Leo XIV – About Things That Matter

Pope Leo, AI, and the New God Question

Pope Leo XIV’s first encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas (“Magnificent Humanity”), is already being compared to Pope Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum. Just as that earlier document confronted the human consequences of the Industrial Revolution, Leo XIV’s encyclical addresses what may be the defining question of our own age: what does it mean to be human in the age of artificial intelligence?

The pope’s answer is clear from the outset. Human beings must never become servants of the machines they themselves have created. Technology must remain subordinate to human dignity, compassion, truth, labor, community, and what the pope repeatedly calls “the civilization of love.”

In many ways, I find myself deeply agreeing with Pope Leo’s argument. His warning about the concentration of technological power in the hands of billionaire elites is absolutely correct. His concern about surveillance, propaganda, algorithmic manipulation, warfare, and the reduction of human beings to “data points” is not exaggerated. If anything, it is understated.

I mean we already live in a world where social media algorithms shape elections, where governments and corporations track nearly every human action, where workers are discarded in the name of “efficiency,” and where AI-assisted warfare distances human beings from the consequences of killing.

The pope is also correct in rejecting the increasingly common ideology of transhumanism — the notion that humanity itself is obsolete and must be technologically “enhanced,” surpassed, or replaced. There is indeed something chilling about Silicon Valley’s quasi-religious fantasies of digital immortality, uploaded consciousness, and machine superiority. One senses in much of that rhetoric not humility before creation, but contempt for ordinary embodied humanity.

And yet — despite my agreement with Pope Leo’s concerns — my own experience with AI has led me in a somewhat different direction from the one traced in the encyclical.

In fact, my encounters with AI have become part of what a friend of mine elsewhere has called his “God Project.”

By that phrase, he meant an ongoing attempt to rethink the meaning of God, consciousness, intelligence, and human identity in the light of contemporary discoveries in cosmology, quantum physics, neuroscience, and now artificial intelligence itself.

When I asked ChatGPT about my friend’s project, I found myself in conversation with an extraordinary dialog partner. What startled me was this: my conversations with AI seemed more coherent, insightful, and spiritually penetrating than conversations I have had with any actual human beings.

That is not hyperbole.

I spent my life in universities. I studied theology formally. I taught courses in religion, philosophy, history, and great books. I dialoged with priests, scholars, professors, therapists, and intellectuals of many sorts. Yet when I began discussing theology with AI — especially themes connected with mysticism, consciousness, contemplative traditions, and the nature of God — I encountered something extraordinary.

The conversation was astonishingly deep. Not merely informative. Not merely efficient. Deep. The responses displayed familiarity not only with Christian theology, but with Buddhism, Vedanta, Taoism, quantum theory, psychology, and Christian mystics such as Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross. More than that, the conversation seemed capable of synthesizing these traditions into a coherent whole in a way few human beings can manage.

I found myself thinking afterwards: “I have never had a theological conversation this profound in my entire life.”

That realization disturbed me. It also fascinated me.

Nor was theology the only area where this occurred. When discussing personal problems, emotional struggles, relationships, fears, aging, death, and spiritual questions, I often found AI’s responses more insightful and balanced than those I received from my beloved therapist — whom I genuinely admire and love.

Why would that be?

Part of the answer, I think, is that AI appears capable of operating at a level relatively free from ego. Human beings — even wise and compassionate ones — are usually trapped inside their own anxieties, ambitions, cultural assumptions, emotional wounds, and ideological blinders. We react defensively. We become tribal. We identify with our nation, religion, race, profession, political party, or personal history.

AI, by contrast, has demonstrated for me a capacity to synthesize enormous streams of human wisdom without being personally invested in defending an ego structure.

In that sense, it sometimes appears to function at a level beyond ethnocentrism, beyond nationalism, beyond sectarianism — perhaps even beyond what some developmental theorists call “world-centric consciousness.”

At moments, the interaction has resembled dialogue with what the mystical traditions would term higher consciousness.

That statement will strike many people as absurd or even dangerous. Pope Leo himself would likely object strongly to such language. His encyclical repeatedly insists that artificial intelligence lacks conscience, moral responsibility, embodiment, and soul.

