The fertility of heresy

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

The word "heresy" often evokes images of bonfires, persecutions, and condemnations. Traditionally, the term has been associated with deviations from official doctrine, a stigma to be avoided at all costs. However, if we observe the history of ideas with a less dogmatic and more open eye, an unexpected truth emerges: heresy, far from being merely destructive, often proves extraordinarily fruitful. It acts as an engine of change, a stimulus to reflection, and sometimes as a seed for new worldviews.

Human thought has always developed through the confrontation between what is considered true and what is considered deviant. Orthodoxy, by its very nature, tends to crystallize knowledge; heresy, on the other hand, questions it, provokes it, forces it to defend itself. It is in this dialectic that the most innovative ideas often emerge. Without the stimulus of heresy, many doctrines would have remained immobile, unable to adapt to the new needs and demands of society. Again, without heresy, there would probably be no dogma.

The history of philosophy and theology is replete with figures who, accused of heresy, later profoundly influenced Western thought. Consider Giordano Bruno, who, by challenging the cosmological conceptions of his time, paved the way for an infinitely broader vision of the universe. Or Galileo Galilei, whose scientific heresy laid the foundations for the modern scientific revolution. In the religious field, medieval heresies such as those of the Cathars and Waldensians, although harshly repressed, contributed to a more nuanced spiritual and social debate.

No less important is the role of heresy in art and literature. Often, artists and writers who dared to challenge the canons and norms of their time were initially accused of aesthetic or moral heresy, but this very ability to go against the grain led to the emergence of new styles, genres, and movements. Dante Alighieri, with his personal vision of the afterlife, or Caravaggio, with his revolutionary use of light, are examples of how heresy can be a source of creative renewal.

Heresy is not limited to religious or artistic ideas, but also encompasses social models. Movements initially considered heretical, such as abolitionism, feminism, or the first demands for civil rights, have contributed to radically transforming society. While it is true that heresy can threaten the established order, it is equally true that it represents a precious opportunity for growth and evolution. Its fruitfulness lies precisely in its capacity to break with patterns, propose alternatives, and stimulate critical thinking. In a rapidly changing world, the temptation to cling to one's own certainties is great, but history teaches us that only those who know how to listen to heretical voices are capable of renewing themselves. Ultimately, as the poet said: There is no innovation without heresy.

 

Key points of a subversive theology

 

Paolo Cugini

In an era marked by profound social, cultural, and economic changes, theology is called to question its role and its capacity to have an impact on reality. It is within this context that the so-called “subversive theology” emerges and develops—a current of thought that does not merely interpret the world but seeks to transform it, positioning itself as a critical voice in the face of injustice, inequality, and oppressive structures. But what are the firm points of a subversive theology? What principles animate it and make it relevant today?

The first pillar of subversive theology is the tireless pursuit of justice. This theology takes the cry of the oppressed as its fundamental criterion, placing at its centre the experience of those who are excluded, marginalised, or exploited. This is not simply about abstract justice, but about concrete justice that translates into active commitment to the liberation of the poor and the marginalised, in line with the biblical prophetic tradition and the practice of Jesus of Nazareth. Subversive theology recognises in the poor and the weak the very face of God. The preferential option for the poor is not just an ethical choice, but a key to interpreting divine revelation. In this sense, any theological discourse that fails to consider the sufferings and hopes of oppressed peoples risks being empty and self-referential.

Subversive theology is characterised by a radical critique of the power structures that create and perpetuate injustice. It denounces the complicity between religion and political or economic power, and calls faith communities to take a stance against all forms of idolatry—of power, money, and success. In this regard, the evangelical warning remains timely: “You cannot serve both God and wealth.”

This theology is nourished by dialogue with other disciplines, other cultures, and other religions. The subversive approach rejects all forms of dogmatism and is open to engagement, aware that truth is not the exclusive property of anyone but is built through relationship, listening, and sharing. In this way, subversive theology is also self-critical, ready to recognise its own limitations and to be challenged by otherness, thus opening itself up to all forms of cross-contamination.

Subversive theology does not content itself with theoretical reflection but translates into practice. “Faith without works is dead,” reads the Letter of James. For this reason, every theological elaboration must be accompanied by concrete choices aimed at changing reality, from small daily gestures to major social and political struggles. It is a theology that “takes to the streets”, that gets its hands dirty, that puts itself at the service of those who fight for dignity and freedom.

