My worst picture of Pope Francis
From "the archives"
Pope Francis passed away on Monday at the age of 88. In his memory, I wanted to share this reflection that I originally wrote back in 2018 on my Medium account (remember Medium? It was Substack before Substack). I’ve done some light editing and added footnotes for updates/context.
For my Catholic readers and all others mourning Pope Francis and celebrating his life this week, please know that you’re in my prayers.
This is a picture of Pope Francis.
No, not the hand. He’s on the other side: that vague, white-and-pink blur right behind the ring finger.
The hand belongs to an older lady who was standing just ahead of me in the crowd, waiting for Francis to cruise by in the Pope Mobile on his way to say Mass on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. We were both at the spot where the Benjamin Franklin Parkway curves around Sister Cities Park, a liver-shaped chunk of green space wedged between the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, and Logan Square; just two people out of 800,000 or 142,000, depending on who you ask.
She was actually behind me, at first, but I let her get in front of me. She was shorter than me by a head or two, and it seemed like the sort of simple act of kindness that Francis would encourage. I was a little worried that she might get in the way of the world-class pictures I was planning on taking — the justification for lugging my Canon Rebel XTi a mile through pedestrians and security — but I figured, worst came to worst, I could shoot over her head.
Soon, Francis came around the corner. The Pope Mobile was rushing a bit to reach the Art Museum on time, zipping by at a speed that required Archbishop Chaput,1 riding in the back seat, to keep a hand on his purple zucchetto to prevent it from flying off. But Francis was still standing, and waving to the crowd. I lifted my camera, lined up the shot, focused —
And caught a whole lot of hand.
To say I was unhappy would be an understatement. But whenever I look through these pictures, I find that I always pull this one up with a certain amount of fondness. Even though Pope Francis is barely visible, this picture reminds me of the lesson he (indirectly) taught me about humility.
Five years ago today,2 Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio was elected to the papacy, taking on the name Francis. I have been alive for three popes, but this was the first election I got excited about: St. John Paul II was elected long before I was born, and and Benedict XVI’s election came at the end of my freshman year of college, when I was having lots of big College Freshman Thoughts about God and Life and Meaning and didn’t have much time to pay attention to church hierarchy.
I watched the end of the conclave in the cafeteria of the Jesuit high school where I work,3 along with a crowd of students who had stayed late to see the decision (and some who were just trying to watch ESPN on the other flatscreens). When Francis was elected, I remember initially being excited that he was a pope from the Americas — a change! But then someone, apparently quicker on the Wikipedia draw than I, shouted: “He’s a Jesuit!” That’s when we really went nuts.
Francis quickly established himself as everything I hoped a Jesuit pope (especially one who took on the name “Francis”) could be. He rode the bus! He refused to live in the Papal Palace! He talked about justice and solidarity and poverty! He rocks the all-white better than Sisqo!4
I was struck, in large part, by his humility. I’ve always recoiled a little from the luxurious wardrobes of many church leaders, the lush private residences and the episcopal bling. While the men wrapped in those trappings may have been holy (and many of them, unquestionably, are), it was hard to reconcile all of that flash with the simple, homeless Christ of the Gospels. Francis, on the other hand, really seemed to get it.
When he announced his visit to America in September 2015, I was thrilled to hear that he would be visiting Philadelphia. Not only is Philadelphia my favorite city and a place I consider home, but it felt like another typically down-to-earth Francis move (we consider ourselves underdogs in Philly, if you hadn’t heard). Even more exciting: my alma mater,5 St. Joseph’s Prep, would host a pilgrimage for students from Jesuit high schools across the country.
On September 24, our delegation arrived in Philadelphia, along with groups from 41 other Jesuit high schools. Thursday and Friday were spent listening to speakers and engaging in reflections centered around themes of Francis’ papacy. On Saturday, we processed down Broad Street in matching “2Philly4Francis” shirts, carrying signs and pontifical Fatheads, to attend his speech at Independence Hall. The massive security checkpoint on 6th Street was largely empty (maybe because people were scared away by press coverage portending logistical nightmares and traffic that would last an epoch) and we entered the Mall with relative ease. After spending a few hours sitting in the grass, we moved down to 5th Street, where Francis would pass on his way to the Hall, for a better look.