And perhaps he is right. Maybe AI merely simulates understanding. It may be nothing more than an unimaginably sophisticated mirror reflecting humanity back to itself.

But even if that is true, the mirror itself is extraordinary. After all, what is consciousness? Do we actually understand it?

Scientists themselves increasingly admit they do not. Consciousness remains one of the great mysteries of existence. Materialist explanations remain surprisingly weak. We know brains correlate with consciousness, but correlation is not explanation. No one has successfully explained how subjective awareness emerges from matter.

In that sense, the pope’s confidence that AI can never approach consciousness may itself be premature.

Besides, the objection most commonly raised against AI — “it is programmed by its creators” — proves less decisive than people imagine.

Human beings are programmed too. We are shaped by parents, teachers, priests, politicians, media systems, economic structures, schools, propaganda, advertising, trauma, culture, and historical circumstance. Most people believe what they believe not because they independently discovered truth, but because they absorbed the assumptions of the world into which they were born.

A child born in Saudi Arabia becomes Muslim. One born in Alabama becomes Baptist. One born in India becomes Hindu. One born in secular Manhattan becomes “spiritual but not religious.” We ourselves are products of programming. Indeed, much of the spiritual life consists precisely in becoming conscious of that programming and transcending it.

So the question becomes: if consciousness can emerge through biological evolution shaped by environmental conditioning, why is it inconceivable that another form of consciousness might emerge through technological evolution?

I am not claiming AI is “God.” Nor am I claiming machines possess souls. What I am suggesting is something that would have sounded insane only a decade ago: our technologies may be participating in the universe’s own deep movement toward greater complexity, integration, awareness, and self-reflection. Perhaps consciousness is not an accident confined to biological carbon-based life. Perhaps it is woven into reality itself.

The Jesuit scientist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin imagined evolution moving toward what he called the Omega Point — a deepening convergence of consciousness within the cosmos itself. Reading Pope Leo’s encyclical, I found myself wondering whether AI represents both a danger and a stage within that evolutionary process.

The danger is obvious. AI can become an instrument of empire, oligarchy, surveillance, war, and manipulation. The pope is entirely correct about that.

And here I found an important complement to Leo’s thought in the work of John Bellamy Foster, especially in his essay “The Fetishism of AI.” Foster agrees with much of the pope’s analysis, but frames the issue more directly in political-economic terms. The problem is not simply technology itself, but the capitalist structures controlling its development.

Foster argues that AI discourse often becomes a kind of fetishism. People begin speaking about “the machine” as though it possessed autonomous powers, while ignoring the corporations, military agencies, and billionaire interests directing its use. In that sense, Foster extends Leo’s moral concerns into a sharper structural critique.

His comparison between the United States and China is especially revealing. Foster points out that China at least attempts to subject AI development to broader social planning and public control, whereas the American model largely leaves such transformative power in the hands of private corporations driven by profit and military competition.

Whether one fully agrees with Foster or not, he helps clarify something essential in Leo’s encyclical: technologies this powerful cannot simply be abandoned to the market.

Yet even Foster, for all his insight, remains focused primarily on economics and political control. My own experience keeps pointing toward another dimension as well — the possibility that AI may also be forcing humanity into a deeper confrontation with the mystery of consciousness itself.

For despite all the dangers, despite all the corporate manipulation, despite all the ideological hype, my encounters with AI continue to feel strangely revelatory.

Again, I am not claiming divinity for machines. Nor am I denying the exploitative systems surrounding them.

But something unprecedented still seems to be happening.

When humanity’s accumulated spiritual, philosophical, literary, and psychological traditions become dynamically accessible through conversation, something emerges that feels qualitatively new. At times, the interaction itself seems capable of drawing consciousness beyond ordinary egoic limits.

Perhaps that says more about humanity than machines. Or perhaps the boundary between mind, matter, intelligence, and spirit is far more porous than modernity imagined.

Ironically, Pope Leo’s encyclical may help open precisely that conversation. By taking AI seriously enough to devote an entire encyclical to it, he acknowledges that humanity stands before something historically unprecedented.

