a battle which, I expect, I will lose one day.” Two and a half years ago, they attempted suicide but stopped as a divine presence called out to them. It was only until this year, describing the experience to a friend, that their friend suggested it may have been Santa Muerte’s voice in the darkness.

Similarly, pansexual Ash Mestizo was born into a Nicaraguan Catholic family. Although his grandmother was extremely devout, running the whole family’s spiritual health like many Latinx matriarchs, his mother was a free spirit who took advantage of the family’s inherited spiritual gifts. Seeing her use these gifts–connecting her and other members of the family to the spirit world and allowing superhuman abilities, Mestizo sought answers in Catholicism, then Evangelical Protestantism, Viccan, Asatru, ancestral folk magic, and finally sorcery.

After Mestizo’s children were born, he became involved in LGBTQ+ and BIPOC activism, climate advocacy, and anti-racism work, putting away their magical practice and ancestor veneration. It was only when his grandmother died that he needed a connection to the spirit world, right at the time that he found Santa Muerte. Ash “saw in her [his grandmother], the Latinx women I’d known, who raised me, who’d given me my heritage and my spirituality and my magic.”

This was one of the reasons A.B. was worried about joining the New Religious Movement (NRM) of Santa Muerte. Because they have no Spanish or Indigenous roots, A.B. first believed devotion to the skeleton often wearing a black cloak or wedding dress, , would be cultural or religious appropriation. However, as they have come to discover through Facebook groups like Devoted to Death, led by Dr. Andrew Chesnut, author of Devoted to Death: Santa Muerte, the Skeleton Saint (2017, Oxford University Press), Santa Muerte is one of the most universal faith figures as what she represents is the one experience that unifies and equalizes everyone, and her group of followers is growing meteorically, as far away as Poland and Ukraine.

According to Dr. Chesnut, Santa Muerte is the “fastest growing new religious movement in the Americas.” The COVID-19 pandemic likely contributed to this growth, with Chesnut referring to her as the newest plague saint, but one of the largest group of her followers are LGBTQ+ people of faith, often those raised in the Catholic Church but felt abandoned and traumatized by a Church that viewed their identities as a sin, continue not to recognize gay marriage, and limit access to gender affirming healthcare.

According to a 2020 study published by the Williams Institute, almost half (46.7%) of LGBT adults are religious, with almost 25% of religious LGBT adults identifying as Roman Catholic. It’s estimated that 1.3 million LGBT Roman Catholics live in the United States, and of these 1.3 million, LGBT adults are more likely to be highly or moderately religious if they are Latinx. Even so, of the 65% of Latinx individuals who were born in the US and raised Catholic, 23% said that they no longer identify as Catholic, including Mestizo, largely due to  sex abuse within the Church, queerphobia, treatment of those in poverty or on the margins, and religious trauma.

Caption: “Our Lady of Pride”

I founded and currently direct Queer and Catholic, A CLGS Oral History Project based out of the Pacific School of Religion, and have discovered many LGBTQ+ people of faith who feel disenfranchised inside the Church. Yet, at the same time, they feel tied to it because it is all they have ever known spiritually, or often in the case of Latinx, Irish, Italian, or Polish Catholics, the Church is an integral part of their identities. Every celebration, from birthdays to baptisms to saint feast days to funerals is celebrated inside the Church so to leave would be recognizing a spiritual and cultural death that many queer people fear.

Mestizo is no longer Catholic or Christian , but still finds meaning in the Catholic interpretation and worship of Santa Muerte. “The Catholic-style interaction with Her made sense as someone who grew up with that modality of engagement with the Divine.”

The Church they once loved (and still often do love) does not love them back and creates a culture where families abandon and persecute them. But many still yearn for spiritual meaning and comfort in Catholic material cultures, so they turn to folk Catholicism, including the NRM of Santa Muerte. It is liberation through acceptance of death, as death is more imminent for those who live on the fringes of life, including LGBTQ+ individuals. LGBTQ+ folks are often thrown out of their homes, disowned by family and friends, undergo conversion therapy, or worse, all of which cause massive trauma and put queer lives in danger. “Some of us are too visible at the wrong moment,” A.B. writes, “and are murdered for it.”

“Queer folks have already failed at being acceptable to the Church and to society at large,” A.B. explained, “We have already failed at being acceptable to our families. If you’re already dead, why worry? Love fully. Fight recklessly. Seize joy where it lies, for as long as it lasts.”

