It was the slightest verbal hiccup that finally got me.
This past Sunday morning, I headed from the apartment near the Vatican where I’ve been staying to the center of historic Rome, to attend Mass at the Caravita community. Meeting weekly inside a 17-century church, the Oratory of St. Francis Xavier, the community caters to English-speaking Catholics living in and pilgrims visiting Rome. I said hello to several other U.S. journalists who are also in Rome to cover the upcoming conclave and took my seat.
I let my eyes drift around the oratory, landing first on the magnificent ceiling frescoes and then, behind the altar, to an image of Pope Francis, four candles burning around him. Mass continued as usual, until the Euchraistic prayer. The presider, an American Jesuit, arrived at the part of the Mass when he prays for the pope. For the past decade, throughout the world, we have prayed for, “Francis, our pope.” It was just one second, but the priest stumbled slightly over the words, the “Fra—” barely escaping his lips.
My colleagues and I had spoken at dinner a couple nights before about whether we had been able to take time to grieve the loss of Francis. Like them, the week Francis died was a flurry of activity; writing, editing and publishing various reflections and stories consumed our days. I hadn’t sat down to consider the pope’s death, my own feelings about what his papacy had meant to me as a journalist, as a gay man and as a Catholic.
But during that moment at Mass, with a small and inadvertent reminder that Francis is no longer pope, I allowed myself to connect with my emotions. A lump formed in my throat. I took a few deep breaths and offered a prayer for Francis, grateful for the kindness he had so often showed to our community and more broadly, for his tirelessness in standing up for the most marginalized in our world. I couldn’t have been more thankful for the priest’s small slip up, because it created for me the space to grieve the loss of Pope Francis.
Then, at dinner that night, it was clear that the focus was shifting—here in Rome and across the world.
Conversation had moved on from remembering Francis to, what comes next for the church? Which cardinal was ahead? Had alliances been formed? Who do you think will win—and who do you want to be elected? Of course, no one actually knows much of anything about who will emerge as pope, probably sometime later this week. Even the cardinals say they are still getting to know one another. Still, that doesn’t stop folks from speculating, the confidence growing with each sip of the cardinal-red Campari spritz.
By tomorrow afternoon, the 133 cardinals who will elect the next pope will have given up their phones, moved into the Vatican guest house and, following Mass, begin the process of electing a new pope. Journalists and commentators will soon enough begin analyzing, examining and interpreting each and every action of the new pope, helping to shape an image that could follow him for years to come.
By then, the memory of Pope Francis will recede all the more quickly. It’s my hope that even while we all begin to learn about what’s next for the life of the church, another small hiccup gives me a moment to pause and remember this extraordinary pope.
