The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  As expected, the ceremonial first round of balloting brought forth the usual “honorable mention” votes, singling out elderly cardinals with a few votes each in recognition for their contributions to Vatican and Church affairs. As a cardinal’s name was read from the ballot by a scrutineer, he smiled politely and tipped his tri-cornered biretta. Friendly back patting followed the first round of voting and the cardinals, some still suffering from jet lag, gratefully adjourned for supper.

  Officially given an evening of prayer and contemplation alone, some used the time lining up votes in closed-door strategy meetings. It would be more accurate to say they began the many clandestine exploratory conferences the moment it was known the pope was dead. These prelates were sincere and willingly swore allegiance to the Holy Father, once elected. They were also practical men ready to do everything in their power to propel and manipulate their own best choice upward toward that uniquely high office.

  The next morning at ten, the camerlengo needed only a short, friendly address to refocus the group and call for the second mandate. In this polling the cardinals listened intently. Each name was announced by the scrutineer as a ballot was taken from its gleaming repository on the altar. This round of voting produced the names of several cardinals, one of whom would almost surely be elected eventually.

  Cardinal Robitelli captured the most, with forty. The Jesuit Scholar from Milan, Cardinal Martini, received twenty-one votes. Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland received fourteen votes, and the African Cardinal Motupu found himself in the pack with a surprising fifteen votes. The German cardinal, Hans Willeman, caught the fancy of eight cardinals; the cardinal from Brazil picking up fifteen votes on this first serious round; and Pasquale “Patsy” Cardinal Monassari garnered six votes in recognition of his financial power with the Vatican Bank.

  Since none of the names from the actual first voting appeared on the new list, it was evident now that the honorary vote had served its gratuitous purpose. Accolades had been awarded and gratefully received, and now the real votes were emerging and were posted on a large board. Each cardinal could start judging realistically the chances of his preferred candidate getting elected when the final ballots were cast. There was plenty of time now for thinking, planning, speculating … sometimes out loud. The black smoke curling above the chimney of the Sistine Chapel after each vote made for more and more media attention and intense reviewing of earlier predictions.

  The third vote at the end of the morning session confirmed the fact that much deep thinking and politicking had taken place. Only four names now realistically remained. Robitelli with forty-two votes, Motupu with seventeen votes, the cardinal from Milan improved to thirty votes, and Comiskey moved ahead to twenty-two votes with Cardinal Monassari trailing with eight. A curious pattern seemed to be forming that nobody could understand.

  Oddly enough, the early afternoon vote yielded the exact same number of votes for the same candidates. Perhaps, the camerlengo suggested, a rest period would effect some change? The five o’clock vote confirmed the fact that more than tea and pastries had been digested. Four names now remained in the running, with forty-three for Cardinal Robitelli. Motupu, Comiskey, and Martini almost evenly divided the rest of the votes. Monassari registered an embarrassing single vote.

  It seemed certain to all that things were at last progressing. The Holy Spirit and the political process were both at work. Perhaps tomorrow they would finish and they could leave their ornate prison. But the ten A.M. vote was a surprise to many, yielding the same three-way split as on the previous night, with Robitelli only one vote in the lead.

  Suppertime had proved helpful during the first two days. Hopefully, it would affect the eight P.M. vote called by the camerlengo as well. It did not. The same three cardinals remained the only viable candidates. An obviously concerned Robitelli rose to announce that, as prescribed by the rules, he would adjourn the conclave the next day to celebrate the Mass of the Holy Spirit and then the cardinals would spend the day in quiet meditation, praying for divine guidance.

  Outside, Father Farrell was happily, ubiquitously engaged in various TV appearances, explaining to his global audience the significance of the periodic puffs of black smoke in a concise, clear review of the intricacies of the conclave process. His commentary added little to the understanding of the procedure secretly taking place inside, however. But it was obvious that some more or less profound disagreement was festering within the college.

