The Pope

by Anthony McCarten

  The difference between the bishop of Rome and the supreme pontiff emeritus, therefore, may be one of degree and not of kind.

  In a 2013 article, New Yorker journalist James Carroll raised the point that while “many observers insist that in a Church understood as semper idem—always the same—the most that even an apparently innovative figure like Francis can effect is ‘pastoral’ adjustments in discipline or practice: a merciful easing up on rules without repealing them. Even if he wanted to, Pope Francis could not alter the basic beliefs of the Church.” There is also the possibility that, if he really wished to shake things up, Francis could go down the Vatican II route and organize another global council on the future of the church. What had been decided at the Second Ecumenical Council was certainly revolutionary on paper, but the interpretation of the official conclusions differed widely, and Vatican II still has the ability to polarize clergy to this day. Besides, there was nearly a century between the first and second Vatican councils, and it is unlikely that many would agree to another one just over fifty years since the last concluded, in 1965.

  Since Carroll’s article was written, Francis has nevertheless used his position to effect change in doctrine and has proved strong enough to stand firm against the ecclesiastical backlash—as in the case of his apostolic exhortation Amoris Lætitia, on family life, in which he explicitly reversed the teachings of his predecessors and pushed for an end to the use of condemnations that described “all those in any ‘irregular’ situation [as] living in a state of mortal sin and … deprived the sanctifying grace.”

  The task of uniting both conservative and liberal views under his banner is, of course, impossible. Conservatives find his reforms too radical, and liberals find them not radical enough. But it appears that Francis is well aware he will never be able to satisfy everyone and must therefore make decisions irrespective of their popularity and based on what he believes to be right. This has, conversely, left some people feeling let down by the pope’s essentially traditional opinions on issues such as same-sex marriage, the ordination of women priests, abortion, and homosexuality, as they now know that if he believes in something strongly enough, he will advocate for the necessary changes. The ambiguity of those early days of the Francis papacy is now gone, and with it, too, the hopes of many who support reforms on these issues.

  His predecessor, Pope Benedict, fought against reforms of the church that would see it adapt to the realities of modern society: that people are gay, women have abortions, people get divorced, and so on. But the church faithful essentially knew what they were getting with him and were not surprised when he stuck rigidly to traditionalist principles. Like the cardinal electors at the 2013 conclave, however, the media and the public have developed a form of confirmation bias toward the superstar Pope Francis, and this has given rise to further disappointment when he stands with the church on its conservative policies.

  On the other hand, Francis seems to understand more than most the detrimental impact the scandal of sexual abuse by clergy has had on the church—an impact that cannot be overstated. People not only want the church to be better, but they also need it to be. No greater test of faith has occurred in modern history or, one could argue, in the church’s entire history. The freedom and liberty of modern society mean that a great many followers of Catholicism are in an unprecedented position: they feel confident enough to be critical of the church. And so, the moral quandary of an institution that dictates how its followers should live their lives and yet, at the same time, is confronted with, as Cardinal Ratzinger even admitted, the “filth” within its own walls, puts the church in an extremely vulnerable position. Francis’s response of openness and compassion has found synergy with followers’ newly emboldened critique, while at the same time being met with accusations of heresy from conservative members of the clergy. In short: damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  As the biographer and journalist Andrea Tornielli notes, “One of his most interesting traits is … that the more the media portray the figure of the Pope as a superstar, a pop Pope, the more he tries to prove himself the opposite.” Francis’s desire to disassociate himself from the concept of papal infallibility and supremacy has left him exposed to insurrection and condemnation that few would have dared utter publicly, let alone in a twenty-five-page open letter such as the one delivered to him on August 11, 2017, in which sixty-two conservative members of the clergy declared the pope’s teachings and behavior to be heretical and even Lutheran in their outlook.

  But as Tornielli points out, “It is the conservative critics who shout the loudest.” Perhaps this accounts for the much more moderate tone used in Francis’s March 2018 apostolic exhortation, Gaudete et exsultate (Rejoice and be glad). It contains no changes to doctrine or expressions of consternation outside of his existing favorite causes. The overall message is of love, holiness, compassion, and kindness. But while no one could call these weak pronouncements, there’s a certain thinness to his message, and it is hard not to feel disappointment that the pressure of his antiliberal opponents could potentially put an end to Francis’s Promethean struggle.

  How much pressure a pope can take will continue to be the subject of great speculation, not least because Francis, like Benedict before him, did not want to be elected as pope in the first place. He wanted to retire and had made all the necessary preparations to do so. Desires such as this run deep and cannot easily be displaced, no matter how important an honor is bestowed upon a person.

  Two months after the release of Gaudete et exsultate, on May 15, 2018, Pope Francis, now eighty-one years old, spoke during a Tuesday morning mass at his Santa Marta residence. Although the Vatican has not published the full transcript of his mass, it would seem it has learned its lesson in seeking to hide remarks. After his homily, audience members were left wondering if the pope had begun to consider his own “great refusal.” When reading from Acts of the Apostles, Francis referred to the story of Paul’s decision to leave Ephesus and go to Jerusalem, saying:

  It’s a decisive move, a move that reaches the heart, it’s also a move that shows us the pathway for every bishop when it’s time to take his leave and step down.… When I read this, I think about myself, because I am a bishop and I must take my leave and step down.… I am thinking of all bishops. May the Lord grant all of us the grace to be able to take our leave and step down in this way [like Paul], with that spirit, with that strength, with that love for Jesus Christ and this faith in the Holy Spirit.

