The Heroes and Villians Series - Ancient Rome - The Founding of the Catholic Church and the First Popes

My Name Is Pope Leo I—Servant of the Servants of God

I was born in Tuscany, in the waning years of the 4th century, in a world that was shifting beneath our feet. Rome, the Eternal City, was crumbling—not in stones alone, but in spirit. The empire was being split, torn by barbarians from without and heresies from within. Yet, I felt the hand of Providence guiding me, calling me not to power, but to purpose.

My early life was devoted to learning. I studied deeply—Scripture, Latin rhetoric, and theology—and quickly found myself in service to the Church, assisting Popes and bishops alike. I never sought authority for its own sake, but others seemed to see in me a calm amid chaos. When Pope Sixtus III died in 440 AD, I was far from Rome, settling disputes in Gaul. Yet the Church, even without my presence, named me Bishop of Rome. And so I returned—not to glory, but to the weight of the fisherman’s ring, handed down from Peter himself.

The Shepherd of a Shaken World

I took the office at a time when Rome trembled. The city had lost its emperors. The West was fractured. The Vandals circled in Africa, and the Huns advanced like a storm from the East. But I believed the Bishop of Rome must not cower. I believed we must be more than administrators—we must be defenders of the faith, the people, and the truth of Christ.

Heretics had spread their confusion through the flocks. The Manichees, the Pelagians, and most dangerously, the Monophysites—those who claimed Christ had only one nature, divine and not truly human. I could not remain silent. At the Council of Chalcedon in 451, my letter—the Tome of Leo—was read aloud to all the bishops assembled. I declared, as plainly as I could, that Jesus Christ was one person with two natures, fully God and fully man. When they heard my words, they shouted in unison, “Peter has spoken through the mouth of Leo.” That was not pride, but affirmation—that the spirit of the first Apostle lived on through the office I now held.

I Faced the Scourge of God

But I did not face battles of doctrine alone. In 452, word reached me that Attila the Hun, the so-called Scourge of God, had crossed the Alps with his horsemen, ready to burn Rome to ash. There was no emperor to send. So I went—an old man in white robes, with nothing but faith and two companions. I met Attila on the banks of the Mincio River. We spoke privately. What passed between us, only he and God know fully. But when our conversation ended, Attila turned back. Rome was spared.

Some say it was diplomacy. Some say it was divine intervention. I say it was both. We must never doubt that a man of faith, bearing no sword, can stand before armies and change the course of history.

My Final Years and Lasting Words

As I grew older, my body weakened, but my resolve never did. I taught that the Pope was not simply a bishop among equals, but the successor to Peter, the rock upon which Christ built His Church. Yet I always reminded myself—and others—that even the highest among us is only a servant. That is why I signed my letters with the title “Servus servorum Dei”—Servant of the servants of God.

In the year of our Lord 461, I left this world. But not in despair. I saw the seeds we had sown: a Church better rooted in truth, a Rome not fallen but transformed, and a papacy that would endure storms to come.

Epilogue from Beyond

They call me Leo the Great, but greatness was never my aim. I only sought to be a voice of clarity when confusion reigned, a shield when wolves gathered, and a shepherd who never fled. If my legacy lives on, it is because I believed, with every fiber of my soul, that the throne of Peter must always speak not for pride or politics—but for Christ, and Christ alone.

The Title of “Pope” – A Story of Fathers and Foundations– Told by Pope Leo I

They call me Papa—Pope Leo, Bishop of Rome. But I was not the first to carry this title, and I shall not be the last. To understand how this title came to be, we must journey back—not merely through names and offices—but through the deep soul of the Church herself, born in the blood of martyrs and the breath of the Apostles.

A Title of Affection and Honor

In the earliest days, before emperors bowed to bishops or councils convened with imperial seals, the title papa, meaning father, was used with warmth and reverence. Not just for the Bishop of Rome, but for many bishops across Christendom—especially in the East. In Alexandria, Antioch, and elsewhere, the faithful would call their spiritual guides “Papa”—as children to a father. It was not a crown, but a gesture of love.

Even before me, the Bishop of Alexandria was commonly known as pope in the Greek tongue. Yet that was not the origin of authority—but of affection.

Peter—The First in Retrospect

Still, if one asks, “Who was the first Pope?”—the answer, in spirit and office, is clear: Peter, the Apostle. He was the one to whom our Lord said, “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.” He was the one who received the keys to the kingdom of heaven, not as a decoration, but as a burden—a trust to bind and loose, to shepherd the flock.

He came to Rome, this center of the empire and eventually the Church. He preached. He suffered. He died—crucified like our Lord, though upside down, unworthy in his own eyes to share Christ’s posture. And from his tomb, buried beneath the hill where now stands the great basilica, his successors have carried on the duty: not to be kings, but servants; not rulers of nations, but guardians of souls.

From Fathers to Rock-Firm Authority

As centuries passed, and as heresies spread like wild winds, the Church looked more and more to Rome—and to her bishop—for unity and clarity. Even when other bishops bore the affectionate title of papa, the Bishop of Rome alone began to carry it with universal weight.

