Dilexi Te: Preferential Option or Perilous Departure?

Leo XIV’s Dilexi Te rebrands the Faith as social theory, turning the supernatural virtue of charity into a blueprint for class struggle.

Editor’s Note

My earlier article on Dilexi Te offered an immediate assessment of Leo XIV’s first exhortation: the tone, the trajectory, the unmistakable spirit animating it. What follows is the necessary sequel: a closer examination of the document itself and of the theology that underlies it.

This essay traces the ways Dilexi Te diverges from the pre-Vatican II Magisterium, and, at points, even from prior post-conciliar theology. The differences reveal how Dilexi Te twists the Catholic understanding of the poor, recasting what was once a supernatural truth about charity and detachment into a new, horizontal ideology built on envy, activism, and social theory.

Chris Jackson

Leo XIV’s first apostolic exhortation, Dilexi Te, doubles down on the post-Vatican II “preferential option for the poor;” even suggesting that care for the poor is at the very heart of the Gospel. The document echoes the social justice passion of Francis and the Vatican II era, denouncing the “tyranny” of free-market capitalism and calling for radical structural change. But do these emphases align with the perennial teaching of the Catholic Church? A closer look reveals significant tensions, even outright contradictions, with pre-Vatican II doctrine (and, at times, with post-conciliar teachings themselves). In what follows, we examine how Dilexi Te measures up against the Magisterium of the ages, and why alarm bells should ring.

(Leo XIV signs his first apostolic exhortation Dilexi Te on Oct. 4, 2025 (Feast of St. Francis of Assisi).

The “Church of the Poor”: A Novelty of the 1960s?

From the outset, Dilexi Te presents care for the poor not as one value among many, but as central to the Church’s identity. Leo XIV bluntly states that “for Christians, the problem of the poor leads to the very heart of our faith,” even asserting that “the poor are not a sociological category, but the very ‘flesh’ of Christ.” He describes love for the poor as “the evangelical hallmark of a Church faithful to the heart of God”, insisting that every authentic Church renewal has had a “preferential concern for the poor.” Such language, and the underlying theology, clearly align with the post-Vatican II Catholic ethos, but would have sounded startling, even disorienting, to pre-Vatican II ears.

It is telling that the phrase “Church of the Poor” only entered Catholic parlance during the Second Vatican Council (1962–65). In fact, it was never a focus of any ecumenical council or papal document prior to the 1960s. The Council’s opening months saw figures like Cardinal Giacomo Lercaro argue that “the mystery of Christ in the Church is always, and especially today, the mystery of Christ in the poor,” proposing that this be “not simply one theme among others, but in some sense the only theme” of Vatican II. This was revolutionary: earlier councils had been convened to define doctrine or combat heresy, not to reorient the Church around socio-economic concerns.

Nevertheless, a group of Council fathers, informally known as the “Church of the Poor” circle, took this idea and ran with it, even drafting the infamous Pact of the Catacombs in 1965. In that pact (signed just before the Council closed), dozens of bishops committed the Church to a “life of poverty” and a “new lifestyle” divested of worldly riches, so as to be truly a “poor Church for the poor.”

These developments are a radical break with the Church’s prior self-understanding. One commentator bluntly described the post-conciliar “poor Church” agenda as a “miserablist” approach that “prais[es] the total divestment of the Church from her traditions and goods”, effectively “stripping the Church of her temporal goods” in pursuit of a utopian ideal.

Whether one agrees or not, it’s undeniable that Vatican II and subsequent popes introduced a new tone and focus: the Council’s Pastoral Constitution Gaudium et Spes (1965) declared that “the joys and hopes [and] sorrows of the men of this age, especially those who are poor or afflicted, are the joys and hopes… of the followers of Christ.” Paul VI, in his 1975 apostolic exhortation Evangelii Nuntiandi, spoke of an “evangelical preference” for those who are poor and suffering, and John Paul II later affirmed a “love of preference for the poor” as a permanent feature of Catholic charity. All of this marked a shift in emphasis from the pre-conciliar era, which certainly cared for the needy (through innumerable saints and religious orders) but rarely if ever framed the Faith itself in terms of the poor.

