The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  4

  ONE LESS WITCH DOCTOR

  The frost in the camerlengo’s eyes turned to an ominous glow as the heat of anger rose within him. He recognized with horror the ploy Cardinal Motupu was imposing on the assemblage. It made his stomach churn with pain as he heard the words he should have anticipated flow from the black cardinal.

  “Did you not at the beginning of this gathering, Your Excellency, remind me most sternly that we were to follow the rules of the procedure laid down by Pope Paul VI? Those rules state that a two-thirds majority, plus one, elects the new pope. William Kelly received the necessary votes. He is the pope.”

  “Are you insane?” the camerlengo returned. “We can all see that what happened here was a mistake made by many of us in a supreme moment of levity, a stupid joke.”

  “It may have been a joke, dear brother,” Motupu replied, “but if rules are rules, then it was God’s own joke! We are his representatives. We have made his choice! The Church is Christ’s creation, not ours.”

  The camerlengo’s face was flushed as he recognized the firmness of purpose chiseled on the dark features of Cardinal Motupu. He knew there would be no backing down now. He had seen that expression once before on this man’s face when, as Vatican secretary of state, Robitelli had been sent by the pope to visit the newly elected cardinal in Africa, a member of the Ibo tribe. That visit flashed through the camerlengo’s mind now as he stood nervously trying to collect his wits in defense of his stand. He felt the late pope had made Motupu a cardinal only to satisfy the clamor of the growing and already large and powerful African branch of the Church that had long been insisting on representation in the college of cardinals.

  Motupu was but fifty years old and, in the minds of many in Rome, totally unfit for such a lofty position. But the pope had buckled under the people’s pressure and selected Motupu as one reflecting African feelings and traditions. Motupu was a powerful advocate of tribal customs ranging from prescribing herbal medicine to pounding tom-toms in church and wearing tribal robes at Mass in place of the standard vestments. He had also been an unyielding proponent of more democratic and less hidebound ways to elect popes and had made public statements to that effect without permission. It was at that point that the pope had sent Cardinal Robitelli to try to persuade the new cardinal to take a more guarded approach and to discuss such weighty concerns with Rome before going public on any issue. It was important for Motupu to understand the big picture, not just local, isolated issues. His provincialism was attributed to lack of experience in the traditions of the Church and his rather limited background in theology and international politics … at least as far as Rome was concerned.

  When Cardinal Robitelli had finally sat down to talk to the African prelate, he was jolted by the large picture that hung on the wall behind Motupu’s desk—Michael Jordan of the Chicago Bulls slam-dunking a basketball. He also had a photo of his nephew, who played basketball for Wake Forest University in North Carolina. The Vatican secretary of state had smiled bleakly at the recently elevated cardinal and commented, “Most of us usually hang a picture of Our Savior or of the Holy Father behind our desks, dear brother. May I ask why you have that picture hanging there?”

  “I love to witness God in his handiwork,” Motupu had replied. And thus began a long history of flawed communications.

  The camerlengo’s thoughts were abruptly snapped back to reality by the brilliant Cardinal Willeman, who was among the older cardinals in the conclave. “Dear brothers, I feel I must put an end to this whole issue. It seems you have all forgotten some of your Church history. If I may remind you, in both the eleventh and twelfth centuries, when the papacy was going through its most difficult times, the Church passed some laws that are still in effect today. A layperson cannot be elected to the papacy! That is that!” Quietly, smugly, he seated himself.

  The camerlengo breathed a sigh of relief and quickly reiterated the German cardinal’s dictum. “Why, yes, yes. Now I do recall that.” He turned slightly toward Cardinal Motupu and continued. “There, you see, my dear brother, how it was all a joke to us. But we all do appreciate your concern for the rules of order.”

  The black cardinal could not miss the coldness in this left-handed admonition as he sank back into his chair. The camerlengo continued. “Now, dear brothers, if there is no further concern, we will adjourn.”

  “Your Eminence, please!”

  The camerlengo looked up to see Cardinal Comiskey standing in his place. “I’m afraid we do have a slight problem here.”

