On the sixth day, the Bible says, God created all land animals and humankind. On the seventh day, God rested. And finally, just a few weeks ago, the pope himself said: SIX SEVEN. A group of Italian schoolchildren visiting the Vatican put him up to it. When they showed Pope Leo XIV the hand gesture, a meaningless and wildly popular trend among Gen Z and Gen Alpha, he responded with befuddlement. But then he did his best to imitate it — and the kids went wild.
The ensuing virality was, in retrospect, predictable. The pope is experienced, dignified, stately; 6-7 is youthful Dadaist nonsense. But that’s not the whole story. One week later, another viral clip made clear that the pontiff was already getting more comfortable with his 6s and 7s. It shows him moving through the Italian city Acerra in the Popemobile, waving to people gathered to witness his visit. Then, appearing to notice that he’s being filmed, he looks right at the camera, arches his eyebrows meaningfully — as in, Check this out — and does the thing.
Again “Pope does meme” made international news. (“What a time to be alive,” the world’s largest Catholic news organization wrote in a caption on TikTok.) But what makes Pope Leo memes so reliably sticky? Part of it comes down to memes’ existential reliance on juxtaposition: high and low, solemn and goofy, TV shows and real life. Or the papacy and brain-rot humor. Memes work by smushing these contrasting elements together. Right? the meme asks. Right! we say back — when it’s working, anyway. The internet also memed Leo’s predecessor, Francis, into distinctly contemporary situations. But Leo’s Normal Guy From Chicago vibe has made memes in this mode irresistible since his election last year: Leo (“Da Pope”) as Blues Brother — on, of course, “a mission from God.” Leo replacing eucharist wafers with deep-dish pizza. I could fill this entire column with more examples and still only be skimming the surface.
In recent weeks — following not only his increasingly sentient 6-7s but the publication of “Magnificent Humanity,” a church encyclical that called for A.I. to be “disarmed” — the trend expanded significantly. Soon there were posts about printing out the encyclical and gathering to read it with friends over margaritas; memes about lapsed Catholics or nonbelievers feeling “the atheism leaving my body”; memes likening data-center attacks to holy wars. Then it seemed as if anything the pope did that lightly grazed contemporary pop culture would go viral, like a video of Leo in the cockpit of a plane, which spawned screenshots of him smiling like a kid.
We don’t know what’s in Leo’s heart. Perhaps he’s as clueless about his viral life as he first appeared to be about 6-7. But his everywhereness suggests that people online are viewing him through a new pop cultural lens, and I suspect this has something to do with Donald Trump. While all popes have taken stances on contemporary issues, only recently has this meant sparring with the president (and vice president) of the United States, directly criticizing his administration on headline issues like the war in Iran and immigration — and being directly trashed in return by Trump on Truth Social.
This has catapulted Leo to new prominence in the digital realm. For all of Trump’s rising unpopularity, the internet remains shaped by his affect. He has long used memes to create a linked network of stories about himself (awesome, beautiful) and his enemies (deranged scum). Others — many others — in the political sphere have tried to use their own version of Trump’s meme strategy; none have matched his nose for finding what works.
Leo is a different kind of character in the internet landscape. He isn’t a politician (not in any conventional sense of the word, anyway), which means that he doesn’t have to fight for attention — his constituents are built-in. Plus, his visage comes preloaded with an old-school meme technology: Catholicism itself, with its long tradition of image-making and image-contemplation as forms of devotion to God and Godly existence. Memes that pit Leo against Trump often have an air of wish fulfillment that recalls cinematic epics like “The Lord of the Rings” and “Dune,” in which, in some decisive battle, a previously uncommitted — but extremely powerful — party steps off the sidelines and enters the fray, tipping the balance to vanquish the forces of darkness.
A.I. is a source of existential anxiety and, like Trump, a pollutant of the global visual storybook where our collective mythos is formed. Part of why people latch on to clips of Leo 6-7ing is because they’re heartwarmingly goofy. (Since his visit to Acerra, he has done the gesture on several more occasions, looking more delighted and knowing each time.) But they also allow us to imagine that Leo knows what he’s doing: that he’s not just ready to fight, not just willing to pick up whatever tools will get the job done, but is also … weirdly good at it?
The Catholic Church’s imagery — icons, crosses, churches and their stained-glass windows — helps it to tell stories about Christianity and its place in the world. These images exist to be understood and enjoyed at a glance. Online jokes follow a similar logic: They don’t just celebrate a certain way of looking at the world, but they invite the viewer into that celebration. Maybe you smile or chuckle. Maybe you repost. Maybe you start making your own. And while pope memes are no proof that Trump or A.I. will lose, they do show how many people are eager to cheer a new challenger entering the ring.
Peter C. Baker is a writer in Evanston, Ill., and the author of the novel “Planes.”
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