LOURDES (FRANCE)
America [New York NY]
May 5, 2025
By Lucy Huh
When I enter a Catholic sacred space as a survivor of clerical sexual abuse, I carry more than just my faith. I carry the weight of betrayal, the constant calculation of safety and an acute awareness of how institutions respond to abusers in their midst. The contrasting decisions regarding Marko Rupnik’s artwork at two of the most visited Marian shrines in the Catholic world—to preserve his mosaics at Fátima and to cover his mosaics at the Basilica of Our Lady of the Rosary in Lourdes—reveal much about the church’s ongoing struggle to keep survivors at the center of attention in its response to abuse.
A former Jesuit and internationally acclaimed mosaic artist, Marko Rupnik was credibly accused of psychologically and sexually abusing at least 20 women, mostly religious sisters within his spiritual community, over three decades. Despite the Vatican’s procedural mishandling of his case—including the initial dismissal of accusations and a briefly excommunicated status that was quickly lifted—the evidence against him became overwhelming. In June 2023 the Jesuits expelled him, yet his artwork continues to adorn prominent Catholic churches and shrines throughout the world, including the Redemptoris Mater Chapel in the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City; the Holy Spirit Chapel at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Conn.; and the Cave of St. Ignatius in Manresa, Spain, site of the Jesuits’ International Center for Ignatian Spirituality.
Arturo Sosa, S.J. the superior general of the Society of Jesus, said in a press conference on April 10 that he supported the decision by Lourdes to cover up the Rupnik mosaics but added, “There is no rule, I think, to do everything the same for everyone, but it really depends on how much this harms someone [to see the artwork].”
The Shrine of Fátima justified its decision to retain its Rupnik mosaics—which cover the apse of the Basilica of the Holy Trinity and feature prominently on the shrine’s iconic facade—on the grounds that the art transcends the artist. Officials there stated that the mosaics “do not belong to the artist, but to the church,” suggesting that once commissioned, sacred art becomes separate from its creator. Fátima claims to “categorically repudiate” the ex-Jesuit’s abuse and is removing images of his work from its promotional materials, but that leaves the massive golden mosaics untouched and fully visible. In contrast, the sanctuary at Lourdes has determined that keeping Father Rupnik’s works would be “incompatible with its mission to welcome all people, especially those who are wounded.”
These divergent responses force us to confront a difficult question: Can we truly separate the art from the artist in sacred spaces designed for healing and encounter with the divine?
For survivors like myself, sacred spaces are already fraught with complexity. They can be sites of both solace and retraumatization. When I stand before the glittering Rupnik mosaics depicting Christ’s redemptive love, knowing the creator’s hands violated sacred boundaries and trust, the message I receive is clear: The institution’s commitment to beauty and prestige supersedes its commitment to those who have been harmed.
The argument that art transcends the artist fails to recognize the unique purpose of sacred spaces. Unlike museums, where controversial artists’ works might be displayed with appropriate context, churches and shrines are places of prayer, healing and sanctuary. They communicate theological truths not only through their explicit imagery but through their implicit messages about what—and who—matters.
Last year, in discussing whether to maintain Rupnik works on public display, Paolo Ruffini, the prefect of the Vatican’s Dicastery for Communication, said, “Removing, deleting, destroying art has not ever been a good choice.” This statement reveals a troubling pattern in institutional responses to abuse: the absorption of harm into institutional identity without full reckoning.
The approach at Lourdes, by contrast, recognizes that sacred spaces speak through more than just their explicit imagery. They speak also through institutional choices. So in July 2024, Bishop Jean-Marc Micas issued a statement that prioritized victims’ needs over artistic preservation.
“In Lourdes, care of the sick and injured people who need consolation and reparation must take first place,” Bishop Micas wrote. “This is the specific grace of this Sanctuary: nothing should prevent them from responding to Our Lady’s message inviting them to come there on pilgrimage. Because this has become impossible for many, my personal opinion is that it would be better to remove these mosaics.”
Even before reaching a final decision, the bishop took an immediate step: The mosaics would no longer be illuminated during the evening candlelight processions. This intermediate action acknowledged survivors’ pain while the sanctuary continued a careful discernment process that included, as the bishop wrote, “victims (French and foreign nationals), but also experts specializing in sacred art, jurists, people engaged in the prevention and fight against abuse, and chaplains of Lourdes.”
By March 2025 the sanctuary had taken concrete action. “I felt, along with my colleagues, that a new symbolic step had to be taken to facilitate entry into the basilica for all those who are currently unable to cross the threshold. As a result, all the doors to the Basilica of [Our Lady of] the Rosary have been modified,” Bishop Micas explained in an interview, referring to the aluminum panels now covering the Rupnik mosaics.
The art institute founded by Marko Rupnik has argued that removing his artwork represents a capitulation to “cancel culture.” This fundamentally misunderstands what we survivors seek. We don’t ask for erasure but for acknowledgment—acknowledgment that harm occurred, that it matters and that the institution will prioritize preventing further harm over preserving its aesthetic investments.
Last year, I felt deeply drawn to visit Lourdes—to experience the healing waters and connect with Bernadette’s story—yet found myself troubled and conflicted knowing that the Rupnik mosaics would dominate the basilica entrance. Only after Bishop Micas released his July 2024 statement did I decide to make the pilgrimage. His words affirming that victims’ ability to access the sanctuary “must take first place” created enough space for me to approach those sacred grounds. Even the interim measure of no longer illuminating the mosaics during evening processions communicated that he understood that my pain mattered more than aesthetics.
If the Rupnik mosaics now belong to the church, as the Shrine of Fátima officials have argued, then the church bears responsibility for contextualizing them. At a minimum, this requires prominent explanatory plaques acknowledging the artwork’s troubling provenance. Better yet would be the creation of dedicated spaces within the shrine for education about abuse and healing, funded by a percentage of pilgrimage revenue.
The decisions at Fátima and Lourdes reflect a broader struggle within the church: reconciling its commitment to beauty and tradition with its obligation to justice and healing. As Catholics, we believe in both redemption and consequences, in both the transcendent power of art and the concrete reality of harm.
What would a truly survivor-centered approach look like? It would begin by consulting survivors rather than making decisions about them—precisely what Bishop Micas did by including victims on the discernment commission. It would recognize that creating safe and healing spaces sometimes requires difficult sacrifices and, as the bishop noted, decisions that might “encounter real opposition from some.”
As I continue to navigate Catholic spaces as a survivor, I watch closely how the institutional church handles these difficult decisions. Each choice communicates something profound about what—and who—we truly value. In the case of the Rupnik mosaics, the art remains, but the question lingers: at what cost, and to whom?