In the heavenly pantheon of sainthood, where morality is often filtered through the fog of politics and institutional priorities, the Vatican has once again stirred the pot. This time, it is King Baudouin of Belgium who stands on the precipice of beatification.
Baudouin’s defiance of the law decriminalizing abortion, hailed as an act of profound moral courage, has now set the wheels of sainthood in motion.
But as we delve deeper, one must ask: Does holiness lie in single acts of conviction, or does it require a broader reckoning with one’s legacy?
In April 1990, faced with a law that would legalize abortion, he declared his beliefs as a devout Catholic to be incompatible with the legislation. "For me as a believer, it is completely incompatible with what you want. So don’t insist. It’s no,” he reportedly told Deputy Prime Minister Willy Claes.
He was reinstated shortly after, hailed by conservative Catholics for his steadfastness.
Pope Francis, during a visit to Belgium in September 2024, praised Baudouin’s stance. Visiting the crypt at Laeken where Baudouin and Queen Fabiola are buried, the pontiff called him a man of "courage and faith,” one who stood firm in the face of a "murderous law."
At a mass in the King Baudouin Stadium, the Pope went further, announcing the initiation of the beatification process. His remarks surprised both Belgian bishops and the royal palace, who had not been consulted.
The Vatican’s Department for Beatifications and Canonizations has since appointed a committee to investigate the king’s life.
Saints by Cherry-Picking: Lessons from Rwanda
If cherry-picking virtues is acceptable in canonization, why stop with King Baudouin? Gerard Prunier, in his book The Rwanda Crisis: The History of a Genocide, paints a portrait of President Gregory Kayibanda’s Rwanda as a land of Catholic virtue.
Prunier writes:
"At a time when the African continent was talking about socialism, revolution and development, Rwanda was strangely silent. Anti-colonialism was out of the question, since after their help during the 1959-61 ‘democratic revolution’ the Belgians were seen as heroes. The only values which were repeatedly emphasized were the intrinsic worth of being Hutu, the total congruence between demographic majority and democracy, the need to follow a moral Christian life and the uselessness of politics...”
Kayibanda’s Rwanda was a devout nation where virtue was legislated. Prunier adds:
"President Gregory Kayibanda’s Rwanda was a land of virtue where prostitutes were punished, attendance at mass was high...”
Shouldn’t these qualities qualify Kayibanda for sainthood? After all, he rose to the presidency with Catholic Bishop André Perraudin as his mentor, and his piety was beyond question.
For those who don’t know, Kayibanda’s home was close to the Church—physically and ideologically.
Juvenal Habyarimana, Kayibanda’s successor, could make an equally compelling case. Raised on land given to his family by missionaries, Habyarimana had a chapel in his house and counted two Catholic nuns among his siblings.
Despite presiding over a regime that orchestrated the systematic marginalization of Tutsi and laid the groundwork for the Genocide Against the Tutsi, his Catholic credentials are impeccable.
If faith and devotion alone suffice, then Kayibanda and Habyarimana should be fast-tracked to sainthood alongside King Baudouin.
The Danger of Selective Sainthood: The Case of the Borgias
This slippery slope brings us to the Borgias, the Renaissance family whose exploits make modern scandals seem tame.
Pope Alexander VI, the patriarch, transformed the papacy into a den of nepotism and corruption. His son, Cesare Borgia, embodied ruthless ambition, while Lucrezia Borgia became a symbol of intrigue, with rumors of poisoning and incest surrounding her.
Yet the Borgias contributed significantly to the Church’s temporal power, funding grand architectural projects and expanding papal territories. Should their moral failings be overlooked in light of these achievements?
If Baudouin’s single act of defiance or Kayibanda and Habyarimana’s devout Catholicism can outweigh their broader legacies, why not canonize the Borgias for their contributions to the Church’s grandeur?
Sainthood demands an unflinching examination of one’s life. It cannot rest on isolated acts of moral defiance while ignoring the broader context of one’s actions—or inactions.
Baudouin’s refusal to sign the abortion law was indeed courageous, but his legacy cannot be disentangled from Belgium’s colonial history and himself, as enabler or unscrupulous supporter of genocide in Rwanda.
Similarly, Kayibanda and Habyarimana’s faith cannot erase their roles in enabling systemic injustice and genocide against Tutsi.
By cherry-picking virtues and ignoring historical complexities, the Vatican risks making sainthood a farce. If the process continues down this path, why not canonize any devout figure with a questionable past?
True sainthood requires more than piety; it demands a legacy of justice and humanity. Until the Vatican embraces this standard, the canonization process will remain a hollow endeavor.
