I stood packed among tens of thousands in St. Peter’s Square on a warm May afternoon, waiting for a sign from above. The late spring sun cast long shadows across the colonnades as rumors and prayers floated through the multi-lingual buzz of the crowd. We were strangers from every continent—old Italian nonne fingering rosaries, excited students draped in flags, weary pilgrims who had camped overnight—yet we shared a quiet, collective anticipation.
In the air was that particular mix of anxiety and faith that only a centuries-old ritual can inspire. Would today be the day?
The Catholic Church has been hurting in our lifetimes. We all knew it, even as we stood there hoping. In Europe and North America especially, the faith of our ancestors has been in a decades-long retreat—pews emptying, vocations dwindling, parish doors shuttering.
In Germany alone, more than 500 Catholic churches have closed since the year 2000, stark symbols of a secularizing age. In the United States, barely one in four Catholics attends Mass weekly now, while about half seldom or never go at all.
We had each seen and felt this decline in our home parishes: the echo of half-empty churches, the disillusionment after scandals, the sense of a once-mighty institution aging and faltering. And yet, for reasons both personal and spiritual, we had all been drawn here to Rome. On this afternoon, under the gaze of Michelangelo’s dome, the Church felt alive again. For once, the narrative wasn’t about decline or division—it was about hope.
Just past six o’clock, a sudden gasp rippled through the crowd. All eyes snapped toward the small chimney atop the Sistine Chapel. At first, it was just a wisp—was it gray? No, it grew thicker and whiter, billowing out into the blue Roman sky.
“Fumo bianco! White smoke!” someone shouted in Italian, and the square erupted. I felt an electric surge of joy explode around me. Strangers began cheering, crying, even jumping in a spontaneous release of emotion.
The Vatican’s great bell rang out wildly, confirming what our eyes saw: Habemus Papam! We have a pope.
After days of tense conclave ballots and years of anxious waiting for renewal, the moment had come. The roar that rose from St. Peter’s Square in that instant was like nothing I’ve ever experienced—so loud and jubilant that the ancient stones under my feet seemed to tremble with the sound. People hugged whoever was closest. A group of nuns nearby laughed and wept at once. Above us, the white smoke kept pouring out, a heavenly signal to the world.
Then came a hush of expectation. We knew that in a matter of minutes the red drapes on the basilica’s central balcony would part and the new pope would emerge. Around me, one corner of the square had started singing an old Latin hymn to Mary; elsewhere people chanted “Viva il Papa!” in a swelling wave.
All differences of language or politics had faded—there was a strange, beautiful unanimity in that crowd, as if we were one body breathing and hoping together. Under the darkening Roman sky, illuminated by camera lights and the flicker of thousands of phone screens held aloft, we waited as one Church.
At last, a cardinal appeared and in formal Latin announced the news: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum: habemus Papam!” His voice echoed across the plaza. I had practiced my pathetic Latin and try to memorize the papabilia by heart, so my jaw dropped when I realized what he was saying—an American from Chicago had been elected the vicar of Jesus Christ.
It figured that in this era of surprises, even the papacy would deliver one more. I thought of the empty churches back home (including Pope Leo’s own parish, which had been condemned a few years ago) and felt a jolt of pride and wonder.
But what struck me more was how little it ultimately seemed to matter to those around me whether he was American or Italian or anything else. As the realization spread, the square soon burst into applause and cries of “Leo! Leo! Leo!”
Everyone just wanted to welcome him as our pope. In that moment, Pope Leo XIV wasn’t a stranger from Chicago; he was our pastor, instantly embraced by the global Catholic family gathered there.
Moments later, the red drapes rustled and opened. There he was: a modest figure in white and red, stepping out into the cool evening air for the first time as pope.
The crowd screamed with delight as the new pope—a bespectacled, gentle-looking man of almost 70—raised his hand awkwardly in a wave.
He looked overwhelmed and profoundly moved; giant screens showed his eyes glistening with tears as he gazed upon the square.
“Pace a voi!… Peace be with you!” he greeted us in Italian, his voice soft but steady through the loudspeakers. He invoked the words of the Risen Christ, wishing peace into every home and heart listening. In that vast square, under the Roman sky, his message felt intimate, spoken to each of us.
Recalling Pope Francis‘ final Easter blessing in St. Peter’s Square, Pope Leo said that Francis showed us that “God loves us, God loves you all, and evil will not prevail! We are all in God’s hands.”
He continued: “Therefore, without fear, united hand in hand with God and among ourselves, let us move forward.”
The phrase echoed out into the night air: God loves all of us, without any limits or conditions.
And looking around at the sea of faces from every nation and walk of life, I believed it.
It felt as if a giant heartbeat had started again. For an afternoon, at least, the Church’s wounds and disagreements seemed to fade away, replaced by a profound sense of communion.
In the crowd, I saw Catholics of every stripe—progressives and traditionalists, Europeans and Americans, Latin Americans, Africans, and Asians—united by something far greater than culture or politics. We had all witnessed something timeless: a fraternal transfer of religious leadership and a reaffirmation that the Church can still surprise us, still draw us together.
Outside the square, the Church still faces towering challenges. No single afternoon—no matter how joyous—can undo decades of scandal or secular drift. But as I stepped away from the colonnades, I carried something rare: a flicker of genuine hope for this wounded, wondrous community.
The Church calls itself semper reformanda—always reforming. That day, it wasn’t just an idea. As the bells tolled and the crowd cheered, I saw it made flesh. We are a broken people, yes—but also a people becoming.
In Leo’s tears and blessing, I caught a glimpse of what God still sees in us: not perfection, but promise—and the chance to begin again.
Christopher Hale is a Democratic operative from Tennessee. He led national Catholic outreach for President Obama’s reelection campaign and served as the cofounder of Catholics for Harris.
The views expressed in this article are the writer’s own.
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