In embracing the “Church of the Poor” concept, Dilexi Te plants itself firmly in this post-1960s trajectory. Leo XIV explicitly ties himself to the legacy of Francis and to the Latin American bishops who championed the “preferential option for the poor” in documents like Medellín (1968) and Puebla (1979). Indeed, as an American Jesuit magazine observed, Dilexi Te “confirms his continuity with his Argentine predecessor” on this issue. But therein lies the rub: continuity with Francis is one thing; what about continuity with the entire 2,000-year Tradition before 196? .

Preferential What? – Charity vs. Ideology

Dilexi Te, for all its spiritual accents, often reads more like a social manifesto than a traditional papal exhortation. Its language and priorities mirror those found in secular social-justice rhetoric (and even in Marxist analysis) more than they do the accents of, say, Pope St. Pius X or Pope Leo XIII. For example, Leo XIV (quoting Francis) excoriates “the dictatorship of an economy that kills” and decries a widening gap between “the earnings of a minority” and the poverty of “those happy few” who benefit from the current system. He blames “ideologies that defend the absolute autonomy of the marketplace” for this “new tyranny… which unilaterally and relentlessly imposes its own laws.” In effect, the exhortation implies that economic inequality per se is a grave evil and that robust government intervention is needed to rectify it. The tone is frankly indistinguishable from left-wing, anti-capitalist critiques: it urges Catholics to “denounce such structural issues” in the economy and praises those who do so “at the cost of appearing foolish or naïve.”

What does the perennial Magisterium say about these matters? The contrast is stark. Pre-Vatican II popes forcefully rejected the notion that inequality is inherently unjust or that merely rearranging economic structures can cure society’s ills. Pope Leo XIII, in his landmark encyclical Rerum Novarum (1891), taught that “differences in the condition of citizens” are a natural and unavoidable part of God’s providential order – “without which society could neither exist nor be conceived.” Far from damning “the few” who prosper, Leo XIII saw class cooperation, not class conflict, as the Christian ideal: “nature has commanded that the two classes… should agree harmoniously,” he wrote, comparing society to a body in which different members work together for the good of the whole. The notion that the rich and poor are by definition at odds he called “so abhorrent to reason and truth that the exact opposite is true.”

“If any claim they can do this, if they promise the poor in their misery a life free from all sorrow and vexation and filled with repose and perpetual pleasures, they actually impose upon these people and perpetuate a fraud which will ultimately lead to evils greater than the present.” — Pope Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum (1891)

Crucially, Leo XIII also warned against utopian promises of an earthly paradise. In Rerum Novarum he noted that due to the Fall, “to suffer and endure is human,” no matter what social reformers attempt, “they will never be able to banish [all] tribulations from human life.” Those who claim they can eliminate all poverty and hardship, offering the masses a future of material bliss, “actually impose upon these people and perpetuate a fraud” that can lead to worse misery. This papal teaching cuts directly against the grain of Dilexi Te’s implied narrative, which holds that poverty is almost entirely a product of unjust human structures; as if a sufficiently “just” economic system could virtually eradicate destitution. The traditional view, by contrast, recognizes a tragic dimension to human existence: some degree of inequality and suffering is inescapable in this life, and attempts to forcibly impose absolute equality often end in tyranny and greater suffering.

Pope St. Pius X was even more explicit. In 1910, he condemned the democratic-Catholic movement Le Sillon for its obsession with egalitarianism. Pius X quoted the Sillon’s premise, that “every inequality of condition is an injustice,” only to lambaste it as a principle that “conflicts sharply with the nature of things” and is “subversive to any social order.” Such a mindset, he said, breeds only “jealousy” and endless class resentment. The saintly pontiff could have been speaking directly to the authors of Dilexi Te when he warned that striving to eliminate all class differences is a fool’s errand that leads to upheaval. “All struggling against nature is vain,” Pius X wrote. God did not create a world where the “lowest” can be made equal to the “highest” in every temporal respect. The Church’s role is not to level society into a flat equality, but to encourage harmony between classes, mitigate abuses, and above all save souls.

