Catholic Leaders Blast U.S. Policy as American Churches Crumble

Paul Riverbank, 1/20/2026As U.S. churches empty, Catholic leaders clash over global crises versus urgent local needs.

Inside, the pews were empty except for the echo of dripping water. Places meant for prayer or communion had gone silent. The parish, like many across the country, seemed to be waiting for something—a return, a sign, or maybe just a change that never quite arrives.

America’s Catholic parishes are confronting a peculiar collapse: not a crisis of rebellion, but of quiet absence. The exodus from Mass hasn’t been especially dramatic or angry—just a soft, almost secret, dwindling. There’s no grand confrontation at the door, no sermons drowned out by shouting; people just gradually stop showing up. Each Sunday, the spaces between the worshippers grow wider.

Meanwhile, a different storm brews in the upper echelons of Catholic leadership. Earlier this month, three heavyweights—Cardinals Blase Cupich from Chicago, Joseph Tobin in Newark, and Robert McElroy, lately of Washington—issued a joint statement that took aim somewhere far from leaky roofs and fading hymnals. Instead of grappling with the confusion and drift troubling their congregations, the cardinals focused their considerable authority outward, training their attention on American foreign policy.

Their message wasn’t subtle. American power, they argue, has become too quick to resort to military force, too slow to prioritize peace or humanitarian duty. The statement didn’t mention political figures by name, but the implication was clear enough: in a world lurching from Ukraine to Venezuela to scattered talk of Greenland, the U.S. was in danger of losing its moral bearings.

“Military force can never become simply another tool for national interest,” their letter insisted, echoing warnings from Pope Leo XIV, who’d cautioned that a “zeal for war” was taking hold again. The cardinals pressed for restraint, urging policymakers to treat military intervention not as a routine option, but as a grave last resort.

There’s historical weight behind their words. The Catholic Church, of course, commands more than a billion followers and for generations has been a global conscience of sorts—or at least, tried to be. And yet here in America, amidst parish consolidations and shuttered schools, with a shrinking priesthood and communities thinning week by week, some practicing Catholics wonder if these grand proclamations miss the mark.

One parishioner in St. Louis, whom I spoke with after Mass last week, put it more plainly than any position paper: “It's not that we don't care about global suffering. But when there’s buckets in the hallway catching leaks and the organ’s been silent since Easter, pastors talking about Ukraine feels... I don’t know. Like we’re being left out in the rain for someone else’s flood.”

This isn’t just a question of political priorities, but of what it means to belong—to believe, even as the familiar rituals falter. When meaningful guidance is needed in the local community—real support for the anxious, the grieving, the quietly struggling—a sermon that feels more like a policy debate can leave congregants feeling adrift.

To their credit, the cardinals do try to stand apart from partisanship, stating they’re concerned not with politics per se, but the Church’s moral tradition. Cardinal McElroy frames it as a call to stand on centuries-old teaching—a refusal, he says, to let justice become just another option on the menu of national strategy. The statement stresses, too, that providing help to the vulnerable rises above optional charity; it’s a duty.

But the enduring question persists: what is the Church for, and where should its gaze rest when its own house is troubled? Many practicing Catholics—especially those trying to keep shaky parishes afloat—are hungry for attention to the spiritual and social wounds closer to home: addiction, isolation, shame, the slow erosion of community.

In difficult times, the appeal of speaking prophetically to the world’s great crises is understandable. But back on that country road—or in any struggling city parish—it’s the longing for meaning, mercy, and belonging that now echoes loudest. For the faithful who remain, those who arrive early to switch on the lights or patch the next leak, there’s a hope the Church’s leaders won’t lose sight of the work right in front of them. Big statements about distant wars matter, but so do small acts of repair.

Faith, at least here, doesn’t vanish with a bang. It ebbs quietly, week after week. The challenge isn’t just to raise a prophetic voice, but to prove, again and again, why the pews are worth returning to—rain or shine.

