The Problem with a Believing Pope

By LONNIE KING

I watched a clip recently from a conversation between Timothy Snyder and Katie Couric that has been rattling around in my brain ever since.

Snyder was talking about Donald Trump’s ongoing friction with Pope Leo, and he made a statement that initially sounded overly dramatic to me: “The problem with the Pope is that the Pope is, in fact, a believer.”

At first, I almost laughed it off. But the more I sat with it, the more unsettling the idea became.

Before I go any further, let me be clear: I’m not Catholic. I’m not about to try to make an argument for Catholicism, papal infallibility, or the divine authority of the pope. I have plenty of theological differences with Catholic doctrine.

But I do think Snyder may have stumbled onto something important.

Because a person who genuinely believes in God is eventually going to create tension with anyone demanding the kind of loyalty, reverence, and moral exemption that should belong only to God.

And maybe that’s the real issue here.

Faith That Challenges Power

One of the central ideas of Christianity — at least the version I was taught growing up — was that earthly power is never ultimate.

Kings aren’t ultimate. Governments aren’t ultimate. Political parties aren’t ultimate. Pastors aren’t ultimate.

Only God is.

That belief is supposed to create limits on human power. It is supposed to make believers willing to confront corruption, dishonesty, cruelty, greed or authoritarian behavior—no matter where it comes from.

At least in theory. That’s why Snyder’s observation stuck with me.

A believing pope — or a believing pastor, or a believing Christian for that matter — should eventually become a problem for any political leader who expects unquestioned loyalty.

Not because believers are perfect. Not because churches are pure. Not because religious leaders always get things right. But because authentic faith is supposed to point beyond human beings, not center on them.

When Christianity Became Afraid to Lose

I think part of what makes this moment so confusing is that much of American evangelicalism no longer seems prepared to exist outside of cultural power.

Growing up, I was taught that following Jesus might actually cost you something.

I heard sermons about persecution. About standing firm. About remaining faithful even when the culture rejected you. About the idea that Christians should expect discomfort rather than dominance.

But somewhere along the way, large parts of American Christianity stopped preparing believers to endure cultural rejection and started teaching them to fear it at all costs.

And once maintaining influence becomes the priority, almost any political compromise can be reframed as “protecting the faith.”

Fear is powerful that way. Fear of losing influence and status. Fear of becoming culturally irrelevant. Fear of no longer controlling the conversation.

Those fears can slowly transform faith from something willing to challenge power into something desperate to hold onto it. And when that happens, political victories can start feeling more important than moral consistency.

The Disorienting Part

I grew up hearing sermons about idolatry.

Not just literal golden calves, but the broader idea that human beings have a tendency to elevate people, institutions, nations, or movements into places they don’t belong.

I heard sermons about humility. About moral character. About sexual ethics. About honesty. About integrity. About repentance. About the danger of pride.

So, I think part of what has felt spiritually disorienting over the last several years is watching many evangelical leaders suddenly become willing to minimize or redefine those things in service to political power.

It’s not all Christians. Not all evangelicals. But enough public figures to make the contradiction impossible for me to ignore. And I don’t think the issue is simply political disagreement.

The deeper issue is that many of the same leaders who once insisted that character mattered above all else now often seem willing to excuse almost anything, as long as it protects their tribe from losing influence.

That disconnect has weighed heavily on a lot of people—including many Christians who still desperately want to hold onto their faith while feeling increasingly alienated from the version of it being performed in public.

The Pope Problem

Snyder’s larger argument was that Trump struggles with figures who represent moral authority outside of himself. That’s why he sees the conflict with Pope Leo as symbolic.

Again, this isn’t really about Catholicism.

It’s about what happens when political movements become so centered around a single personality that independent moral accountability starts feeling threatening.

Because if someone truly believes God stands above politics, truth matters even when inconvenient, moral standards apply to everyone, and no political leader deserves absolute loyalty, then eventually there will be conflict with movements that demand total allegiance.

That tension isn’t new. History is full of moments when religion either challenged power or became a servant of power. And those are very different things.

When Faith Stops Resisting Power

One of the things I keep coming back to is this: healthy faith should be capable of criticizing its own side. It should be able to tell uncomfortable truths even when doing so costs influence, access, popularity, or political victories.

Healthy faith should also be capable of saying: “We got this wrong.”

It should be able to acknowledge when fear, tribal loyalty, political ambition, or the desire for cultural dominance distorted its witness. Because once a movement becomes incapable of self-examination or repentance, protecting its image can quietly become more important than pursuing truth.

And when that happens, faith risks turning into institutional self-preservation dressed up in spiritual language.

That doesn’t mean everyone who supports Donald Trump worships him. I don’t believe that.

But I do think Snyder’s comments raise an uncomfortable question worth wrestling with:

What happens when criticism of a political leader begins to feel spiritually offensive to people who claim their highest loyalty belongs to God?

That’s a question bigger than Trump. Bigger than Republicans or Democrats. Bigger than evangelicalism or Catholicism.

It’s a question about human nature. And history suggests we don’t always answer those kinds of questions well.

The Question I Can’t Shake

I’m not qualified to judge anyone’s soul. I don’t know who sincerely believes and who doesn’t.

But I do know this: faith that never challenges power eventually becomes useful to power.

And once religious leaders become more committed to protecting political influence than preserving moral credibility, the people sitting in the pews are the ones left carrying the spiritual confusion and disappointment that follows.

Maybe that’s why Snyder’s comment stayed with me.

Not because I think the pope is perfect. But because the existence of someone who genuinely believes in a God higher than political power should make every political movement at least a little uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s exactly the point.

Grace and grit to you! —LK