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  For my parents: my mother, whose lasting wish was to ride around Heaven on a motorcycle; my father, whose last instruction to me was to “keep the faith”; and for Eva, who showed me the view of Rome from the Villa Borghese.

  PROLOGUE

  On February 11, 2013, a seven-hundred-year-old tradition was shattered: Pope Benedict XVI, former protector of doctrine and loyal heir of the long-suffering John Paul the Great, made a startling announcement. After eight years in the papacy, he would, owing to his advanced age, resign, but would retain the title of “Pope Emeritus” for his lifetime.

  Within weeks, the great doors of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican were sealed and the cardinals, drawn into conclave for the second time in less than a decade, were asked to choose a new spiritual leader for the Catholic Church’s 1.28 billion followers. When the doors opened again a few days later, the charismatic Argentinian Jorge Bergoglio, who would take the name Francis, had been elected. The world, for the first time since the year 1415, had two living popes.

  The reasons for Benedict’s cataclysm became fodder for speculation. A pope, surely, must die on the job. Wasn’t this an integral part of the job description? Not just tradition; it was virtually dogma. As The Washington Post, citing a theological expert, explained: “Most modern popes have felt that resignation is unacceptable except in cases of an incurable or debilitating disease—that paternity, in the words of Paul VI, cannot be resigned.”

  Pope Benedict’s resignation was not entirely unprecedented, nor was the dilemma of two living popes. In the long history of the church, three popes have now resigned, while 263 did not. Pope Gregory XII resigned in 1415 in the midst of a political struggle between Italy and France over who really controlled the Catholic Church. But we have to return to 1294, to Celestine V, to find a pope who decided, of his own volition—out of a “longing for the tranquility of his former life”—to step down.

  The reaction at the time to Celestine’s bombshell was outrage. There is a passage from the third canto of the Inferno, in Dante’s Divine Comedy, where Virgil is guiding Dante through the Gates of Hell. Before they reach the Inferno they pass into an antechamber filled with a cacophony of agonizing cries of those miserable souls who lived a life “without disgrace and without praise”; in effect, people worse than sinners, who had failed to act, failed to believe, or failed to deliver on promises made. Dante stares at the doomed faces of the terminally bland until, at one point, he sees a man and writes: “I saw and recognized the shade of him who made, through cowardice, the great refusal.” That man was, of course, Pope Celestine V, whose defection so horrified the great Italian poet that he immortalized him in his magnum opus.

  So, knowing the outrage a papal resignation would cause, why did Benedict, the most traditional pope of the modern era, do the most untraditional thing imaginable? Poor health alone is not seen as a valid explanation; in fact, it has usually been an asset to a pope, in that it reenacts—for all to see—Christ’s suffering on the cross. An additional mystery has to be sorted: How could this ultraconservative protector of the faith, guardian of doctrine, even contemplate resigning when, as he very well knew, he would be surrendering the Chair of St. Peter to the radical Jorge Bergoglio, a man so different from him in character and views?

  This book tells the tale of two popes, both possessed of tremendous and inalienable authority: an odd couple whose destinies converged and who influenced each other profoundly.

  Let us consider Benedict first, the former Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, an intellectual German, suspicious of humor, a luxury-savoring introvert and somewhat dandyish dresser—he revived the papal tradition of wearing red velvet slippers, and commissioned and sported a perfume maker to create a signature fragrance for his sole use—who feels the church’s refusal to yield and change is its greatest strength and is, indeed, the secret of its timeless durability. While sincere about his sacred duties, he’s a man completely lacking the common touch. A reclusive theologian wholly without in-the-field experience. Not known to be a fan of any sport. Has never, to our knowledge, spoken a romantic word to another soul.

