Episode Transcript
Episode 7 · Part Two
Liberation Theology, Social Sin, and Joyful Resistance
Matthew Remski in conversation with Father David Inczauskis, SJ
[00:00:08] Matthew Remski:
Welcome to Part Two of Episode Seven of Antifascist Dad, with Father David Inczauskis of the Society of Jesus. I’m very grateful for your support, and I hope this project brings some joy, hope, and utility to your days.
In Part One, David and I talked about how Jesuit communal living operates as intergenerational, collective, anti-individualist—almost communistic in how resources flow in and out of the community. This creates a sense of connectedness and belonging in an era of isolation, an inoculation against fascist modes. I have to agree.
We talked about loneliness and solidarity—how, although he doesn’t have a family life like many others, liturgy, meals, and shared routines give him purpose and connection. My partner, who’s a psychotherapist, commented later that he’s probably far less lonely than most of us.
We talked about how he stays grounded in “regular” family life as a celibate priest—through friendships, through time spent in lay communities abroad, and through intentionally keeping those ties alive.
But the most important thing we discussed was the possibility of common ground between leftists and Catholic antifascists. Even with disagreements around gender, sexuality, and reproductive rights, he argued that the Church’s critiques of capitalism, empire, wealth inequality, environmental destruction, and authoritarianism provide real terrain for collaboration—especially around migrant justice.
This connects to a question I often hear from progressive friends when I talk about coalition-building with religious people, especially Catholics: Do you really want to work with a church that still has patriarchal structures?
My answer is: yes, the Church is dead wrong on reproductive rights, the status of women, and the morality of queer life. But then I ask: Do you vote for a pro-capitalist party? What compromises are you making?
Here’s Part Two of my conversation with Father David Inczauskis.
[00:04:02] Matthew:
When we left off, David was describing 2,000 parishioners gathering outside an ICE facility to pray and sing together.
[00:04:10] David:
It wasn’t just 2,000 Catholics praying. They were praying with words and melodies that are a thousand years old. There’s a weight of moral history there.
Even something as simple as the penitential act—Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. In Greek: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison. We’re asking God to look with mercy on this situation. People are being put in a prison camp on the outskirts of Chicago. We’re seeing masked ICE agents in SUVs and detainees being brought in on buses. And we’re saying: Lord, have mercy on this terrible situation and give us the strength of your Spirit to resist it.
We’re attaching ancient religious symbols to a very concrete struggle.
[00:05:33] Matthew:
Hearing you say this is the first time I’ve understood the Kyrie as a collective “we.” Growing up, it was a personal admission of my own sins. You’re describing it as a plea for grace to change a social situation.
[00:06:07] David:
Exactly. In liberation theology—and in Catholic social teaching more broadly—we talk about social sin. The cruelty at the border didn’t begin with Trump. Biden, Obama, Bush: U.S. administrations have long persecuted migrants, many of whom have Indigenous roots in the Americas. It’s a colonial structure. There’s a thread from colonization to today.
So we say: God, have mercy on us—all of us—and inspire us to change. A good act of contrition acknowledges wrongdoing, but also promises to resist it in the future.
[00:08:03] Matthew:
So when you, a white Chicagoan, bring communion to wrongfully detained Latin Americans, you are also saying “Lord, have mercy” for your participation in a colonial structure?
[00:08:29] David:
Yes. The only ethical stance I can take on this land is to ally with the most oppressed people in this context. Liberation theology critiques sin as that which destroys life and impedes human flourishing. It doesn’t deny individual agency—we still have the capacity to resist—but it emphasizes structures of oppression that shape our choices.
The Church’s job is to ally itself with movements that move humanity from necessity to freedom.
[00:10:12] Matthew:
Growing up, I never heard about social sin. Confession was individualized. Is there a sense of collective confession in liberation theology?
[00:10:46] David:
I’ve heard people confess sins like racism. There’s horror in that, but also hope—people are recognizing it. Sadly, many people see sin as only about sexuality. Liberation theology resists that. It asks: How am I participating in broader structures of oppression? And: What grace do I need to be transformed?
Jesus was crucified because he resisted. Resistance carries risk. But it is the heart of our faith.
[00:13:12] Matthew:
Let’s talk about the objection that liberation theology endorses violence. Cardinal Ratzinger said this in 1986. What do you think?
[00:14:08] David:
I’m prima facie against violence. But Catholic social teaching does allow for violent revolutionary movements under extreme repression—within just-war limits: peaceful means must be exhausted, the response must be proportionate, and it must not produce greater harm.
