Who still dares to say it hurts?

An Irish journalist asks three questions. Three Flemish radio presenters no longer know where to look.

The fragment has since circulated hundreds of thousands of times on X. Colm Flynn, a journalist for the Catholic EWTN News, confronts Sam De Bruyn, Eva De Roo, and Dries Lenaerts at a media conference in Riga with a video they made themselves two months earlier. For Blue Monday, they smashed various objects in a 'rage room' — a dinner service, a computer screen, and two statues of Mary and Jesus. Intended humorously. Not thought about too deeply.

Flynn asks one simple question: 'Would you do the same with symbols of Islam or Judaism?'

The answer is no.

You don't really need to know more.

The symmetry question that says it all

I want to be honest: the rage room itself is not my biggest concern. People smash things to let off steam, and if there happens to be a broken statue of Mary in the junk room, I understand the temptation of the joke. What touches me is the answer that follows.

'We ourselves come from the Christian tradition. It's more like laughing at ourselves.'

'It's different if you do that with a religion you know nothing about.'

Two sentences intended as a defense, but which in reality expose vulnerability. Because if you say you're allowed to do something because it's 'your own tradition,' then you simultaneously acknowledge that a boundary exists — you just place that boundary just outside yourself. And if you say you leave Islam or Judaism alone because you know too little about them, then you implicitly say: there are religions for which we are careful, and there are religions for which we don't need to be.

That is not a position you can maintain for long without encountering yourself.

Where does that caution for some religions come from?

I ask myself an honest question, and I think we actually already know the answer: the reason why people deal more carefully with Islamic or Jewish symbols is not purely out of deep respect. It is also — perhaps even mainly — because people know that those communities make themselves heard. That there will be a reaction. That there are consequences. Not necessarily violent, but vocal, clear, and consistent.

Christians in Flanders do that less. We swallow it. We shrug our shoulders. We say: 'it's just a joke'. We find it a bit regrettable, but we also don't want to give the impression that we are know-it-alls, or narrow-minded, or - God forbid - fundamentalist.

And precisely because of that, the boundary shifts a little further each time.

I don't want to complain. But I do want to ask a question: if we ourselves don't dare to say that something affects us, why would others take that into account? The encouraging thing about this story is not that an Irish journalist put his finger on the wound - it's that there was a massive reaction afterwards. That there was a signal. That VRT felt compelled to formulate some kind of apology. Let's be honest: without that wave of reactions, no spokesperson would have appeared with a statement. Everyone knows that.

It is therefore encouraging that Christians made themselves heard. Even if it was through a detour, via abroad, via social media, via indignation that lived for a few days and then died again. But it shows that it's possible. That there are enough people who say: no, I don't think this is okay. And that this has an effect.

Asking for respect starts with showing respect

Here I want to be honest about the other side of the coin. Because I don't believe in Christians who stand their ground without first looking at what they project.

Asking for respect is only possible if you show respect.

That means that as a Christian I must also truly have respect for Islam. For Judaism. For people who don't believe at all. And I want to dwell on that last point for a moment, because it is sometimes forgotten: a large part of respect also consists of accepting that what is most important to me in the world - my faith, my identity, my relationship with God - simply does not exist or does not count for someone else. That is their right. I don't want to be a Christian who is constantly looking for insults, who takes offense everywhere, who avoids humor.

Because if you are truly strong in your faith, then a dose of humor can certainly be included. More than that: I would say that humor is a sign of confidence. Of the certainty that what you believe will not collapse as soon as someone laughs about it.

The most beautiful example I can give for this — and I mean it seriously — is the musical The Book of Mormon. A Broadway production that is one big, brilliant satire on exactly what I believe. On my church, my missionaries, my theology. I enjoy it immensely. Perhaps even more than an outsider, because I recognize all the references. I don't have to be indignant about The Book of Mormon. It is not an attack on what I am — it is theater, it is art, it is an outsider trying to understand something through the only language he knows.

But there is a difference between satire and destruction. Between a cartoon that thinks and a hammer that comes down.

Beyond the counter-reaction

I can understand where it comes from. For centuries, the Catholic Church in this country was an institution with real power — over education, over politics, over how people lived and thought. The counter-reaction to that is understandable, even legitimate. If an institution has dictated too much for too long, a generation is needed to symbolically break that power. The rage room as secularized Flanders literally smashing its heritage to pieces.

But we are in 2026. The church no longer has institutional power. That's good. It should stay that way. But religion itself — faith, separate from the institution — that's something else. And that faith still exerts an enormous influence on people. Not as external power, but as the core of who someone is. My faith shapes my identity. It determines how I view the world, how I make decisions, how I deal with suffering and joy, with death and life.

If you ignore that, you don't hit an institution. You hit a person.

And that requires the same diligence that we — rightly — also apply to any other conviction that helps shape someone's identity.

Dare to say what we stand for

The lesson I draw from this incident is actually very simple, but it requires practice: we are allowed to say it. Politely. Without indignation greater than the situation demands. But clearly and without hesitation.

Because silence is not modesty. Silence is giving permission. If we as Christians always step aside because we don't want to offend anyone, then we send a signal: this is allowed. This has no weight. This doesn't really affect us. And then others don't have to take that into account.

That doesn't mean we protest every joke or turn every discomfort into a press release. It does mean that when something truly crosses the line, we find the courage to say: ‘This affects me, and I ask for respect for it.’ Not as a victim. Not with accusations. But as someone who knows what they believe and doesn't shy away from it.

There is also something paradoxical about this story that I don't want to overlook. The reaction that made the biggest impression did not come from within. It was a foreigner who asked the question we should have asked ourselves. That says something. Not about Colm Flynn — he was just doing his job. But about us. About how far we have already gone in the silence. About how self-evident it has become to relativize our own convictions for the sake of peace.

That peace is not worth it. Not because arguments are better, but because true dialogue is only possible between people who dare to say who they are. A conversation with someone who always agrees is not a conversation. A society where one group constantly restrains itself for fear of discomfort is not a society in balance.

So yes: say it. Politely, warmly, with understanding for those who think differently. But say it. Not because we want to change the world with one social media reaction, but because otherwise, we cease to exist as a discussion partner. And that loss is greater than the discomfort of confrontation.