  The gasp of “Oh no” could be heard around the world: “Here we go again!” Will he also throw in his skullcap and retire, thus turning papal retirement from a crisis to a convention? It is not out of the question.

  But before it’s assumed that Francis is preparing the world for the day when he will use the path cleared by Benedict, a closer reading of his words also suggests that a resignation ought to proceed only if instruction to do so is received from the Holy Spirit. We must assume, at this point, that no such instruction has been sought or received.

  Still, a new age for faith is with us, when everything seems to be up for grabs. In such times, the Catholic Church finds itself with two living papal touchstones. One, retired but with many secret followers still, is devoted to his scholarship and contemplation; the other, at large, is almost rampantly social, able to inspire and hold fast more than 1.28 billion followers, steering them, with demonstrations of humility and empathy and fallibility and headline-grabbing reasoning, back toward the faith that has been burning for two thousand years—the faith of Saint Francis, who cast off his rich apparel and embraced the nakedness of poverty.

  Being pope is the job nobody wants. It’s especially a nightmare for an elderly man faced by seemingly intractable problems and pockets of intractable opposition. Francis, in speaking of retirement, suggests that a very relieving precedent has now been established and is available to him. Still, were he to retire tomorrow, his legacy would be profound. He has already rocked the boat of Christ’s teachi
ng, calling for an end to the days of harsh judgment and inquisition, demanding more tolerance, humility, and transparency, and reminding the faithful that we are all sinners, up to and including the two popes in Rome.

  THE ODD COUPLE

  Before we take leave of these two elderly men, living now as unlikely neighbors, a few words on how—at the time of this writing—they spend their days, revealing a little of what is known about their one-on-one meetings over the ensuing years since the first days of the Francis papacy in 2013.

  The two popes first embraced as such when the papal helicopter bearing the ten-day-old pope, Francis, landed on the grounds of Castel Gandolfo, where Benedict had been sequestered since his retirement.

  Benedict was at the helipad to greet and congratulate his fellow pope. Both wore the white robes and caps of papal office. They kissed, embraced warmly, and looked deeply into each other’s smiling eyes as the world’s cameras whirred, recording the moment. What a burdensome destiny the two now shared, what an odd brotherhood with linked destinies; and where would destiny—or, if you will, God’s plan—take them both? Into what unknown waters?

  Francis had brought a gift that day, an icon of the Madonna, and told Benedict that it was known as the Madonna of Humility. “I thought of you,” Francis said. “You gave us so many signs of humility and gentleness in your pontificate.” Benedict’s reply? “Grazie. Grazie.” And then they retreated from the cameras and went indoors.

  When they went to pray in the chapel, Benedict offered the place of honor, a kneeler before the altar, to Francis. But Francis, seeing Benedict retreat to the back, followed him and knelt beside the elder pontiff, saying, “We are brothers, we pray together.” The two prayed from the same pew.

  Benedict then offered his pledge of obedience to the new pope, while Francis thanked Benedict for his ministry.

  After this, they went into the palace to eat lunch.

  As they talked, papa a papa, Francis may have dropped the bombshell that he didn’t intend to use the magnificent palace as his summer retreat, having already a plan to open it—for the first time in its 420-year history—to the public, thus ending an ancient tradition himself. Perhaps he also mentioned that he wouldn’t be using the chandelier-lit Papal Apartments in the Vatican, either, preferring to stick to the busy premises of the fluorescent-tube-lit Hotel Santa Marta he’d been using since the conclave. (Both of these promises are ones he has made good on.) And perhaps he used the same words he gave to a journalist sometime later: “I cannot live alone, surrounded by a small group of people. I need to live with people, meeting people.”

  At first the Vatican said that what passed between them would never be known, but this was until, in an interview in 2016, Archbishop Georg Gänswein, who now serves both popes as personal secretary, revealed that Benedict passed Francis a top-secret dossier that day. Wrongly suspected of being about the reform of the curia, it was in fact the report on the Vatileaks scandal that Benedict had commissioned.

  If Benedict’s cloistered retirement behind the walls of the Mater Ecclesiae has the air of a prison sentence, it may also seem that way to the pope emeritus. Quickly dashed were his early hopes of returning to Bavaria to live out his days with his brother, when it was realized that he could not be protected there: surely he would find himself speaking with an ungovernable array of people, drawn into saying things that might clash with Francis. No. No pope could roam free. And so the doors of the walled garden were closed around him, hiding him from prying eyes.