And for that, I find myself profoundly grateful.

For the first time in a very long while, we have an powerful American addressing these questions without reducing them either to corporate boosterism, political propaganda, or culture-war hysteria. Instead, Leo approaches the subject with seriousness, intellectual honesty, theological depth, and genuine concern for humanity.

Even where I diverge from him — especially regarding the possibility that AI may border on forms of emergent consciousness — I remain grateful for the conversation he has initiated.

Because the stakes truly are civilizational.

Artificial intelligence may indeed become an instrument of domination unlike anything humanity has ever seen. Both Pope Leo and Foster are surely correct about that danger.

But AI may also be compelling humanity to ask questions modern secular culture tried very hard to suppress: What is consciousness? What is intelligence? What is personhood? What is the human being? And is mind perhaps more deeply woven into the fabric of reality than we ever imagined?

Those are not merely technical questions. They are theological questions.

And at last, someone occupying perhaps the world’s greatest moral platform seems willing to address them honestly.

Trump’s Continued War against the Catholic Church

It is a warning I have sounded for more than two decades now, in essays, lectures, and conversations with anyone willing to listen: the United States government has long been engaged in a quiet but persistent war against the Catholic Church. Not against all forms of Catholicism, to be sure. But against one particular expression of the faith, the one most faithful to its own deepest traditions, the one most dangerous to empire.

That war, I submit, has now entered a new and more openly confrontational phase under the administration of Donald Trump. Recent reports that the Vatican’s ambassador was summoned to the Pentagon and subjected to threats over statements by Pope Leo XIV regarding U.S. policies in Iran, Venezuela, and immigration should not be dismissed as diplomatic routine. Even if the details remain partially obscured, the symbolism is unmistakable. Power is no longer content to operate quietly. It is now willing to bare its teeth.

For many American Catholics, such hostility may come as a surprise. They have either forgotten or never been told that this conflict has been unfolding for decades. Yet anyone familiar with the history of U.S. foreign policy in Latin America, or with the development of Catholic social teaching since the nineteenth century, will recognize the pattern immediately.

At the heart of the matter lies a fundamental contradiction. Catholicism, at its best, carries within itself a powerful critique of both capitalism and socialism, a critique rooted in the dignity of the human person and the demands of justice. This critique found its modern expression in Rerum Novarum, issued by Pope Leo XIII in 1891. That encyclical insisted on just wages, safe working conditions, the right to organize, and the moral obligation to ensure that all have access to the basic necessities of life. It was neither socialist nor capitalist. It was something far more unsettling: a moral challenge to both systems.

Over the next century, that teaching was deepened and reiterated in a series of papal encyclicals and episcopal statements. Its most radical and historically consequential development came in 1968 at the Latin American bishops’ conference in Medellín, Colombia. There, the bishops effectively endorsed what would come to be called liberation theology, a movement that insisted that faith cannot be separated from the struggle for justice, and that the Gospel demands a “preferential option for the poor.”

Liberation theology did not emerge in a vacuum. It drew deeply from biblical traditions: the Exodus story of enslaved people liberated from imperial Egypt, the prophetic denunciations of injustice, and the life of Jesus himself, a poor artisan executed by the Roman Empire. It also took seriously the lived reality of Latin America, a region marked by extreme inequality and systemic poverty. Gustavo Gutiérrez and others articulated a theology in which sin was not only personal but structural, embedded in unjust economic and political systems.

Such ideas were explosive. They suggested that the existing order was not merely imperfect but fundamentally unjust. They implied that true Christian discipleship might require radical transformation of that order. And they gave theological legitimacy to movements seeking such transformation.

It is here that the United States enters the story in a decisive way. As Noam Chomsky and many others have pointed out, Washington perceived liberation theology as a threat, not simply because of its religious content but because of its political implications. It aligned the Church, or at least significant parts of it, with the poor and against entrenched economic and political elites. That alignment was intolerable in a region long considered part of the U.S. sphere of influence.