Santa Muerte is therefore a personified version of Memento Mori, or a culture that forces people to confront their own mortality and eventual demise. In doing so, she cleanses LGBTQ+ people who often hide their entire lives out of fear or internalize the guilt and shame vocalized by the Church, their family members, and others, allowing her LGBTQ+ devotees to let go of the social baggage that they carry. Her devotion also resonates with people of the LGBTQ+ community who have lost friends and loved ones to the AIDS pandemic in the 1980s, when the government left LGBTQ+ people for death. Santa Muerte stands defiantly draped in the AIDS quilt.

For people living their lives in fear of murder, torture, or worse because of who they are, death strangely is the one true constant, the one true comfort and absolute, the one experience that unifies all people–everyone will die.

A.B. finds comfort in knowing that Santa Muerte will call out to them again, trusting that when she does, they will be ready to pass peacefully in her embrace. This comfort is the result of the physical and emotional trauma religious institutions and societies inflict on their LGBTQ+ members, but in embracing it, it helps people like A.B. “find the strength to fight a little longer; maybe she will quiet some of that deep pain and help you to turn your anger away from yourself and towards the enemies who put you in the shadows. A soldier who knows they’re about to die has nothing to fear.” At the same time, it also provides Mestizo with mental strength and helps him to find a fuller life as “witchy, queer, healthier, happier.”

Complete Article HERE!

Catholic diocese agrees to pay $100 million settlement to hundreds of abuse victims

— The bankrupt Diocese of Syracuse in New York will have to pay at least half out of its own pocket and could dig into funds donated by parishioners to cover most of the remainder.

The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Syracuse.

By Corky Siemaszko

The Diocese of Syracuse, New York, has agreed to a $100 million settlement with parishioners who claimed they were preyed on by priests, the biggest payout by a Roman Catholic diocese in the U.S. since at least 2018.

But, for now, not a dime of that money is coming from the six insurance companies that cover the Diocese of Syracuse, lawyers involved in the case said Friday.

Instead, as part of its bankruptcy proceedings, the diocese itself will have to shell out $50 million, the parishes in the diocese will have to contribute $45 million, and other entities aligned with the diocese will pay $5 million, to settle the 411 abuse claims filed by 387 people, the lawyers said.

This means that, when the ushers pass around the collection baskets at Sunday Mass at churches across the Diocese of Syracuse, some of that money could be used to pay the victims, Danielle Cummings, a spokesperson for the diocese, confirmed.

“People do give money to the parishes in the general collection,” Cummings said. “And unless they specify that this donation is going to a special project, yes, it could wind up going towards the settlement.”

That said, Cummings added, the diocese intends to “pursue our insurers” while also looking into financing to pay the diocese’s portion of the settlement.

Also, individual parishes may have to tap their savings and investments, Cumming said.

“Statewide insurers have denied, delayed, and ducked their obligations,” attorney Jeff Anderson, who represented the priest sex abuse victims, said earlier in a statement. “It is yet another example of their nefarious strategies employed across the State of New York and the nation.”

Attorney Cynthia LaFave, who worked on the case with Anderson, and another lawyer involved in the settlement who spoke on background, said the Diocese of Syracuse was carrying insurance designed to protect the church from sex abuse lawsuits.

But because they are still negotiating a final settlement with the diocese, LaFave said she could not identify these insurers.

“Yes, they have carried insurance throughout the years, in fact, they have several insurers,” LaFave told NBC News. “But we’re not allowed to discuss that while we are in the midst of settlement discussions.”

In a statement, the diocese said the insurance companies have yet to reach an agreement with the Official Committee of Unsecured Creditors, which is a federally appointed body that represents the interests of the victims.

“As we recently completed our third year of mediation, the assigned mediator in the case did not include insurance carriers in this proposal, as they have yet to agree on coverage issues with the Creditors Committee,” the statement said. “The mediator’s priority was to reach a settlement with the Diocese and its entities first and then pursue insurers.”

Bishop Douglas Lucia

In an open letter to his flock Thursday, Bishop Douglas Lucia acknowledged the settlement will be a heavy lift for his diocese.

“I can tell you as shocking as the settlement amount may seem to leaders of our own parishes and Catholic entities, more appalling and heart-rending to me is the pain and mistreatment experienced by the survivors of child and adult sexual abuse at the hands of those they thought they could trust,” Lucia wrote. “I cannot apologize enough for the abuse which happened or for any neglect in dealing with it. This is why the final settlement will include commitments meant to strengthen our safe environment protocols to further ensure the past does not repeat itself.”

