There comes a point when justice, instead of protecting, becomes an instrument of oppression. This is not the claim of a disenchanted sociologist or a stubborn anticlerical voice—it is something one now senses within ecclesial life itself, where the juridical system appears less and less reliable, increasingly compromised.
A discreet restaurant, tucked among the alleys just beyond the Leonine Walls. Dim lamps stretch long shadows across the wine glasses, while the few occupied tables echo with the cheerful voices of excited tourists. Rome feels suspended, as if the city were holding its breath beneath the surface of all that noise. At our table sit a Dominican friar, an elderly bishop, and a young cardinal. We had gathered for a quick dinner before a conference. And yet, the tone of their words betrays a weight that has nothing convivial about it.
“We devoted so many years to our studies—for what purpose?” breaks the silence the bishop, barely moving his fork. “Today in the Church, there’s no point in studying law. We can only hope a canonist Pope will correct this decline. Perhaps we are only now realizing how unwise it was in the past to appoint bishops without juridical competence.”
Canon law—meant to guarantee transparency, protection, impartiality—is often applied in arbitrary, selective, almost capricious ways. This is no longer a matter of isolated cases: it has become a systemic trend that undermines the Church’s very credibility in claiming to be a guardian of truth and justice. In recent years, cases have multiplied: sentences handed down without a real trial, proceedings devoid of concrete evidence, punitive decrees issued in blatant disregard of the canonical process. Obedient priests, often fragile, are suspended or marginalized without ever having the chance to defend themselves. Meanwhile, others remain inexplicably untouched, even though they have long scandalized the faithful: some hurl public insults, others frequent television studios where they become professional shouters, others indulge in vulgar, coarse language, or write on social media statements that cry out for vengeance before God, discrediting the Church itself. Some of these priests have even been convicted in civil and criminal courts, yet their bishops remain unaffected, too busy quarreling with civil society and driving half their presbyterate out of the dioceses to which they were so unfortunately assigned. A question arises almost naturally: why such disparity of treatment? Why strike with severity those without power, without backing, without noise, while granting total freedom to those who use the media pulpit to offend, to spread fake news, to sow division, to discredit fellow clergy and even the Pope himself? Is it because such figures hold their bishops in check, blackmailing them with dossiers or threats? Or is it rather that, in too many cases, the episcopate chooses the easy road: strong with the weak, weak with the strong?
Genoa: Fr. Paolo Farinella
At this moment, yet another intervention by Don Paolo Farinella in Il Fatto Quotidiano is stirring controversy, especially in Genoa. Farinella is an emblematic case: for years he has spoken unacceptable words without anyone intervening. Not even the great scourge of priests, the so-called “irreproachable” Angelo Bagnasco, did so. Irreproachable, yes—but only with those he chose.
In the last few hours, the priest has launched a bitter, sarcastic, and contemptuous attack on Leo XIV. Not critical engagement, but outright public insult of the reigning Pope. Yet his archbishop, the Franciscan Marco Tasca, remains silent. No rebuke, no disciplinary measure, no distancing. The very same Tasca who had no hesitation in repressing priests “guilty” of celebrating in Latin or preserving a solemn and carefully tended liturgy. Obedient priests are struck, while those who spread words of hatred enjoy total freedom.
A useless—indeed, harmful—instrument
“A priest was suspended a divinis without any explanation from his bishop. When he appealed to Rome, he ended up speaking with a fellow priest—his bishop’s childhood friend—who told him it would be better just to obey. There’s no certainty anymore; we don’t even believe in the sacrament itself. We treat the priesthood as if it were an office you strip away when someone annoys you or disagrees with you,” laments the cardinal, struggling with a napkin caught between the buttons of his cassock.
It is here that canon law loses its credibility. It is no longer an instrument of fairness, but of convenience. No longer a bulwark of rights, but a battlefield of personal interests and power games. Canon law, as codified, provides clear rules: fair trial, right of defense, proof of evidence. Yet how often are these ignored? How often do ecclesiastical tribunals become mere rubber stamps for decisions already made in bishops’ offices or Vatican corridors? Already St. Augustine had warned: “Remota itaque iustitia quid sunt regna nisi magna latrocinia?”—“Remove justice, and what are kingdoms if not great robberies?” Today the same question applies to the Church: stripped of justice, what remains of her moral authority? If the Church does not guarantee justice to her priests, how can she demand it from states, governments, or the mighty of the earth?
