If you are ever graced with the opportunity to be in St. Peter’s Square when the white smoke billows out of the Sistine Chapel chimney, the moment your eyes lock onto the plume will be etched in memory throughout earthly life.
I stood under the piazza’s colonnade, sweaty and lugging my cumbersome duffle bag. It was only Day Two of the papal conclave, and already I was exhausted by the routine: come to St. Peter’s Square at the designated time, stand around waiting, and wait a lot longer than you expected. You end up telling roaming fellow reporters you don’t want to be interviewed. When you see the black smoke, everyone groans and goes home.
With my camera dangling around my neck, I jostled through the crawling line of tourists and fellow Catholics trying to get into the inner portion of the square. I just wanted to take a few photos, confirm the lack of a successful vote, go back to the hotel, and get back to writing.
The Vatican security took their sweet time shuffling bins back to those waiting in front of the metal detectors. I wondered if I should just hop the short fence and head back early.
Then, like rolling thunder, an overwhelming roar erupted on all sides of me. Cheers that rang so loud in all directions that it was nothing but white noise. I whipped myself around and there, pouring out of the chimney, framed by the columns and backlit by the slowly setting sun, was the white smoke.
May God forgive me, my first reaction was a shouted profanity: “Now? Already? I’m not in position! I haven’t finished prewriting the cardinals’ profiles! It’s too soon! I’m not ready!”
Flags from just about every nation under the sun were raised and waving in the plaza. Members of the clergy in monastic robes bounced up and down. Little old ladies burst into tears from their seats on the sidewalk a football field away from the basilica.
I squinted. “The smoke looks a little grey,” I thought. “Mix-ups have happened in the past. Maybe they didn’t burn the ballots correctly. Maybe it’s a false alarm.”
Then, the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica boomed through the square, and there could be no doubt. They rang and rang. The crowd never stopped cheering. There really was a new bishop of Rome.
I frantically took my belt off and threw every object in my pockets into the bag, scurried through the metal detectors, and walked out into the inner square.
It is shocking how close you can get to the basilica if you’re already in the square when the bells ring out across Rome. You’ve got a massive head start against the hordes of Romans flocking from their restaurants and cafes.
If you are among the increasing number of young Catholic men who study and obsess over the rituals and ceremonies of the church, you will know, on an intellectual level, the majestic demonstrations that come next. But no book, documentary, or drama can convey exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of it all.
Standing elbow to elbow with fellow observers, there is no Wi-Fi. Cellphone networks are overloaded to the point of being unusable. No text messages, no social media. Those watching a livestream at home can communicate, but you, staring at the balcony of the basilica, couldn’t call someone to share the news if you tried.
You are, in many ways, forced to live consciously in the moment and let it wash over you.
The occasion comes at you fast and from all angles. Up the partitioned lane that cuts to the basilica came the Swiss Guard and the military bands. Once on the steps, the soldiers played the Pontifical Anthem. The words went unsung, but I remembered them as the trumpets played.
“O happy Rome — O noble Rome
You are the seat of Peter, who shed his blood in Rome,
Peter, to whom the keys of the kingdom of heaven were given.
Pontiff, you are the successor of Peter.”
Drones, operated by the Vatican media office, flew overhead. “Ciao, ciao, ciao!” shouted the crowd as it hovered by, broadcasting them to the massive monitors installed on each side of the square under the statues of Sts. Peter and Paul.
Overcome with excitement and having no one to share it with, I noticed two Americans standing next to me.
John Breeden and Peter Alig are Catholics who work as United Airlines pilots. They strategically chose to fly routes that would put them in Rome during the conclave.
“I traded into this,” Alig excitedly told me. “I was doing the math.”
Breeden, who is also a deacon of the Catholic Church, was the mastermind behind the plan and invited all other members of his flight crew to come to the Vatican just in case the pope was decided before they flew out the next morning.
“I started thinking, ‘Oh man, this might work,’” he told me.
Work out it did — they were inside St. Peter’s Basilica attending a Mass when they heard the roaring crowd cheer. They, like everyone else inside, turned and dashed straight out into the square.
When the protodeacon of the College of Cardinals appeared, the now swelling crowd cheered as loudly as ever. He recited those awaited words: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: Habemus Papam!” — “I announce to you news of great joy: We have a pope!”
But when the actual naming of the pope came, there was widespread confusion over the Latin.
Using a dead language to communicate important news is charming — but hardly effective. While the TV anchors and remote journalists might have linguists and consultants available to parse the announcement for their audience, many of us standing in the square were putting our heads together, trying to understand.
Questions among the crowd were only met with shrugs. Was the cardinal named Matthew? Was he from Boston? Was his new name John XXIV?
None of the above. After a banner embroidered with the papal tiara and keys was unfurled, onto the balcony stepped Pope Leo XIV, formerly known as Cardinal Robert Prevost.
There had been rumors that Prevost was being floated as a centrist alternative to the front-runners, but they had always seemed so questionable. An American? Americans do not become pope. It just isn’t done.
An American attendee not far ahead of me frantically shook the Stars and Stripes over his head, frenzied and overjoyed.
As Leo gave his speech, beginning with “peace be upon you,” I impotently began taking photographs. I didn’t know what I was trying to capture or what the purpose was. It just felt like I should be doing something, anything, to document the moment.
But as the monitors broadcast HD images of our new American pope and Vatican drones flew overhead, it all began to feel so pointless. Cameras from every country in the world were pointed at this man. Back in Washington, D.C., my Washington Examiner colleagues were already writing up the event while I was stuck without service. What was I capturing that was so unique? Why experience it all through a lens?
I switched my camera off. I stopped trying to text my editor and put my phone in my pocket. I looked away from the displays at the front of the square and instead focused my eyes on the tiny, distant man on the balcony — Pope Leo XIV.
The bishop of Rome. The supreme pontiff. The shepherd of shepherds. The servant of the servants of God and the Vicar of Christ.
He was speaking to everyone in the world and to me specifically at the same time.
POPE LEO XIV: CARDINAL ROBERT PREVOST BECOMES FIRST EVER AMERICAN POPE
“Viva il papa!” the crowd cheered. “Viva il papa!”
I joined them in their chant.
Timothy Nerozzi is the foreign affairs reporter for the Washington Examiner.
This article was originally published at www.washingtonexaminer.com
