Death Penalty and Holy Dollars: Is the Church Selling Its Soul

Christianity is built upon an unshakable truth: life is sacred. From the Ten Commandments—“Thou shalt not kill” (Exodus 20:13)—to the very words of Christ—“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy” (Matthew 5:7)—the Bible leaves no room for doubt. Jesus himself shattered the cycle of vengeance, rejecting the ancient law of retribution: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other also.” (Matthew 5:38-39). If God’s justice is forgiveness, how can men justify the gallows? And yet, in Florida, a governor who parades his Christian faith signs death warrants like political endorsements, stacking bodies in the name of law and order. The Church, which should be the last moral bastion against state-sanctioned killing, chooses cowardice over conviction. It holds vigils for the condemned but refuses to denounce the executioner. If faith is measured by action, then one must ask: is this Christianity, or just business as usual?

And yet, the Church stands there—watching, weeping, and doing nothing. It holds candles outside prison gates, murmurs prayers for the condemned, and then lets the needle sink in, lets the body go cold, lets the state play God. When Donald Dillbeck was strapped to a gurney in February 2023, the Diocese of St. Augustine released a statement, held a vigil… and then moved on. Evangélicos for Justice condemned the execution, yet the lethal injection went ahead on schedule, right on time, like a well-oiled machine of state-sponsored murder. These groups call for mercy, yet they refuse to wield power. The Church excommunicates priests who dare bless same-sex unions, yet refuses to excommunicate a governor who signs death orders like they’re autographs. It preaches that all life is sacred, yet kneels in submission to a politician who slaughters for votes. It will march against abortion, but won’t lift a finger against a government that turns prisons into slaughterhouses. And the worst part? It knows. It knows it could take a stand, but it won’t. Because faith doesn’t fill the coffers—execution-loving donors do. The question is no longer whether the Church opposes the death penalty. The real question is: What God does it worship—Christ, or cash?

The Catholic Church wields excommunication like a weapon—when it suits its agenda. A doctor who performs an abortion? Excommunicated. A woman who terminates a pregnancy, even in cases of rape? Excommunicated. A politician who supports reproductive rights? Excommunicated. No debate, no trial—just instant spiritual exile, enforced under latae sententiae, meaning the sentence is automatic. In 2009, in Brazil, Archbishop José Cardoso Sobrinho publicly excommunicated a mother and doctors for saving the life of a nine-year-old girl who had been raped and impregnated by her stepfather. A child was brutalized, yet the Church’s wrath fell not on the rapist, but on those who saved her. Meanwhile, priests who bless same-sex unions are swiftly sanctioned, suspended, or expelled from the Church for daring to preach love and inclusion. And yet, where is that same fire when a governor turns executions into political theater? Where is the outrage when a so-called “Christian leader” orders state-sanctioned murder in direct defiance of Christ’s teachings on mercy? The Church is quick to cast out those who challenge its doctrines on sexuality, but it cowers in silence before a man who signs death warrants like campaign promises. If excommunication is meant to punish grave moral offenses, then the question must be asked: is killing for power not a greater sin than blessing love? Or is the Church just afraid to lose the donations?

Governor Ron DeSantis wears his faith like a shield when it suits him, invoking God and Catholic values as the moral compass behind his policies. “I don’t know how you could be a leader without having faith in God,” he declared, presenting himself as a warrior for Christian values. Yet, his governance tells a far darker story. Under his administration, Florida has executed more people in a single year than it had in over a decade, reinstating a brutal death machine that directly contradicts Catholic doctrine. And the Church? It watches. It prays. It does nothing. Even as Pope Francis condemns the death penalty as “inadmissible” and an assault on human dignity, DeSantis signs execution orders with a steady hand—then steps into churches, greeted as a man of faith. The silence from Catholic leadership is deafening, especially when DeSantis has funneled millions of dollars into religious institutions under the guise of disaster relief and school vouchers, effectively buying their loyalty. The Church, which should be calling him to account, instead kneels beside him. When faith is used as a political tool rather than a moral guide, does it mean anything at all? Or is God just another campaign slogan?

