There’s a detail that betrays our communities before any words are spoken: the tone. We have often reflected on the flaws that inhabit certain so-called “traditionalist,” “conservative,” or “right-wing” circles. But today, the gaze turns elsewhere — toward an attitude no less troubling: that of those who define themselves in opposition to such categories.
We begin from what we saw and experienced during the presentation of the apostolic exhortation Dilexi te in the Holy See Press Office. The atmosphere was the same one that hovered around the tables of the Synod on Synodality: a thin air, made of tight smiles, defensive jokes, and answers that dodge rather than engage. You only need to watch the micro-reactions to uncomfortable questions: an ironic smirk, a quip meant to lighten but that actually deflects, a reply that shuts down instead of opening dialogue.
The case of Cardinal Michael Czerny, S.J. — Prefect of the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development — was emblematic. When asked why so many had expressed reservations about the document, he replied, more or less: “The problem is them, not us.”
That’s the grammar of the passive-aggressive: I don’t attack you outright, but I make you feel your question is inappropriate, ill-intentioned, hostile. It’s a way of speaking that hides aggression beneath a varnish of politeness — betraying a Church that preaches listening but struggles to practice it, that speaks of synodality but fears genuine self-examination. Is this, really, the language of a Church that claims to walk together?
The language of condescension
You don’t need a psychology manual to recognize ecclesial passive-aggressiveness. You sense it instantly — in those polite yet ironic replies, in that “I understand your concern” uttered with a patronizing smile that diminishes rather than welcomes. You hear it when, instead of addressing the issue, one invokes authority or competence, as if rank itself could end the discussion. Or when the focus shifts from the content of a question to the tone of the person asking — as if thatwere the real problem.
It’s a subtle yet widespread dynamic: a way to maintain control while seeming conciliatory, to reject without appearing harsh. But this doesn’t come from nowhere. It reflects a Church that has imported the labels of secular debate — friend vs. enemy, progressive vs. conservative — and then wonders why dialogue stiffens like a talk show, where people listen not to understand but to reply.
So we shouldn’t be surprised if, on social media, priests and laypeople reduce every discussion about the Church — or even about faith — to simplistic oppositions: “pro” or “against,” “traditionalist” or “modernist.” It’s the clearest sign of intellectual impoverishment: most Catholics today struggle to handle complex discussions, and social media only magnifies that difficulty. One day you’re branded a modernist, the next a traditionalist. That’s the fate of anyone who seeks balance, who writes not to please but to think, who tries — sincerely — to listen to everyone, not just in words. But in a Church increasingly governed by factional logic, you’re either “right” or “left.” If they can’t label you, they short-circuit. And so a question arises: where do priests and laypeople learn this behavior?
Sadly, the answer is simple — from those above them: from superiors who, by daily example, have turned polarizationinto a pastoral method.
Newman as a lens: the tribe before the argument
As the Church prepares to proclaim St. John Henry Newman a Doctor of the Church, it’s worth recalling his Loss and Gain — where he dissects, with piercing clarity, a perennial mechanism: we join a faction first, and only afterward bend the truth to fit that choice. The conversations between young Charles Reding and his more seasoned companions — skeptics, polemicists, half-believers — reveal the substitution of reason with tribal belonging. What dominates is not blunt hostility, but pointed courtesy — the art of making the other seem out of place, not quite one of us.
Newman warns us: when faith becomes group identity, dialogue turns into fencing — elegant sparring, a play of foils, never a confrontation with the heart of the matter. And when ecclesial conversation becomes dueling rhetoric, the first casualty is listening; the second, truth itself.
The language of control
This communicative style weaves together many threads. First, partisanship: the importation of political categories — left/right, progressive/conservative — that reduce people to mouthpieces rather than interlocutors. Then, impoverishment of dialogue: meekness mistaken for silence, and authority mistaken for exemption from accountability. In such a climate, passive-aggressiveness becomes a convenient shortcut to retain control — you don’t respond, but you make it clear you’ve already judged.
The result is always the same: apparent cordiality concealing rejection, a closeness that distances.
Love that converts
Yet the Gospel presents another way. Throughout Jesus’ life, we see Him moving toward those who oppose or misunderstand Him — speaking the language of love, not of arrogance. He enters the house of the Pharisee (Lk 7:36–50) and accepts the invitation of one who judges Him; He converses with Nicodemus (Jn 3:1–21), guiding his search; He stops at the well with the Samaritan woman (Jn 4:1–42), turning mistrust into thirst for truth; He walks with the disciples to Emmaus (Lk 24:13–35), rekindling faith; He calls Judas “friend” (Mt 26:50), seeking even then a breach in his heart. Jesus meets dissent not with sarcasm but with questions that awaken, with clarity that invites. Gospel meekness is not weakness: it is firmness without aggression, a truth that disarms rather than wounds.
Those who speak as Christians — especially those in positions of responsibility — should first show they have truly listened. Restating the question before answering is not mere formality: it’s a small covenant of fairness. Then comes the substance: a clear thesis, a reasoned proof, a precise reference. It’s content, not irony, that neutralizes sarcasm. Irony aimed at the argument can illuminate; aimed at the person, it becomes pure passive-aggressiveness.
And when one cannot respond, it is more authoritative to admit it: “I can’t anticipate,” “That’s not my area,” than to hide behind evasion. Every reply should end with clarity: “Here’s what we can affirm; on this, we’ll return.” Assertiveness, not reactivity, is the true form of meekness. Those who ask questions have responsibilities too: one issue at a time, verifiable, free of insinuations. A journalist who separates the person from the argument opens the space for dialogue; the one who confuses them closes it. And when the smirk appears, the best reply is to return to the text: “Who said this? When, where, why? In which paragraph does the exhortation address this theme?” That forces engagement with the content — and restores dignity to the conversation.
Our words reveal who we are — in a press room or in a parish, in a religious chapter or a pastoral council. If we answer criticism with a smile of condescension, we have already lost something evangelical. We don’t need to agree on everything; we need the will to understand. Newman reminds us: faith does not grow through belonging, but through patient intelligence of the truth. Everything else — smirks, quips, irritations — is just noise. And in the noise, we first stop hearing the Lord.
p.F.M.
Silere non possum