There is a word in the Roman lexicon that has been worked half to death. It is hauled out of bed at all hours, made to stand in every doorway, set upon every passing stranger, and expected—poor exhausted thing—to do the labour of an entire theology with none of the dignity. The word is schism, and one begins, after a while, to feel a certain tenderness for it. It has the haunted look of a servant who has been told that everything is his fault: the burnt toast, the falling empire, the weather. Read further…

The Roman Catholic Church likes to describe herself as mater et magistra — mother and teacher — an institution whose scale and antiquity are supposed to make possible a patience no smaller body could afford. Whatever verdict history eventually renders on the theology of the Society of Saint Pius X, the documentary record of the eleven months preceding 1 July 2026 does not show that patience being exercised.

SSPX vs. Holy See: There is a word the English keep for a certain genre of marital combat: the domestic. It is the row the neighbours hear through the partition wall — the raised voices, the slammed door, and, at the climax, the unmistakable timpani of crockery making contact with plaster. Nobody calls the police. Everybody listens. And the next morning, over the fence, the verdict is delivered: Did you hear them last night?😁