Pope Francis Is Dead
I'll always remember our unforgettable last-minute meeting
Born in Argentina as Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the former nightclub bouncer became a priest in his thirties. He became the provincial superior of the Jesuits, then the archbishop of Buenos Aires, then a cardinal in the early 2000s. When Pope Benedict XVI broke six hundred years of tradition and resigned to devote his life to prayer, Bergoglio was elected to replace him in what we may assume was a landslide victory. Bergoglio chose the name Pope Francis, in honor of St. Francis of Assisi.
The way I saw it, if I wanted to learn about Catholic prayer, I might as well ask the head of the Catholic church. I knew he was deeply prayerful, and I wanted to meet the new pope everyone was talking about.
And as usual, I had bitten off more than I could chew.
In the previous months, I’d done everything in my power to make a meeting happen, but I hadn’t had any luck. I’d sent letters through all the proper channels, made phone calls to all the right numbers, and e-mailed dozens of contacts and connections. I’d even sent a fax to the pope’s personal aide. Who, besides the monks on Athos, still uses a fax machine?
I heard back from just one person, and he suggested that I try to get on the guest list for the pope’s personal Mass at the Domus Sanctae Marthae. He told me the pope holds a private Mass every morning for about thirty-five people. If Michelle and I could get on that list, we’d have a chance of meeting him.
They say you should make all your arrangements before you go on a trip, but I’ve found that the best pilgrimages can’t be planned. There’s something crazy and wild and spontaneous about last-minute plans. Some things you can’t plan that far in advance, no matter how hard you try. You just need to get on the ground and see what happens.
After three days in Rome, Michelle and I still hadn’t heard anything. We waited and waited and waited. Perhaps I had been a little too optimistic.
I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I decided to visit the Vatican.
They say Pope Francis is special, and I was about to test that the-ory. This was our last chance — desperate times called for desperate measures.
I checked out a number of maps online and came up with a plan. I would park near the Vatican, cross through St. Peter’s Square, and hop over to Via Paulo VI. I would walk through the Piazza dei Protomartire Romani, past the Ufficio Parrocchiale and the Ufficio Scavi, and knock on the door of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. I’d chat with the security guards, tell them who I was and what I was doing, and ask if I could get added to the guest list for Sunday’s private Mass. If they said yes, then there was a good chance that I’d get to meet the pope after the service.
Michelle and I stood in St. Peter’s Square (which is actually shaped like an egg), and I realized that my plan was completely doomed. One can’t simply stroll through the fifty-seven-acre Vatican garden and take photos of fountains and statues in the world’s smallest nation. Officially founded by Benito Mussolini in 1929, Vatican City is surrounded by gates and a wall, and Swiss guards actually guard the gated entrance.
The official population of Vatican City hovers somewhere around eight hundred citizens, but there were thousands of people in the square — faithful Catholics — and they all wanted to meet the head of their church.
Michelle and I didn’t have a chance.
We went on a hunt for tickets to the Sunday Mass. Five thousand tickets are available each week, and once they are gone, they are gone. I approached a Swiss guard.
“Halt!” he said.
His colorful outfit made him look more like a court jester than a pope protector. I continued walking toward him. He panicked, lowered his spear in my direction, and yelled “Halt!”
A real security guard ran up to me. The Swiss guards are more for show — it’s the guys in suits with earpieces and handguns that you need to watch out for.
“I’m looking for tickets to Sunday’s Mass,” I explained. “I was told to ask a Swiss guard.” He apologized and broke the news that Sunday’s Mass was completely booked.
I was crestfallen. Not only would we not be meeting the pope, but we wouldn’t even get to attend Mass. As a concession, he let me snap a photo of the Swiss guard.
We walked to the Vatican post office. My e-mails and phone calls and letters and faxes had failed, so I made one last-ditch effort to reach the Holy Father. I purchased three postcards and wrote the same request on each. I handed them to the postal clerk.
“Three stamps, please,” I said.
“What country?” he asked.
“To the Pope.”
The clerk looked at the mailing address. Papa Francesco, 00120,
Citta del Vaticano.
He looked up at me. “Yes,” I nodded. “You literally just need to send these about two hundred yards over the wall.”
He handed me three stamps with the Pope’s face on them. That must be a weird experience, to receive letters from your own private post office, each bearing your own personal stamp. We popped our cards in the bright yellow postbox and prayed for a miracle.
At around 10:00 pm on a rainy night in Monte Cassino, I received a Skype voicemail.