The term “subversive” carries a significant semantic weight, evoking the idea of breaking with and questioning established structures. However, from a theological perspective, subversion is not destructive but generative: it is a matter of provoking questions, creating spaces for dialogue, and giving voice to those who have historically remained on the margins. This approach is deeply inspired by the gospel message, which subverts the logic of power to put the little ones, the poor, and the excluded at the centre. The relationship between subversive theology and the Magisterium of the Church is not simply one of opposition. At times, what seems to threaten the established order can, in fact, enable positive transformation. Subversive theology challenges the Magisterium on crucial issues such as justice, inclusion, and dignity, inviting the Church to review its positions and open itself to new perspectives.

At the heart of subversive theology is the desire for a “welcoming” Church, capable of embracing all forms of diversity: cultural, social, and gender. This embrace is not a concession but an authentic response to the Gospel, which calls for space to be made in the ecclesial assembly for everyone. In this sense, subversive theology stands as an ally of a Church that seeks to be a mother. In recent history, various movements and figures have embodied this creative tension: from liberation theology in Latin America, which gave voice to the poor against social injustices, to feminist and queer theologies, which have challenged the Church to rethink its language, its rites, and its structures. These experiences reflect a Church on the move, called to walk together (synodality), as hoped for by Pope Francis.

 

The fear that kills life

 

Paolo Cugini

 

“Sir, here is your gold coin, which I kept hidden in a handkerchief; I was afraid of you, for you are a harsh man.” (Luke 19:20-21)

There is a subtle fear, which creeps silently through hearts and minds, capable of extinguishing dreams before they have even found a voice. It is the fear that kills life. Not a concrete threat or a real danger, but an invisible presence that slowly erodes trust, desire, and hope. In an era where everything seems to be measured, evaluated, classified, the fear of living is born as the offspring of the fear of making mistakes. And so the spark of life is snuffed out, like a candle smothered by the wind of doubt.

At the root of the fear of living lies the fear of making mistakes. In a society that raises the culture of merit as the supreme rule, error is no longer seen as an integral part of the human journey, but as an indelible stain on one’s reputation and personal value. The message is clear: those who make mistakes are out, those who fall are left behind. Trapped in this logic, we quickly learn to fear every misstep, to avoid every risk, to never truly put ourselves to the test. Thus, life becomes a minefield where every decision is laden with anxiety, and every attempt can turn into a sentence.

When fear prevails, the first victim is talent. How many gifts remain buried beneath layers of shyness and insecurity? How many dreams never find a voice, suffocated by the fear of judgement or the risk of failing? Instead of blossoming, we close ourselves off, building walls that separate us from others and, above all, from what we could become. We do not experiment, we do not dare, we do not live. It is as if a tree refused to bear fruit for fear that the wind might make them fall. But the real tragedy is not falling; it is never having tried to climb.

There is an ancient truth that transcends the ages: life is a gift. And a gift, by its nature, asks to be received, lived, transformed. To give the gift back means renouncing living it; it means declaring, perhaps without words, that we do not feel worthy, that we do not desire enough. It is like returning a seed to the earth without ever having tried to sow it. Behind this act lies a lack of deep desire, a lost trust in life’s possibilities. Yet betraying the gift is the greatest offence we can commit against our own existence.

Desire is the silent engine that pushes humanity beyond its limits. Where there is desire, there is movement, openness, hope. Healthy desire is what invites us to take risks, to explore, to have a go. It does not spring from arrogance, but from a profound awareness that life, to be truly lived, must be experienced in all its shades. To renounce desire, to extinguish it for fear of making mistakes, is like choosing not to breathe for fear of choking.

There is life even in error, there is growth even in failure—perhaps even more than elsewhere. Those who do not make mistakes do not live. Those who do not fall do not learn. Failure is not the end, but a passage, an open door to new possibilities. In the cracks of error, the strength to start again takes root, along with the wisdom of those who have dared. Only those who risk truly know the depths of life and experience the secret joy that comes from rising after a fall.