And if the Borgias, Kayibanda, and Habyarimana are watching from the annals of history, one imagines them raising a toast to Baudouin’s potential sainthood, saying, "If he’s in, why not us?”
A Hollow Holiness
In the grand theater of sainthood, King Baudouin’s beatification saga feels like a script written for political expediency rather than spiritual enlightenment.
It’s a reminder that when powerful institutions like the Catholic Church pursue projects in their own interest, the results can often be as flawed as they are sanctimonious. Holiness, after all, can’t be hollow, in the eyes of the Pope!
For now, King Baudouin may remain a symbol of conviction to some, but to others, his beatification is a stark reminder that sainthood, like history, is written by those with the power to forget.
Let reason and logic prevail, lest sainthood becomes less about divine grace and more about rewriting history to suit the whims of the present.
Perhaps instead of rushing to crown saints, the Church might take a moment to reflect on its own role in history’s darker chapters.
A Pillar of Antisemitism and the Transatlantic Slave Trade
The Catholic Church has long been regarded as a moral authority, a beacon of spiritual guidance and compassion.
However, history reveals a troubling contradiction: The Church’s complicity in some of humanity’s gravest injustices.
Among these are its foundational role in perpetuating antisemitism, its theological and institutional support for the Transatlantic Slave Trade, and its violent enforcement of doctrine through the Crusades and the Inquisition.
Behind the sanctity of its mission lies a complex history of papal decrees, theological justifications, and direct involvement in the systematic dehumanization of millions.
From Doctrine to Pogroms
Antisemitism has deep roots in Christian theology, and the Catholic Church played a central role in propagating and institutionalizing it. The 16th-century papal bull Cum Nimis Absurdum, issued by Pope Paul IV on July 14, 1555—is a disturbing example of the Church’s complicity.
Declaring it "absurd and utterly inconvenient” for Jews to live alongside Christians, the bull imposed severe restrictions on Jewish life.
It confined Jews to ghettos, mandated the wearing of distinctive clothing, forbade them from owning property or practicing medicine for Christians, and limited their economic activities.
Paul IV’s decree exemplified centuries of papal endorsement of anti-Jewish policies. His rhetoric echoed the long-standing narrative of Jews as the killers of Christ, a trope that justified their ostracism and persecution.
Earlier, Pope Innocent III (1198–1216) had proclaimed that Jews, "like Cain, are condemned to wander the earth as fugitives and vagabonds,” effectively legitimizing their marginalization.
The Church’s teachings fueled pogroms, expulsions, and massacres across Europe. During the First Crusade in 1096, mobs inspired by religious fervor massacred Jewish communities in the Rhineland.
These atrocities were often framed as acts of piety, encouraged by Church leaders who depicted Jews as enemies of Christendom.
The Fourth Lateran Council (1215), convened by Pope Innocent III, reinforced this hostility by mandating that Jews and Muslims wear identifying badges, a policy that foreshadowed similar measures under Nazi Germany centuries later.
Even when Jews sought refuge in regions like Spain, they faced persecution under Church-backed regimes.
During the Spanish Inquisition (established in 1478), led by figures like Tomás de Torquemada, Jews were tortured and executed if they refused to convert to Christianity.
Those who converted often lived in fear of being accused of heresy, as the Inquisition relentlessly pursued "hidden Jews.”
This systematic violence was justified in the name of religious purity, but its true legacy was one of profound human suffering.
This entrenched antisemitism shaped European thought for centuries, influencing figures such as Adolf Hitler, who cited Christian teachings to justify his ideology.
In Mein Kampf, Hitler referenced Martin Luther’s anti-Jewish rhetoric, which was deeply rooted in Catholic and Protestant teachings of the time.
The centuries-long demonization of Jews by the Church laid the cultural groundwork for the Holocaust, normalizing hatred and scapegoating.
Sanctifying Slavery: Papal Bulls and the Transatlantic Slave Trade
The Catholic Church’s role in the Transatlantic Slave Trade is equally damning. Far from condemning slavery, the Church provided theological justification for its expansion.
Papal bulls such as Dum Diversas of June 18, 1452 and Romanus Pontifex (1455), issued by Pope Nicholas V, authorized the enslavement of non-Christians and the seizure of their lands.
These decrees granted European monarchs, particularly Portugal and Spain, the "right” to conquer and enslave Africans and Indigenous peoples under the guise of spreading Christianity.
In Dum Diversas, Nicholas V explicitly sanctioned the subjugation of non-Christian peoples, stating that Christian rulers were authorized "to invade, search out, capture, vanquish, and subdue all Saracens and pagans whatsoever” and "to reduce their persons to perpetual slavery.”