On a backroad somewhere in rural America, I once passed a church that looked like it should’ve stood forever. Stout stone walls, windows dusted with age, a wooden sign faded from years of prairie sun. But when I pulled over—out of journalistic habit more than faith—I noticed a spiderweb of leaks running down the slate roof. The pastor lingered near the entrance, watching roiling clouds gather in the distance, his gaze somewhere beyond the fields.Inside, the pews were empty except for the echo of dripping water. Places meant for prayer or communion had gone silent. The parish, like many across the country, seemed to be waiting for something—a return, a sign, or maybe just a change that never quite arrives.America’s Catholic parishes are confronting a peculiar collapse: not a crisis of rebellion, but of quiet absence. The exodus from Mass hasn’t been especially dramatic or angry—just a soft, almost secret, dwindling. There’s no grand confrontation at the door, no sermons drowned out by shouting; people just gradually stop showing up. Each Sunday, the spaces between the worshippers grow wider.Meanwhile, a different storm brews in the upper echelons of Catholic leadership. Earlier this month, three heavyweights—Cardinals Blase Cupich from Chicago, Joseph Tobin in Newark, and Robert McElroy, lately of Washington—issued a joint statement that took aim somewhere far from leaky roofs and fading hymnals. Instead of grappling with the confusion and drift troubling their congregations, the cardinals focused their considerable authority outward, training their attention on American foreign policy.Their message wasn’t subtle. American power, they argue, has become too quick to resort to military force, too slow to prioritize peace or humanitarian duty. The statement didn’t mention political figures by name, but the implication was clear enough: in a world lurching from Ukraine to Venezuela to scattered talk of Greenland, the U.S. was in danger of losing its moral bearings.“Military force can never become simply another tool for national interest,” their letter insisted, echoing warnings from Pope Leo XIV, who’d cautioned that a “zeal for war” was taking hold again. The cardinals pressed for restraint, urging policymakers to treat military intervention not as a routine option, but as a grave last resort.There’s historical weight behind their words. The Catholic Church, of course, commands more than a billion followers and for generations has been a global conscience of sorts—or at least, tried to be. And yet here in America, amidst parish consolidations and shuttered schools, with a shrinking priesthood and communities thinning week by week, some practicing Catholics wonder if these grand proclamations miss the mark.One parishioner in St. Louis, whom I spoke with after Mass last week, put it more plainly than any position paper: “It's not that we don't care about global suffering. But when there’s buckets in the hallway catching leaks and the organ’s been silent since Easter, pastors talking about Ukraine feels... I don’t know. Like we’re being left out in the rain for someone else’s flood.”This isn’t just a question of political priorities, but of what it means to belong—to believe, even as the familiar rituals falter. When meaningful guidance is needed in the local community—real support for the anxious, the grieving, the quietly struggling—a sermon that feels more like a policy debate can leave congregants feeling adrift.To their credit, the cardinals do try to stand apart from partisanship, stating they’re concerned not with politics per se, but the Church’s moral tradition. Cardinal McElroy frames it as a call to stand on centuries-old teaching—a refusal, he says, to let justice become just another option on the menu of national strategy. The statement stresses, too, that providing help to the vulnerable rises above optional charity; it’s a duty.But the enduring question persists: what is the Church for, and where should its gaze rest when its own house is troubled? Many practicing Catholics—especially those trying to keep shaky parishes afloat—are hungry for attention to the spiritual and social wounds closer to home: addiction, isolation, shame, the slow erosion of community.In difficult times, the appeal of speaking prophetically to the world’s great crises is understandable. But back on that country road—or in any struggling city parish—it’s the longing for meaning, mercy, and belonging that now echoes loudest. For the faithful who remain, those who arrive early to switch on the lights or patch the next leak, there’s a hope the Church’s leaders won’t lose sight of the work right in front of them. Big statements about distant wars matter, but so do small acts of repair.Faith, at least here, doesn’t vanish with a bang. It ebbs quietly, week after week. The challenge isn’t just to raise a prophetic voice, but to prove, again and again, why the pews are worth returning to—rain or shine.