Bishop Strickland about the fateful council
A watchman does not cry out every hour of the night. He speaks when something has shifted – when the air itself feels different, when the ground beneath familiar landmarks has begun to move.
What has unfolded in Rome this week is not something to panic over, nor something to ignore. It is something to notice.
There has been a gathering of cardinals occurring – an extraordinary consistory – called not to define doctrine, not to correct grave error, not to defend the altar or clarify confusion, but to reflect, to listen, to converse, and to continue a process.
And the way this gathering was framed tells us far more than any single sentence spoken within it.
From the very beginning, the emphasis was clear: The Church was asked once again to look at herself – and to do so through one particular lens. Not through the accumulated wisdom of councils stretching back to the Apostles. But through the Second Vatican Council, presented not as a chapter in the Church’s life, but as a kind of interpretive key – almost a beginning.
That distinction matters.
Because when a council is treated as a moment within Tradition, it can be received, interpreted, and judged by what the Church has always believed. But when a council becomes the starting point, when it is treated as the hinge on which history turns, then everything before it slowly becomes raw material, and everything after it becomes obligation.
At that point, the Church no longer walks forward remembering who she is. She walks forward managing a direction. And direction always requires process.
This is why the structure of the consistory itself is so revealing. There was no open floor, no free interventions, no disputation in the old Catholic sense – where truth is sharpened through clarity and courage. Instead, there were tables. Small groups. Assigned themes. Facilitated discussion. Carefully managed time.
This is not accidental. It reflects a deeper shift in how authority is now exercised. The shepherd increasingly becomes a moderator. The teacher becomes a listener. The guardian becomes a mediator.
And once that happens, doctrine inevitably becomes “tone,” and tone becomes something that must never be disturbed. A Church that fears disturbance will always learn to treat clarity as cruelty. This same instinct shows itself in the language that now dominates how evangelization is described. We are told again that the Church does not grow by conversion, but by attraction. And the Church must, therefore, radiate welcome and warmth.
The words sound gentle. They sound merciful. But listen carefully to how they are used. Attraction becomes a reason to avoid the hard edge of the Gospel – the narrow gate, the cost of discipleship, the fear of the Lord.
Yet Christ did not attract by removing friction. He attracted by telling the truth – and allowing some to walk away. When attraction becomes the goal instead of the fruit, the Cross is always the first thing that fades into the background.
Perhaps the most unsettling detail of all, though, is what quietly fell to the margins. Liturgy was listed as a theme – but not treated as central. Not given urgency. Not given space. That should trouble every Catholic who understands what the Church actually is.
Because the Church is not first a conversation. She is not first a mission strategy. She is not first a social presence in the world. She is first and always an altar.
A Church that does not guard her altar will not guard her doctrine for long. When liturgy is reduced to one topic among many, something else always fills the vacuum – performance, novelty, personality, and eventually ideology.
And alongside all of this comes the repeated emphasis on welcome – hospitality, inclusion, belonging. These words are not wrong. But they become dangerous when detached from order and truth. Welcome without repentance becomes permission. Love without moral reality becomes sentiment. Belonging without conversion becomes deception.
Christ welcomed sinners – but He never pretended sin was irrelevant. A Church that forgets this does not become merciful. She becomes misleading. This is not about one pope or one cardinal. It is not about temperament or style. It is about trajectory. Towards a Church centered on process rather than proclamation. A Church more concerned with unity than truth.
That Church will still speak of Christ – but more and more as symbol rather than King, companion rather than Judge. And that is why the watchman must speak. Not to sow fear. Not to stir anger. But to keep the lamp lit.
The Church does not need reinvention. She needs remembrance. She does not need a new dawn. She needs the same light that has never gone out. The altar still stands. The sacraments still save. Truth still liberates.
No council, no process, no structure has the authority to replace what Christ Himself instituted. The watchman does not abandon the wall. He trims the lamp. He watches through the night. And he waits for the morning that comes only from God.
But while he waits, he also remembers. And that, brothers and sisters, is where the trouble lies. Because what we are being asked to accept now – quietly, politely, almost as a given – is that the Church’s memory begins in the 1960’s. That everything before that moment is background, preface, atmosphere. Useful for quotations, perhaps. Revered in sentiment. But no longer allowed to govern.
Vatican II is no longer being treated as one council received by the Church. It is being treated as the interpretive tribunal before which all other councils must now appear. If something from the past fits the conciliar vocabulary, it may remain. If it resists that vocabulary, it must be “re-read,” “re-framed,” or quietly set aside. This is why the language matters so much.
We are told that we are in a “new ecclesial season.” That the Church must learn a “new way of proceeding.” That synodality is not an option, but a path. That listening, dialogue, and process are now the privileged signs of fidelity. But notice what disappears when this happens.
The Church no longer speaks first about guarding what was handed down. She speaks about navigating what lies ahead. She no longer asks whether something is true. She asks whether it is helpful, attractive, or unifying. And once that shift takes place, the past becomes something to manage rather than obey.
The saints who served the Church before Vatican II are still honored – but carefully. Their fire is cooled. Their severity is softened. Their clarity is explained away as belonging to “another time.” Their theology is treated as historically interesting. Their sacrifices are admired. But their judgments are no longer allowed to bind. This is why so much emphasis now falls on method instead of meaning. Round tables instead of altars. Facilitators instead of confessors. Processes instead of proclamations.
