Waiting for Peter's voice: A conclave, a city, and the sound of silence
The world depends on these moments of heaven and earth meeting in a more tangible way.
Editor’s note: Four weeks ago today the election of Pope Leo XIV was decided in the Sistine Chapel. Per Mariam’s contributing editor reflects on the import and events of that night.
(PerMariam) — It is a strange thing, to witness history in the making.
We can never be quite sure exactly how we will react to world-defining events. Shock, awe, elation, surprise, terror… the litany of possible emotions goes on. But while we will all experience some immediate, perhaps visceral response to what unfolds before us, it can sometimes happen that only afterwards, upon deeper reflection, an impression will precipitate.
For me, the recent papal conclave was one such event.
I ventured out to Rome for the 2025 conclave in a journalistic capacity, prepared to report on the news cycle, but as a committed Catholic it is impossible to ever spend time in Rome in a merely professional mode. I have had the great fortune of spending many months in the Eternal City, all in, and every visit provides an opportunity for some new or unexpected experience or encounter. The conclave, naturally, was no exception.
While the world usually sails past Church affairs without paying any notice (lest scandal looms), the election of a pope captivates the secular and faithful imagination alike. Much fanfare was even made (and seemingly always is) of the pre-conclave period, with pundits prophesying, bookkeepers betting and, of course, cardinals convening. Talk of secret meetings between those in the latter group abounded, providing enough smoke to replace the Sistine Chapel furnace. Rome, after all, would be nothing without its dubious tips and loose lips.
The true weight of the event, however, began with the swearing in of the cardinals on the first day of the conclave. Set against the background of the schola of St. Peter’s chanting the litany of the saints, the 133 cardinal-electors made their public oath to dutifully carry out the office of selecting the successor of St. Peter and maintain the traditional secrecy of their votes, before being sequestered in the Sistine Chapel.
While a lengthy ceremony, the event did provide an opportunity to become just a little more familiar with the largely indistinguishable faces of the College of Cardinals, one of whom would emerge just a day-and-a-half later, in white zucchetto and cassock, on that famed central loggia of St. Peter’s Basilica.
After almost two hours, and with many thousands captively watching the grand ceremony, the final cardinal professed his oath and the papal master of ceremonies – in an awe-striking moment that seemed to transport one through the ages – made the solemn declaration “Extra omnes,” ordering everyone other than the cardinal electors to leave the chapel. The doors were closed behind him and sealed for the commencement of the first vote.
As a journalist, I had come prepared to file reports, to find just the right vantage point for taking good pictures, and to keep vigil for chimney smoke. But as a Catholic, I was aware I was witnessing something far deeper than news: the mystical rhythm of apostolic succession playing out beneath Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, the visible Church doing its hidden work. The city of Rome seemed to hold its breath as the world awaited the arrival of the newest occupant of its most ancient next-door neighbour. And in that waiting, a stillness settled, as if the city (and all those gathered) knew the next voice it would hear would not be just any man’s, but Peter’s echo in a new successor.
Though the chattering classes of Rome had decided among themselves – quite correctly – that the conclave would be a swift one, I was not so convinced and, after a three-hour wait for the cardinals to cast their initial vote, had braced myself for the long haul. My assumption, however, was to be proven wrong, with only two chuffs of black smoke to emerge from the chapel chimney before that signal would change colour and, with it, history.
Standing in St. Peter’s square just a day and a half after the first vote had been cast, gazing up into the evening sunshine as plumes of white smoke billowed into the Roman sky from the temporary chimney atop the Sistine Chapel, I found myself a little emotionally lost. Basking for a moment in the evening sun I knew I should feel something, and that it should be profound and full of meaning, but not precisely what that ought to look or feel like. Certainly, a rush of excitability seized my body, but still a kind of inhibiting emptiness, a disturbing lack of imagination, filled my mind.
Providentially, however, there was no time to dwell on this interior crisis. Having come to Rome with a journalistic agenda I swiftly came to some modicum of sense, captured a handful of images of the famous white smoke, and began wading through the crowds – which seemed to multiply by mitosis – to the press area atop the mighty colonnades enveloping St. Peter’s Square.
After the frantic push to the gates, elbowing to get ahead of an estimated 6,000 fellow media men, I managed to scale the dizzying spiral staircase in enough time to secure a spot with just enough visibility of the central loggia of St. Peter’s Basilica – now decked out with regal red curtains and a plush banner with the papal keys draped over the front – to get a worthwhile snap of the newest most famous man in the world. All that was left to do now was wait for him to come forward and address the world.
With St. Peter’s Basilica acting like a great magnet, waves of excited pilgrims and curious locals streamed, seemingly endlessly, towards the square. The press area quickly filled to its brim. If they were anything like me, they were compelled there by a nervous and overwhelming desire to know, to quash the anticipation and sense of dread, and to hope.
So numerous were the crowds that the streams spilled out of the piazza and down into every side street and alley surrounding the basilica. History was again being made in that most historic of places.
And then he appeared.
Having been announced to the world “gaudiam magnam,” a man dressed in white, and also red and gold, stepped into the light of the loggia. “Habemus Papam!” While the masses erupted into cheers, and cameras flashed and clicked in unison, amid the frenzy of elation and surprise an unexpected stillness stole over me, both exteriorly and interiorly. It was peaceful and it was hopeful. Though I knew not the man who stood just a few metres away, waving to the crowds and bowing in prayer, it was a moment of spiritual weightlessness, no more than a flash of relief between what had been and what was to come.
Ancient ritual speaks to us. We are moved by it, wrapped up in the mystery, conversely drawn out of the moment while yet never being more in touch with ultimate reality.
As Catholics, we are blessed to have such ancient rituals baked into our liturgical and sacramental lives (when they aren’t being viciously suppressed). For the secular realm, distracted as it is from its Creator and its own purpose, the spectacle of a papal election draws its gaze and offers it something enduring. The world depends on these moments of heaven and earth meeting in a more tangible way; knowingly or not, we have an eternal need that finds nourishment in these glimpses of the divine.
Mando un saludo muy atento desde Messico a todos, lectores de este link