By Israel Centeno

One of the most repeated — and most unjust — narratives in modern criticism of the Catholic Church is the one that portrays it as an institution at the service of power: classist, corrupt, abusive, complicit with empires and conquerors. This view, inherited from Enlightenment anticlericalism and the militant anti-Catholicism of the 19th century, has become part of the common sense of certain secular circles who, in the name of critique, repeat myths long since dismantled by history.

But the Church cannot be understood if reduced to the failings of some of its members. It is a common — and profoundly unjust — error to judge the entire Church by the betrayals of those who have disobeyed the Gospel. It was not Jesus who betrayed, but Judas. It was not the Christian message that created privilege, but those who exploited their position to seek power. History, when read rigorously, shows that the Church was — and remains — one of the institutions most committed to the poor, the forgotten, and the persecuted. Far from being a structural ally of colonialism or capital, it has often been their fiercest restraint, their moral boundary, and their uncomfortable conscience.

The Church was born among the poor. Christ did not choose legal scholars or princes to found His community: He chose fishermen. His preaching was aimed at the excluded, the lepers, the prostitutes, the despised. Saint Paul said it clearly: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female: for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” Across the centuries, most saints were not nobles or high clergy, but peasants, widows, laborers, the sick, missionaries, catechists. Christian charity did not ask for your last name, but for your need. And the Church, even in its most complex periods, has always maintained that vocation of service — embodied not in palaces, but in the margins.

Thus, when it is accused of being classist, it’s worth remembering that the vast majority of missionaries who evangelized the Americas, Asia, and Africa were not nobles. They did not live surrounded by gold. They lived among the poor, learned their languages, shared their illnesses, died in their villages. In Mexico, for example, the Jesuit Pedro de Rivas developed a Nahuatl alphabet to translate the Bible into the language of the indigenous people. Bernardino de Sahagún wrote one of the most comprehensive chronicles of Aztec culture — in Nahuatl — honoring its symbolic structure. In Peru, catechisms were translated into Quechua and Aymara. In Paraguay, the Jesuits protected Guaraní and founded autonomous communities where the indigenous preserved their culture and language. In Brazil, Father Antônio Vieira risked his life to denounce abuses against Amazonian peoples, and wrote fiery sermons against indigenous slavery. In the Philippines, Augustinians and Dominicans celebrated Mass in Tagalog, preached in Cebuano, and wrote grammars and dictionaries in local tongues. These languages did not disappear; many survived thanks to the Church.

The Church was not a tool of colonialism — it was its limit. Where power demanded uniformity, the Church promoted diversity. Where empire sought obedience, the Church preached dignity. One need only read Antonio de Montesinos’s sermon of 1511 in Hispaniola to understand: “By what right and by what justice do you keep these Indians in such cruel and horrible servitude? Are they not men? Do they not have rational souls?” Montesinos was not speaking from theory. He was speaking against the encomenderos, against those in power who used the cross to justify the sword. His voice was followed by Bartolomé de las Casas, whose fight for indigenous rights led to the New Laws of 1542, which legally banned slavery in the Americas.

Does this mean the Church was perfect? Of course not. There were bishops allied with power. There were complicit silences. There were clerics who strayed from the Gospel. But there were also martyrs, prophets, men and women who gave up everything to defend the voiceless. And this is not said by the enemies of the Church — it is said by history.

Nor can the Church be reduced to the scandals of corruption or sexual abuse committed by some members of the clergy. These crimes are real. They have caused immense pain. And the Church must not — and cannot — justify them. But it must be said clearly: they are not the norm, they are not the structure, they are not the true face of the Church. The percentage of priests guilty of abuse is minuscule compared to other institutions. What scandalizes is that they are consecrated men. But it should also be said that it has been the Church — especially under John Paul II, Benedict XVI, and Francis — that has implemented the strictest, most comprehensive, and most transparent protocols for child protection. What was once covered up is now investigated. What was once denied is now confronted. Because the Church, though wounded, is capable of purifying itself from within.

Corruption exists, as it does in politics, academia, economics, and the media. But the soul of the Church is not corruption — it is the Eucharist. It is confession. It is love for the poor. And that love has produced saints, martyrs, hospitals, schools, hospices, soup kitchens, literacy, missions, translations, preserved languages, safeguarded cultures. What other institution has done that for over twenty centuries?

Here is the truth: the Church has had shadows, but it has never ceased to be light. It has been betrayed from within, but it has not been overcome. It has been deformed by men, but it remains the Bride of Christ. Those who accuse it lightly do not know its history — or know it only through prejudice. Because you cannot speak of the Church without speaking of Peter Claver embracing slaves in Cartagena, of Rose of Lima healing the sick in the slums, of José de Anchieta writing poetry in Tupi-Guarani, of African nuns protecting children in war zones, of peasants bringing the Gospel where neither the State nor the UN ever go.

The Church is not perfect. But she is a mother. And a mother is not judged only by her wounds, but by her love.

Those who call her classist, corrupt, and colonialist do not know her. Or do not want to. But the Church does not need to justify its existence. It justifies it every time a poor person walks into a chapel and feels loved. It justifies it every time an indigenous language is sung at Mass. It justifies it every time a priest dies nameless, serving the forgotten. Above all, it is justified by the One who gave His life for her.

And that is why, whatever may be said, the Church remains. Not because she is powerful — but because she is faithful.