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Ron DeSantis didn’t always present himself as an executioner. Early in his career, he claimed to have moral reservations about the death penalty, insisting it should be reserved only for the “worst of the worst.” But as his political ambitions grew, so did his appetite for state-sanctioned killing. The shift wasn’t subtle—it was calculated. In 2023 alone, he signed more death warrants than Florida had seen in over a decade, turning executions into campaign milestones. He personally reinstated non-unanimous death penalty verdicts, allowing just 8 out of 12 jurors to send someone to die, a move designed to fast-track executions. He even pushed through a law allowing capital punishment for child rapists, despite the Supreme Court ruling it unconstitutional—knowing full well it would end up in court, but relishing the political theater of looking “tough” on crime.

And it wasn’t about justice—it was about votes. When the Parkland shooter was sentenced to life instead of death, DeSantis raged on live TV, calling it a “miscarriage of justice”, using the moment to rile up his base. But the most damning proof of his blood-for-power strategy? The timing. The executions ramped up just as he was preparing his presidential campaign, sending a clear message to conservative hardliners: he wasn’t just tough, he was willing to kill for their approval. DeSantis doesn’t value the death penalty as a matter of justice—he weaponizes it as a political tool. The bodies stacked up in Florida’s execution chamber aren’t just casualties of crime—they’re stepping stones on his path to power.

Where is the Church? Where is its so-called moral authority when a man exploits faith to justify slaughter? It watches as Ron DeSantis kneels in its pews, blessing his hands before they sign another death warrant. It allows him to parade his Catholicism like a shield, as if wearing the cross absolves him of turning executions into a campaign strategy. It doesn’t just tolerate him—it elevates him, letting him speak in churches, letting him claim the banner of Christ while he builds his political career on blood.

And for what? For proximity to power? For the millions he funnels into religious institutions under the guise of “aid” and “education”? For the illusion that aligning with him strengthens their influence? The Church preaches about the sanctity of life, yet it allows DeSantis to twist that very doctrine into a grotesque spectacle of state-sanctioned vengeance. It should be the first to condemn him, the first to strip him of his false piety, the first to say, “This is not of God.” But instead, it stands beside him, silent, hands folded in prayer while he turns the Gospel into a prop and the death chamber into a podium.

If faith means anything, if Christ’s message of mercy is more than empty words, then how can the Church justify letting a man who glorifies death in God’s name claim to be one of them? The answer is as devastating as it is obvious: it can’t. But it will. Because silence is easier than defiance. Because complicity is more profitable than confrontation.

So let them pray. Let them hold their vigils. Let them light their candles and sing their hymns, pretending they stand against the machine they refuse to stop. Because they could. They have the power. The power to excommunicate Ron DeSantis, to make an example of him, to say once and for all that the death penalty is not of God. With a single decree, they could strip him of the faith he exploits, show the world that Christianity does not belong to executioners. But they won’t. Because they don’t want to. Because faith is just another currency, and DeSantis pays well.

They excommunicate without hesitation when it serves their agenda. But when faced with a man who glorifies the taking of life, they remain silent. They could send a message to the world, a message that would echo beyond Florida, beyond politics: “No, you cannot kill in Christ’s name. No, you cannot wear our faith like armor while you stain your hands with blood.” But instead, they kneel beside him. Because they do not worship Christ. They worship power. They worship influence. They worship the only God they have ever truly feared—the almighty dollar.

“Not in my name,” they chant, as church bells toll in mourning for the dead. But their bells ring hollow. Their voices whisper against the roar of their inaction. Actions speak louder than words, and their silence is deafening. Their hands are folded, not to stop the killing, but to shield their own eyes from the truth—that they have abandoned the very faith they claim to defend.

Open your eyes. See the hypocrisy for what it is. No man can serve two masters. And yet, the Church has made its choice. It has chosen wealth over justice. It has chosen comfort over courage. It has chosen politics over Christ.

And so the question isn’t whether DeSantis believes in Christianity—it’s whether the Church believes in anything other than cold, bloodstained cash. Because a faith that kneels before executioners, that preaches mercy while counting donations, that lets death reign as long as the coffers stay full—is no faith at all. It’s just a business, trading in souls and stacking corpses like political currency.