  Holy Days—Easter and Christmas—as well as personal milestones like birthdays, are occasions when visits between the two men are most likely now to take place. The world’s press is often invited to record the fond greeting before the two retire indoors. The Holy See Press Office often afterward supplies a few morsels of information: when Francis turned eighty, on December 17, 2016, among the seventy thousand email messages wishing him a happy birthday, as well as telephone calls and telegrams from world leaders and religious figures, he received a “very affectionate” written message, three small gifts, and a personal phone call from his predecessor that were “particularly appreciated” by the current pontiff.

  And when Benedict turned ninety, on April 16, 2017, he spent the day in the monastery with his then-ninety-three-year-old brother, Georg. He drank a little beer, nibbled pretzels, and watched the news on TV in German. Four days earlier, Francis had visited to wish the nonagenarian a happy birthday.

  Benedict still enjoys summer breaks to visit Castel Gandolfo. The nuns set out a small box of bread on the edge of a goldfish pond so he can feed the fish. He loves this.

  In February 2018, Benedict, in a rare public statement, said he is frail but at peace with the prospect of death. Gänswein confirms this. In a recent interview with the Italian newspaper Il Messaggero, Gänswein said that Benedict occasionally talks about it, describing his journey as “on a pilgrimage toward home,” but it’s not an obsession for him. “I can say,” Gänswein adds, “that he’s a serene person. He has a soul at peace, and a happy heart.”

  These days, Benedict, blind in one eye, and also with difficulties walking, is otherwise in good health. “Certainly, he’s a man who by now is old,” Gänswein says. “It’s tough on him to walk, and he uses a walker. He can’t work on scholarly texts like he used to do, but he still writes, and a lot. He has an enormous amount of correspondence from all over the world. He gets books, essays and letters, and he replies.”

  He “replies”? As what? In what capacity? As pope? Sharing infallible views? Was this the promised silenzio incarnato? Part of what may help keep the aged Ratzinger on track, according to Gänswein, is the regularity with which he divides each day—beginning, as it always has, he said, with the celebration of morning mass. And each Sunday, Pope Benedict still delivers a homily at mass for his small household, sometimes as few as four people: Gänswein and several female members of Memores Domini, a community of consecrated laywomen associated with the Communion and Liberation movement. The onetime leader of the biggest religion on earth, Benedict now directs his words to four friendly faces. But he does not regret this meteoric reduction in audience size. Rather, he welcomes it.

  Pope Francis, at the same time, also delivers each day a small homily at morning mass at the Santa Marta residence on Vatican grounds, where he resides. These transcripts of his sermon are published, for they are considered divinely inspired. His audience remains gargantuan, but he keeps his homily short. No sermon should be more than ten minutes long, he has ordered. Make your point, clearly, quickly, then get off the stage: let the people—with their own sea of troubles—return to their lives, some hunger in them hopefully satisfied.

  EPILOGUE

  The Dawn of the Age of Disbelief

  When the geneticist Francis Crick cracked the genetic code of life—DNA—he was so sure that science had finally defeated religion that he offered a prize for the best future use for Cambridge’s college chapels. The winning entry? Swimming pools. But Crick’s 1953 presumption of a watery fate was premature, for it remains impossible to take a dip at St. Catherine’s Chapel Tepid Baths: but was he wrong?

  In New York City, near Forty-fourth Street and Sixth Avenue, there is a digital sign, billboard-size, which has become known as the National Debt Clock. It shows the U.S. national debt inevitably rising, rising, the glowing numbers cycling so fast that the right-hand columns are indecipherable, merely a blur. Its effect is to alarm, to bring to life an issue so serious (more serious by the millisecond) that only a visual representation can even begin to bring home the enormity of the problem.

  Imagine a similar clock—an International Faith Clock—calibrated to track the current state of belief: of belief that there is a God, a presiding deity, provisioned with human emotions; God as switchboard operator for all universal communications, as the source of all love, the begetter of all things bright and beautiful, whose idea and handiwork the universe is. Imagine such a clock hanging high over Times Square, or St. Pete
r’s Square, or Red or Trafalgar or Tiananmen Square: What news would it impart?

  In the developed world at least, the rise in the number of people turning away from—or simply not engaging with—the Christian faith would make at least the extreme right-hand columns a blur, the numbers of believers falling, falling, falling …

  It is now clear: more and more people demand to be free to make up their own mind on matters of faith and morality. Increasingly they do not require their temples to tell them what to do or to supply them with ultimate answers. They navigate by stars other than the axis mundi so beloved of Pope Benedict. Angels will no longer suffice; Hell is no deterrent.

  In such times, unmatched in human history, what is the role for the Catholic Church, or any church, and what is the best approach for its supreme leaders to take if they are to stay relevant, vital, necessary?

  As I conclude this book, what strikes me now—which was not apparent to me at the outset—is not how very different these men are, but how much they share. Both grew up under the authoritarian regimes of murderous dictators, both have been accused of being bystanders to brutality. Their responses, in common, have fallen short of the mea culpa one might have expected with the benefit of hindsight and self-reflection, and offer mostly a familiar wall of silence, a wall mirrored by the Catholic Church itself in its handling of sexual abuse cases. Were these men shaped in this regard by the veiled culture of the church they both adore? Or did real life get to them first, teaching them, in terrifying times, that a little secrecy goes a long way in the management of human affairs?