In the span of his infant papacy, Robert Prevost hasn’t had time to make many decisions besides what to say from the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica, what to wear when he said it, and what name to take as pope. This last choice is the most instructive. As the novelist Laurence Sterne once wrote, names exert “a strange kind of magick bias” on their subjects. This is especially true for popes, ever since Jesus told a Jewish fisherman named Simon that he would be called Peter, the rock on which Christ built his Church. Many observers try to discern the politics of a new pope through his chosen name, searching the past for Christians who shared it. They may be disappointed to find that the name Leo resists easy ideological categorization. As read through both Church and world history, the name suggests something much different than mere progressivism or conservatism.
In the run-up to the conclave, most observers saw Leo as aligned with Pope Francis’s legacy. Like his immediate predecessor, Leo prioritized concerns for the poor and marginalized, particularly those in the global South, and Francis had recently tapped him for major roles in Rome. But unlike Francis—who idiosyncratically selected a papal name that had never been used—Leo went back in time, by more than 100 years, and also by more than 1,000. His choice by no means signals a rejection of Francis; in fact, it seems to affirm their connection. But it also suggests that the new pope is more invested in pursuing continuity within the deep tradition of the Church.
After Leo finished his opening remarks at St. Peter’s Basilica, a Vatican spokesperson explained that his name was meant to invoke two predecessors: the last Leo and the first. When viewing the papacies of Leo XIII and Leo I together, three themes emerge: a pronounced concern for the poor and oppressed, a renewal of the global life of the Church through unity and tradition, and a holy challenge to secular power.
Leo XIII, who reigned from 1878 to 1903, is best remembered for his encyclical Rerum Novarum or On Capital and Labor, which begins by describing the contemporary world as one in which “a small number of very rich men have been able to lay up on the teeming masses of the labouring poor a yoke which is very little better than slavery itself.” Against this reality, Leo XIII affirmed the rights of workers to receive a living wage, form unions, and strike. This may seem self-evident and even paternalistic now, but in the late 19th century, it wasn’t. Rerum Novarum was a major statement of papal support for the weak against the powerful, in a world not unlike ours: marked by growing inequality, limited worker rights, and harsh working conditions. The encyclical also inaugurated modern Catholic social teaching, and several later popes anchored their teaching on human dignity in Leo XIII’s work.
But Leo XIII was much more than a reformer. Through another encyclical, Aeterni Patris, he helped revive traditional Scholastic philosophy, elevating the teaching of the medieval theologian Saint Thomas Aquinas to singular preeminence in the Church. Leo XIII also cut against his reputation among some as a progressive when he sided with conservative U.S. prelates against lay Catholics who were trying to establish greater interreligious dialogue in America.
The new Leo—the Church’s first American pope—will likely take a different view of American Catholicism’s role in public life. In February, an account on X that appeared to belong to Prevost shared an article pushing back on Catholic Vice President J. D. Vance, who had recently invoked the theological concept of ordo amoris as a justification for prioritizing the concerns of one’s fellow countrymen over others. In response, the profile bearing Prevost’s name tweeted the headline of the essay: “JD Vance is wrong; Jesus doesn’t ask us to rank our love for others.”
That statement is in keeping with the teaching of the Augustinians, a centuries-old religious order that the new Leo led. The order follows the monastic rule set forth by the fourth-century theologian Saint Augustine of Hippo, which prescribes a communal life of prayer and works focused on the needs of others, with no distinctions made according to national identity.
Likewise, the first Pope Leo sought to resolve global discord. During his reign from 440 to 461, various breakaway movements were dividing the Church, as were debates about Mary and her motherhood of Christ. Leo I was so successful in bridging the Church’s several divides across Europe and Africa that he became popularly known to Catholics as Leo the Great. Like his ancient predecessor, Leo XIV also faces a geopolitically divided Church, largely split between the West and the global South. A new set of questions cleaves Catholics today, particularly those related to the role of women in the Church as well as the Church’s ongoing efforts to engage LGBTQ Catholics.
But that would be true of any pope in 2025, choosing any name. Perhaps the most provocative connection between Leo I and the new pope goes well beyond immediate Catholic concerns. In 452, Leo I risked his life by traveling hundreds of miles from Rome to meet Attila the Hun, who was in the midst of a murderous campaign across continental Europe. Leo is said to have dressed in papal finery and flattered Attila by praising his military successes. But he also directly challenged Attila. According to ancient testimony, Leo concluded the meeting with a religious plea that was just as much a blunt challenge: “Now we pray that thou, who hast conquered others, shouldst conquer thyself.” Popular legend has it that Attila decided against attacking Rome after he met with Leo, sparing countless lives.
The new pope will face no such threat, of course, but he takes office at a time when expansionist strongmen are ascendant around the world. Whether—or perhaps, how—he follows the legacy of his namesake in this area, among many others, will help shape the future of both the Church and the world.
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