Lost Shepherd

by Philip F. Lawler

  Some cardinals suggested that the time might be ripe for a pope from the Third World. The choice of John Paul II, the first non-Italian pope in centuries, had been a spectacular success. Maybe it was time to look farther afield. Catholicism was making great gains in Africa and South America, while the influence of the Church was waning in Europe.

  The argument for a non-European pontiff was strengthened by the absence of an outstanding candidate among the European papabili. Cardinal Ratzinger had been the obvious choice going into the conclave of 2005. The world’s most influential prelate, he would have been an overwhelming favorite for election but for the questions about his health. In 2013, Cardinal Angelo Scola of Milan was generally regarded as the leading Italian contender, but the field was crowded.

  Cardinal Scola may well have been the preferred candidate of the outgoing pope. But Benedict would not participate in the conclave or make any comment at all—about the vote or about the needs of the Church. Having vowed his fidelity to the future pontiff, he departed the Vatican for the papal summer residence at Castel Gandolfo until the new pope was settled in his office. Even after his return, the retired pope would maintain a strict silence about current ecclesiastical affairs.

  In the days leading up to a conclave, the world’s cardinals, already assembled in Rome, meet in daily “general congregations” that have two purposes. First, since there is no pope to make final decisions during the sede vacante period, the cardinals work together on the necessary business of the Holy See. Second, and more important, the cardinals exchange ideas about the needs of the Church—the needs to which the next pope will be asked to respond.

  These general congregations are closed to outsiders, and the Vatican press office provides only vague reports about what the cardinals have discussed or decided. For the first few days of the meetings in 2013, the cardinals from the United States held daily briefings, giving the media more information about the talks. But other cardinals complained about what they saw as a breach of confidentiality, and the American prelates reluctantly called off their briefings. Father Federico Lombardi, the director of the Vatican press office, explained that the American cardinals’ silence would be in keeping with a general understanding that during the days leading up to a papal conclave, the attitude of the cardinals is “one of reservation in order to safeguard the freedom of reflection on the part of each of the members of the College of Cardinals who has to make such an important decision.”

  Nevertheless, enterprising Vatican journalists were able to generate reports from the daily congregations. Despite the perception that Vatican affairs are shrouded in secrecy, the rumor mill is always working, and reports about internal discussions invariably leak out into the Italian papers. Even after a papal conclave, at which every cardinal solemnly swears that he will not divulge anything about what happens, reporters usually can give a fairly clear account of the proceedings within a few weeks, and no one doubts that the account is reasonably accurate. During the sede vacante period, when the cardinals are living in their own apartments and having dinner conversations with their aides and friends, reporters find it relatively easy to tease out details about the discussions during the congregations.

  For example, before the 2013 conclave, an Italian reporter disclosed that the cardinals would be briefed by the three prelates—Cardinals Julián Herranz, Jozef Tomko, and Salvatore De Giorgi—who had prepared the hefty dossier on the Vatileaks scandal for Benedict. Because all three cardinals on the investigating commission were over the age of eighty, none would be participating in the conclave itself. So they would speak during the congregations, in which elderly cardinals can take part, and provide a general outline—but not the full details—of their findings.

  Wanted: New Evangelization and Vatican Reform

  The leaks from the daily congregations confirmed what Vatican-watchers already knew: that the cardinals were concerned about evangelization, about resolving the sex-abuse scandal and the troubles of the Vatican bank, and about the infighting and inefficiency that had been exposed in the Roman Curia. Some prelates called for a thorough overhaul of the Vatican bureaucracy and the appointment of a chief of staff who would coordinate the work of the disparate agencies. The media dutifully reported these suggestions—although in a nod to the confidentiality of the discussions, the reports usually did not identify the cardinals who had made them.

