My unplanned week in Rome for a papal election

A week ago today, I wasn’t even thinking about going to Rome.

Yes, Pope Francis had died, and yes, a conclave was coming. But I had things to do, and I told myself, especially after the stress of this past papacy, that I didn’t care, anyway. I was driving a car from Birmingham, Alabama, to parts way out West, bequeathing that car to one of my offspring, so there was that.

I had taken my time seeing interesting sights like the Fulton Sheen museum and shrine in Peoria, the Amana Colonies in Iowa, and several cathedrals and, of course, the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota.

I had delivered the car, spent time with my son, and that Sunday morning was in my Wyoming hotel, preparing for a flight back to Alabama in the afternoon. I opened up my computer and took in all the posts and the feeds from all the friends and acquaintances I had in Rome. FOMO nudged. I considered the week ahead. I looked at airfare.

And I thought: You know what? I’m going to Rome.

So I did. I arrived in Birmingham at about 10 that night, did laundry, slept hardly at all, and then took an Uber (because I don’t have a car anymore…yet) to the airport at 6 in the morning, and the next day, here I was, bleary-eyed (because I had not, even though I was sure I would, slept on the flight), in Rome.

I arrived on Tuesday morning. My landlady would be ready to receive me at noon, so I spent the time before then wandering, including a detour to St. Maria Maggiore, thinking that it was my duty to pray before the tomb of Pope Francis, but the line was so amazingly long, I kept moving, then went to my home for the next few days.

The first vote, as you know, was Wednesday, and I was there in the square for the whole, entire, lengthy time of it, arriving around five, not leaving until the black smoke at nine. I was fairly close that night, right near a scaffolding with a camera. I stood. Then I sat on the cobblestoned ground for a while, grateful to discover that these cobblestones, after dark, retained heat. It was getting chilly.

We stood, we watched, we cheered the seagulls. No one around me was English-speaking, no one ever was the whole two days, and that was fine with me. It was even a good thing. I could rest and just observe, feeling no obligation to communicate with those around me, and I could appreciate and really live in the universality of this global Church.

It was black smoke Wednesday night, and I don’t think anyone expected it to be any different. We broke after the smoke spilled out, black against the dark blue Roman sky. The masses moved away from the square; we poured into the subway, calm, interested, waiting, trusting.

I could not sleep that night. As I get older, I find adjusting to cross-time-zone travel more challenging, and this was the case that night. I think I fell asleep at about 6 am, then awoke with a start at 10:30, checked my phone, as one does, and saw a text from Larry Chapp telling me where he was in the square.

And yes, I was there by 11.

Not that it mattered much, for what we got was more black smoke. After lunch, I returned to my room to write a blog post, then back to the square, thinking, surely, this would be one more late afternoon and evening of waiting, anticipation, and black smoke, and the real action would happen on Friday. And it had better happen on Friday, since I had a flight out on Saturday. Come on, God. Cooperate, will you?

I had people whom I wanted to see at the square. Mountain Bouterac, for one, the indefatigable guide to things Rome and beyond, for one, who kept texting me his group’s position, which I never could trace, interrupted as I was on the journey by a crazy encounter with a friend of a friend whom I’d met exactly once and who had emailed me that morning: “Hey, I see you’re in Rome”–and there he was. Because when you are Catholic, that is what happens to you in Rome.

Ultimately, I found no one else I was seriously looking for, so I spent the next two hours packed in the square, not too far from the front. I was between a slew of Mexican nationals, a bunch of, I think, Filipino Franciscans who were determined that the new pope’s name would be Antonio. And there was a man I spent an hour or more convinced was the actor James Cromwell, which struck me as amazing since Cromwell had played a pope–Pius XII–in a film, and wouldn’t that be wonderful that he was witnessing the election of his successor? But then he started speaking fluent Spanish to those around him, and sure, James Cromwell might speak fluent Spanish, but still, I don’t think it was him.

The crowds grew. The Filipino Franciscans somehow displaced me, and I was pushed back a row or two, further away from pseudo-James Cromwell. The man sitting in the handicapped scooter nearby started making out with the young woman I’d thought was his daughter, so I guess (and hope) she wasn’t his daughter.

And then. What? Smoke? And it’s….white?

I was shocked, as I think those around me were. No one expected anything definitive until later that evening at the earliest.

But then, what?

Joy, that’s what.

The joy began with the white smoke. The square was filled with resounding, loud cheers and applause. My own heart tightened, and my eyes filled with tears. I wasn’t the only one. Women around me wept, and yes, the fellow in the scooter, the young woman in his lap, tears streamed over his cheeks, too.

And then the name–Leo XIV–and then there he was, in proper Pope garb, and he spoke to us in proper Pope style, and he blessed us and all around me, from tens of thousands in the square and down the Via della Conciliazione, the cheers came: Viva il Papa! and Leone! Leone!

And the Swiss Guards marched and the bands played, and the cardinals, arrayed in their red, gathered on the balconies around the loggia, giving strong Renaissance-dominion vibes, and it was glorious.

This piece is not about Robert Prevost, what he has said or written or what he might do.

This is about the power, mystery, and beauty of the papacy.

And by extension, all ministry in the Body of Christ.

Here is what I experienced in St. Peter’s Square that evening of May 8.

Hardly anyone there knew who Robert Prevost was. Five percent? Maybe?

But yet, when white smoke poured from that chimney, they cheered. They wept.

When this man appeared on the loggia and his name was announced: Leone XIV, they cheered again. They chanted in support of him; they cried out in love, frankly.

And I thought, when this happened: How could a man, when called to this office by his brothers and greeted with such love, not understand that the reverence and love are not about him, but about Peter, which is ultimately about Christ? How could he ever think, for one minute, to make it about himself and whatever his agenda and concerns might be instead?

And I thought: How could a man not, when greeted with such love and hope for this office, welcomed with gratitude from God’s sons and daughters from all over the world, of such deep faith – not return it in kind, in patience, tolerance and true, authentic humility and pastoral care for all those in his flock?

The bells rang, the bands played, the women, the men, the children streamed out of the square, back out into Rome, back into the world, grateful and hopeful, not because of an individual, his quirks and views, because they did not know a bit about any of that, but just because of some white smoke and two words and all they mean, all they have meant through the centuries, all they have meant as they have bridged the time and space between our hard present and the promise of Jesus, handed over to Peter to share with this hurting world:

Habemus Papam.