  “What do you mean?” the camerlengo retorted.

  Cardinal Comiskey blushed slightly and cleared his throat. “Well, you see … Bill Kelly is a priest. I mean…” The cardinal stuttered, searching for the right words. “He was ordained with me. A few years later he just went the way some of our brothers have done and continue to do. He applied to the Church for a dispensation to become a layman, then left the Church to get married. But, as is pronounced at our ordination, ‘Tu es sacredos in aeternum,’ ‘You are a brother for eternity,’ meaning once a priest always a priest. In fact, his lovely wife, Mary, passed away several years ago from cancer. She suffered and fought it so gallantly.”

  Dead silence greeted the cardinal’s assertion. Then Cardinal Motupu again took to his feet. “We must therefore offer the papacy to Mr. Kelly. I will not vote again until that is done. It is my belief that God has already made his choice through us. Besides, any one of us can reinstate him as a priest by canon law, as I read it.”

  Just as he thought this awkward matter had been settled, the camerlengo felt circumstances getting out of hand again. His anger suddenly rose again as he felt this black upstart was seeking only to humiliate him by insisting on such an outlandish procedure. At the same time, deep inside himself he realized that he had laid the foundation for the problem by his own need to keep control of the proceedings and do everything by the rules laid down by Vatican II. He felt his stomach tightening with his own guilt and anger. He must control his ire, he knew, and might have succeeded had he not continued to behold the smoldering eyes of his African adversary. Never had he been confronted with such a hostile stare.

  Cardinal Robitelli felt his years of training, discipline, and prayer dissipate in the face of the unrelenting defiance that emanated from Motupu’s countenance and bearing. “Well,” the camerlengo heard himself spewing forth, “I guess we can get along with one less witch doctor’s vote.…” He tried to halt the words that had escaped his quivering lips, but it was too late. Five other black cardinals in the conclave rose almost as one. Robitelli realized, as he stood before these six black princes of the Church, that he had permanently lost control. There was no rule or regulation to cover this horrible situation. His legs suddenly went weak. Even the anger that had seized him evaporated. He collapsed into his chair, head down. Silence settled on the group. It was an eerie spectacle. Some cardinals sat staring into space. Others were fingering rosary beads or reaching for the crosses they wore, heads lowered, eyes closed. The six black cardinals continued to stand at attention, eyes fixed on the chastened camerlengo. A perplexed Cardinal Comiskey slowly rose from his seat and walked over to stand in front of his friend Cardinal Moputu.

  “Dear brother,” the Irish cardinal began, “I realize by the letter of the law that you are right, but I humbly beseech you to reconsider and back down from your position.”

  Cardinal Motupu turned slightly to look into the eyes of the other five black cardinals who stood with him. A look passed between them that could be understood only by those who were a part of their culture. In mere seconds Motupu had read the “high fives” in the eyes of his brothers. He turned his eyes back to his friend, Cardinal Comiskey. “Sorry, my friend. It has been our experience that ‘spear chuckers’ who back down tend to end up in bondage a second time!”

  The young cardinal winced as he lowered his eyes. “I understand,” he muttered.

  “No, you don’t,” was the gentle reply.

 
Best to leave that one alone, Comiskey thought.

  At that point, Hans Cardinal Willeman stood and asked to speak. No objection was offered. “Dear brothers, may I offer some advice? We seem to have opened our mouths and put our collective foot in it. However, there is no problem we face that cannot be resolved if we all agree to sit here and work it out together. Can we do that? In the name of our beloved Savior, whom we all wish to serve? If anyone is opposed to working it out, raise your hand and speak.”

  No one moved. “Good,” the German cardinal said. “It is still early in the day. Let us solve our problem forthwith.”

  The Church had been through many problems as thorny as this in its long history and had risen to the occasion. Some of the solutions had risen to the sublime. Some sank to the ridiculous. Perhaps this one would come down somewhere in between: sublimely ridiculous, or vice versa.