  Francis, on the other hand—or, as we will first encounter him, Cardinal Bergoglio—is a charismatic, fun-loving Argentinian, on the surface a humble man, an extrovert, a simple dresser (he wore the same pair of black shoes for twenty years, still wears a Swatch), and an on-again, off-again advocate of liberation theology, a Catholic movement that seeks to aid the poor and oppressed through direct involvement in political and civic affairs. He’s a man with the common touch. A man of the people. Once even had a girlfriend. Worked as a bouncer at a tango club. An ardent fan of football.

  “Sin” is a theme in both men’s lives, more specifically the grace and extra wisdom that come if a sinner can acknowledge their failings and put their sins behind them. How much wiser, how much more valuable as a future teacher and healer and guide, is the person who has a full, firsthand understanding of a particular human weakness or failing or problem, and who has then risen from this place of dark insight to see the true dimensions of this problem. Alternatively, how much less valuable, and even more dangerous, the one who has failed in this regard.

  Jorge Bergoglio openly labels himself a sinner, continually points out that this is not some euphemism, some mere turn of phrase. He has sinned. He goes even further, controversially stating that it is not enough to enact the ritual of confession of sins to a priest. One must take practical steps to atone for those sins in one’s daily life, make real and deep changes. No one gets a clean scorecard with just a quick visit to a priest in his confessional. One must act. As he has said, “Sin is more than a stain that can be removed by a trip to the dry cleaner. It is a wound that needs to be treated, healed.”

  This logic suggests a true reformist agenda, one that, if permitted, would reach naturally into many other areas of belief and doctrinal teaching. Why, for instance, should a celibate priest feel confident to lecture on sexual matters? Surely the church ought, with similar frankness, to admit that it is not best qualified to impose its views in this arena. How should such celibate, sex-denying men judge their sexually active parishioners, whose experience of life will be much more complete and varied than theirs? As Frank Sinatra once quipped, “Your Holiness, you no play-a da game, you no make-a da rules.” Or how, for instance, can a celibate novice on the day of his ordination, when asked to renounce sex for the rest of his life, be wise enough to know what he is saying no to? He cannot know. If this naïf has never explored his own sexual drives, what is he to do should these drives one day make themselves felt? Like so many before him, he will be forced into a double life, with sometimes disastrous consequences, and sometimes many innocent victims. And what makes the church fit to say that only celibate men are fitting vessels for teaching from the pulpit God’s ministry? Also, if the story of Adam and Eve is, as Francis has said, merely a parable, not at all to be taken as literal fact, thus pouring considerable water on the whole seve
n-day creation myth, what else of the sacred scriptures ought to be considered make-believe? Is even the story of Christ rising from the dead and ascending bodily into Heaven also now only a parable? If the spirit of Francis’s frankness is logically extended into all areas of faith and dogma, where will the recalibrations end?

  The story that follows unfolds largely in a Vatican in crisis, swamped with scandals but denied simple remedies, aware of the need to change but fearful of what losses change will bring, with one pope who—because of his past—feels himself lacking in the moral authority, skills, and strength to deal with these scandals, and a second, new pope, who—because of his past—predicates his spiritual leadership of over two billion followers with the admission that he is a sinner.

  It is a crucial way station in the journey of an institution that has lasted two thousand years.

  * * *

  An interesting dilemma attends this situation of having two living popes, and it has to do with the concept of papal infallibility.

  Let us address it briefly.

  For two millennia the church has striven to avoid having two living popes and has almost entirely succeeded. Some pontiffs were even poisoned so that the situation never came up. And the reason? Why does a pope not just serve a term and then step down to be replaced by a younger man? Infallibility. The grace of infallibility. The gift of correctness, God’s gift to he who sits in St. Peter’s chair, the grace of being right, indisputably right—in the present and, most important, in the future, for time immemorial, on all matters of doctrine. When the pope speaks ex cathedra, that is from the Chair of St. Peter, speaking as pope and not as a private individual, his words form part of the Magisterium, that is, the official teaching of the Catholic Church, which has the power and authority of Christ behind it. How could Ratzinger and Bergoglio coexist and both be infallible, both be right … when they seem to disagree on so much? In fact, it would seem that as long as they both continue to coexist, they must serve as proof eternal that popes are fallible, as anytime they disagree, one pope will always be wrong. And a pope who is wrong, and is proven to be so by the mere existence of his twin, his countervailing voice, is no pope at all. For every papal pronouncement, there walks and breathes the rebuttal, the living counterargument—invalidating it. How can they both be God-filled and blessed by the gift of ultimate wisdom … and yet disagree?