“Every inequality of condition is an injustice… Here we have a principle that conflicts sharply with the nature of things, a principle conducive to jealousy, injustice, and subversive to any social order.” — Pope St. Pius X, Notre Charge Apostolique (1910)

Not only did pre-conciliar popes reject the egalitarian social theories that Dilexi Te seems to take for granted, they also took a very different approach to the question of rich and poor. Where Leo XIV speaks almost exclusively of the duties of the wealthy toward the poor (and the rights of states to curtail wealth for the common good), earlier popes balanced rights and duties on both sides. Leo XIII insisted on the rights of private property and exhorted the poor to practice virtues like hard work, thrift, and avoidance of envy: virtues conspicuously missing from the modern discourse. He anathematized socialism and warned workers not to be seduced by agitators peddling “exaggerated hopes and huge promises” that end only in “vain regrets and the destruction of wealth.” Pope Pius XI, in Quadragesimo Anno (1931), famously stated that “no one can be at the same time a sincere Catholic and a true Socialist,” precisely because socialism embraces class warfare and the subordination of spiritual goods to material redistribution.

By contrast, Dilexi Te flirts with a neo-socialist ethos: while it stops short of endorsing outright socialism, its general tenor, dividing humanity into an oppressed majority vs. a selfish “happy few,” and essentially attributing poverty to the malice of the rich, owes more to Marx than to Moses. It is thus no surprise that the exhortation is one-sided and extreme. Even John Paul II’s nuanced teachings on economics are glossed over. Leo XIV cites John Paul II’s words about the “immense multitudes” of the needy, but ignores JPII’s careful distinctions in Centesimus Annus (1991). For example, John Paul noted that if by “capitalism” one means a free economy bounded by justice and law, it is “certainly acceptable,” whereas a capitalism of unchecked greed is not.

Dilexi Te makes little effort to acknowledge such distinctions. It denounces “the absolute autonomy of the marketplace” as an ideology, yet seems blind to the equal danger of the opposite ideology: a statist collectivism that crushes initiative and freedom. John Paul II warned against that as well, noting that even after Communism’s fall, “the realities of marginalization and exploitation remain” and a “radical capitalistic ideology” could also be harmful. The Catholic approach steers a middle course, affirming the positive role of free markets while insisting on moral limits and solidarity. Dilexi Te by contrast exhibits a uniformly negative view of the market, with scarce acknowledgement of its benefits to human welfare.

In sum, whereas the historic Magisterium emphasized personal virtue, moral duties, and the primary role of spiritual renewal in addressing social ills, Dilexi Te emphasizes structural sins, economic systems, and political solutions. It is not that the Church never spoke of social structures before; she did. But the pre-Vatican II approach was careful to subordinate these concerns to the higher mission of the Church. The difference is one of worldview: Do we see poverty chiefly as a byproduct of original sin in a fallen world (to be alleviated by charity and prudent reform, but never fully fixable), or do we see it primarily as an eliminable injustice caused by fixable human arrangements? Dilexi Te comes down firmly in the latter camp, whereas Pope Leo XIII or St. Pius X would likely remind us that any quest for a terrestrial utopia is doomed and that making the poor comfortable must never overshadow making the poor (and rich) holy.

The Mission of the Church: Saving Souls or Solving Poverty?

Perhaps the most profound concern raised by Dilexi Te is what it implies about the mission of the Church. Leo XIV’s exhortation strongly conveys that being a Christian means primarily caring for the materially poor. He laments that too many Christians “think they can safely disregard the poor,” and he essentially equates holiness with active solidarity: “Can holiness somehow be understood apart from this lively recognition of the dignity of each human being [especially the poor]?” He even says the Gospel is not only about one’s personal relationship with God, “but also something greater: the Kingdom of God… [which] means fraternity, justice, peace and dignity in society.”

The way these statements are presented downplays the supernatural dimension of the Faith. One searches Dilexi Te in vain for clear affirmations that the primary work of the Church is to preach the Gospel and administer the Sacraments for the salvation of souls. Instead, the text almost reads as if the primary work of the Church is to lobby for social change and “accompany” the marginalized.