  The day of prayer finally over, Cardinal Robitelli observed a greater expression of calm in the faces of the assembled cardinals. He was aware that other meetings had taken place among the three factions. Indeed, he had actually participated in several meetings with his supporters. “God helps him who helps himself,” the camerlengo firmly believed. But despite the secret (and proscribed) conferences, his expectations were shattered when the morning vote was taken. Robitelli remained the leader, but fell short of the necessary two-thirds-plus-one vote to ascend to the papacy. Comiskey and Motupu were second and third respectively. Nothing had changed.

  The camerlengo mentally shook his head in disbelief. It was as though the Holy Spirit was attempting to communicate something new and different to the conclave and its leader. What was God trying to tell the assembled cardinals?

  “Brothers,” he pleaded, “we must move forward. God’s work in the world must proceed. The bark of Peter is without a captain. A ship without a captain is a doomed vessel! Please consider our situation and resolve to put aside personal considerations for the sake of the Church. This is why we were called here.”

  By the sixth day of voting the pall of a crippling depression hung heavily over the conclave. Not one vote had changed. The morning of the seventh day yielded the same results. While no contact outside the conclave could be made, it was more than obvious to all the cardinals that a great deal of anxiety was rising out there regarding the future stability of the Church throughout the world.

  At the evening voting session Robitelli noticed a longer moment of prayer as each cardinal knelt before the silver receptacle, casting his vote. His heart lightened as the counters processed the ballots and marked them up on the board. Out of the corner of his wary eye Robitelli had seen Cushman of Boston surreptitiously lean toward the superannuated cardinal next to him, one indeed who was on the borderline of being declared a nonvoting member of the college. The American had scribbled a name on his neighbor’s ballot. The camerlengo, hoping that this bit of assistance might signify an end to the deadlock, said nothing. But the alert scrutineer, comparing the ballots of Cushman and the somnolent old cleric from Spain, cleared his throat and challenged the American. “Dear brother from across the Atlantic, did you not assist your fellow cardinal in casting his vote?”

  Cardinal Cushman grinned sheepishly and nodded forthrightly. “Yes, I confess I assisted our dear brother from Barcelona in the casting of his vote. I wasn’t born and brought up in South Boston for nothing.” The conclave broke up in laughter. Cushman, the colorful Boston Irishman, was a popular figure within the college of cardinals.

  Robitelli realized he must adopt a new strategy if he were to put an end to the crisis. “Brothers,” he once more addressed the gathered princes of the Church, “despite my efforts to move this conclave to a conclusion, it must be obvious to all that we are getting nowhere. Therefore, I will bend the rules and ask for some suggestions from the floor.” The camerlengo sat down and waited to see if this new course would have any effect.

  After a two-minute silence that seemed an eternity to most, Comiskey of Ireland rose from his red velvet armchair and raised his hand to be recognized. Robitelli nodded. “Please speak, dear brother.”

  Cardinal Comiskey cleared his throat and began. “We are all, it seems, in something of a no-win situation. Allow me to agree with the camerlengo that we need to interrupt these proceedings and get back on course. I feel some embarrassment speaking to you as a newer, younger member of this esteemed assemblage. But seeing the same sense of fr
ustration reflected in your faces as I feel within myself, I would like to request that my name be withdrawn from consideration to assume the papacy post.”

  Shouts of “No!” rang out from the group—or at least from his supporters. Cardinal Comiskey raised his hand, motioning for silence. “Thank you for your kindness, dear brothers, but the point I have to make is that this quandary in which we find ourselves reminds me of a similar situation I confronted some ten years ago. Perhaps we can draw a lesson from my experience. May I proceed?”

  Murmurs of encouragement sounded from around the chamber. The cardinal nodded and continued. “A few years ago I was visiting a dear friend named Bill Kelly while vacationing on Cape Cod in America. Bill and I had gone to the seminary together in the United States. It was not unusual for Irish novices to be sent to seminaries in America, particularly in Boston, once an Irish enclave. And indeed most of the leadership of the American Catholic Church for years was Irish-born or first-generation Irish. That’s changing, I know, but that’s the way it was at the time.”