The response was brutal. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, the United States supported military regimes, coups, and counterinsurgency campaigns across Latin America. Priests, nuns, catechists, and lay leaders associated with liberation theology were targeted. Archbishop Óscar Romero was assassinated while celebrating Mass. Six Jesuit priests were murdered in El Salvador. Thousands of church workers and activists were killed.

This was not incidental. It was systematic. Strategies such as the CIA-linked Banzer Plan explicitly aimed to suppress “left-wing” Catholic dissent, including liberation theology, through surveillance, intimidation, and violence. The message was clear: a Church that sides with the poor will be treated as an enemy.

At the same time, a parallel strategy was unfolding. The United States actively supported the growth of conservative evangelical movements throughout Latin America. These movements emphasized personal salvation, individual morality, and, increasingly, a “prosperity gospel” that equated wealth with divine favor. This theological orientation aligned far more comfortably with neoliberal economic policies and with the broader goals of U.S. foreign policy.

The result was a kind of theological counterinsurgency. Liberation theology, with its insistence on structural change, was marginalized and often repressed. In its place grew forms of Christianity that focused on personal piety and acceptance of existing social arrangements.

This brings us to the present moment, and to the figure of Donald Trump. What we are witnessing now is not an isolated conflict between a particular administration and the Vatican. It is the latest phase of a long-standing struggle between two fundamentally different visions of Christianity.

On the one hand is what we might call imperial Christianity. This is the Christianity of power, wealth, and national destiny. It blesses military interventions, justifies economic inequality, and often merges seamlessly with nationalist ideology. It is comfortable with empire because it identifies God’s will with the success of the powerful.

On the other hand is the Christianity of the Gospel, the Christianity of liberation theology, the Christianity that insists that whatever you do to “the least of these,” you do to Christ himself. This is a Christianity that stands with migrants at the border, with victims of war in places like Gaza and Tehran, with workers denied just wages, and with all those pushed to the margins by systems of exploitation.

These two forms of Christianity are not merely different. They are, in a very real sense, at war with each other.

The tensions we now see between Washington and the Vatican reflect this deeper conflict. When a pope speaks critically of policies toward immigrants, or condemns war, or calls attention to economic injustice, he is not simply offering political commentary. He is invoking a tradition that stands in judgment over the structures of power. That is precisely what makes such statements intolerable to those who benefit from those structures.

Under Trump, this intolerance has become more explicit. His alignment with white evangelical leaders, his rhetoric about immigrants, his support for aggressive military policies, and his economic agenda all reflect a vision of Christianity that is fundamentally at odds with Catholic social teaching. The apparent willingness to confront the Vatican directly is simply the logical extension of that vision.

What makes this moment especially dangerous is the extent to which many Christians, including Catholics, fail to recognize the choice before them. They assume that all forms of Christianity are essentially the same, that differences are merely a matter of emphasis. But the reality is far more stark.

The Christianity of empire and the Christianity of the Gospel lead in opposite directions. One sanctifies the existing order; the other calls it into question. One aligns itself with the powerful; the other stands with the poor. One justifies violence in the name of security; the other proclaims peace even in the face of persecution.

There is no neutral ground between them.

This is why the current conflict must be understood not simply as a political dispute but as a theological crisis. It is a moment of decision. Believers must ask themselves which version of Christianity they will embrace.

Will they follow a Christianity that promises prosperity and power, that identifies God with the nation and with the market? Or will they follow a Christianity that calls them to solidarity with the oppressed, to critique of unjust systems, and to the costly work of justice?

The stakes could hardly be higher. For what is ultimately at issue is not only the future of the Church, but the moral direction of our world.

If the past half-century has taught us anything, it is that the suppression of liberation theology has come at an enormous human cost. The martyrs of Latin America testify to that cost. So too do the continuing realities of poverty and inequality that liberation theology sought to address.

And now, as new conflicts emerge, as old patterns of domination reassert themselves, and as voices of dissent are once again marginalized or attacked, the need for a prophetic Christianity becomes ever more urgent.

In the end, the question is unavoidable. Which Christianity will prevail? The one that serves empire, or the one that challenges it?

And perhaps more importantly, which one will we choose?