John Paul II had warned that a Church that abdicates the law abdicates herself. In 1990, addressing the Roman Rota, he stressed that canon law is not a bureaucratic burden but an intrinsic necessity: “One forgets that justice and strict law—and therefore general norms, trials, sentences, and all other typical manifestations of legality, whenever necessary—are required in the Church for the good of souls and are therefore intrinsically pastoral realities.” And yet today we witness precisely the negation of that principle: a law manipulated, bent, emptied.
Corruption, friendships, and amoral familism
The problem is not merely technical, but profoundly spiritual. The priest—by tradition a man of prayer and intercession—now finds himself crushed by logics alien to the Gospel. Canonical justice, born to protect the weak and safeguard communion, is too often used to punish the obedient and absolve the rebellious. The result is devastating: loss of trust. The faithful no longer believe in the Church’s justice, because they see with their own eyes the gap between proclamations and reality. And, truth be told, neither do we.
While we eat, the bishop recounts: “There’s a canonical case underway in a Dicastery against a religious who has dominated an entire province and even heads ****** [an institution for religious]. The Order, which should be eager to free its members from the burden of this abuser of consciences, faces enormous obstacles. The reason is simple: the accused is so entrenched with certain figures—requiring not closets but whole walk-in wardrobes to store the files—that even when a Dicastery office sends us a positive reply confirming correct procedure, he always manages to find an ‘ally’ in the very same Dicastery ready to scold the superiors for being ‘too harsh.’ An utterly incredible story.”
The selectivity of punishments and corruption within centers of power is scandalous. Bishops quick to silence a parish priest who organizes a procession, yet unable to act against priests who, on social media, insult the Pope, attack bishops, spread fake news, launch ad hominem assaults on public figures, or even incite violence and utter blasphemies. What image does the Church present when it silences the faithful and frees the preachers of hate? This is not about demanding indiscriminate repression or reversing summary trials. It is about reasserting an elementary principle: justice must be the same for all. If a priest errs, he should be corrected according to the law—with evidence, trial, and defense. If, instead, the Church turns a blind eye to some while persecuting others, this is no longer justice but sheer arbitrariness.
Repression of “enemies”
The danger is that canonical justice becomes nothing more than a tool of political intimidation: striking those who cast a shadow over the bishop, protecting those who are better connected than the bishop himself. A caricature of true justice, one that does not build unity but fuels division. And here the reflection grows more dramatic: what Gospel witness can a Church give if she cannot be just even within her own walls? The credibility of canonical justice is measured not by written codes, but by concrete facts. And the facts tell an intolerable story: sentences without evidence, opaque proceedings, guilty silences in the face of glaring scandals. This undermines not only the Church’s juridical authority but her very pastoral mission. For if one is unjustly condemned by the Church, how can one believe that the same Church is mother and teacher of justice?
The true reform lies not in another norm or yet another motu proprio, but in the choice of courage and competence. The courage of bishops to confront domineering priests, to correct publicly those who err, to protect those who remain faithful and humble. The courage to admit their own limits, acknowledging insufficient competence and seeking help from those who know the law. The courage, finally, not to bend law to convenience but to respect it as a tangible sign of fidelity to the Gospel. Without justice, there is no peace—neither within nor beyond the Church. Without justice, there is no credibility. Without justice, the Church becomes that very caricature her enemies have always denounced: a self-referential institution, able to preach but not to live what it preaches. The paradox is that the Church already possesses valid juridical instruments, rules written with wisdom, a secular tradition of law that has inspired civil systems themselves. But these tools remain dead letters unless applied with integrity. That is where the future is decided: not in multiplying norms, but in applying them consistently.
The question remains open, sharp, unavoidable: can we still trust canonical justice? In light of the facts, the answer is bitter. Not as long as it is exercised with partiality, opacity, corruption, and fear. Not as long as the small are struck while the powerful go unpunished. Not as long as mercy is preached for some while justice is denied to others. The Church, to recover herself, must recover justice. And not a façade justice, but the real thing—that which, as the Fathers taught, consists in the “firm and constant will to give each his due.” Only then can she once again be credible not only before her children but before the entire world.
f.F.E.
Silere non possum