Kevin Braney, chair of the Official Committee of Unsecured Creditors and a sex abuse survivor, said the settlement is a “significant step forward in the healing process.”

“I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude to my fellow survivors and their families, for their endurance as they have patiently awaited this news,” Braney said in a statement to local media.

The proposed settlement, which still requires court and creditor approval, appears to be the largest in the U.S. since the $210 million settlement reached in 2018 by the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis and 400 sex abuse survivors.

But $170 million of that money was paid out by the Minnesota archdioceses’ insurance companies, according to news accounts from that time.

The largest Roman Catholic priest sex abuse settlement thus far in the U.S. happened in July 2007, when the Archdiocese of Los Angeles agreed to pay $660 million to 508 victims.

Two months later, the Diocese of San Diego agreed in September 2007 to pay nearly $200 million to 144 priest abuse victims, according to news reports.

Those payouts were expected to be paid by a combination of the church’s cash and insurance.

The Diocese of Syracuse filed for bankruptcy protection in 2020 after the state of New York temporarily suspended its statute of limitations to give people who claimed they were sexually abused the chance to sue for damages.

Five of the seven other Roman Catholic dioceses in New York State have also sought bankruptcy protection after they were deluged by lawsuits filed by victims of predator priests.

Complete Article HERE!

Sinead O’Connor Condemned Church Abuse Early. America Didn’t Listen.

— In Ireland, Ms. O’Connor spoke out about abuse and the complicity of religious institutions. When she came to the United States, many were not ready to hear her — yet.

Sinead O’Connor shocked many Americans by tearing up a picture of the pope on Saturday Night Live, decades before a reckoning over abuse in the American Roman Catholic Church.

By Liam Stack

Americans began to grapple with a nationwide epidemic of child abuse in Catholic parishes and other religious organizations in 2002, after a landmark Boston Globe investigation revealed a pattern of misdeeds and cover-ups in Boston that went back decades.

Ten years earlier, Sinead O’Connor became a pop culture pariah in the United States for an on-air protest intended to raise awareness of the same problem.

The backlash to her actions — tearing up a picture of Pope John Paul II on “Saturday Night Live” and then shouting “Fight the real enemy!” — was swift.

Prominent Americans, including celebrities like Madonna and Joe Pesci, denounced her. Protesters brought a 30-ton steamroller to crush her cassettes in Rockefeller Center. Catholic leaders were outraged, including some who were forced to resign years later for their roles in covering up abuse.

Many people in America derided her as “somebody looking for attention,” said Cahir O’Doherty, the arts editor of The Irish Voice, an Irish diaspora newspaper in New York City. “It never occurred to anyone that maybe she had a point,” he added.

But back in Ms. O’Connor’s native Ireland, a reckoning over abuse in the church was already beginning.

“In America, she was very, very ahead of her time for doing that,” said Mr. O’Doherty. “She said ‘enough’ and the culture caught up with her.”

The death of Ms. O’Connor at 56, which was announced on Wednesday, was met with an outpouring of remembrances from around the world. But in Ireland and its diaspora communities, there was a more pointed grief at the loss of an artist many saw as both a symbol of and catalyst for a long-needed reckoning over abuse within the church.

Cardinal Bernard Law of Boston, who resigned in 2002, said at the time that her actions were “a gesture of hate.” A spokesman for Cardinal Roger M. Mahony of Los Angeles, who was removed from public duties in 2013, called her actions “just another example of anti-Catholicism.”

On Wednesday, Catholics for Choice, an American group, called Ms. O’Connor a prophetic heroine “unafraid to demand justice for victims of clerical sexual abuse, challenge patriarchy, and speak truth to power — even when her voice was a lonely one and it cost her dearly to do so.”

In the Ireland of Ms. O’Connor’s youth, politics were dominated by the Catholic Church. For decades, priests at the parish level saw part of their role as protecting the community from sexual promiscuity, homosexuality and unwed mothers and their children.

To do so, they used an unwritten, extralegal power to send women accused of such sins to reform schools, workhouses and other facilities run by Catholic orders.

It was a world with which Ms. O’Connor was intimately familiar, and her experiences in one such facility as a teenager, after enduring years of abuse from her mother, set the stage for the moment on “Saturday Night Live.”