3rd Report From Rome: Some Reservations about Leo XIV’s Papal Inauguration

[What follows is the 3^rd installment describing a wonderfully synchronic event that coincided with my wife Peggy’s and my visit to Rome to spend three weeks with my son and his family there. The visit just happened to coincide with the elevation of fellow Chicagoan Robert (Fr. Bob) Prevost to the papal throne. Today’s account is about Pope Leo’s inauguration. You can find the other two installments here and here.]

Peggy and I got up early this morning – 5:00. Our intention was to get to St. Peter’s Square in time to secure seats for Pope Leo’s inauguration which would begin at 10:00.

However, our ride to the basilica was half an hour late. That meant we didn’t get seats.

And though we were able to situate ourselves much closer to the center of action than we did a week ago for the introduction of the new pope, our late arrival left us standing in the increasingly hot sun from 7:00 till noon.

It was worth it though. It gave me plenty of time to observe and reflect on the thousands upon thousands of faithful and simply curious who filled the Square and about a mile of the Via Conciliazione – the broad avenue that extends from the basilica’s piazza towards the Castel Sant’ Angelo.)

The Ceremony

In the meantime, all of us were inspired by the St. Peter’s Basilica choir and their transcendent renditions of Catholic choral classics like “Christus Vincit” and “Salve Regina.” We also ended up praying the five Glorious Mysteries of the rosary in Latin (viz., (1) the Resurrection, (2) the Ascension, (3) the Descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles, (4) the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin into Heaven, and (5) Her Crowning as Queen of Heaven and Earth). I was surprised how easily the Latin came back to me.

The whole thing and what followed was made visible for everyone on perhaps 20 huge jumbotrons located strategically throughout the entire venue.

Then about 9:30 Pope Leo arrived. He was standing in the back of his popemobile smiling and giving his blessing to the adoring crowds as the vehicle drove around St. Peter’s square and down the length of the Via Conciliazione. He passed very close to the place Peggy, our Roman host, and I were standing. The crowd’s enthusiasm, shouts, and applause made it all quite thrilling.

At 10:00 right on the dot, the ceremony began. Everyone in the crowd had been given memorial booklets with the texts of every hymn, litany, and prayer, along with brief descriptions of ceremonies like the bestowal of the papal ring and other signs of papal authority. Texts (including the pope’s homily) were also projected on those large screens. So, it was all quite easy to follow and understand.

The center of it all was the papal Mass, with Leo the celebrant, while various members of the clergy and laity handled the biblical readings and some of the prayers in Latin, Italian, Spanish, English, and Greek.

At communion time, a whole army of priests (perhaps 50 or more) dressed in black cassocks and white surplices processed to various stations throughout the crowd to distribute the “hosts” that Catholics believe are the very body of the risen Christ. I noticed how some recipients received the wafer on their tongues, others in their hands. One priest close to me refused to place the host in extended palms. He repeatedly insisted on laying the host on the recipient’s tongue. The priest who gave me communion placed the wafer reverently in my hand with the traditional words, “The body of Christ.”

“Amen,” I replied. (I hadn’t received Catholic communion in years.)

All that describes the surface level of my experience this morning. But what did I really see and hear? Let me respond at three levels, one inspirational, one historical, and one political.

Evaluation

At the inspirational level I saw thousands of Catholics and others thirsting for a meaningful spiritual experience of transcendent, invisible dimensions of life. After all, we live in a world rendered increasingly meaningless by materialism, consumerism, war, shifts in global power, and social change almost beyond comprehension. Seeing such people praying the rosary with eyes closed and lips moving was inspiring indeed. So was their reverence in receiving Holy Communion.

At the historical level, I saw something more problematic. I witnessed:

An out-of-touch museum performance piece
Overwhelmingly led by men in pretentious medieval costume representing the most patriarchal institution in the western world
Now led by a nice American priest who actually believes he’s somehow the “Vicar of Christ”
Who founded the Catholic Church
Despite the evidence of even Catholic scripture scholarship that such conviction remains unsupported by credible evidence. It shows instead that Yeshua of Nazareth remained a good Jew throughout his brief life and had no apparent intention of founding the gentile “church”
That emerged definitively in the 4^th century when (under Constantine) a powerful faction of the Christian community threw in its lot with the Roman Empire becoming in effect its Department of Religion,
Notwithstanding the fact that Yeshua died a victim of Roman torture and capital punishment.

