By Marshall Neal
This morning, as the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica tolled for the passing of Pope Francis, a solemn hush settled over the Catholic world. The 266th successor of St. Peter has gone to his eternal rest, and with his departure, the most sacred and secretive process in the Church’s life is set into motion.
The eyes of the world now turn toward Rome with quiet wonder and no small amount of curiosity. How, many are asking, does the Church choose a new pope? The answers are not simply procedural. They are profound—rooted in centuries of tradition, sealed by ritual, and guided by nothing less than the Holy Spirit.
With the death of a pope, the papal office is immediately vacant. Known as sede vacante—literally “the seat being vacant”—this period marks a brief but pivotal pause in the governance of the Church. Vatican officials, with few exceptions, lose their authority. Decisions of global importance are deferred. And into this stillness enters the Camerlengo, the cardinal responsible for verifying the pope’s death and initiating the preparations for what comes next.
Nine days of mourning follow, during which the Church prays for the soul of the departed pontiff. The Pope is laid in state, funeral Masses are held, and cardinals from across the globe begin to arrive in Rome. They come not as power brokers, but as men called to bear a terrible and beautiful responsibility: to elect the next Vicar of Christ.
Only those under the age of 80 are permitted to vote in the conclave. These roughly 120 cardinals, drawn from the farthest corners of the world, bring with them no campaign banners, no speeches, and no ambitions—at least, not ideally. Instead, they gather to discern, to pray, and to listen for the voice of God.
When the day arrives, the cardinals process silently into the Sistine Chapel. There, beneath Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, they swear oaths of secrecy and fidelity. Then the great doors are closed, locked from the outside. The world is shut out. The conclave has begun.
The word “conclave” itself comes from cum clave—“with a key.” And it is more than symbolic. For the next several days, the cardinals will live in seclusion, cut off from all contact with the outside world. They surrender their phones. They give up interviews and media statements. They are, in the deepest sense, alone together before God.
Each morning begins with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Then the voting begins. Ballots are handwritten, collected, and counted. It takes a two-thirds majority to elect a new pope—no simple feat, and no trivial matter. After each vote, the ballots are burned in a special stove. If no pope is elected, chemicals are added to the fire to produce black smoke—fumata nera—that billows from the chimney atop the chapel, signaling the world to wait.
But when a name finally reaches the threshold—when enough hearts are moved in unison—something changes. The ballots are burned clean. White smoke—fumata bianca—rises into the sky. A cry goes up from the square. The bells begin to toll. The wait is over.
Inside the chapel, the chosen man is asked a simple, eternal question: Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff? If he does, he chooses a name. He is led to a small room nearby known as the Room of Tears, where he dons the white cassock of the papacy for the first time. It is said that even the strongest of men weep there, as the weight of the office settles upon their shoulders.
And then—at last—he steps out onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica. A cardinal deacon appears and speaks words that have thrilled and steadied the faithful for centuries: “Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum. Habemus Papam!”—“I announce to you a great joy. We have a Pope!”
It is a moment that transcends politics, culture, and even history. For Catholics, it is a testament to God’s enduring promise: that He will never abandon His Church.
In the days and weeks ahead, speculation will swirl. Commentators will guess. Names will be floated and dismissed. But beneath all of that, in the silence of the Sistine Chapel, the true work will unfold: the work of choosing a shepherd not by popularity, but by Providence.
It is not a political convention. It is not a campaign. It is a sacramental mystery.
And soon, the smoke will rise.
