Missionaries of Globalism: Leo XIV and the Gospel of Migration, Memory, and Multilateralism
In Leo XIV’s Church, migrants evangelize, martyrs motivate, and peace means disarmament workshops.
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Migrants take part in a caravan towards the border with the United States in Tapachula, Chiapas State, Mexico, on Dec. 24, 2023.
Chris Jackson via Hiraeth in Exile | Jul 26, 2025
It is one thing to see the Vatican issue social-justice platitudes in a passing speech. It is quite another to watch the Bishop of Rome weave a seamless ideological tapestry across multiple addresses, each reinforcing the next, each recasting the Church’s supernatural mission into a humanitarian program of borderless inclusivity, syncretistic memory, and geopolitical pacifism. That is exactly what we see in three addresses delivered by Leo XIV in late July: (1) his Message for the World Day of Migrants and Refugees, (2) a video message to Vietnamese catechists, and (3) his greeting to Pax Christi USA.
Together, they form a remarkably consistent catechesis; not of Catholic doctrine, but of the neo-Vatican religion that calls itself Catholic while draining the term of everything it once meant.
1. Migration Is the New Pentecost
Leo XIV’s 111th World Day of Migrants and Refugees message does not merely express concern for displaced persons. That would be expected and just. Instead, it pushes a spiritualized globalist narrative in which migration is both the source and sign of the Church’s vitality. We are told that “migrants and refugees stand as messengers of hope,” that they are “missionaries” by virtue of crossing borders, and that their physical journey somehow reactivates the Church’s “pilgrim dimension.”
That term “
civitas peregrina,” the pilgrim city, is hijacked here. Leo XIV doesn’t use it to refer to the supernatural journey of the Church from earth to Heaven. No, he applies it to the migratory upheaval of modernity, framing those forced by war, climate, or economics to relocate as living signs of the eschatological Church. The exodus of Abraham becomes a proof-text for UN Resettlement Programs. The wandering of Israel becomes a spiritual metaphor for the undocumented laborer.
Most revealing is Leo’s warning against “sedentarization,” a neologism meaning the state of having settled somewhere. He claims the Church “ceases to be ‘in the world’ and becomes ‘of the world’” when She stops being nomadic. But it is hard to imagine a more “of the world” ecclesiology than this: a doctrine of mission as uprooting, witness as resilience, and evangelization as cross-cultural integration.
The biblical citations flow like stage lighting over a propaganda set. Psalm 91 is invoked to describe illegal migrants crossing deserts and seas, because apparently “the snare of the fowler” and “pestilence that stalks in darkness” now apply to smugglers and border enforcement. Zechariah’s peaceful vision is conflated with the policy goals of globalist NGOs. And of course, the promise of Christ in Luke 17, “the Kingdom is within you,” is transmuted into the goal of multilateral cooperation.
One would think the role of the Church is to baptize migrants, teach them to renounce error and false religion, and form them in the life of grace. But Leo has another idea: “Catholic migrants and refugees can become missionaries of hope” who “initiate interreligious dialogue” and “revitalize ecclesial communities.” This is the spiritualized logic of population replacement, where declining Western churches are not reformed but simply re-seeded with devout Third Worlders. The Mass becomes a vehicle for cultural fusion, and the parish becomes a refugee intake center with an altar.
What of the migrants’ own beliefs? Are they expected to convert? No mention. Leo’s gaze never reaches that far. He is not concerned with the salvation of souls, but with the therapeutic “integration of persons” and the appearance of “welcome.” The Gospel he preaches is not that of Christ crucified, but of resilience, movement, and multicultural enrichment.
2. Martyrdom as Motivational Speaking
In contrast, Leo’s message to Vietnamese catechists on the 400th anniversary of Blessed Andrew Phú Yên’s birth initially appears more traditional. After all, it honors a martyr who was actually evangelized, catechized, and confirmed in the Catholic faith. Yet even here, Leo XIV reframes the story to fit his larger narrative.
The most striking shift is how Andrew’s martyrdom is de-politicized and de-theologized. He “answered Christ’s call to return ‘love for love,’” we are told, and this is how Leo defines his witness. The real drama, that Andrew was killed for refusing to renounce the Catholic faith, in the face of state persecution and anti-Christian hostility, is only lightly touched. His final act is reduced to “invoking the name of Jesus,” as if that alone captures the supernatural truth of red martyrdom.
This reflects the same flattening of meaning we saw in the refugee message. Martyrdom becomes “faithful witness.” Migration becomes “mission.” And Vietnamese catechists are told that their strength lies not in dogma or doctrine, but in “cultural heritage,” “roots and traditions,” and their ability to “draw children into friendship with Jesus.” No mention is made of the truths of the Creed, the sacraments, or the combat against error. Instead, the message is filled with generic phrases like “living signs of God’s love” and “humble servants like Blessed Andrew.”
Leo even exhorts them to “be united in spirit with the young pilgrims in Rome,” as part of the Jubilee of Hope. But this Jubilee, if we recall, features Sister Gloria Riva’s surrealist theology of the Divine Infant having a womb and the Vatican’s ongoing feminism-as-evangelization campaign. Uniting faithful Vietnamese catechists with the synodal chaos of the West is like inviting Carthusians to a clown Mass, an insult disguised as solidarity.
The message closes, predictably, with a reference to Christus Vivit and the now-standard refrain: “Christ is alive and he wants you to be alive!” No mention of carrying one’s cross. No mention of heresy, apostasy, or the need to hold fast to Catholic truth in a hostile world. Just enthusiasm, rooted in affect, passed off as faith.
3. Pax Christi and the Gospel of Disarmament
Leo’s message to
Pax Christi USA completes the trilogy by applying his pacifist humanism to the geopolitical stage. The Church, we are told, must be a “house of peace,” a force for “nonviolence,” and a visible presence “on the peripheries.” The Resurrection itself is reinterpreted as a call to arms…well, to disarmament: “the risen Christ’s first words... offered peace, one ‘that is unarmed and disarming, humble and persevering.’”
Once again, this is not false, but it is a distortion through omission. Christ’s peace is not primarily social harmony or geopolitical stability. It is peace through the blood of the Cross (Col 1:20), a peace which divides families (Luke 12:51) and separates the sheep from the goats. Pax Christi, for decades now, has operated as a leftist NGO in vestments, opposing just war, promoting unilateral disarmament, and treating the Magisterium of the UN as higher than the Deposit of Faith.
Leo XIV does not challenge this trajectory. He affirms it. His words could have been drafted by any Georgetown Jesuit or Vatican diplomat who believes the Beatitudes are best fulfilled through NGO partnerships and environmental policy. His notion of “houses of peace” bears no reference to Christ’s commission to baptize and teach all nations; only to dialogue, forgiveness, and inclusion.
This is the Church of accompaniment without conversion and solidarity without salvation.
Conclusion: A Church Without Edges
In the old world, the Church had edges. Her borders were doctrinal, her mission was supernatural, and her martyrs bled for truths not yet accepted by the nations. In Leo XIV’s vision, those edges are gone. Migration is holiness. Martyrdom is resilience. Evangelization is dialogue. Peace is disarmament. The Church is not the ark that saves from the flood. It is the raft that drifts with the tide.
But truth does not drift. And the Gospel does not migrate.