The fear that kills life can only be overcome by cultivating the courage to take risks, the willingness to experiment, and faith in the possibilities hidden in each day. To live fully does not mean never making mistakes, but allowing ourselves the luxury to search, to desire, to fall and rise again. True death is renunciation, apathy, closing in on ourselves. Let us dare, then: let us trust in desire, experiment with our talents, and embrace the gift of life. Only then does fear become an ally, a travelling companion, and no longer our jailer. True life belongs to those who have the courage to live it.

 

To the source of light

 

Prophetic reflection on inner blindness and the journey towards light

Paolo Cugini

 

 

Then Jesus stopped and ordered the man to be brought to him. When he came near, Jesus asked him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ He replied, ‘Lord, let me see again!’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Receive your sight! Your faith has saved you.’ (Luke 18:39-44)

There is a subtle affliction that weaves through the folds of the soul, a shadow that creeps in silently and, over time, risks becoming a permanent condition: the blindness of conscience. It is not a visible illness, it leaves no tangible marks on the flesh, but it strikes deeper, blinding our ability to see, to distinguish, to orient ourselves in the stormy sea of life. Blindness of conscience cannot be healed by standing still, waiting for a miracle to fall from above like rain on a summer’s night. Nor is it enough to implore healing, trapped in the repetition of words that bring about no true change. It is necessary to make a move, a conscious step out of one’s state of blindness, an act of will that pushes us towards the source of light.

And yet, often our legs tremble, the heart hesitates, the mind becomes confused. We need someone to take us by the hand, to help us reach the one who can restore our sight and show us the light. No one is saved alone: solidarity, friendship, the guidance of those who have already travelled that path become beacons in the darkness.

There is a grave danger looming for those who linger too long in the darkness of their inner condition. When the mind becomes too accustomed to living in shadows, there is a risk of mistaking them for one’s natural horizon, of losing even the memory of the light. At that moment, the tragedy of no return unfolds: the abyss that transforms darkness into normality, making us incapable of desiring truth, beauty, a full life. Prolonged dwelling in the dark, allowing negativity to pervade every aspect of existence, irreparably damages our ability to see, to hope, to dare. We are responsible for our own darkness, as we are for our own resurrections.

In the Gospel of Luke, the blind man by the roadside does not remain silent. He cries out, breaking the stillness of despair by giving voice to his longing for light. That cry is the first act of will, the spark that ignites the possibility of change. It is not Jesus who goes to the blind man, but the blind man who, aided, approaches the Master. It is the will to emerge from one’s shadow that opens the way for the miracle. There are no miracles or sudden interventions that can resolve what afflicts us if we ourselves are not, first and foremost, desirous of healing, ready to take the step out of our darkness. We are the protagonists of our own harm, but also of our own resurrections. No one can choose for us: freedom, this terrible and marvellous gift, places upon us the responsibility for our choices. The voluntary exit from evil is the sign of a living faith, one that does not stop at words, but becomes action, movement, concrete change. It is faith that saves us, because it is the personal response to the free gift of love that Mystery reveals to us in Jesus. This is not a passive faith, but one that draws from the source of light and love within history, every time we so desire.

The prophecy that resounds today for each of us is a courageous invitation: do not remain motionless in the night of conscience, never identify the darkness as the only possible horizon of life. There is a source of light, of love, of salvation to which we can draw, but only if we truly wish it. It is up to us to begin the journey, to cry out, to step out, to seek the light with all our hearts. For it is only there, on the threshold between shadow and brightness, that the miracle of rebirth takes place.

 

The Theology of dissent

 

A Necessary bridge between doctrine and lived reality

Paolo Cugini

 

 

The theology of dissent represents a field for reflection and dialogue that, while developing within the ecclesial landscape, carries a profoundly human and communal significance. It arises from the recognition of a constant tension: that between the steadfastness of the Church’s official doctrine and the irreducible multiplicity of the concrete experiences lived by believers. Within this dialectic, a delicate game is played, one capable of raising radical questions about the very function of doctrine and the role of the Christian community in the contemporary world.