  Cardinal Petrocelli of Philadelphia could not restrain a laugh. “We’ve now had Italian mayors in New York, Boston, San Francisco, and Philadelphia.”

  Comiskey grinned and bowed his head. The informality that was pervading these somber proceedings, including bringing in the comments of other cardinals, suited the parable he was about to tell the conclave.

  “Six of us priests were on a one-day fishing trip at sea with our friend and classmate, now a skilled fishing captain, who stood at the stern of his boat like Peter guiding his bark on the Sea of Galilee. We had a successful trip, each of us catching our share of fish, until a sudden squall came up and, despite Bill’s efforts, we were blown onto a large rock just beneath the surface. Our craft began to take on water.

  “Bill Kelly quickly turned his boat towards shore and shouted for all of us vacationing priests to start bailing. As we manned the buckets and scoops, trying to bail water out of the boat faster than it was coming through the rent in its hull, one of us priests jokingly, but nervously, demanded, ‘When ever did we decide that Bill was captain and the rest of us were crew?’

  “We began to show our concern, and Bill called out as he struggled with the tiller, ‘Why are you fearful? Still no faith?’ He paused. ‘Mark four, forty.’” Cardinal Comiskey glanced around the conclave of cardinals, most of them older than he, and determined they were paying attention to his story. “Bill spoke to us sharply as he held the boat on course. ‘Gentlemen,’ he responded to our chiding, ‘may I remind you that if you do not bail like hell there won’t be any need for a captain, since there won’t be any boat afloat. Follow me, then, and I will keep you fishers of men!’”

  Peals of relieved and sudden laughter rippled through the recently renovated Sistine Chapel. Cardinal Comiskey’s parable was a welcome diversion, a sudden relaxation from the constant pressures of voting. The laughter died down and the younger cardinal turned serious. “Following Bill Kelly’s orders we finally made it to shore and beached the leaking boat. Bill jumped ashore. As captain, he drew us priests in a circle. All of us stood holding hands as he thanked God and Our Lady of Good Voyage for our deliverance and indeed the salvation of our own lives.” Once again Cardinal Comiskey paused, savoring the rapt attention of his Vatican peers. “I am harboring the same concern that Bill Kelly, in a symbolic way, expressed to us priests on that day. Our mission, our only duty, is to ensure the preservation of Peter’s bark. Above all else, the Church itself has to stay afloat and on course. That’s why I ask that my name be withdrawn.”

  Cardinal Comiskey fixed on one cardinal after another with an explicit glance. “We all, dear brothers, must realize that although our beloved Savior has promised to be with us till the end of time, he has left us responsible for determining who his representative here will be.” The Irish cardinal had prowled about the chamber as he delivered his brief but moving homily, and he now walked back and took his seat amid enthusiastic applause. His fellow cardinals were obviously deeply impressed by the passion and sincerity of this newer member of their assemblage who had displayed such wisdom beyond his years.

  The sharp crack of the gavel, as Robitelli rose with a smile on his lean face, silenced the approving undertones. “Your point appears to be more than well taken, Cardinal Comiskey.” Then, to the entire council, “We must, dear brothers, display greater concern for the fact that we are responsible for the bark of Peter. And though we may cling to sharp differences over who may be the right choice, let us consider that, as Cardinal Comiskey’s friend Bill Kelly aptly put it, there won’t be a captain if the boat sinks. So please pray and search your hearts as we prepare for our next balloting tomorrow morning. Sleep well and let the Holy Spirit inspire and direct your dreams.” He rapped his gavel and winked at a close associate as they turned to leave the chamber. He felt his tact had carried the evening, that he had done his duty as camerlengo, and that perhaps by the next morning, finally, he would be duly elected pope.

  By seven-thirty the following morning, all members of the conclave had finished their light breakfast of sweet cornetta rolls, fruit, and cappuccino, and celebrated Mass either individually or in small groups. As they filed into the Sistine Chapel for the morning balloting, Robitelli studied their faces, trying to read their thoughts. He was not the only cardinal playing mind games. Other brains had been spinning all night in the same manner. The scarcely concealed undercurrent was apparent. You change your views to agree with mine and everything will work out according to God’s ordinance.