  5

  THE SOLUTION

  To the surprise of the assembly, Robitelli, trying desperately to regain his credibility, suggested that the proceedings had taken a bizarre turn and a new effort was required to get the conclave back on a normal course. Perhaps another cardinal should be appointed temporarily as camerlengo. Robitelli suggested that his loyal supporter, Cardinal Willeman, be chosen. The notion was greeted with subdued yeas and nods. There was no doubt the German cardinal was loved, or at least respected, by all. When he opened the meeting it was evident that Willeman had done more than merely pray.

  “Dear brothers,” Cardinal Willeman began, “I have made some notes for discussion, most of which, I think, can be carried out by a simple raising of hands. There is no doubt that many of us voted for Mr. Kelly as a gesture to reinforce Cardinal Comiskey’s excellent point. Now, how many of you believed that a layperson could not be elected to the chair of Peter?” Forty-one hands were raised. Cardinal Willeman nodded. “Then we can conclude that there was no intention of electing a pope by a majority of the people in this room. We are also aware that the first vote we took in this conclave was a straw vote based on long tradition. We voted not for a pope but rather to show our deep respect for years of service on the part of certain of our older colleagues.”

  Willeman paused to let the statement have an effect, then continued. “Now, we have learned from Cardinal Comiskey that the man we voted for was once an active priest. Therefore, it seems evident that according to the rules of the conclave, he was officially elected pope, and unless someone can prove otherwise, he has to be offered the Chair of Peter.”

  The cardinal of Great Britain raised his hand to speak. “I can’t understand, Your Eminence, why this should be so if, as you say, so many of us voted without an intention of electing the man—someone we don’t even know, or wish to consider—as pope.”

  Cardinal Willeman smiled along with the rest of the assembly. “That is an interesting point, dear brother, but may I point out that many of us assembled here who have been part of past conclaves have voted for someone without any intention of electing him pope … only to move votes away from someone else. That goes on all the time. Even when we do elect a pope, I’m sure you will agree, many cardinals are not inwardly happy with the outcome. So we have no rule to fall back on against or for the argument that we did not mean that the person we voted for should become pope!”

  After a moment Cardinal Mederios of Portugal raised his hand and at the chairman’s nod stood up to speak. “This may be a little premature, but before we make a decision on this issue, we should find out just who Bill Kelly is. Perhaps Cardinal Comiskey could tell us something about him?”

  A round of applause and laughter supported this suggestion. Comiskey rose again to face the conclave. “I guess I owe all of you that much, but I’ll be very brief. Bill and I went through seminary together, and he was ordained with me. I was sent home to Ireland to teach at the university after studying for a time in Rome and serving here at Justice and Peace. Bill taught at a parochial school for boys in California and later he was sent back to a small parish in Massachusetts.”

  Comiskey paused, his eyes fixing on Cardinal Mederios. “It will interest the cardinal from Portugal to know that Father Bill Kelly went to great effort to learn the Portuguese language and conduct year-round activities for the young Portuguese immigrant children in the parishes of southeastern Massachusetts and Cape Cod. As has happened to other priests, he fell in love and asked to be laicized. He returned to his family home on Cape Cod to work with his father on their fishing boats and has been happy in that trade for twenty-odd years. After he received his dispensation from Rome he married an Irish girl named Mary, who, as I said, has since passed on. They have four children…” He paused momentarily and then added, “Oh, yes, to answer an implicit question none of you have asked, I think that if he was to be informed that he had been elected pope, he would laugh his guts out and tell us all to go jump in the Tiber River.”

  Cardinal Comiskey looked about the group. “He is a devout Catholic, but Church matters of this scale would either intimidate him or strike him as a big joke … as foolish as our big joke here. Any more questions?”

  Cardinal Mederios thanked him after the mumbling and puzzled laughter had died down. As silence enshrouded the group again, Cardinal Willeman moved the meeting forward. “Well, as I see it, brothers, we have dug our own grave. If, as the camerlengo pointed out and we all knew from the first day, we have, by the rules, elected a legitimate pope, then we must inform him of it even though he will no doubt laugh at us and forever wonder what really goes on in a papal conclave.”