  Given, then, that two papal points of view are, at the time of this writing, both available, Catholics (and even some leaders in the church) are able to choose which pope and which papal position best suits them, Benedictine or Franciscan, making very real the practical dilemma of having two men in white. The staunchly conservative American cardinal Raymond Burke, a vocal critic of Francis, told a Catholic newspaper in 2016, “My pope is Benedict.” A conservative former papal ambassador to the United States, Archbishop Carlo Maria Viganó, has even called for Francis to resign. In what some see as an act of revenge for Francis’s replacement of him as papal nuncio (a presumed punishment for Viganó’s setting up of a secret meeting with U.S. conservatives opposed to gay marriage), Viganó alleges that he once told Francis about the sexually abusive American cardinal Theodore McCarrick, and that Francis failed to take appropriate action until much later. Whether there is any truth to Viganó’s unsupported claim or not, it is unprecedented in modern times for a pope to be so mutinously attacked by his own clergy.

  But Benedict himself, in a rare letter released by the Vatican in September 2018, rebuked those who, like Burke, still pledge fealty to him, presenting instead a united front with Francis and sharply criticizing those who argue a discontinuity of theology, calling such anti-Franciscan anger a “foolish prejudice.” To return the compliment, Francis has publicly embraced his predecessor, whom he has likened to “having a wise grandfather at home.” Are the Burkes and Viganós within the church satisfied, chastened into silence? Not at all. Quite the contrary.

  In a world where the disinherited and disaffected strike out at power to often self-destructive effect, the Catholic Church is in very unusual and dangerous waters.

  * * *

  Joseph Ratzinger is a man of tremendous principle. This book will look into his past to decode the sources of his deep conviction that change is more a sign of weakness than of strength.

  His election as pope in 2005 surely represented a safe option, under the circumstances as they were. He was safe. After John Paul II’s theatrics, his outreach, his travel, travel, travel (was there an airport runway in the world left unkissed by his lips?), the mother church needed to rest, to do some housekeeping. Benedict, an eminent theologian, would reassert, protect, and strengthen ancient doctrine. In short, he would make sure overdue reforms remained overdue. This was his strength and value. Even as a child, he kept his bedroom notably tidy. On all the evidence, this son of a policeman believed that only in authority—in rules, in obedience under the law, in the indissoluble—will the faithful find true peace. Doubt, uncertainty, vacillation, and correction breed disaffection, despair, cynicism, and finally contempt. People’s souls, he would ask us to agree, ache for certainty. He has spoken repeatedly about what he sees as the greatest threat to this certainty: the spirit of relativism. He has despaired at so many winds of doctrine, so many ideological currents, so many new ways of thinking in recent decades. In such a world, how are we to know who speaks the truth? What is the truth? The world quakes with rival voices—Marxists, liberals, conservatives, atheists, agnostics, mystics—and in every breast the universal cry “I speak the truth! Only I!”

  No, says Ratzinger, there is but one truth. Saith the Lord, “I am the truth.” The center of Ratzinger’s teaching is that there must be a common reference point, an axis mundi, if we are to avert chaos and cataclysm and conflict. One truth, from which we can all navigate—this is the doctrinal position that might liken itself to a compass that points in all directions but needs to take as its starting point True North. Only then can it help travelers plot a journey and direct them on the right path. The same goes for human morality, he seems to be telling us. What is its True North? God. Without God, humanity has no agreed reference point, no axis mundi. Every opinion is as valid as every other. The truth becomes relative. Kill God and what you actually kill is any hope of absolute truth. Your truth is yours, mine is mine, locking each person into a prison of his or her own interpretation of good and evil.