The Church becomes very busy explaining herself to the world – and less confident about calling the world to conversion. And that is the heart of the matter.
No ecumenical council in the history of the Church ever understood itself as a new beginning. Every true council looked backward even as it spoke forward. Every true council called the scattered sheep back into one fold under one Shepherd. What we are seeing now is something different. A council treated as genesis. A rupture politely denied but practically enforced. A Church that speaks endlessly of continuity while behaving as though amnesia were a virtue.
This is why liturgy can be sidelined. This is why doctrine is handled delicately. This is why moral order is spoken of in the language of accompaniment rather than command. Because once the Church forgets that she existed – fully, authoritatively, fruitfully – long before Vatican II – she becomes unsure of her right to insist.
And a Church unsure of her right to insist will always prefer welcome to truth. That is why the watchman cannot sleep. Not because he despises the council. Not because he rejects the office of Peter. Not because he longs for nostalgia. But because he knows that the Church did not begin in the twentieth century – and she will not survive intact if she pretends she did.
The lamp is not lit to admire the darkness. It is lit to see clearly. And clarity, in every age, comes at a cost.
So we stay on the wall. We remember what others forget. We guard what others soften. We worship where others reorganize. And we wait – not for a process to conclude, not for a consensus to form, not for a new season to arrive – but for the morning that comes only from God.
And history, if we are honest, has already taught us where this road leads.
We do not have to imagine the dangers. We are already hearing them spoken aloud, calmly, confidently, as though they were settled questions rather than warning signs.
We hear talk of women being ordained to the diaconate. We hear moral categories blurred in the name of welcome, as though naming sin was more dangerous than committing it. We hear voices insisting that objective order must give way to subjective experience, that love is sufficient even when truth is left undefined.
And we are told, again and again, not to worry. Trust the process. Stay in the boat. Remain joyful.
But a Church that refuses to correct error does not remain neutral. She slowly teaches by silence. For years now, we have watched confusion spread without consequence. We have watched public dissent go unanswered. We have watched teachings that were once clear become “complex,” then “pastoral,” then quietly optional.
While innovation is welcomed, tradition is policed. While novelty is indulged, reverence is suspected. While experimentation is protected, the ancient liturgy – the Mass that formed saints, missionaries, and martyrs – is treated as a problem to be contained.
Restrictions are justified. Permissions are revoked. Faithful priests and families are treated as obstacles rather than heirs. And all of this is done, we are told, in the name of unity. But unity built by suppressing what the Church herself once nourished is not unity. It is management.
A Church that claims continuity while punishing her own memory sends a message, whether she intends to or not; that what sustained the Faith for centuries is now an embarrassment, a liability, something to be phased out. And that is why these developments cannot be dismissed as isolated issues.
Women deacons are not just about ministry. LGBT language is not just about pastoral tone. The sidelining of liturgy is not just about preference. The lack of correction is not just about patience.
They are all symptoms of the same deeper illness: a Church unsure whether she still has the authority to say, “This is true,” and “This is not.”
Once that uncertainty takes hold, everything else follows. The watchman sees this not because he is clever, but because he has watched the pattern unfold before. Every time the Church loosens her grip on truth in order to seem credible to the world, she loses both. Every time she trades clarity for comfort, she inherits confusion instead.
And still, the watchman does not despair. Because the Church is not saved by strategies. She is not preserved by processes. She is not renewed by novelty. She is saved by Christ – present on the altar, speaking through His Church, reigning whether acknowledged or not.
So the watchman remains on the wall. He speaks when silence would be safer. He remembers when forgetting is fashionable. He guards what others are willing to negotiate. Not because he hates the Church – but rather because he loves her enough to tell the truth.
The lamp is not lit to accuse. It is lit to see.
And in that light – we do not abandon what we have received. We do not pretend the past never happened. We do not surrender the altar to the table, or doctrine to dialogue, or worship to mood. We stand watch.
And we wait – not for permission, not for consensus, not for a new beginning – but for the morning that comes only from God.
The lamp is still lit.
And so we come to this moment – not with fear, not with bitterness, but with resolve.
There are times in the life of the Church when silence is mistaken for prudence. When restraint is praised as wisdom. When those who speak plainly are told they are divisive, unhelpful, or lacking charity. This is not one of those times.
When the Church’s memory is shortened, when her worship is treated as negotiable, when moral truth is softened in the name of welcome, when error is allowed to speak freely while fidelity is managed and restricted – silence is no longer humility. Silence becomes cooperation. And we will not be silent.
Not because we reject authority. But because we love the Church too much to watch her forget who she is.
We will speak for the altar when it is sidelined. We will speak for truth when it is diluted. We will speak for repentance. We will speak for the saints, the martyrs, and the generations who handed us the Faith whole, intact, and uncompromised.
We do not speak as rebels. We speak as sons and daughters who remember.
The lamp is not ours to redesign. It is ours to keep lit. And so we remain on the wall – not shouting into the darkness, not cursing the night – but holding the light steady until the dawn God Himself has promised.
May the Lord strengthen all who guard the Faith in quiet places. May He give courage to priests who suffer for reverence. May He protect families who cling to the truth in an age of confusion. May He purify His Church, not by novelty, but by fire.
And may Almighty God bless you, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen.
Bishop Joseph E. Strickland
Bishop Emeritus
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