“She had already seen what happened to spirited girls and gay kids in Ireland, and to her it wasn’t an abstraction, it was her biography,” said Mr. O’Doherty, who grew up gay in rural Ireland and moved to the United States in 1996. “She came out of an era of silence that swallowed spirited girls and gay boys, that consumed Irish life, and that you could vanish into. And she nearly did.”

In interviews later in life, and in her 2021 memoir, Ms. O’Connor described her mother pinning her to the floor and pummeling her, while forcing her to say over and over again, “I am nothing.”

She grew into a rebellious teenager, skipping school and stealing. After she was caught shoplifting a pair of gold shoes to wear to a rock concert, a social worker suggested that a “rehabilitation center” might set her straight.

That is how, at the age of 14, Sinead O’Connor was sent to live at An Grianán Training Centre in Dublin, which was run by the Order of Our Lady of Charity. It had formerly been a Magdalene Laundry, a facility where a “fallen woman” might spend her entire life washing the dirty laundry of the surrounding community.

The facilities formed a nucleus of physical and sexual abuse in Ireland. A government report in 2009 said tens of thousands of children were abused in industrial schools alone, a staggering figure in a country with barely more than five million people. At one, the Bon Secours Mother and Baby Home in Tuam, the remains of hundreds of babies and fetuses were found in a septic tank in 2017.

An Grianán also housed older women who had been sent there in their youths. In interviews in later years, Ms. O’Connor, who lived there for two years, spoke of interacting with women who were there because they “had their babies taken off them, or because they were sexually abused and complained and nobody believed them.”

Ms. O’Connor said the younger women were kept separated from the older women, but sometimes as punishment the younger girls were sent to sleep in an infirmary wing. She called it “a secret hospice” where older women were sent before they died.

“There was no staff,” she recalled in a 2021 interview. “These ladies were calling out all night, ‘Nurse! Nurse!,’ and there was nobody to come.”

Ms. O’Connor described nights there as horrifying and panic-inducing, but also said she had come to feel “terribly, terribly lucky that god put me” in An Grianán “because otherwise those women, we would never have heard of them.”

The system of abuse had been normalized, spoken of only in hushed tones, in Ireland for decades, Ms. O’Connor said. “But I met them at their dying moment and saw them every day, the way they were treated.”

It was also at An Grianán, she said, that a nun gave her a guitar for the very first time.

By the time Ms. O’Connor became famous in the United States for her first album in 1987 — at the age of 21, just a few years out of An Grianán — the first rumbles of church accountability in her home country had begun. They would grow louder thanks in part to her willingness to describe her own life experiences.

She was a frequent presence at street protests and charity events for a range of social causes, including abortion rights, a procedure she publicly said she had undergone, and equal rights for people of color, migrants and L.G.B.T.Q. people. (Ms. O’Connor described herself as a lesbian in 2000 and as bisexual in 2005, but did not discuss the topic in later years.)

Ms. O’Connor holds her young daughter, who is cupping her mother’s face, at a protest.
Ms. O’Connor, with her daughter Roisin, during an antiracism demonstration in Dublin.

But she became most associated with efforts to combat abuse within the Catholic Church, decades before the scale of the problem within American religious organizations — from the Catholic Church to the Southern Baptist Convention to the Hasidic dynasties of New York — became common knowledge.

One the church’s most high-profile and influential priests in the United States, Theodore E. McCarrick, was expelled from the church in 2019 and is facing sexual assault charges in two states, the first and only American cardinal to be criminally charged in connection with sex abuse.

A man in his 90s stands stooped over at a courtroom lectern surrounded by lawyers and guards.
Former Roman Catholic Cardinal Theodore E. McCarrick at his arraignment on charges that he sexually assaulted a 16-year-old boy.

In her memoir, Ms. O’Connor wrote that the picture she tore in half on TV was not just any picture of the pope. It was a picture of the pope’s Mass in the Irish city of Drogheda in 1979, which he dedicated to “the young people of Ireland” and which had drawn 300,000 worshipers.

That same photograph had been the only decoration on her mother’s wall, she wrote, and had looked down on them both as her mother pinned her to the floor and beat her.

After her mother died in a car accident in 1985, she took the picture, determined to someday destroy it. To her it was an object that “represented lies and liars and abuse,” she wrote.