  The reporters, however, missed the most important address made during the general congregations, which came to light only after the conclave. A cardinal from Argentina, Jorge Bergoglio, captured the attention of his brothers with a short but strongly worded call for the Church to “come out of herself and go to the peripheries.” When the Church does not do this, he said, “she becomes self-referential and then gets sick.” This address evidently made many cardinals think of Bergoglio as a potential pope. It made such a deep impression on Havana’s Cardinal Jaime Ortega that after Bergoglio’s election, he sought and received his permission to make the talk public.

  Cardinal Bergoglio was by no means an unknown. According to the standard unauthorized account, in fact, he had been the runner-up to Cardinal Ratzinger in the conclave of 2005. But since that time he had been serving quietly as archbishop of Buenos Aires. Few saw him as a pope in waiting. He had not been touring the world and giving speeches. He had already submitted to the Holy See his resignation as archbishop, as required by canon law, upon reaching his seventy-fifth birthday. His name was not among the dozen mentioned by oddsmakers as the top candidates in 2013.

  Yet at least a few cardinals remembered the support Bergoglio had received in the last conclave and believed that he would make a good candidate once again. Apparently Bergoglio himself was among them. In a chance meeting just before the conclave began, a young cleric playfully asked him what name he would take when he was elected. “Francis,” came the prompt reply.

  And so it was to be.

  During the conclave itself, with the cardinals locked up in the Sistine Chapel, their deliberations sealed off from the outside world, the journalists assembled in Rome for the big story grew frustrated by the absence of material. One Fox News personality fumed that the Catholic Church obviously needed to change the way it chooses pontiffs. The current arrangement was not working—meaning that it was not providing him with anything to say.

  Fortunately for the reporters, the result came quickly. On the second day of the conclave, on the fifth ballot, Cardinal Bergoglio was elected: the first Latin American and the first Jesuit to become the Roman pontiff. As soon as the white smoke rose from the chimney above the Sistine Chapel, a huge crowd assembled in St. Peter’s Square to meet the new pope.

  Several days later it emerged that immediately after his election, before his introduction to the public, the new pope had made it his top priority to call the pope emeritus, as Benedict XVI had decided to style himself. That turned out to be no easy task. When they entered the conclave, the cardinals had surrendered their cell phones, and the Sistine Chapel had been swept to ensure that there were no means of electronic communication. When the seal of the conclave was broken, the new pope scrambled through the apostolic palace looking for a working phone. He finally found one in a messy, crowded room that the Vatican Radio staff used for storage and put in the call to Castel Gandolfo. But the sequestered Benedict did not hear his phone ringing. He was watching television, waiting for the same news that the rest of the world wanted to hear.

  The announcement, when it came, was confusing. Jean-Louis Tauran, who had the privilege as cardinal protodeacon to introduce the new pope to the world, drew a roar of applause when he uttered the traditional formula, “Habemus papam!” (We have a pope!) But the noise from the crowd and feedback from the public-address system obscured his words as he continued with the name: “Eminentissimum ac reverendissimum Dominum, Dominum Georgium Marium, Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem Bergoglio.” Few people were expecting a “Georgium,” and the murmurs from the square made it even more difficult to hear
the “Bergoglio,” so there was a moment of silence before the crowd—led by pilgrims from Argentina—began to applaud enthusiastically.

  But as Cardinal Tauran continued, the excitement in St. Peter’s Square increased. The new pope, he announced, had chosen the name “Francis.” Evoking Francis of Assisi, one of the most beloved of all saints, the name indicated a commitment to simplicity, humility, and wholehearted love for all of God’s creation. At the same time, it called to mind the message that the great saint had received from God in the church of San Damiano: “Francis, go, rebuild my house, which as you see is in ruins.”

  To grasp the full significance of this new pope’s chosen name, consider that for 1,100 years, every newly elected pontiff had chosen a name that had been used by some other pope before him. The name of every pope since Lando, who reigned from 913 to 914, was followed by a Roman numeral, and the only pontiff to have chosen a new name, John Paul I, had explicitly named himself after his two immediate predecessors, John XXIII and Paul VI. So when he chose an entirely new name, Pope Francis indicated that he was prepared to strike out in a new direction.