This imbalance did not exist in the earlier Magisterium. Past Popes were crystal clear about the Church’s essential purpose. Pope Pius XII taught, for example, that “the Church’s aim is not the domination of peoples or the gaining of temporal dominions; she is eager only to bring the supernatural light of faith to all peoples.” In other words, the Church is not an economic or political agency, and whenever she engages in efforts to improve social conditions, it is subordinate to her spiritual mission. Likewise, Pius XI reminded the faithful that “the [economic] re-establishment of the world must be effected in Christ;” meaning true social justice flows from society’s conversion to Christian truth and virtue, not from any purely material program.

No one in the “traditional Church” denied the obligation of charity. The corporal works of mercy (feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, etc.) have always been part of Catholic life. But tradition-minded Catholics insist on perspective: charity toward the poor, to be virtuous, must be rooted in love of God and ordered toward the ultimate good of souls. Pope St. Pius X explained it well in Notre Charge Apostolique, rebuking those who reduce Christian love to social activism. “Catholic doctrine tells us that the primary duty of charity does not lie in the toleration of false ideas…but in the zeal for the intellectual and moral improvement… of our neighbor,” he wrote, adding that love for the poor that neglects their eternal destiny is a “sheer illusion, sterile and fleeting.” True Christian fraternity, he argued, must be grounded in common faith and in Jesus Christ, otherwise “no genuine fraternity” will result.

In Dilexi Te, however, there is scant mention of converting the poor or bringing them the fullness of truth. Instead, the emphasis is on learning from the poor (“letting ourselves be evangelized by them”) and on material alleviation of their condition. The document even cautions against those Christians who say “it is the government’s job to care for them” or who prefer to focus on evangelizing the more well-to-do, labeling such attitudes as “worldliness” and “superficial.” Yet ironically, by prioritizing the temporal over the spiritual, Dilexi Te exemplifies the very “worldliness” it decries. It risks turning the Church de facto into a humanitarian NGO, a fate Francis himself warned against (even as his actions sometimes hastened it).

Leo writes that “the worst discrimination which the poor suffer is the lack of spiritual care… Our preferential option for the poor must mainly translate into a privileged and preferential religious care.” This is an orthodox statement. The trouble is that such lines feel like an afterthought in Dilexi Te. They are buried in the text, whereas the ringing declarations about structural injustice, economic inequality, and political action steal the show. A traditional Catholic reading this exhortation might reasonably wonder: Is this still the voice of the shepherd of souls, or the manifesto of a social planner?

Even the famous Parable of the Good Samaritan, which Leo XIV invokes at length, is given a decidedly horizontal interpretation: he uses it to chastise modern indifference toward the suffering, which is valid, but he stops short of drawing the fuller lesson. The Church Fathers often commented on that parable not only as a moral lesson in compassion, but as an allegory of Christ saving fallen humanity (the Samaritan symbolizing Christ who heals the wounds of sin).

In Fratelli Tutti, Francis likewise emphasized the social moral without much of the spiritual allegory. The net effect in both cases is to subtly shift the Gospel toward a purely social gospel. This was precisely the error of certain Modernists and “liberation theologians;” an error the Vatican actually corrected in 1984 when Cardinal Ratzinger’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith issued an instruction criticizing liberation theology. (Notably, Dilexi Te selectively quotes that 1984 instruction’s line that pastors must give “effective witness in the service of… the poor and the oppressed,” but it completely ignores the instruction’s main content, which warned against politicizing the Gospel and subordinating transcendent salvation to an earthly agenda.

A Preferential Option – or a Preferential Rupture?