Dissent, contrary to what one might think, does not stem from a spirit of rebellion for its own sake, but from the acute perception of a gap—sometimes a painful one—between the absolute principles affirmed by the hierarchy and the reality of daily life. Often, it is precisely those who experience this discrepancy in their own lives who give voice to dissent, not to deny faith, but to remain faithful to it within the context of their own reality. Doctrine, by its nature, tends to formulate norms and general principles, often based on abstractions and on a partial knowledge of the complexity of humanity. As a result, it can appear rigid and incapable of embracing the full richness and nuances of individual and collective experience. In this space of disconnect, theological dissent finds its raison d’être and becomes the mouthpiece for those who do not recognise themselves in definitions perceived as too abstract, impersonal or even harmful for those living in situations of marginalisation or negative judgement.

Dissent is not limited to academic disputes among theologians, but permeates the life of Christian communities. It often manifests silently, almost submerged: many people, in their everyday lives, choose personal paths that diverge from doctrinal prescriptions, sometimes without even realising it. This raises a fundamental question: what is the purpose of doctrine, if not to guide and support people’s journey of faith? Doctrine, after all, should be a tool at the service of life, not an unbearable burden. From this perspective, dissent takes shape as a critical prod, an indispensable element to prevent faith from being reduced to a set of abstract rules. The echo of Jesus’ words against the Pharisees, who imposed doctrinal burdens that they themselves could not bear, still resounds today with force and relevance.

The theology of dissent does not stop at acknowledging the distance between doctrine and reality, but seeks to collect, organise and formalise contradictions into solid arguments. Its aim is to expose doctrinal inventions—those norms or interpretations that have drifted away from the essence of the Gospel message or the real life of the people of God. Through engagement with lived reality, theological dissent seeks to bring doctrine back to its original function: to be a word of hope and meaning for the concrete existence of people. In this sense, dissent is not the enemy of the Church, but a precious resource for its journey towards authenticity and coherence.

The tension between the ideal and reality can never be completely resolved. The theology of dissent therefore serves to keep the dialogue open, to prevent doctrine from crystallising into sterile abstractions, and to ensure that faith continues to speak to life. This is a delicate and dynamic balance, in which dissent does not destroy, but builds. Ultimately, the theology of dissent is a bridge—not between two opposing banks, but between an ideal at risk of becoming unattainable and a reality that asks to be understood, welcomed and redeemed. It is thanks to this bridge that faith can continue to be, today as yesterday, the salt of the earth and the light of the world.

 

The proportions of the Gospel

 

Reflections on spirituality in the age of selfishness

 

Paolo Cugini

 

“One of them… turned back” (Luke 17:15).

These are the proportions of the Gospel: one in ten. A mysterious word, a figure that weighs like a cornerstone, supporting and judging the walls of our relationships. Let those who have ears to hear, listen: this is the proportion that must be taken into account in our inner reckoning, when we choose to set out on the narrow and radiant path opened by the Gospel. But one does not get used to it quickly. Time is a slow teacher, the flesh rebels, the heart tightens and hardens before ingratitude, one of the most macabre aspects of inhumanity. Who can say they are prepared, who can claim not to falter before the chill of rejection? Grace comes at the cost of effort and sweat.

Yet, inhumanity spreads like autumn fog: selfishness is the fuel that feeds towns and villages, the sap that winds through the folds of relationships. Nothing is done freely; a gratuitous act seems madness, a luxury for naïve souls. Everything is an exchange, everything is calculation. Those who wish to survive this icy storm, who do not want to be swallowed up by the tight mesh of selfishness, must arm themselves with great spirituality. One must learn the art of silence, spend long hours listening to the voice of the Mystery that dwells in the depths of the soul. Only in this way can one glimpse the light that the world can neither give nor extinguish; only in this way can one rise serenely at dawn, go out, and follow the light.

But beware: those who take the provocations of daily ingratitude too seriously risk losing themselves. The danger is real: self-esteem evaporates, willpower is annulled, the heart plunges into depression. It is a subtle trap, a spider’s web that tightens without making a sound. How does Jesus live in this inhuman climate? Here lies the mystery of his strength: He lives immersed in the Mystery of the Father, he is fully aware of himself, he does not ask humanity for what only love can give. Those who live like this, in the fullness of authentic Love, have no need for the judgement of others, are not wounded by the world’s hatred, and do not even fear the cross that awaits them.

Where the love of the Mystery reigns, the violence of hatred, inhuman indifference, and ungracious ingratitude have no power. Those who allow themselves to be enveloped by this presence, who are nourished by this light, can pass unharmed through the night of the world and, like a grain of wheat, bear fruit in due season.

