A few weeks ago, I was on the rooftop of the Augustinianum, the series of buildings in Rome that house the general headquarters of the Augustinian order, as well as the Augustinian university in Rome and a residence for its friars. I had been invited by ABC News to help cover the funeral Mass of Pope Francis, the general congregations leading up to the conclave, the conclave itself and, eventually, the election of a new pope. The rooftop of the Augustinianum, with its commanding view of St. Peter’s Basilica, was our vantage point.
A few days before, I had snapped a photo of a simple table laden with snacks set out for the various media teams camped out on the roof. On the wall above the snacks hung framed images of two Augustinian cardinals, one of them Robert Prevost. The juxtaposition of some Italian cookies, a few juice boxes and several bottles of water with the portrait of the former (two-time) Augustinian prior general, whom many believed could be pope, was charming. It reminded me of the images that used to proliferate in Jesuit communities in the United States of Cardinal Avery Dulles, S.J., the esteemed theologian who was the first American Jesuit named a cardinal, way back in 2001, by Pope John Paul II. Both men—Robert Prevost and Avery Dulles—were humble men who evoked great pride from their religious communities.
I enjoyed helping ABC News. The anchors, reporters and staff were, to a person, kind, efficient, knowledgeable, hard-working and helpful. (For the record, they were also paying me—that is, my Jesuit community—for my work.) I consider working with the media a way of evangelizing, “explaining the church to the world,” as the theologian John Courtney Murray, S.J., once said. (Jesuits, said Father Murray, are also supposed to explain the “world to the church.”)
Covering the first event, however—Pope Francis’ funeral Mass—was challenging. I was honored to know Pope Francis and had met with him one-on-one several times. At one point I mentioned that a particular part of the funeral Mass—when the casket is taken out of the church after the Mass—was for many people the saddest part of the rite. As soon as I said that I felt myself on the verge of tears, but I made a quick calculation and decided not to sob on television.
The next few days, during the general congregations, were a seemingly endless series of lunches, coffees, dinners, meetings, public interviews and off-the-record conversations with journalists from around the world, cardinal-electors, Vatican experts and scholars of the papacy, along with time spent with Jesuit friends and my America colleagues also there to cover the conclave. The mood had changed from sorrow over Pope Francis’ death to excitement (as well as some trepidation and concern) about the next pope.
Rumors were bandied about, many of them completely at odds with one another. There were claims one cardinal had fallen ill during one of the general congregations (“Fake news!” said the Holy See Press Office); another cardinal supposedly had made a pact with a papabile (possible pope) offering his vote in exchange for the right to name the next bishops of two open dioceses. Another cardinal (as in the movie “Conclave”) was accused of having an illegitimate child.
What made these rumors ridiculous was not only that the sources could never be corroborated but that within minutes someone would rebut it squarely. So I learned not to pay too much attention to them or let them greatly disturb me. And the people who knew something—the cardinal electors—may have spoken in generalities to the media during the general congregations but were not mentioning names. I thought of the screenwriter William Goldman’s evergreen line about Hollywood: “Nobody knows anything.”
It was a tense time. No matter how often all of us (usually at a meal on the Borgo Pio, a kind of outdoor “Restaurant Row” near St. Peter’s Square) listed our top five most likely candidates (mine were Cardinals Parolin, Tagle, David, Zuppi and Prevost), it was clear that almost anyone could emerge onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica. And for me as a Jesuit priest, editor at large at America and someone who ministers with the L.G.B.T.Q. community, the next pope would have profound implications for multiple aspects of my life and work.
Even in the midst of such uncertainty, tension and jet lag, being in Rome at the time was both exciting and fun. At almost every outdoor table on the Borgo Pio (and even farther afield) you would run into a friend, and even before the frizzante (sparkling water) was placed on your table, the two big questions would be asked: Who do you think it will be? And, who do you want it to be?
On May 8, the second day of balloting, I was back atop the Augustinianum. One of my America colleagues, calculating when the cardinal-electors would be casting their votes, predicted smoke at around 6:30 p.m. Rome time. When I relayed that to my ABC friends, they suggested I get a bite to eat on a patio on the far end of the roof. For my part, I didn’t think we would see white smoke until the next day, Friday.
Under a cloudless blue sky, I wolfed down a slice of pizza alongside a few cameramen. “Don’t forget the tiramisu!” they said, and I took a spoonful of the omnipresent Roman dessert.
Suddenly I heard the most beautiful noise I have ever heard in my life: the sound of tens of thousands of people cheering as they saw the white smoke pouring from the chimney atop the Sistine Chapel. It is hard for me to describe how joyful it sounded. And what distinguishes the sound of a crowd shouting for joy versus one of simple enthusiasm or even anger? I don’t know, exactly, but I knew it was joy.
What came to mind were the beautiful words from the Book of Revelation, describing the multitudes worshiping the Lord Almighty: “Then I heard what seemed to be the voice of a great multitude, like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty thunder peals” (19:6). That may not be exactly what it sounded like (though “the sound of many waters” comes close), but that’s what it felt like.
Of course, I knew that the sound meant we would soon hear those famous words: Habemus papam. The crowd knew it too. Our constant prayers that week to the Holy Spirit had been answered.
A week later, on the “AMDG” podcast with Michael Jordan Laskey of the Jesuit Conference, I mentioned this feeling and he noted something beautiful. The cheers were different, he said, from when a home team wins a game. At this point, no one knew who the pope was. So the cheer wasn’t “Hooray, Cardinal Parolin, or Tagle or Prevost, was elected!” It wasn’t about one group “winning.” Rather, it was the sound of collective joy over the fact that the Holy Spirit had helped to guide an election and Catholics were no longer without a spiritual father. All of us, together, had “won.” That sound was both the result of the Spirit and, like the Spirit, akin to the way it was described during Pentecost, as a “strong, driving wind” (Acts 2:2).
Instantly, an ABC staffer appeared on the back patio and said, “Father Jim, hurry up!” and I dashed back to the set. An hour later, when Cardinal Prevost came onto the balcony, I was deeply moved. I had been at his table at the Synod on Synodality for two weeks last year and knew him to be an open, humble and smart man: He would make a great pope.
At one of the earlier press conferences at the Sala Stampa (the Holy See Press office), the papal spokesperson, Matteo Bruni, was asked by one reporter if the media would get advance notice about the pope’s election, a kind of embargoed copy. No, he said patiently, you’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else. And, he said, it will help to know a little Latin.
My Latin is pretty poor, but it still proved helpful. When Cardinal Dominique Mamberti pronounced the new pope’s new name, Leonem Decimum Quartum, I wasn’t sure what he said. But I thought it was the Latin for “Leo XIV.” So on a note of paper, I wrote “LEO 14th” and passed it to David Muir, the lead anchor. I had no time to qualify what I wrote before he instantly read out in his deep voice: “Leo XIV!” For the next few moments, I was terrified I had gotten it wrong and would be contradicted! (A few days later a friend of mine said, “It could have been Linus IV, for all the Latin you know!”)
Finally, at the end of ABC’s broadcast, around 9 p.m. Rome time, the cameras were turned off. Then, in that quiet moment sitting at a table in front of the television anchors, I wept. I wept out of gratitude for the conclave’s choice, out of sadness for the late Pope Francis, out of simple exhaustion. But I also wept at the thought of the crowd, at knowing that on that day, on that rooftop, I had heard the sound of the Holy Spirit.
