I am neither a theologian, nor an intellectual, nor a man of power.
I am a father, a citizen, a doubtful and restless believer, who still feels the need — perhaps the duty — to believe in something greater.
Not necessarily transcendent, but certainly greater than the self. Something that calls, that guides, that holds together what risks falling apart every day.
But above all, I am a betrayed father. Betrayed by justice. By the state. By public opinion. And yes, even by the Church.
And for this very reason, I feel — today more than ever — the need to address a word to the new Pope.
I write this letter to Leo XIV not out of presumption, but out of urgency.
I have discovered a world that needs a firm voice, a moral authority, a halt to the drift. We live in confusing times, in which good and evil are constantly questioned, truth dissolves among countless opinions, and the suffering of ordinary people is often ignored by palaces — even ecclesiastical ones.
I care about the role of the Church because, whether it wants to or not, the Church speaks to the world.
When it is silent, the silence is heavy. When it whispers, confusion grows. When it bends, consciences lose their bearings.
I also write for those who look at the Church with disenchantment, with suspicion, sometimes even with annoyance.
For those who think the Church is a place of repression, an emptied institution, a relic of the past.
For those who identify it only with errors, abuses, omissions.
To them I would like to say that the moral leadership of the Roman Church can still be a voice and a refuge, but only if it knows how to become less dogmatic and more embodied.
Not by denying its spiritual heart, but by becoming a concrete presence in society, a final dam against a prevailing relativism that flattens everything, that confuses everything.
I have expectations because I still believe — perhaps stubbornly — that the Church can be light.
Not a light that flatters, but one that clarifies. Not a mirror of the world, but a sign of contradiction. Not a diplomatic force, but the spiritual conscience of humanity.
And precisely because the betrayal I suffered has made me pay the price of disillusionment, today I demand — for myself and for those who come after — a clear word. Not ambiguous. Not timid.
So I write because I feel the duty to bear witness.
Because if fathers fall silent, who will speak for the children?
And if believers stop expecting something from the Pope, what will become of the Church?
Mine is not a nostalgic appeal, but an ethical call.
A cry asking the Church to return to being a moral authority, capable of setting boundaries not to exclude, but to protect.
We have seen where an idea of inclusion without form, without roots, with overly flexible boundaries has led us: into confusion, disorientation, dilution of the truth.
Today more than ever, there is a need for leadership that is not ashamed to say what is good and what is evil.
Not to judge, but to protect. Not to oppress, but to save. This is not a request for consensus.
It is an act of conscience.
A cry that asks to be heard, before it is too late.