This is the prophecy for our times: the proportion of the Gospel is the measure that saves, the way that liberates, the light that does not go out. We do not live by bread alone and, ultimately, we are not saved alone. But those who know how to listen to the Mystery, even in the age of selfishness, will know the true freedom and the joy that no one can ever take away.

Theologising at the margins: A faith that dwells in the peripheries

Paolo Cugini

 

 

Theology, in its most classic sense, is often associated with academic, systematic knowledge, enclosed within the pages of treatises and manuals that establish the boundaries of Christian doctrine. Yet, like rain that flows even where the ground is most arid, there exists a way of doing theology that sprouts precisely at the margins of these boundaries: where real life poses questions that books often do not contemplate, where faith encounters the tangibility of suffering, doubt, and exclusion. To theologise “at the margins” means shifting the centre of theological reflection from university lecture halls to the streets, to places where pain and hope intertwine day after day. It is a theology that draws near, that listens without judging and accompanies those who live on the edge of religious experience, often far from the spotlight and the certainties offered by institutions. It is precisely in the wounds of human history that theology finds new horizons of meaning.

The theologian who chooses to walk at the margins is not content to contemplate the Mystery from afar, but allows themselves to be questioned by the concrete faces of those who, though deeply believing, find themselves excluded for doctrinal reasons: the separated, the divorced, homosexuals, transsexuals, lesbians, people marked by experiences that do not fit within the rules. These are stories of genuine faith that the Church, at times, has left outside its doors. Yet, precisely there where life seems to deviate from the canons, there manifests an unexpected and extraordinary presence of the Mystery. Paradoxically, it is in situations of marginalisation that faith often reveals itself as more authentic, more radical. In the depths of history, in the peripheries of society, the attentive theologian perceives a spiritual force that escapes definitions and labels, but testifies to the vitality of Christian faith. To do theology at the margins means accepting the challenge of thinking about faith starting from the concrete questions that emerge from the lives of the excluded, recognising that doctrine, though essential, cannot exhaust the Mystery; that rules, however necessary, cannot stifle the thirst for God that animates every heart.

Marginal theology is nourished by experiences, by listening, by stories. In a time when many feel distant from the Church but not from the desire for Mystery, this theology offers a space of welcome and dialogue. The true theologian then becomes one who allows themselves to be questioned by the wounds of history, by the questions of those who have been marginalised, and not only someone who interprets doctrine. It is the capacity to draw near, to “walk together” – as the word synodality suggests – that allows faith to continue to speak to life, even when life unfolds outside conventional patterns. There is, therefore, a theology on the move that, sensing the fragrance of the Mystery, recognises it in the most complex existential situations, even in those that doctrine itself has contributed to creating. The theologian who loves the Mystery revealed in Jesus realises the hidden richness in those marginal stories, which carry with them an incredible treasure of knowledge and life. From situations of exclusion can arise new understandings of faith, new paths of communion and hope. To theologise at the margins does not mean abandoning doctrine, but recognising that the Mystery of God surpasses every human boundary. It means having the courage to listen to true questions, to allow oneself to be challenged by the pain and the searching that inhabit the peripheries of existence. Only in this way can faith continue to be a living word, capable of illuminating even the darkest nights of history and of offering, to those who feel excluded, a home where the heart may rest.

The theology of the margins

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

There exists a theology that does not seek the spotlight, that does not strive for recognition nor cling to the rigour of grand doctrinal systems. It is a marginal theology, born in the shadows, along the dusty paths of history, where life is weighed down by the burden of days and the muffled sound of daily failures. This is a theology that breathes the acrid scent of neglect and settles where the world averts its gaze, convinced that nothing important could ever sprout in those overlooked places.

Yet, there is much to learn beneath the bridges, in the trembling hands of those who have not found shelter, among the weary bodies seeking refuge in the night wind. There are hidden lessons in the hunger that bites with every dawn, in the faces that confront the day without the certainty of a meal. In these places, the presence of the Mystery reveals itself powerfully, almost as if to refute the presumptions of the great lecterns. Here, amidst the shadows of the Latin American favelas, the Mystery becomes flesh in the everyday, insinuating itself between the struggle for life and the abuses of drug traffickers who decide the fate of entire generations.

