How the Catholic church sexual abuse scandal in Chile tarnished Pope Francis’ legacy
On April 21, Pope Francis, the 266th Pope of the Roman Catholic Church, breathed his last after battling a prolonged illness. He was 88 at the time of his death. Born as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, Pope Francis was the head of the Roman Catholic Church and the sovereign of the Vatican City State.
Cardinal Farrell announced the news of the Pope’s death, saying, “Dearest brothers and sisters, with deep sorrow I must announce the death of our Holy Father Francis.” He died at his residence in the Vatican’s Casa Santa Marta.
Even as the Catholic world drowns in mourning, it is worth pondering the legacy of the deceased Pope, a mixed bag of positives and negatives.
Pope Francis was the first Pope from the Jesuit order Society of Jesus, the first from the Americas, the first Pope from the Southern Hemisphere, and the first one born or raised outside Europe since the 9th-century Syrian Pope Gregory III. Though he will be remembered chiefly for championing inclusiveness and empathy, his conduct in the Chilean sexual abuse case continues to cast a pall on his legacy.
When Jorge Mario Bergoglio became Pope Francis in 2013, many thought, here is an unassuming Christian priest who comes without the baggage his predecessor had and has brought with him the promise of a different brand of papacy. A Pope who relinquished the splendour of the Apostolic Palace for a modest Vatican guesthouse. He spoke of a Church that stood up for the marginalised, welcomed the immigrant, sympathised with the poor, and supported the vulnerable, particularly the LGBTQ community.
He told the world, “Who am I to judge?” when asked about gay priests. He denounced the criminalisation of homosexuality, saying laws that penalise same-sex relationships are unjust, stopping short of sanctifying it within the Catholic Church. However, in a world where religious authorities often cling to doctrinal purity over inclusivity, especially in monolithic faiths such as Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, Pope Francis presented himself as a breath of fresh air, positioning himself as a beacon of compassion and inclusion.
And yet, even the brightest lights cast shadows.
The Chilean sexual abuse scandal remains one of the darkest chapters of Pope Francis’ papacy—not simply because of the appalling crimes committed by Christian priests, but because of the way the Vatican treated those crimes: outright dismissal, disbelief, and denial. It is a sobering reminder that the Pope, who embodied compassion and empathy for millions around the world with his stance on the marginalised, was, after all, a human being, a fierce loyalist susceptible to overlooking crimes committed by their own ilk.
A church in crisis
The scandal’s roots reach back decades. Father Fernando Karadima, once a towering figure in the Chilean Catholic Church, was for years hailed as a spiritual father and mentor to many young men.
Behind closed doors, he was a predator, preying on victims, mostly seminarians and young Catholics, who looked to him for guidance. Complaints about Karadima date as far back as the 1980s, but they were repeatedly ignored by Church authorities for the reputational fear it brought with it, besides the offence caused to the senior clergymen. It was only in 2011, long after many survivors had given up hope, that the Vatican found him guilty of sexually abusing minors. He was sentenced not to jail, but to a life of “prayer and penance.”
But Karadima was not the end of the story. He was the start of a wider reckoning. His influence extended throughout the Chilean clergy, including to Bishop Juan Barros, who had been one of his close protégés. Victims accused Barros of witnessing Karadima’s abuse and remaining silent. When Pope Francis appointed Barros as Bishop of Osorno in 2015, it precipitated widespread outrage in Chile. Victims spoke out. Protests erupted. Members of the clergy expressed concern. But Francis refused to pay heed.
But that was not the end of it.
On a 2018 trip to Chile, Pope Francis went even further. He accused Karadima’s victims of “slander” and claimed there was “no proof” against Barros. The words acted as a serious assault on the ordeal of the survivors. They felt horrified for being betrayed by the Pope and the Vatican. And for the faithful, that one moment to witness a Pope celebrated for his pastoral sensitivity, discrediting the voices of the victims, was disillusioning.
From denial to acceptance and finally, repentance
The backlash was fierce and global. Facing immense pressure, Pope Francis sent Archbishop Charles Scicluna, an experienced Vatican investigator, to probe into the allegations. The resulting report was devastating: a 2,300-page account of systemic abuse and institutional failure within the Chilean Church.