  A Sensational Debut

  When the newly elected pope stepped out onto the loggia of the Vatican basilica, his appearance caused another sensation. He was dressed in the white papal cassock and zucchetto, but not in the mozzetta (a short scarlet cape) and stole that previous popes had worn for their first public appearance. After a somewhat awkward initial wave to the crowed, he stood quietly, his hands folded, until the applause began to die down. When he did speak, he began with the plainest of greetings: Buona sera.

  Continuing in the same understated vein, the new pope told the crowd, “You know, it was the duty of the conclave to give Rome a new bishop.” Well of course! No one in St. Peter’s Square needed to be reminded of the business at hand. Francis went on: “It seems my brothers, the cardinals, have gone almost to the ends of the earth to find him. But here we are.”

  This was a sensation: a pope who told the world that the cardinals were obliged to choose someone as supreme pontiff and seemed almost apologetic for their selection. His words suggested that his election was happenstance—“here we are”—and he and the Catholic world would have to make the best of it.

  As he continued, Francis referred to himself as the bishop of Rome, never speaking of himself as the “pope” and alluding to his new preeminence only indirectly, when he observed that the Church in Rome “is the one that leads all the churches in charity.” Was this another display of humility? No doubt it was, but it was something more. Francis was laying the groundwork for a new understanding of the Petrine office, one that would drop the trappings of monarchical power and emphasize instead the role of the bishop of Rome as the focus of unity for the universal Church.

  The new pope concluded with one more sensational gesture. He was expected to end his first address by giving his blessing urbi et orbi—to the city (here represented by the crowd in St. Peter’s Square) and to the world. Francis introduced a new wrinkle: “Before the bishop blesses his people, I ask you to pray to the Lord to bless me.” Then he, the “bishop,” bowed his head, and a silence descended over the Vatican for several long moments before he finally gave his blessing. Even then he was not quite finished. “Pray for me,” he urged the crowd, “and we will see one another soon.”

  After that first public appearance, Francis and all the cardinals who had elected him returned to the St. Martha’s residence, where they had been lodged during the conclave, to collect their belongings. When the last minibus left St. Peter’s Basilica, several cardinals were stunned to see that the successor of St. Peter was riding with them. He had not assumed that he could command his own vehicle and that Vatican aides would leap to do his bidding. He still thought of himself as one member—admittedly the leading member—of the college of bishops.

  The next day, a Thursday, Francis slipped out of the Vatican to pray at the Roman basilica of St. Mary Major. Why did he choose that particular church? Because St. Mary Major is the oldest church in Rome dedicated to Our Lady, the largest and the most prominent? Yes, and the pope also chose it because the basilica houses the image of Mary Salus Populi Romani: the protector of the people of Rome. Again he was emphasizing the office of the bishop of Rome and his commitment to the local diocese.

  The staff of the basilica was thrown into a frenzy by the unexpected visit. The building was, as usual, full of pilgrims and tourists. Should they be cleared out so that the pope could pray in private? Francis argued against any such special measures, insisting that he only wanted to pray before the beloved icon. In a compromise the staff did not empty the entire basilica, but cleared out the area where the pontiff would be.

  On his return to the Vatican, the new pope stopped at the Domus Internationalis Paulus VI, where he had lodged before the conclave, to collect his luggage and settle his bill. Reports of this latest demonstration of papal humility—imagine a pontiff reaching into his own wallet to pay a bill!—flashed quickly around the world. Actually the scene was not unprecedented. After his election, Benedict XVI quietly visited the apartment he had occupied for years to pick up some books and other belongings, but no photographer recorded that pope’s tending to his personal affairs.

  The image of the new pope as a simple, humble man shunning the pretentious trappings of the papal court was quickly fixed in the public’s mind. But there was one sour note, mostly lost in the adulatory media coverage of the new pontificate. According to some reporters, when an aide tried to place the traditional mozzetta across his shoulders before his first appearance on the loggia of St. Peter’s, Francis brushed him away testily, declaring that “the carnival is over.”