  A visibly shaken Cardinal Robitelli stood up, asking to be recognized. “Brothers, do you have any idea what will be said—what the consequences will be—if we send someone out of here without any indication to the watching world about what has happened? It would immediately be perceived that we had elected someone outside the conclave, as has happened on rare occasions in our past history. Or perhaps there is a question about the background of the new pope. The press will have a feeding frenzy!”

  Robitelli turned abruptly to confront Motupu. “Please, dear brother, for the sake of the Church, please reconsider your position and withdraw your demand.”

  Cardinal Motupu pushed himself out of his seat and looked around. “I openly confess, dear brothers, that, as many of you may suspect, I reacted out of anger at being so blatantly chastised when this conclave began. I apologize herewith to Cardinal Robitelli for my actions. But having heard all the arguments presented so far by Cardinal Willeman, I am confident in another reason for my position. I have always felt that our hierarchy is apt to get entrapped in rules and tradition, frequently to the point of losing sight of our duty to lead Christ’s flock with love and not doctrine. So I cannot conscientiously withdraw from the position, which to me is right. Who of us is to say that, though we call this Bill Kelly affair our ill-conceived joke, it is not the call of God to bring a new dimension into our near-moribund Church, an attitude more like Peter and his bark?”

  Motupu’s demeanor was not challenging now that he had expressed himself; indeed, the African cardinal seemed to be trying to conciliate. “If you decide at the very least not to confront Bill Kelly with the result of our vote, I will accept your group opinion and never do or say anything about the subject again. But I won’t vote unless the offer is made. One less vote cannot make a difference.” He gave Cardinal Robitelli a reproving glance. “I will accept anyone else this conclave may choose … other than myself. I withdraw my name from consideration. That is final.”

  Silence again settled over the group as Cardinal Motupu seated himself. It now seemed evident to many that Cardinal Robitelli would be elected. Willeman stood to try to define the position in which the conclave found itself. “Thank you, Cardinal Motupu, for your open and sincere statements. I am certain we all respect your opinion.” He looked around the seated assemblage. “I suppose, then, dear brothers, what I need to determine is whether any of the rest of you share Cardinal Motupu’s persuasion.”

  After a shor
t pause the five other black cardinals stood up. Then other cardinals from Europe and all the American cardinals took to their feet. Soon thirty cardinals were standing, and others looked indecisive.

  “Well, dear brothers,” Cardinal Willeman said, taking charge, “it seems the next issue to be determined is how we will proceed to communicate with Mr. Kelly as soon as possible and get back to our conclave after he has refused. Only then we can get on with the business of electing a pope.”

  Tension ebbed and flowed as, without waiting to be asked, the cardinals broke into small groups, discussing ways to solve the problem. Unanimously, the conclave agreed that since Cardinal Comiskey knew Mr. Kelly personally and indeed had been the source of the impasse, he must be the one to go out on their behalf and deal with it. Since a second three-day period of voting had ended, the conclave was due another day of retreat, and no voting would take place tomorrow in any case.

  Australia’s Cardinal Keating now took over. “With efficient travel plans Cardinal Comiskey can see Bill Kelly in America and be back in two days,” he said.

  Cardinal Cushman nodded. “I will call my Boston diocese from the emergency phone here and have Bishop William Murray meet Cardinal Comiskey at Boston’s Logan Airport, to take him to my residence. I will instruct Murray to ask no questions and keep this entire mission a secret. He will drive our brother to Fall River, where Bishop Sean Patrick will arrange for him to get to Kelly on Cape Cod.”

  Brian Comiskey nodded gratefully. “I appreciate your making all these arrangements, Your Eminence.”

  Cardinal Cushman glanced at his watch. “If you are to make Alitalia at two o’clock, you had best be on your way. With the six-hour time difference, you should be in Boston by three-thirty this afternoon.”

  Robitelli snapped back to his takeover mode. He strode to the emergency phone, picked it up, and had Monsignor Cippolini, administrator of the Sistine Chapel, on the line.