To his credit, Francis pivoted and changed course. He confessed to having made “grave errors in judgment.” He invited victims to the Vatican, met with them personally, and sought their forgiveness. In a move that had hitherto no parallel, all 34 Chilean bishops were summoned to Rome, and all offered their resignations. Several were later removed or sanctioned.
In many ways, this was a moment of institutional reckoning. The Pope’s initial disbelief, his public dismissal of credible victims, and his failure to investigate sooner revealed a troubling truth: even a reform-minded Pope could succumb to the age-old trap of clericalism, where protecting the Church’s image took precedence over safeguarding its people.
It was, in many ways, a moment of institutional reckoning. However, it also came too late for many survivors, as the damage had already been done. From initial disbelief to public dismissal of victims’ sufferings, and his failure to exhibit a willingness to look inward and commission an investigation revealed a discomfiting fact: even a reform-minded Pope could fall victim to the age-old trap of clericalism, where salvaging pastoral reputation took precedence over protecting its people.
The jarring reconciliation
This is what makes the Chile sexual abuse case incongruous to reconcile with the rest of Francis’s legacy. He has spoken out—often courageously—on issues held dearly by the conservative Catholics, but those which made the Catholic Church a source of condemnation rather than comfort. He grabbed headlines in 2023 for declaring that “being homosexual is not a crime,” and criticised countries where LGBTQ+ people face criminal prosecution. He called on bishops to welcome gay people into their communities and pastoral care.
At a time when religious leaders stoke communal sentiments and insist on clinging to exclusionary ideologies, Francis served as a beacon of hope for millions. His vision of the Church includes, embraces, and walks with the outcast.
Critics of Pope Francis argue that while he may articulate progressive ideas effectively, he often fails to implement them in practice. They contend that inclusion is not merely about delivering occasional catchy phrases; it requires a committed effort to transform those words into concrete actions.
In Chile, it didn’t. At least, not until the truth was undeniable.
The contradiction cannot be starker. The Pope who refused to judge gay people was, at least for a time, willing to judge—and dismiss—those who had suffered at the hands of priests. The same Pope who spoke of mercy failed to extend it to those who were in dire need of it and were demanding it, from none other than the Pope himself.
This is not a call to cynicism. Pope Francis did much good. His commitment to climate action, interfaith dialogue, economic justice, and marginalised communities changed the perspective of many towards the Church. He had displayed the mettle of going against powerful structures, both within and outside the Vatican. And his eventual response to the Chile scandal, including his public repentance, was a rare and courageous act of papal humility.
But leadership is not just about owning mistakes and setting them right. It is also about building frameworks and structures where mistakes aren’t committed in the first place, especially when the cost of error is paid by the victims.
A stained legacy
In the end, Pope Francis’s legacy will be complex. He will likely be remembered as a reformer, a pastor who tried to move the Church away from rigid legalism and toward the margins. But the Chile scandal will remain a shadow over that legacy—a moment when mercy faltered, when judgment failed, and when allegiance to the institution eclipsed the sense of morality.
The Catholic Church has long grappled with contradictions: justice and mercy, tradition and reform, dogmatism and pragmatism, power and humility. Pope Francis exemplifies many of these ironies deeply entrenched in the system. In his embrace of LGBTQ+ people, his critique of economic injustice, and his call for inclusion, he has moved the Church forward. But in his handling of the Chile abuse scandal, he reminded the world that the road to reform is often filled with potholes, and that even those who are most alert and vigilant can meet with an accident.
Ultimately, a true leader is not judged by the perfection of his actions but by his ability to take responsibility. Pope Francis’s willingness to admit his mistakes and change course was meaningful. But so too is the pain of those who, in their darkest hours, were told their truth was nothing but a calumny designed to defame the Catholic clergy.
In the end, the Pope, who famously said “Who am I to judge?” must also be remembered as the one who, in Chile, was too soon to judge—and paid heed too late to the atrocities faced by the victims of sexual abuse at the hands of the Christian clergy.
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