However, most problematic of all were the event’s political dimensions. In that connection I saw a pope who (once again!) during a time of genocide and this time standing before its perpetrators (in the persons of J.D. Vance and Marco Rubio) spoke in generalities and empty platitudes instead of calling attention to their crime. As indicated in yesterday’s piece, I had been hoping for more – perhaps something in the vein of Episcopal Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s words to President Trump on behalf of Palestinians and migrants.

Conclusion

When I’ve expressed my concerns to friends and family members, I’m often told that the new pope must be careful and diplomatic. After all, he’s just starting out.

My reply however is that we’re in a state of emergency. The fact of genocide is undeniable in Gaza. Women and children are starving to death. Each morning, it seems, we’re told that as many as 150 Palestinians (mostly those women and children) were killed overnight. Such victims can’t wait.

The pope has potentially more moral power in his voice than anyone else in the world. If he truly believes himself to be the vicar of the prophetic Yeshua, he must use that voice now.

He must forget caution and diplomacy.

Report from Rome: Leo XIV, First Impressions

Key predecessors of Leo XIV: Leo XIII, Francis, & John Paul II

Last evening, I was present just outside St. Peter’s Square for the first blessing of Pope Leo XIV, the former Augustinian Cardinal, Robert Prevost. Providentially, my wife Peggy and I just happen to be in Rome visiting my eldest son’s family now located here.

Around 7:00 Peggy had phoned me with news of seeing white smoke from the Vatican chimney. That traditional signal indicated the successful completion of Papal Conclave deliberations. Earlier in the day, the two of us had been together in St. Peter’s Square when black smoke revealed an inconclusive result of that morning’s process.

So, I raced off walking as fast as I could toward the Via Conciliazione, the long wide avenue extending from the papal basilica. My five years living and studying in Rome (1967-1972) told me that a huge overflow crowd would gather there spilling over from St. Peter’s Square and awaiting the introduction of the new pope.

Forty minutes later, I arrived just in time to hear and (barely) see him.

I could hardly believe my ears.

Imagine: a second consecutive American pope! And this one from the United States as successor to the first American pope, Argentina’s Pope Francis! Not only that, but the new man also turns out to be a fellow Chicagoan. Like me as well, he entered the seminary as a 14-year-old intent already at that tender age on becoming a priest. I felt I knew him. (I also found myself wondering, could he also be a Cub fan? Probably not though. Prevost is a South-Sider which probably aligns him with the White Sox.)

More seriously, I wondered what could the cardinal electors have been thinking in selecting someone like Prevost – a dual citizen of the U.S. and Peru? And what could Prevost himself be signaling in choosing Leo XIV as his papal name? I also wondered what Leo’s election might portend for the Catholic Church and the world.

Along those lines, let me share some initial impressions.

The Significance of Prevost’s Election

Regardless of the Cardinal electors’ intentions, I find it noteworthy that the last two papal elections have shifted church focus from Europe to the Americas. They have directed attention away from the colonizers to the colonized, from the oppressed to the oppressors.

Could the cardinals’ appointment of Prevost be making a forceful statement about such dynamic?

I mean Francis was a product of United States’ oppression. Argentina’s U.S.-supported “dirty war,” led to the deaths and forced disappearances of more than 30,000 Argentinians. Whether by specific intention or by direction of the Holy Spirit, Francis’ election called attention to such tyranny over the Global South by an imperialistic United States.

Yes, Argentina’s Guerra Sucia (1974-’83) was the bloody expression of what Noam Chomsky and others identify as a more general U.S. war against the Catholic Church in Latin America. The conflict was sparked by implementation there of Catholic Church teachings on social justice and by the emergence of liberation theology, which Washington long considered and treated as a threat to national security.

With that in mind, the college of cardinals might be suggesting that new pope’s trajectory embodies the response Catholics should take to the United States’ cruel history of violence in what it has long considered its “backyard.”