“Hello, this is Father Alfred. I am the Holy Father’s personal aide. Come to the domus Sanctae Marthae at noon tomorrow.”
I jumped on the bed and howled to my wife, “We’re going to the pope’s personal Mass!”
By Vatican law, the Pope is entitled to live in the Papal Apartments in the Apostolic Palace. Instead, Pope Francis has chosen to live in a spare bedroom in the Domus Sanctae Marthae. He explained his motivation in a Jesuit periodical: “I cannot live alone. I must live my life with others.”
The Domus Sanctae Marthae was built in 1996 at the behest of Pope John Paul II. It was named after Martha, the servant-hearted sister of Mary and Lazarus. The Domus Sanctae Marthae is the guesthouse for visiting clergy and guests of the Holy See. It’s also where the College of Cardinals have their sleepover during conclave, the time of seclusion when they choose a new pope. It was never intended to house the head of the Catholic church, but I couldn’t have been happier—we were headed to the pope’s house.
I knew exactly where the Domus Sanctae Marthae was located, having scouted it previously. It was drizzling rain when we reached St. Peter’s Square, and the street that led to the Vatican was blocked off. A large procession of dancers filled the streets, Latin Americans in colorful dresses. I panicked.
A police officer was redirecting traffic, and I aimed my vehicle at her. She blew her whistle as I pulled up alongside.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes,” she said. “You can’t park here.”
“Yes, I know.” I laughed. “But I need to drive up this street.” She shook her head. “This street is closed until one o’clock this afternoon.”
“Yikes,” I said. “I have a twelve o’clock meeting at the Vatican. Is there another road I can take?”
She shook her head again. “No, this is the only road in,” she said.
“The other road is a one-way.”
“Hmm.” I pondered. “Do you think maybe you could guide me through?”
“No,” she said. “Where are you going, anyway?”
“Ah, well, you see,” I stammered, “I’m . . . I’m going to the pope’s house.”
Her look said it all. Sure you are, buddy.
“I’m serious!” I grinned. “Twelve noon at the Domus Sanctae Marthae. I was told to ask for Monsignor Alfred.”
I think she believed me, but she still wouldn’t let me through.
We found parking and quickly walked back to St. Peter’s Square, maybe a mile in all. The rain had picked up, so we huddled under a made-in-China umbrella, trying not to get wet. Several thousand people were gathered in the Egg, watching the public Mass on four giant waterproof screens.
Inside the basilica, all five thousand seats were fully booked.
It started pouring rain — pounding drops, reminiscent of a Noahic downpour. We crossed over to Via Paulo VI and walked up to the Swiss guards. I handed them our passports, and one gratefully retired to a dry hut to process our entry. We chatted with the other guard while we waited.
The first guard returned with our passports. “You’re good to go,” he said. “You’ll probably be stopped a number of times, so just mention your names and where you’re headed.”
We thanked the guards and took our first steps into a new country — the Holy See. As per my original plan, we walked through the Piazza dei Protomartire Romani, past the Ufficio Parrocchiale and the Ufficio Scavi, all the way to the front door of the Domus Sanctae Marthae. We didn’t even have to knock.
We did, however, have to go through five security checkpoints in less than two hundred yards, each manned by real security guards. They were courteous but on high alert. Once we stepped inside, the guards were totally relaxed. “May I take your jacket?” one asked. He could. “Would you like a plastic bag for your umbrella?” he offered. I would.
Michelle and I were so excited. We were about to attend a private Mass with the pope! While the odds were slim, I hoped we’d have a chance to say hello and maybe ask him a question about prayer. I had prepared a question, just in case. I had even gone online to see if he
spoke English. I’d learned that Francis speaks at least seven languages, including possibly English. I’d seen video of the pope reading English, but I hadn’t discovered any clip where he conversed in English.
The guard ushered us into the waiting room. The room was dated, with white floors and brown tile edging. We sat in wooden chairs covered with fading green upholstery. There was a hardwood coffee table, a few nice paintings on the walls, and a sweet tube TV. “Monsignor Alfred will be in to see you in a moment,” the guard said.
My wife, Michelle, has an uncanny knack for having incredible first-time experiences.
For example, the first time I took her to a county fair, she turned four quarters into twenty dollars by playing the dice game crown and anchor. The first time Michelle ever watched a football game was on February 3, 2008, when the New York Giants beat the New England Patriots — one of the greatest football games in history.
Now Michelle was about to celebrate her first Catholic Mass — at the pope’s house. With the pope.