“The type of people who kept these things were devils like my mother,” she wrote. “I never knew when or where or how I would destroy it, but destroy it I would when the right moment came.”

When she took the stage on Saturday Night Live to perform Bob Marley’s “War,” she meant to start a broader conversation, she later said. She even changed the lyrics to make it about the abuse of children. And she had her mother’s picture with her.

As she began to sing, she knew the moment had come.

Complete Article HERE!

Lesbian nuns tell their stories in new book that reflects changing times

“Love Tenderly: Sacred Stories of Lesbian and Queer Religious” is out new this year from New Ways Ministry press.

By

I must know at least 1,000 nuns. (Though they are actually called “women religious” or “sisters.”) They taught me. I studied with them. We lived in the seminary with them. I’ve said Mass for several women congregations. We ministered together. I attended retreats given by them. They have been spiritual directors. I’ve written about them.

Yet, not once have I said to myself, “This nun is a lesbian.” And I think it’s because of my respect and reverence for them.

After reading two ground-breaking books about lesbian nuns, though, I think it’s the opposite. I had internalized the historic shame for same-sex feelings. Or, it simply does not matter.

The recently released “Love Tenderly” tells the story of 23 sisters coming to grips with their sexual orientation in the context of religious life. The contemporary work reflects a different milieu than the first ground-breaking, sensational “Lesbian Nuns: Breaking Silence,” published in 1985, which told 47 nuns’ stories. Jarring, it became an international hit because the words “lesbian” and “nun” had never been uttered in the same sentence in such a public way before. It also gave the curious a peek behind the convent walls that was not always flattering.

“Love Tenderly” oozes with tolerance and sensitivity, not only by the sisters telling their sometimes painful coming-out stories, but also of more accepting religious leadership in their communities.

Religious life in the U.S. has changed dramatically over the last 36 years.

'Lesbian Nuns'
“Lesbian Nuns: Breaking Silence” was originally published in 1985 and re-issued in 2013.

Years ago, young women entering Catholic orders were warned about “particular friendships,” which could be code for lesbians, and reminded to be friends with all sisters. But many women did bond and some crossed the line into sexual intimacy. When discovered, some were asked to leave the community or go for counseling or they were shamed.

Sister Kathleen Tuite — at 56, one of the youngest in the Dominican Sisters’ Caldwell order — is a product of the new formation. Entering the order at 25, she did her novitiate — or first period of formation — at a collaborative Dominican center in St. Louis with 10 other Dominican novices from all over the country. Unlike the closed environment in Caldwell, her novitiate was more expansive and open, exposing her to newer currents among young religious aspirants. A Dominican sister suggested I speak with her because she has her finger on the pulse of contemporary religious life.

“It was a wonderful experience with people on the same journey,” said Tuite, who later taught at St. Dominic Academy in Jersey City.

Throughout the next two decades, she also attended programs as part of Giving Voice, a program for anywhere between 50 and 80 young sisters, also from all over the country, so they would have support and encouragement to persevere in religious life. They also embodied a new understanding of church “where all God’s people live in pure love, social justice and truth,” she said.

These kinds of insights, she said, enabled sisters identifying as same-sex to remain in religious life, embracing the vow of celibacy with dignity and not shame.

The two anthologies recount the stories of young women who felt their call to enter the convent as sacred. Some described their feelings of attraction to girls since they were young, but not one said she entered because she wanted to fall in love with another nun. Though many described how their coming out was made safe in the confines of the convent in the company of other women, most felt lonely at first until they could confide in other sisters. Many stayed, some left and some returned.

“Sister Petra,” a pseudonym for a former congregational leader locally told me that “sex was never ever discussed” when she entered the convent. The main emphasis was “how to live a celibate life with women.”

She did become aware of “some people who did identify as lesbian and chose to leave.” It was not the lifestyle for them but “it was a safe space for exploration.”

She views the issue of same-sex relations as one of justice and adds that “inclusivity is always an issue” — not only in the matter of treating gays with dignity. Most religious communities of women have advocated for any people being treated unjustly in the church, especially women.

“Women are exiting the church like crazy and it has to come to grips with this exodus,” she said.

Tuite is now the vice president of Student Life at Caldwell University, owned by her religious order.

“My life is around women who have donated their lives as I have grown stronger in my religious life and allowed to develop the gifts I had,” she said.

She could see openly gay and transgender women disposed toward living celibate lives accepted in most religious orders today.