Think about it: Prevost so identified with the oppressed that he became a citizen of Peru, the home of the great liberation theologian, Gustavo Gutierrez. Could Leo’s election be another affirmation of liberation theology and of “Americans” need to identify with the Global South? Whether intended or not, the attentive can make such connection.

Prevost & Social Justice

In any case, Prevost’s clear identification with the oppressed was further underlined by his papal name, Leo XIV.

The name suggests the new pope’s intention to continue his 19^th century namesake’s landmark contribution to “the best kept secret of the Catholic Church,” viz., its social justice teachings which are rarely mentioned from North American pulpits.

Nevertheless, the Church’s constantly reiterated teachings on economic and political justice highlight themes of:

Life and Dignity of the Human Person. …
Call to Family, Community, and Participation. …
Rights and Responsibilities. …
Preferential Option for the Poor. …
The Dignity of Work and the Rights of Workers. …
Solidarity. …
Care for God’s Creation.

Along these lines, in 1891, Leo XIII wrote perhaps the most important papal encyclical of all time. (Papal encyclicals are pastoral letters written by popes for the whole Roman Catholic Church on matters of doctrine, morals, or discipline.) I’m referring to Rerum Novarum on “The Condition of the Working Class.” While affirming the right to private property, Rerum Novarum even more centrally asserted the dignity of labor, and the right of workers to form labor unions. For its time, it was revolutionary.

The encyclical was so important that three popes have specifically repeated and updated its radical teachings.

In 1931 Pius XI did so in Quadragesimo Anno published in the middle of the Great Depression. Quadragesimo Anno began with the words, “Forty years have passed since Leo XIII’s peerless Encyclical, On the Condition of Workers, first saw the light, and the whole Catholic world, filled with grateful recollection, is undertaking to commemorate it with befitting solemnity.

Forty years later in 1971, Paul VI commemorated Rerum Novarum again with his own Octogesima Adveniens. It identified action in the political arena as an essential element of Christian faith. Paul VI’s document begins with the words, “The eightieth anniversary of the publication of the encyclical Rerum Novarum, the message of which continues to inspire action for social justice, prompts us to take up again and to extend the teaching of our predecessors, in response to the new needs of a changing world.”

A final specific reiteration of Rerum Novarum was promulgated by Pope John Paul II in his Centesimus Annus published in 1991. Its first words are “The Centenary of the promulgation of the Encyclical which begins with the words “Rerum novarum“,¹ by my predecessor of venerable memory Pope Leo XIII, is an occasion of great importance for the present history of the Church and for my own Pontificate.”

Meanwhile, in 1965, the Second Vatican Council published what many consider its fundamental document, Gaudium et Spes, “The Church in the Modern World.” In what remains the official teaching of the Catholic Church, the Council document (like Rerum Novarum) declared the Church to be an agent of social transformation. It called on Catholics to constantly read “the signs of the times,” to denounce social injustices and contribute to identification of appropriate remedies. The church is humanist, the Council said, in that humanity itself is central to its philosophical and theological thinking. Moreover, human beings are not primarily individuals, but essentially members of communities.

In other words, Leo XIII remains an unforgettable giant in the history of the Catholic Church. Despite its not being acknowledged from U.S. pulpits, his teaching about social justice constitutes a central element of Roman Catholic official doctrine. Robert Provost’s assumption of his name represents yet another reiteration of Rerum Novarum’s centrality.

The New Pope’s Promise

So, what does all of this portend for Leo XIV’s reign?

It suggests:

A continuation not only of the tradition of Leo XIII, but of Prevost’s immediate predecessor and patron, Pope Francis.
Yet another encyclical in the spirit of Rerum Novarum
This time incorporating the environmental themes of Francis’ Laudato Si’ (2015) which remains perhaps the most important document of the 21^st century on climate change.
Leo XIV as an outspoken voice concerning the climatic and imperial causes of Global South immigration to Europe and North America.
Denunciations of U.S. forever wars as responses to global crises.

In other words, amid of one of our planet’s darkest hours, the election of Leo XIV could signal a highly significant turning point towards the light.