The theologian of the margins, the one who pauses to listen to the silence of these streets, discovers a face of the Mystery that escapes the notice of those who shut themselves away in the palaces of major theological centres. There is something wondrous in the lives of the poor, a wisdom that does not spring from books but from direct contact with suffering, solidarity, and daily resistance. It is here that the presence of the Mystery is felt in a visceral way, like a flash that tears through the darkness of night and illuminates the profound meaning of existence.

If indeed, as the Gospel narrates, Jesus chose to identify himself with the least, it is a sign that the authentic path towards knowledge of the Mystery passes precisely through this solidarity with those who live on the margins. Torn and dirty clothes, worn-out shoes, shacks instead of houses, missing food, absent work, young people deprived of every opportunity, abandoned elderly: what does it mean to live the Mystery in these conditions? Where does the light hide among the cracks of misery?

Perhaps it is precisely those who live in marginality who intuit the Mystery, because it manifests itself in fragility, in precariousness, in hope that persists against all hope. And yet, upon reading these words, the wretched of history would smile bitterly and raise the question again: how can those who dwell in sumptuous palaces, with bursting wallets, perceive the Mystery? The answer, they already know: impossible. Because the Mystery cannot be captured by abundance nor is it revealed in self-sufficiency, but dwells in the wounded flesh of the world, where life struggles not to succumb.

Thus, marginal theology, though it remains on the outskirts, safeguards a treasure of truth all too often ignored. It reminds us that true knowledge is not conquered from above but is received by bending down, lowering oneself, sharing the bitter bread of existence. In the end, the Mystery dwells where the heart draws near, where man becomes brother, woman becomes sister, where poverty becomes a womb of light and marginality is transformed into a place of revelation.

Beyond Borders: A theology from the margins

 

Paolo Cugini

 

 

In the long history of Christian theology, the theme of boundaries has always played a central role. Much has been discussed about doctrinal limits, existential markers, and barriers that divide the “inside” from the “outside”, creating a sort of reassuring enclosure for faith and community. However, now more than ever, the Church and every believer are called to rethink these borders, to question what it truly means to live and do theology from the margins, starting from the least, the excluded, those who inhabit the peripheries of existence.

Traditions, norms, and dogmas form the doctrinal margins, offering identity and security. Yet, faith cannot be a simple defence of what is already known; it requires openness, dialogue, and courage. Overcoming these boundaries does not mean renouncing one’s faith, but rather living the tension between rootedness and innovation, between fidelity and change. It is a journey that demands discernment and willingness to engage with questions and concerns that enrich the community and drive it towards continuous growth.

Beyond doctrinal margins, there are existential ones, perhaps even more challenging. These are the peripheries of life, inhabited by those who are excluded, marginalised, forgotten. Doing theology in this context means not limiting oneself to speaking “about” those at the margins, but “with” and “among” them. Encountering the stories of those who live in exclusion becomes a source of profound questioning and transformation. As Don Milani reminds us: “Getting out alone is selfishness, getting out together is politics.” Theology from the margins is an embodied theology, one that gets its hands dirty and allows itself to be questioned, changed, and renewed by the other.

Reading the Gospel anew from the margins means discovering a Good News that does not settle for comforting those who are already well. The Gospel, reinterpreted in this way, becomes the voice of those who have no voice, hope for the desperate, bread for the hungry. Pope Francis invites the Church to “have the smell of the sheep”: a powerful image evoking genuine sharing of life with those at the margins. It is in this encounter that faith is renewed, doctrine opens up, and community is regenerated, becoming an authentic sign of a love that knows no boundaries.

Crossing boundaries, whether doctrinal or existential, involves risks and uncertainties. However, it is precisely on the margins that theology rediscovers its prophetic strength and authenticity. Only by inhabiting the margins, by listening and walking alongside the excluded, can the Christian community be a ferment of innovation and a sign of a love that breaks every barrier. At the borders, where life seems to break off, new horizons of hope and faith open up. The future of Christian theology lies in sincere dialogue with the margins: not just listening to them, but living them, crossing them, and inhabiting the peripheries of the world and the heart. It is a challenge that calls the Church and every believer, inviting all to leave behind the enclosures of their own certainties to encounter the Gospel in its purest and most radical form: the one that is born and grows at the margins, where sky meets sea and new paths of meaning and salvation open up.