After reviewing Leo XIV’s exhortation alongside prior Catholic teaching, one conclusion seems inescapable: Dilexi Te represents a rupture. Yes, it cites Scripture and many modern Church documents; yes, it expresses perennial truths about God’s love for the lowly and the duty of mercy. But the tone, emphases, and omissions in this document point to a mindset significantly different from the pre-Vatican II Catholic worldview. Leo XIV has effectively canonized the post-conciliar “preferential option for the poor” as a defining feature of Catholicism, even though this concept, as an official slogan, is scarcely a few decades old. He has taken that option and radicalized it further, couching it in language of structural sin and global tyranny that even Paul VI or John Paul II (for all their social concern) would never use.

This raises uncomfortable but necessary questions. Can such marked shifts be reconciled with the Catholic claim of an unchanging Apostolic Tradition? When Pope Pius IX condemned the notion that “The Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, reconcile himself, and come to terms with progress, liberalism and modern civilization.” (Error #80, Syllabus of Errors), he was warning against exactly the kind of pressure that the contemporary Church faces: the pressure to recast herself in the mold of the modern world’s values.

A century later, Leo XIV’s programmatic focus on the socio-economic dimension of the Gospel might be seen as the Catholic Church finally “updating” herself to meet the expectations of the modern secular mindset. After all, a secular humanitarian can read Dilexi Te and find little to object to; there is no mention of conversion to the true Faith as a solution to poverty, no critique of the moral failings (like widespread divorce or drug abuse) that often contribute to poverty, no warning that spiritual poverty (loss of God) is worse than material poverty. The document reflects, almost perfectly, the concerns of a UN Sustainable Development summit or a NGO white paper on inequality.

Dilexi Te simply confirms what we have long suspected: that the post-Vatican II Church has charted a fundamentally novel course, one increasingly distant from its own Tradition. One need only point to the cumulative effect, from Vatican II’s Gaudium et Spes, to Francis’s Evangelii Gaudium, to now Leo XIV’s Dilexi Te, to see that a new, humanistic “religion of man” is eclipsing the true religion oriented to God. Even if one does not go so far as to declare the Holy See vacant or Leo illegitimate, it is hard to deny that Dilexi Te makes the hermeneutic of rupture ever more apparent.

When a Leo XIV teaches that “the poor are ‘one of us’… one of our family” and that caring for them is essentially the core of being Christian, how does one square that with Pope Pius XII’s insistence that the Church’s sole eagerness is to bring supernatural faith to souls? When Dilexi Te proclaims “inequality is the root of social ills” (a quote from Francis), what happens to the older teaching that sin is the root of all social ills? It is not as if Leo outright denies the spiritual, but the shift in focus is profound.

Ultimately, Dilexi Te may force concerned Catholics to a decision point. Can one simply absorb this new social-doctrine maximalism as a natural development, or does fidelity to Tradition require resisting such novel orientations? At the very least, this exhortation should spur serious study and reflection on the part of clergy and laity.

The Church cannot effectively help the poor by severing herself from her past wisdom. If anything, the true riches that the Church has to offer the materially poor (and everyone else) are the timeless treasures of the Faith: the truth about God and man, the grace of the Sacraments, the example of lives transformed by Christ. When those supernatural treasures take a backseat, all the material aid in the world will not save humanity.

As Our Lord admonished, “What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world, but suffer the loss of his soul?” The Church’s first and greatest poverty program has always been to preach Christ crucified, to “bring the supernatural light of faith” (Pius XII) to rich and poor alike, trusting that from converted hearts will flow both justice and charity in due measure. Any document that obscures this priority in addressing earthly injustices, must be met with strong critique.

Conclusion

By framing love for the poor in the prevailing language of socio-political liberation, Leo tethers the Church to the passing fashions of this world. The century-old papal treasury of teachings, from Leo XIII to Pius XII, offers a supernatural vision of how Catholics should live in the world and love their neighbor. In them, care for the poor is certainly present, but it is understood in proper order: as a fruit of true faith, not a replacement for it; as a call to personal virtue and charity, not a rallying cry for class struggle or worldly utopia. Only by restoring that balance can the Church avoid the twin pitfalls of indifferentism to suffering on one hand, and a new secular messianism on the other. Tradition, in the end, is the Church’s anchor; and if Dilexi Te teaches anything, it is how far adrift one can go when that anchor is even slightly lifted.

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