  The reports seemed improbable. The reference to the “carnival,” if true, was obviously a slap at Pope Benedict, who had gladly revived the use of some traditional papal vestments, such as the broad-brimmed saturno and the red slippers, because of his keen appreciation for the history and authority they symbolized. Why would a new pope, at this moment before a triumphant appearance, make an acerbic remark about his predecessor? Another account had the pope declining the mozzetta with a gentle “I would prefer not to.” But why would a reporter invent the “carnival” comment if it had not been made? And if he really had used that word, or something like it, why was the newly elected pope so angry?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Francis Effect

  During the early days of his pontificate, Pope Francis captured the world’s attention with his unconventional style. His plain speech and his disdain for pomp conflicted with stereotypical views about how a pope should speak and act. Some were delighted by his egalitarian approach, while others—particularly lovers of Vatican traditions—were dismayed. But everyone was paying attention.

  St. Peter’s Square was packed for the pope’s first public audience on Sunday, March 17, 2013. He greeted the enormous crowd simply, in the same way that he had introduced himself after his election: Buon giorno! Speaking in Italian and peppering his remarks with lighthearted digressions, he earned appreciative applause. Then after about fifteen minutes he brought the midday address to a cheery conclusion: “Have a good day, and enjoy your lunch.”

  After touring the papal apartments, Francis decided that he could not live in the grand isolation of the apostolic palace and moved permanently into the Domus Sanctae Marthae—St. Martha’s House—the Vatican guesthouse where he and the other cardinals had lodged during the conclave. There he would enjoy the constant stream of visitors to Rome along with the steady traffic of Vatican officials.

  Next the pope began to celebrate Mass each morning in the chapel of the St. Martha’s residence with a congregation composed of whoever happened to be staying there at the time. Here too he was breaking new ground, as his predecessors had celebrated daily Mass privately or with a few invited guests in a chapel in the apostolic palace. He preached every day—without the miter that symbolized his pontifical rank—and brief reports on those short homilies were provide
d daily by Vatican Radio.

  Francis was predictably unpredictable. He placed his own phone calls, shocking those who received an unscheduled call from the Roman pontiff. Soon after his election he called the proprietor of the newsstand in Buenos Aires where he had picked up his newspaper each morning to cancel his subscription—and to chat a bit. He popped up unexpectedly in shops across Rome, first to buy new eyeglasses, then for a pair of orthopedic shoes.

  Reporters loved this new pope who provided them with an endless supply of interesting stories, and he received overwhelmingly favorable media coverage. Speaking with a reporter in Rome who had been covering the Vatican for some years, I remarked on the sympathetic treatment that Francis received from the press. My journalist friend emphatically agreed, noting that reporters—including some who were not particularly enamored of the pope—were leaving some potentially damaging stories unreported because they thought no one wanted to hear bad news about this pontiff. “I can’t imagine what it would take” to turn the media against Francis, he said.

  A case in point is the media’s lack of interest, after a short flurry of attention, in the charge that Father Bergoglio, while a Jesuit provincial, had supported Argentina’s military dictatorship in the 1970s. A left-wing Argentine journalist, Horatio Verbitsky, accused Bergoglio of complicity in the arrest of two radical Jesuit priests who were under his charge. Verbitsky offered little evidence for his claim apart from suspicions voiced by one of the priests in question. That priest was deceased by the time Bergoglio became pope, and the other expressed confidence that Bergoglio had not been involved. But reporters have been known to probe into such a story on the slim chance that they might uncover a sensational scandal. (To this day, some writers make a point of mentioning that Benedict XVI was a member of a Nazi youth group—not bothering to note that the young Ratzinger was compelled to join, and eventually walked away from the group without permission, risking arrest for desertion.) While there was scant evidence, moreover, that Bergoglio was responsible for the imprisonment of these two Jesuits, there was still ample room for questions about the future pope’s relationship with the military government. Those questions were not raised, and the media quickly dropped the story.