This theological endorsement not only legitimized the enslavement of Africans but also laid the groundwork for the systemic dehumanization that would define the Transatlantic Slave Trade.
Pope Alexander VI’s Inter Caetera (1493) divided newly discovered lands between Spain and Portugal, granting them dominion over territories in the Americas and Africa.
This bull facilitated the exploitation of these regions’ human and natural resources, fueling the transatlantic economy of slavery.
Portuguese and Spanish merchants, emboldened by papal endorsements, sought blessings from the Church for their expeditions, treating human beings as mere commodities.
The Jesuits, one of the Catholic Church’s most influential orders, were particularly complicit in the institution of slavery. As plantation owners in the Americas, the Jesuits profited immensely from the labor of enslaved Africans.
In territories such as Brazil, the Caribbean, and the southern United States, Jesuit estates were built and maintained through the exploitation of enslaved people.
In 1838, facing financial difficulties, Jesuit priests in Maryland sold over 270 enslaved individuals to preserve their institutions, including Georgetown University.
This transaction epitomized the moral compromises made by a religious order ostensibly dedicated to justice and education.
Silence, Tolerance, and Genocide
The Church’s dark legacy is also evident in its silence or tolerance of atrocities like genocide. For centuries, the Church either failed to condemn or actively abetted acts of mass violence.
Genocide, a crime that involves the deliberate destruction of a group, does not even feature in the Church’s Canon Law, reflecting a historical blind spot to collective atrocities.
During the Armenian Genocide of 1915, the Vatican, under Pope Benedict XV, made muted protests but refrained from outright condemnation, prioritizing diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire over moral action.
Similarly, during the Holocaust, Pope Pius XII’s silence remains one of the most controversial aspects of the Church’s history.
While some Catholics risked their lives to save Jews, the Vatican’s failure to unequivocally denounce Nazi atrocities contributed to a culture of impunity.
In the context of the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi in Rwanda, Catholic complicity took a more active form. Many clergy members not only failed to protect victims but also participated in the killings.
Churches, traditionally seen as sanctuaries, became slaughterhouses as priests and nuns betrayed their congregants. Despite this, the Vatican’s response has been criticized for lacking accountability and reparative action, further perpetuating the wounds of the past.
The Atrocities of the Crusades and the Inquisition
The Crusades (1096–1291) were another chapter in the Church’s violent history, marked by atrocities committed in the name of God.
While the Crusades were framed as holy wars to reclaim Jerusalem, they became a pretext for widespread plunder, slaughter, and oppression.
During the Fourth Crusade (1202–1204), Christian crusaders, instead of targeting Muslim forces, sacked Constantinople, a Christian city, committing horrific acts of violence and looting.
Similarly, during the Albigensian Crusade (1209–1229) against the Cathars in southern France, Pope Innocent III called for the extermination of heretics.
The massacre at Béziers in 1209 saw tens of thousands of men, women, and children slaughtered.
The phrase attributed to the papal legate, "Kill them all; God will recognize His own,” encapsulates the indiscriminate brutality of these campaigns.
The Catholic Inquisition, established to root out heresy, further demonstrated the Church’s capacity for cruelty.
Torture devices such as the rack, iron maiden, and thumbscrew were used to extract confessions from accused heretics, who were often burned at the stake.
These methods, justified as necessary to preserve the faith, revealed a disturbing willingness to sacrifice human dignity in the name of religious orthodoxy.
Moral Lessons from a Troubled Legacy
The Catholic Church’s history of antisemitism, slavery, genocide, and religious violence offers profound moral lessons.
First, it underscores the dangers of intertwining religious authority with political and economic power. When spiritual institutions prioritize temporal interests over moral principles, they risk becoming instruments of oppression rather than agents of justice.
Second, the Church’s history reveals the corrosive effects of unchecked dogma. The theological justifications for antisemitism, slavery, and genocide demonstrate how rigid interpretations of scripture can be weaponized to legitimize atrocities.
This serves as a warning against the uncritical acceptance of religious doctrine, emphasizing the need for continuous ethical reflection and reform.
Finally, the Church’s complicity in these injustices highlights the importance of accountability and understanding of what is good and bad.
While the Church has made strides in acknowledging its past, such as the Second Vatican Council’s Nostra Aetate (1965), which repudiated the charge of Jewish collective guilt, much work remains.
The Church’s history of antisemitism, slavery, genocide, and religious violence is a plain notice of humanity’s capacity for both sanctity and sin.
Far from being a passive observer, the Church actively shaped and sustained systems of oppression, often cloaking injustice in the language of divine will.
By confronting this legacy, we do not seek to undermine faith but to demand accountability and reflection. The truths of history must be acknowledged, not buried beneath the weight of sanctity.