“Sister Petra” agreed, adding “if you have a vocation and feel called to serve.”

Religious communities of women continue to break new ground and lead the church by example.

Complete Article HERE!

Synod Forecast

— How Far The Pope Will Go Toward A More Inclusive Catholic Church

Solemn Holy Mass during the Days of Goodwill People in Velehrad, Czech Republic.

Two synods by the Catholic Church, to be held in Rome in late 2023 and 2024, are to debate possible and even radical changes to the Church’s practices and rules in line with the Argentine pope’s vision of a social and inclusive Church.

By Sergio Rubin

Pope Francis wants to press ahead this year with some of the bold reforms he envisages for the Catholic Church. Ample debate is already taking place on issues and likely to be aired in two synods to be held in Rome.

These include the rule of priest celibacy, allowing married men of proven faith to become priests in parishes with an acute shortage of vocations, women as deacons (the level below priesthood), full recognition of remarriage for divorced Catholics, a place for homosexuals in the Church and greater care and attention to the poor and socially excluded.

The Church wants to hold a synod (or clerical assembly) in two phases — in October 2023 and October 2024 — so it began organizing in 2021 a broad-based consultation among its clergy and flock worldwide, to promote internal dialogue “in the light of faith.”

In what is itself a “synodal process,” Catholics are being asked their views on a range of issues including thorny ones, and while this vast exercise will yield no resolutions, it will act as a reflector of the Christian mood on matters and act as a useful pointer ahead of the first synod.


Walking together

The Pope wants the Church to be more open to dialogue. In theological terms: it should be able to discern reality under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. Etymologically, a synod is a confluence or “walking together,” which means that the first synod set for October will include among its 400 participants bishops and priests, but also laymen and laywomen. The latter are to constitute a quarter of all participants and for the first time, 56 laywomen will be voting at a synod. This is radical, prompting some observers to term the synod a “mini council.”

The coming synod will effectively consider the Church’s own broader “synodality” or the same spirit of “fraternal collaboration and discernment” associated with such gatherings. The initiative is important, not just for the level of participation it has already fomented across the Church, but for consolidating “the identity of God’s people opening itself to listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit speaking in our communities, in the cries of the poor and the earth’s lament,” says Jorge Lozano, the archbishop of San Juan de Cuyo in Argentina. Monsignor Lozano has been an active contributor to preliminary consultations at the regional level.

He says “some progress” has already been made on issues like allowing married men to become priests or women as deacons.

Pope Francis attending a vigil prayer.
Pope Francis attends a vigil prayer on the eve of the XIV General Assembly of the Synod of Bishops at St Peter’s basilica on October 3, 2015 at the Vatican.

Addressing thorny issues

María Lía Zervino, president of the WUCWO (the World Union of Catholic Women’s Organizations) and one of the first three female members of the Dicastery for Bishops (the Vatican body that picks bishops) believes the synod is “of the utmost importance” because “only when we walk together, which we rarely do, can we preach the Good News credibly.” The synod, she says, was an opportunity to “find a new way of facing the Gospel and to apply the Vatican II Council in greater depth.” She is referring to the Church’s 20th century reforms.

Such issues should not monopolize the entire synod.

Zervino says controversial issues that had emerged in preliminary consultations were included in a working document “for consideration and treatment using the methodology of conversing in The Spirit.” But such issues should not, she says, monopolize the entire synod, nor should women’s active role in the Church be reduced to their ordination as deaconesses. Letting 56 women vote, she adds, “is an act of justice, not a feminist demand.”

Matias Taricco, an Argentine priest and theologian, sees the coming synod as a “new path for the entire Church” and undoubtedly a chance to confirm the direction Pope Francis wants it to take. He hopes the synod will address “all the thorny questions.”

Avoid bitterness

Theologian Marcela Mazzini also calls the synod a landmark as “it is dealing with nothing less than the Church adopting a new way of being.”

A more incisive presence and participation by women in the Church.

She is confident there will be advances on the contested issues, though cannot say which exactly, and how much. She doubted it would immediately pave the way for deaconesses in the Catholic Church, but “certainly it will address a more incisive presence and participation by women in the Church, not just in conversions but also in places where decisions are taken.”

To avoid any bitterness, Pope Francis has said the synod is no “congress or parliament, but the Church walking together to read reality with the eyes of faith and with God’s heart.”

Complete Article HERE!