  Robitelli, remembering previous conclaves, quickly grasped the undertone pervading the room that morning. He sighed to himself as he sat down to prepare for the vote, and he prayed and expected that today would be the last day of the conclave, wondering if Comiskey’s little story yesterday had made a lasting impression. It had occurred to him in a dream—or perhaps a vision that came to him in the middle of the night—that in any case he had an opportunity to make an impact on the entire assembly, one that might make them reconsider their positions and allow the Holy Spirit to do his work.

  This must have been an inspiration sent to me from the Holy Spirit himself, Robitelli thought, knowing he could never have conceived of it on his own. I’ll cast my symbolic vote for Comiskey’s fishing captain, Kelly! One vote only, but it will shock everyone so severely that they will be forced to recall that story and make more serious efforts to shift their positions.

  Everyone noticed the strange smile playing across Robitelli’s lips as he called for the morning vote. Brian Comiskey read it as a smirk and thought to himself, I can’t believe it, he’s laughing at my story about Bill Kelly! Well, I’ll show him! I’ll cast my vote for Bill and shake up the place! A perfect protest vote, and then we can move on to a more serious ballot.

  Cardinal Motupu also read the smile and thought about it. The other cardinals studied it also, drawing their own conclusions as to what was going on in Robitelli’s mind and what they could or should do to counter his “scheme.” All of them had relived Comiskey’s parable of Bill Kelly during the night.

  Each cardinal approached the altar, folded his ballot in two, and repeated the election proclamation as he cast it into the magnificent silver collection receptacle.

  An ineffable sense of calm settled over the group. The wry smile originally detected on Robitelli’s face appeared on the countenances of many more cardinals. All sat down and watched while the vote scrutineers moved the receptacle to the designated area before the camerlengo and began counting again. Most leaned forward to watch the chief vote counter, Cardinal Laventu, unfold the first ballot as he walked toward the posting board. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and paused, a shocked expression on his face. He cleared his throat and glanced at the camerlengo, then at the other cardinals. Finally he reached for the marker and announced as he wrote, “One vote for … Bill Kelly!” A pause, then laughter burst from the assembly as the faces of many displayed revelry in the vote!

  Ca
rdinal Laventu was handed a second ballot. He stared at it in disbelief, raised his marker, and put a second slash mark beside the name of Bill Kelly. More laughter pealed forth. When six more ballots had been opened and chalked up to Bill Kelly, the merriment became more subdued. As the counting continued, some mumbling among the cardinals began to mix with the laughter and smiles. Cardinal Robitelli’s name was on the board, also Cardinal Motupu’s, and, despite his withdrawal, Cardinal Comiskey’s. But the weight of the votes still drifted to the first name on the board. When the counting was completed, a nervous hush descended over the group as they surveyed their handiwork. Bill Kelly: eighty-one votes; Cardinal Robitelli: thirty votes; Cardinal Motupu: five votes; and the remaining three to Comiskey despite his resignation from contention.

  Even Robitelli could not avoid laughing with the others as they all sat staring at the election results. Finally he stood up and called for order. “Dear brothers, I’m very glad that what we do in this chamber is confidential.” He smiled. “It does warm my heart to see that so many of you were thinking, just as I was when I cast my ballot, that yours would be the only vote for Mr. Kelly.” He received a short round of appreciative applause for his forthright confession. “Well, we’ve certainly had our change of pace,” he went on. “Now we must get back to serious business and move this conclave to completion. We shall have another round of voting.”

  The voice that cut through the voting chamber was calm, firm, and deep. “Brothers, we have a pope.” The depth of Cardinal Motupu’s words and tone hit the assembled cardinals like a thunderbolt. The startled faces of the assembly turned toward him.

  The camerlengo rose to confront the black cardinal with an icy stare. “What do you mean, Your Eminence?” Cardinal Robitelli shouted.

  “I mean, dear brother”—Motupu returned the frigid glare—“exactly what I said. There is no need for another vote. We have just now elected a pope!”