Something profound, perhaps irreversible, is happening in the United States. It's not just a crisis of faith or a political divide: it's a transformation of identity, a spiritual mutation that is redefining what it means to be Catholic in the 21st century.
The publication of Pope Leo XIV's new apostolic exhortation on poverty, energy, and social justice has sent shockwaves through the American ecclesial body. Within hours, social media was filled with insults: "Communist Pope," "traitor to the true faith," "servant of globalism." The Pope's mention of energy poverty and environmental responsibility was enough to be accused of politics.
But it's not the Pope who has entered politics. It's the American Church that has long confused politics with faith, turning Catholicism into a partisan banner.
Nineteenth-century American Catholicism was the religion of immigrants: Italians, Irish, Poles, Mexicans. It was a poor but vibrant faith, a Church that built schools, hospitals, and social works. Today, that Church no longer exists.
In its place, a new entity has emerged: an American National Church, which uses doctrine as a weapon of identity and liturgy as a sign of political affiliation. It is a Church that calls itself "pro-life," but blesses the death penalty; that speaks of "religious freedom," but actually means freedom to impose its own moral vision; that defends the family, but often forgets the poor, the migrant, the sick.
It is a Catholicism overwhelmed by the evangelical infection, a hybrid of Catholic faith and Protestant fanaticism, where emotion replaces reason, and loyalty to the nation replaces communion with Rome.
In Midwestern churches, people pray for the "return of Christian America," and in Catholic schools, textbooks are taught that reinterpret social doctrine in the light of nationalist ideology. It's a process of internal Protestantization, but disguised as a "return to tradition."
This transformation is clearly manifest at the ballot box. Faith, in many communities, has become an extension of political identity. Being "a good Catholic" often means belonging to a certain part of the ideological spectrum. Sunday homilies speak of abortion, guns, economic freedom—rarely of inequality, migrants, or ecology.
American Catholic nationalism has constructed its own theological language,where the Gospel is bent to support capitalism, patriotism, military force.
The "Social Doctrine of the Church" is ignored or reinterpreted according to the logic of the market and profit.
Rome, in this narrative, becomes a foreign body, a "foreign" authority incapable of understanding the American spirit.
And so, the Pope—a symbol of unity—becomes a target. Pope Leo XIV, despite being American-born, is treated as an internal enemy: a pontiff accused of "wanting to destroy Western civilization" simply because he speaks of justice, compassion, and sobriety.
What is emerging is not simply a group of conservative Catholics. It is a parallel Church, with its own media, its own theologians, its own lay leaders. A universe that only partially recognizes the Pope's authority and tends to construct an "American" doctrine, autonomous from Rome.
This is a complex cultural and spiritual phenomenon: American Catholicism has always sought to reconcile two identities—fidelity to the universal Church and belonging to the nation. Today, however, the pendulum has swung too far. Catholicism has become politicized, faith has become a mark of belonging, and the Gospel has been replaced by the myth of the "Christian nation."
Pope Leo XIV subtly made it clear that when faith becomes ideology, when the name of Christ is used to defend power, it no longer remains religion, but idolatry.
Harsh words, which unleashed a wave of anger. But the reaction of "Catholic nationalists" only confirmed the truth of his message: theirs is no longer a question of faith, but of power.
The heart of the problem is theological as well as political. The American Church is increasingly faithful to the Throne rather than the Altar. In the Pope's language, this means that political power—today embodied by certain identitarian and populist movements—has replaced spiritual authority.
Catholicism, once the sacrament of communion, has become an instrument of division. And the word "tradition" is used to justify intolerance.
The paradox is that many of these movements proclaim themselves "defenders of the true faith" even as they are dismantling it from within.
They reject compassion, deny social justice, and scorn the universality of the Christian message. The result is a nationalistic Catholicism, economically powerful but spiritually sterile.
The reformist Pope—alone at Castel Gandolfo—now appears as the last barrier to this transformation. Meanwhile, the silence of many American bishops feels like complicity.
What is happening in the United States is not a formal schism, but a process of progressive detachment.
The faithful do not declare themselves outside the Church, but reinterpret its principles to the point of emptying them of their original meaning.
It is a de facto schism, a cultural rather than doctrinal fracture, which could soon become irreversible.
This new American Catholicism feels self-sufficient: wealthy, influential, politically powerful. Why should it listen to Rome? Yet, precisely this self-sufficiency is the clearest sign of its spiritual fragility.
A Church that no longer needs the Pope, that rejects dialogue and replaces faith with national identity, is destined to implode under the weight of its own arrogance.
Pope Leo XIV knows this. And for this reason, despite knowing he is alone, he continues to insist on poverty, peace, and universal brotherhood. Not because these are "political issues," but because they are at the heart of the Gospel.
Perhaps the universal Church will soon have to make a difficult choice. Continue to tolerate this decline, so as not to lose the economic contribution and political weight of the American Church, or say frankly that not everything that calls itself "Catholic" truly is.
Sometimes a clean wound is better than a chronic infection. Perhaps the same principle applies to the Church: better to lose power and wealth than one's soul.
Because American Catholicism, in its nationalist version, is no longer a branch of the universal tree: it is a foreign body. And the Pope's task is not to save its power, but to save its heart.
The Church of Pope Leo XIV is poor, but faithful. The American National Church is rich, but a prisoner of power. Between the two, the history of faith has always chosen the former.
Marco Baratto
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