The crowd was energetic. People wore newspapers folded in the shape of mitres, and waved flags from dozens of different countries. We spotted Baby Pope, across the street, before he was famous. Down the block, I noticed a man wearing a “Don’t Tread On Me” t-shirt over a Confederate flag long-sleeve who was, like, one-thousand-percent an undercover Secret Service agent.
We waited, our students chatting with a couple of Jesuits who were also part of the pilgrimage. Updates came in from friends further up the route, announcing Francis’ approach. And finally, the crowds on our block began to cheer and scream.
The Pope Mobile turned the corner, slowly, and there he was. All in white, zucchetto off, smiling like my grandfather. Adrenaline hit me, and I began snapping pictures, standing on my toes, ducking around people, hitting the shutter button again and again. I became aware that I was cursing under my breath, overwhelmed and elated. When he passed, everyone around me was beaming. I turned to one of the Jesuits, and saw that his face was streaked with tears. And when I reviewed the pictures I had taken, some of them were truly incredible. This is my favorite:
Now you’re probably wondering: If he got pictures like this, why is he complaining about the one that got blocked?
You know what? That’s a great question.
Like Pope Francis, St. Ignatius of Loyola — the founder of the Jesuits — put a lot of stock in humility. An essential part of humility, he wrote, is detachment — that is, freedom from your own biases and preferences so that you can always follow God’s lead.
For Ignatius, this was the flip side of “finding God in all things.” Yes, God is present in all aspects of life, and the “created things” of the world can bring us closer to God; but we also must be careful not to become so attached to any of these things that they replace God. The example I always used with my students was money: it’s not a bad thing in and of itself, and you need it to survive. But once accruing and holding onto money becomes your primary goal, it’s become an unhealthy attachment, an idol.
Ignatian detachment, then, is not so much a rejection of material things as it is the virtue of cultivating a critical distance.
I got some great pictures of Pope Francis at Independence Mall, and that should have satisfied me. But it didn’t. If anything, those pictures stoked my ego further, made me want to get even better pictures the next day that I could show off. This was foremost on my mind when we went down to the Ben Franklin Parkway on Sunday. It made me hesitate, when the older woman asked to switch spots at the barricade. And when I saw that her hand had blocked my picture, I was furious.
But we still had several hours to go. Francis had yet to celebrate Mass, and when he did it was full of orchestral music, long pauses as lectors and con-celebrants navigated the stage, and Eucharistic Ministers went out to feed the 800 (or 142) thousand.6 I had plenty of time to reflect.
I thought about the day before, when I had taken my best batch of pictures. I remembered cursing under my breath as I struggled to get the perfect shot. I remembered the tears on the Jesuit’s face. I realized that I had no actual memory of seeing Pope Francis, except through my viewfinder.
I love taking pictures, and often that’s a great thing. But in this case, my attachment to it distracted me from what was really special about that moment: the rare chance to be in Francis’ presence, to fully observe how he responded to the people who thronged around him, his kindness to the children who were brought forward for a blessing.
Realizing this, my anger at the woman ahead of me melted. In a way, she’d given me a gift. She had shaken me out of my preoccupation with capturing the pope, and turned my attention towards listening to him. I realized that this pilgrimage wasn’t about what I could show off when I got home. It was about what I could learn, if I had the humility to pay attention.
When I look back now, my memories of the few moments I spent in physical proximity to Francis are blurred and frantic. I can tell you what’s in the pictures, but there’s little I can add from my own experience.
What I remember most clearly, on the other hand, was a moment that was impossible to capture. Pope Francis ended his Independence Mall address by asking us all to join him in praying the “Our Father,” in English. My group joined hands in a circle, bowed our heads, and prayed as Francis’ voice echoed through the speaker system. My eyes were closed, my camera at my feet. Around us, hundreds of other Catholics, from across the country, around the world, said the same words. It was a moment of sublime unity, all of us connected in something both transcendent and profoundly simple.
Now Archbishop Emeritus :-)
This was originally posted on March 13, 2018. Funny and ominous to think of the other anniversary we now mark on March 13
Worked :-)
This extremely anachronistic joke was, further anachronistically, inspired by a line from the Red Cafe/Fabolous song “Bling Blaow Pt. 2” because ?????? I don’t know, man, in 2018 I was still finding my authorial voice in a lot of ways.
And current employer
A little Lore for you: there were, naturally, thousands of ciboria used at this Mass, and afterwards the Archdiocese had to do something with them. We ended up with a bunch at SJP, which is what we use at our all-school liturgies now