Just-war theory has been misused, but its core logic holds: in some historical moments, communal self-defense is morally justified. The American Revolution and the Civil War are imperfect examples, but arguably justified.
We should try every peaceful and legal means first. Civil disobedience next. We are not currently at a moment requiring more radical action. But given climate catastrophe and rising global fascism, imagining that violence could never be justified is naïve and unhistorical.
[00:18:42] Matthew:
Pope Francis and now Pope Leo XIV are openly drawing on liberation theology—even critiquing capitalism with Marxian language. What impact do you think this has?
[00:19:56] David:
Francis united climate critique with anti-capitalist critique in Laudato Si’. Marx’s analysis of capitalism’s contradictions—especially infinite growth crashing into finite resources—is playing out now in climate collapse. Eco-Marxists have been pointing this out for decades.
Catholics don’t have to accept Marx’s atheism or materialism. I certainly don’t. But we do accept reason, science, and economic analysis.
As John Paul II said: faith and reason go together.
[00:23:23] Matthew:
What I hear in you is a soft dialectic—everything fits into a growing tradition.
[00:23:38] David:
Tradition isn’t static. It grows or it dies. Newman said: “To live is to change.” There are papal documents—like the Syllabus of Errors—I disagree with. But the Church is a dynamic tradition. My own work traces liberation theology’s roots to the early Church Fathers, who condemned wealth hoarding and exploitative labor. It’s all still relevant today: our iPhones depend on miners dying in colonized nations. When the Church names these continuities, it builds a compelling case for resistance.
[00:27:01] Matthew:
One more thing. You sound joyful. I hear it on your podcast and right now. You don’t sound like a melancholic leftist. Am I hearing faith and tradition supporting you? A sense of assurance?
[00:27:56] David:
I hope so. Joy in the Catholic sense is a gift—we can’t will it into being. But the key question is how to unite joy and struggle.
There is a false joy that ignores suffering—like in recent presidential campaigns. But a politics built only on despair can’t build a movement. People need a vision that energizes them.
Look at Zohran Mamdani in New York. He’s joyful, even when naming horrors. It’s not fake; it’s rooted in a concrete political project that excites people.
Antifascism is necessary, but incomplete. We also need a utopian horizon—not fantasy, but a concrete, achievable alternative. Communicating that vision with joy gets people into the streets.
[00:31:53] Matthew:
Is Rome sending you Kevlar for your next actions? Helmets that match the stole? Any protection?
[00:32:12] David:
So far so good. I haven’t been punched or shot at yet. We’ll put on the armor of Christ and adjust if needed.
[00:32:32] Matthew:
Thank you, Father.
[00:32:34] David:
Thanks for having me.
[00:32:39] Matthew:
Because this podcast is about intergenerational knowledge, I want to end with a short diary entry about navigating religion with our kids.
I’m a cradle Catholic, but it feels accidental—part tradition, part geography, part circumstance. My parents weren’t deferential to clergy; they worked in the Catholic school board and knew priests as human beings, often flawed. When I stopped going to church, no one protested. We all secularized together.
Our sons are thirteen and nine. My partner wasn’t a churchgoer, but Christianity was ambient in her upbringing. We’ve never taken the kids to church. At Christmas we set up a creche from my late mother, which lets us talk about gospel stories woven through my childhood.
Both kids wrestle with meaning and fear of death through stories, role-playing, video games, and art. The older one learned more Buddhism from Black Myth: Wukong at twelve than I did in my thirties. When they ask about Jesus, I reach for liberation theology: the dignity of the oppressed, the call to humility, generosity, solidarity.
They’re both fascinated by game worlds with vast interior spaces—temples, halls, cathedrals. One day I said a Minecraft build reminded me of the cathedral of my childhood. The younger one asked: “Can we go?”
So we did.
In the car he asked: “Will they mind that I’m autistic? Will they be supportive?”
I told him: if they’re good Catholics, they’ll welcome everyone—but the Church also fails, because it is like everywhere else.
We talked about whether Jesus was autistic. I said I wouldn’t be surprised.
Inside, he took in the vast space, the candles, icons, paintings. We walked the Stations of the Cross. He asked if Jesus was really in the tabernacle. I said: some believe literally, some symbolically—but everyone thinks deeply about what it means.
He went because he was interested, not out of obligation. If he asks to go again, I’ll take him. Because he knows enough to take what he needs and leave the rest.
We all have to create shelter for ourselves and each other along this long road.
Thanks for listening.