  That is the great crisis of Western life, as Ratzinger perceived it: the curse of relativism. The damage done by it? He saw clearly how, in the English-speaking world at least, fewer and fewer were taking their fire from the flame lit by a two-thousand-year-old Christian faith. Take America. If ex-Catholics are considered a religious group of their own, they are now the fourth-largest religion in the United States. In Britain, more than half of people under forty now say they have no religion. Why have so many quietly, steadily shuffled out of the churches?

  There were other, more pressing crises waiting for him when he became pope—so many of them. Crimes were being committed by men of the cloth, by his colleagues, by his staff, fellow workers in the vineyard of the Lord. Crimes involving buttons, often children’s buttons, zippers, hands, genitalia, mouths; violations, betrayals, secrets, intimidations, lies, threats, trauma, despair, ruined lives; and such evils in a climate of sanctimony, to the scent of ancient incense. Each scandal, in its own way, would rock Benedict and erode his belief that he was the man who could solve it. Finally, he shocked the world. He did the unthinkable. He stepped down. And in doing so, ironically, this great traditionalist robbed the church of a crucial certainty upon which its remaining faithful had always relied: that a pope is pope for life.

  * * *

  At the other end of the spectrum, in so many respects, is Jorge Bergoglio, the reformer. No sooner had he become pope number 266 and taken the name Francis than the astonishing ad lib comments began. His was quickly the name on everyone’s lips, as was the universal refrain “The pope just said what?” A breath of fresh air, with a r
ock star’s charisma, there was a touch of John Lennon about him also (both men have been on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine), with a propensity for jaw-dropping statements to make even his most ardent fans gasp. To match Lennon’s remark that the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus now,” which threw fundamentalists in the American heartland into a spree of record-burning, there was Bergoglio’s astonishing announcement that even heathens can get to Heaven. Heathens? Really? These wooden-god worshippers, these Sunday slumberers, were they just as likely to be Heaven-bound? Then what was the point—many of the world’s Catholics rightly wondered—of all those thousandfold hours given over to knee-numbing prayer, all those sermons and upbraidings from the pulpit, all those visits to confession with ensuing penance, all those muted recitations of the Rosary, counting off with thumb and forefinger each bead on the string, all those Lenten fasts and all that sublimation of natural urges, all that God-demanded love, and finally all that guilt, so much guilt … for what? What … if not to have some advantage in securing the ultimate celestial reward? But the new pope confirmed it: it cannot be the heathen’s fault if he or she is born into a heathen culture. It is therefore quite unfair that only the God-reared, by accident of birth, should get the best and only rooms in the Heavenly hotel. With such remarks the new pope seemed intent on single-handedly reviving the spirit of the 1960s.

  But he wasn’t done surprising people. To homosexuals he offered the church’s apology, ex cathedra. It is not the church’s role to judge homosexuals, he proclaimed. He even reportedly told one gay man, Juan Carlos Cruz (a victim of sexual abuse), that “God made you like this and loves you like this and I don’t care. The pope loves you like this.” (Contrast this with Benedict, who called homosexuality “an intrinsic evil.”) Pope Francis has not ruled out married priests, either, saying “it is human to want one’s cake and eat it, too … naturally one wants the good things from the consecrated life and from the lay life also.” He is happy to admit the hypocrisy of the church’s current position, given that there are married priests already in remote corners of the Catholic empire, in the Greek and Russian branches. And he is happy to acknowledge that St. Peter himself had children. Clement IV and Adrian II were married before they took holy orders. Pius II had at least two illegitimate children. John XII is said to have died in the act. And let’s just say all those who took the name Pope Innocent did not exactly live up to the name.