A new pope is named, and we begin to distrust him almost instantly. The name doesn’t matter, nor the nationality, nor the résumé. Something feels off. No one ascends that far without compromise. No one rises that high without owing something, without keeping quiet, without cutting deals. This isn’t cynicism—it’s memory. We’ve seen the same scene before, just with a different actor. We’ve read the script in the archives of history. The vestments change, but not the theater.
We’re told he’s progressive. That he takes public transit. That he wears no jewelry. That he cooks for himself. That he spends time with the poor. That he speaks multiple languages. That he’s a missionary. That he comes from a migrant family. That he’s circled the globe twice. And every gesture feels calculated. Because if he were truly humble, he wouldn’t need to perform it. And if he performs it—what’s the goal? Who stands to gain? What exactly is he trying to scrub clean?
Maybe he hasn’t done anything egregious. Maybe he just forgot to return a book to the Dolton Public Library. Maybe he once said something ignorant about homosexuality or the family—years ago or just last month—and someone, somewhere, will hold him to it. Maybe he survived the Curia without fully betraying his convictions. But even that invites suspicion. Because surviving in that machinery without breaking, without bending, without losing your soul, feels more miraculous than the miracles they canonize. And we’ve stopped believing in those. A long time ago.
We hear him speak. Calm voice, composed face. Italian, Spanish. He says the right things: justice, peace, compassion, reform. He repeats noble words with the cadence of psalms. And still, something doesn’t quite land. Not because of what he says, but because of what he doesn’t. Or the way he says it. Or the fact that he’s permitted to say it. If he can say it—does that mean he poses no real threat? That he’s already been absorbed? That they need him, now?
We watch him with the kind of skepticism that only comes from having once believed. And that makes it worse. Not because we expect sanctity, but because we’re tired—tired of farces, tired of hastily assembled saints, tired of redeemers who end up comfortably seated in power, blessing the very things they once denounced.
And yet something in us resists absolute cynicism. A small part, worn down but intact, wants this pope to be different. To not be another act in the same old play. To mean what he says. To tremble from conviction, not from strategy. To think of people, not abstractions, when he says “the poor.” To know what it costs when he speaks of forgiveness. To move toward peace not in rhetoric, but in action. To name God without assuming possession.
We don’t expect purity. No one is pure. But maybe a measure of courage. A sliver of truth. A willingness to confront conflict, not avoid it. A refusal to repeat the narrative we know by heart.
That’s why we watch him with suspicion, but not with indifference. Because it still matters. There’s still something left that might change. Something small, but real. Something moral—or ethical. Maybe what religion was supposed to be for. Or still could be. A way to remain in the world without total surrender to cynicism. A crack through which hope might still get in. Even if we mock it. Even if we don’t admit it. Even if we pretend not to care.
Because if we truly expected nothing, we wouldn’t be looking.
And we are looking.