Monsignor Alfred appeared. He wore a long black robe with a white collar, thin glasses, and a big smile. He had perfect teeth. “Welcome to the Vatican!” he said.
We shook hands.
“Jay, so very nice to meet you,” he said.
“Monsignor Alfred, I — ”
He put up his hand. “Please,” he said, smiling, “just call me Father Alfred. And this must be your wife.”
As he shook her hand, he started singing “Michelle” by the Beatles.
“Father Alfred,” I asked, “I’m curious — how did you hear about us? Did you read my postcards?”
Father Alfred looked confused. “No. I received your fax.”
The best thirty dollars I’ve ever spent.
So, Father Alfred,” I asked, “what time does the private Mass begin?”
“I’m sorry?” He looked confused again.
“When does the Father’s private Mass begin?” I repeated.
“The Holy Father just finished public Mass a few minutes ago,” he said. “Didn’t you see it outside on the monitors?”
Now I was confused. I had assumed we had been invited to the pope’s personal Mass. Apparently it was canceled on days when the pope held a public Mass.
Father Alfred beamed. “He’ll be out to meet you in a moment.”
While it’s of little importance in the grand scheme of things, you might be interested to know what we wore for our papal visit. We had been on our round-the-world prayer pilgrimage for many months at this point, and I didn’t have a single collared shirt in my bag. On such short notice, we didn’t have time to make a shopping stop, nor did I feel like dragging a suit around the world for the rest of the year.
I had asked our host in Rome — the boyfriend of one of my childhood sweethearts — if I could borrow a few items. He graciously offered me a pair of black shoes, black pants, and a black shirt. I put on the outfit. The shirt was enormous, reminiscent of billowing ship sails. The pants, on the other hand, were about four inches too short, exposing both my white socks and my pasty white ankles.
I pulled my pants lower, not unlike a Brooklyn gangster whose arrest we had witnessed a few months earlier. I looked in the mirror. I looked like a mafia bodyguard in a parachute at a funeral.
I had kept the shoes and shirt, but switched back to denim. My wife, on the other hand, had no alternate clothing options. They say that success in life is doing the best you can with what you’ve got, and we had tried our best.
We met the pope in jeans and yoga pants.
I could see the pope walking in our direction. The near impossibility of our meeting cannot be stated enough. The pope receives thousands of letters every day, from faithful people far more deserving than I, yet I was having a personal meet and greet with less than twenty-four hours’ notice.
Father Alfred explained that we’d have about one minute with the pope and could ask him one question about prayer. He turned to walk away.
“Wait, Father Alfred!” I cried. “Does the pope speak English?”
It was too late. The pope had walked into the room. I could feel my heartbeat thumping in my throat.
Dressed in an all-white robe, Pope Francis wore a little white beanie on his head and a small smile on his face. We shook hands.
“Hello,” he said. “So nice to meet you.”
He was soft spoken, but not soft. He shook hands with Michelle. He was about my height, with big, droopy, puppy-dog eyes. He maintained steady eye contact—an assured confidence won by decades of trusting God instead of himself.
“Father, may I ask you a question?”
“Yes, of course!” he said in broken English.
“What does prayer mean to you?” I asked.
He looked confused and shook his head. “I don’t understand the question.”
Gratefully, Michelle managed to cobble together some Spanish. “¿Cuál es el significado de la oración?” she asked.
His face lit up. “Ah, yes, prayer!” He smiled. “Yes! Prayer is opening up your heart to God!”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and opened his hands. “In silence, it is letting God’s power come inside you.”
We were all silent for a moment, and I don’t remember what else was said.
I remember being struck by the feeling that Pope Francis was genuinely kind. I do remember that he maintained physical contact with me for most of our short conversation—he shook my hand, held my arm while we talked, then held my hand.
“Please pray for me,” he said.
I liked that. Here was the pope—model of Jesus, head of the Catholic church, symbol of infallibility—admitting his great need for God.
I needed to do more of that.
The pope gave us presents. He reached for a silver tray and handed us two little boxes— a red one for me and a white one for Michelle. Though he knew we were Protestants, each box contained a prayer-related gift—a crucifix and a rosary.
Add it to Michelle’s list of incredible firsts—her first rosary was a gift from the pope.
The boxes were stamped with the papal insignia and Pope Francis’s personal motto: “Miserando Atque Eligendo.”
Lowly but chosen.
This was an excerpt from Jared Brock’s A Year of Living Prayerfully.
Get it here for free.
A beautiful story. His Holiness sounds like he truly lived up to his name. May he rest in peace.