Tale of two churches

Last week, the Church of England took a historic step forward by naming Sarah Mullally as the next Archbishop of Canterbury, the first woman ever to hold this esteemed post. As the ceremonial head of the Anglican Communion and a member of the British Parliament, Archbishop Mullally’s appointment marks a powerful symbol of inclusion and moral evolution within an institution long burdened by patriarchal tradition. 

This development reminds us that religion need not be held hostage to its ancient origins but can indeed evolve with time. Religion, at its best, evolves with humanity, reflecting compassion, equality, and dignity rather than clinging to outdated hierarchies. For centuries, women were excluded from leadership and education in Christian institutions, their subjugation justified through readings of scripture such as 1 Timothy and 1 Corinthians, codified in the 4th century A.D.

And yet, in Sri Lanka, the Catholic Church under Malcolm Cardinal Ranjith seems to be moving in the opposite direction. Instead of leading the faithful toward understanding, inclusion, and social justice, the Cardinal appears determined to cement his position as the country’s most prominent voice of intolerance. His repeated public statements against the LGBTQ+ community, often couched in the language of “tradition” and “moral purity”, have gone far beyond the scope of pastoral care. They have become political, punitive, and poisonous.

Cardinal Ranjith’s words do not exist in a vacuum. They feed into a wider climate of discrimination that still criminalises homosexuality and marginalises vulnerable communities. When a religious leader of his stature uses the pulpit to stigmatise rather than uplift, it grants legitimacy to prejudice. It emboldens those who wish to preserve unjust laws and suppress open discussion. In doing so, the Cardinal not only damages the Church’s credibility but also deepens the social wounds the nation is struggling to heal.

Ironically, his stance places him at odds with the evolving direction of his own Church. Under Pope Francis, the Vatican has made tentative but meaningful efforts to embrace a more compassionate theology, one that emphasises mercy over condemnation. The Pope has famously asked, “Who am I to judge?” when questioned about homosexuality, and has called for empathy and inclusion within the Church. While the Vatican has not yet resolved its contradictions, it has unmistakably signalled a willingness to listen. Cardinal Ranjith, however, seems intent on doing the opposite, shutting down conversation, weaponising dogma, and resisting even the mildest winds of change.

The tragedy here is not merely theological. The Sri Lankan Catholic Church wields enormous moral and cultural influence, and with that influence comes responsibility. The Church could be a force for compassion, for bridging communities and easing social tensions in a country still scarred by ethnic and religious division. Instead, it risks becoming a bastion of fear and exclusion, a moral fortress defending outdated hierarchies rather than serving the human beings it claims to guide.

Religion, if it is to remain relevant, must speak to the realities of the age. The Church of England’s choice of Archbishop Mullally is not merely symbolic but it is a statement that leadership, empathy, and holiness are not confined by gender. It is a recognition that moral authority flows from compassion, not control.

Cardinal Ranjith would do well to learn from that example or in the very least from the more inclusive tone of his own Pope. If he cannot, then Sri Lankan Catholics must begin to ask whether their Church truly reflects the message of Christ or whether it has been hijacked by the very intolerance that Christ himself stood against.