When the Church Becomes a Barrier

When the Church Becomes a Barrier

West Papua, a lush land of forests and mountains at the eastern edge of the Indonesian archipelago, is no stranger to pain. Since its annexation by Indonesia in the 1960s, this Christian-majority region has endured one of the longest and bloodiest conflicts in the modern world. Yet, despite over six decades of struggle, the suffering of its people remains shrouded in silence — and sometimes, that silence echoes most painfully within the walls of the Church.

A Church That Lost Its Voice

In the early 2000s, a hopeful slogan began to spread from pulpits and Church documents: "Papua, the Land of Peace." It was a vision of reconciliation, of a homeland where the Gospel could be lived freely, without fear of bullets or helicopters overhead. But two decades later, that dream has withered like dry leaves in the highland wind. In districts such as Nduga and Intan Jaya, gunfire still breaks the night. Families flee to forests. Children grow up not with lullabies, but with the distant thunder of military boots.

And the Church? Its official voice calls for peace. But in the eyes of many Papuans, its silence toward injustice has become complicity.

A senior catechist from Wamena — one of the few remaining indigenous elders still active in Church life — shared this with tears in his eyes:

“They told us that the Church was the house of God, the body of Christ. But the body has become a fortress, and we are left outside the gate. If Christ lives in this Church, why does it not speak when our children are killed?”

An Unequal Brotherhood

The Indonesian Church hierarchy, largely dominated by Javanese and other non-Papuan elites, has not hidden its closeness to state power. When Jakarta’s Cardinal Ignatius Suharyo smiles alongside military generals and presidential candidates, the photo-ops make headlines. Meanwhile, when indigenous Papuan Catholics raise their concerns — or simply ask for protection — they are met with bureaucratic coldness, suspicion, or even silence.

A young lay leader from Jayapura recalled attending a bishops' forum in Jakarta:

“The candidates were received with red carpet treatment, even applause. When we arrived, they checked our bags twice and asked if we had a ‘separatist agenda.’ We were Catholics too. Just not the right kind, I suppose.”

This unequal treatment is not just anecdotal. It reflects a deeper structural sin — the enduring colonial mindset within the Church itself. A Church that once arrived in Melanesia as a missionary force now risks becoming an agent of cultural erasure, wrapped in liturgical garments.

From Sanctuary to Stage

On the surface, the Church in certain regions of West Papua seems to demonstrate considerable strength, as evidenced by the proliferation of parishes. Church buildings — some grander than any in Jakarta — stand proudly in the highlands. Yet inside, many pews are emptying. The number of active indigenous catechists has dropped. Youth groups struggle to survive.

A teacher in the remote Yahukimo region lamented:

“They built a new church last year. Beautiful stone and marble. But the children still can’t read. We ask for Bibles, we get brick. We ask for teachers, we get tiles.”

Material expansion, without spiritual or social commitment, has created a hollow structure — beautiful on the outside, broken within.

A Divided People

While many West Papuan Catholics cry out for solidarity, their fellow believers in Java or Sumatra often respond with suspicion or dismissiveness. Words like “separatist” or “troublemaker” fall too easily from the lips of Catholics who have never set foot in the Papuan highlands, nor seen a church burnt in a military raid.

One young Papuan woman, now studying theology in Yogyakarta, said:

“When I speak of justice for my people, they accuse me of bringing politics into religion. But how can we preach Christ crucified and ignore those crucified today?”

It is a painful paradox: the same Body of Christ proclaiming peace, while members of that Body bleed in silence.

A Call to True Conversion

The colonial wound in the Indonesian Church is not just about race, or politics, or geography. It is about the failure to live the Gospel in its fullness — especially where it costs something. West Papua is not just a test of political will, but a test of ecclesial conscience.

Will the Church side with Caesar or with the crucified? Will it protect its image or its soul?

Perhaps it is time to remember the words of Jesus:

“Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45)

It is time for conversion — not just personal, but structural. A conversion that listens before judging. That walks with the wounded instead of taking selfies with the powerful. That treats every member of the Body with the dignity they deserve.

West Papua is knocking. Will the Church open the door — or turn away once again?