It was not my doing, but perhaps I gave it voice. I did not demand the title, but I accepted it as one who sat on Peter’s chair—not with pride, but with trembling responsibility.

Formal Recognition and Future Clarity

Though the term had existed long before me, it was long after my death that the Church made a formal decision. In 1073, under Pope Gregory VII, it was decreed that no other bishop may bear the title "Pope”—for by then, it had become clear: the title was not merely fatherly affection, but a symbol of the singular role of the Roman bishop as the successor of Peter.

So you see, the title Pope did not come all at once, nor with fanfare. It grew, like a tree from a seed—nurtured by tradition, watered by suffering, and raised by faith. From the humility of fishermen to the martyrdom of saints, it emerged not as a badge of honor, but as a sign of responsibility.

To Be Pope Is to Serve

I bore the title not as a mark of greatness, but as a sign of duty. To be Pope is not to rule like Caesar, but to kneel like Christ at the feet of His disciples. The world may misunderstand, but I knew then—as I know now—that to be Papa is to carry every soul, not in command, but in compassion.

And if that memory remains, then I have done my part in the long story of the Church and the enduring grace of the fisherman’s ring.

My Humble Beginnings as Hildebrand of Sovana– Told by Pope Leo I

I was not born to power, but to prayer. My name was Hildebrand, son of a humble blacksmith in the small Tuscan town of Sovana, sometime around the year 1020. My early years were poor in coin but rich in faith. As a child, I was sent to Rome to study under the protection of the clergy at the Church of St. John Lateran. There, in the sacred halls of the city of Peter, I witnessed both the beauty of faith and the corruption of power.

I saw noble families treating the papacy as a throne to be bought and sold. I saw emperors placing their favorites on the chair of Peter. Even as a young man, I vowed: this must change. The Church must be purified. Christ must be placed back at the center, not kings, not coin, not corruption.

Reforming the Church from Within

I did not seek position. I served as a monk, a chaplain, and eventually an advisor to several popes. For over two decades, I labored behind the scenes, whispering reform and urging discipline. I helped establish clerical celibacy, to free the priests of God from family loyalties and worldly distractions. I worked to end simony—the buying and selling of sacred offices. And I was part of the great reforming wave that swept through the monasteries and began to lift the Church from its decay.

When Pope Alexander II died in 1073, I did not campaign for the papacy. Yet the people of Rome—clergy and lay alike—shouted my name: “Hildebrand shall be Pope!” I protested. But perhaps God had prepared me for this moment all my life. And so I accepted, taking the name Gregory VII, in honor of Gregory the Great, another man who had once been reluctant to lead but had shaped the Church for ages.

The War Between Church and Empire

My papacy would not be one of peace, but of principle. I believed the Church must be free from imperial interference. Only the Church—not kings, not emperors—could appoint bishops. This principle was known as the Investiture Controversy.

My greatest challenge came from Henry IV, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. He insisted on naming his own bishops and defying the authority of Rome. I excommunicated him—not in anger, but in duty. The shepherd must guard the flock, even from kings.

Henry was forced to beg for forgiveness. In the winter of 1077, he came to the castle of Canossa, barefoot in the snow, dressed in penitent robes, waiting three days for absolution. Some said I was cruel. Others said I was a hero. I say only this: the Church stood tall that winter.

A Final Exile, But Not Defeat

Yet the struggle did not end there. Henry rallied, returned to power, and marched on Rome. I was forced to flee. I sought refuge under the Norman Duke Robert Guiscard, but the city turned against him for his brutality. I left again, an old Pope without a city, traveling south to Salerno, where I spent my last days.

As I lay dying in 1085, exiled from the city of Peter, I whispered words that would outlive my breath:“I have loved justice and hated iniquity; therefore, I die in exile.”

My Legacy—God Above Kings

History has judged me in many ways—some call me tyrant, others saint. But I tell you this: I did not fight for myself, but for the soul of the Church. I believed that the Church must be free, so that it could serve Christ without the chains of earthly power. My Dictatus Papae, a list of papal rights, declared what I believed: that the Pope alone had the power to depose emperors, to name bishops, to stand as the highest moral authority on Earth—not for pride, but because the spiritual must guide the temporal.

Let it be known, I did not seek this war. But I would not run from it. I was the servant of the servants of God—and for their sake, I stood.

The Meaning Behind the Name – Told by Pope Leo I

When I, Leo, served as Bishop of Rome, many already called our community of believers the Catholic Church. But I often reflected on the meaning of that name, how it came to us, and why it mattered. For words have power—and this word, Catholic, declared something sacred, something universal. It was not just a label. It was a truth. And to understand it, one must go back before me—before even the Church took root in Rome.

A Church Born in Fire and Spirit

Our Church was founded not by councils nor emperors, but by Christ Himself, who called the Apostles and breathed upon them the Spirit. In the days after His resurrection, in an upper room in Jerusalem, the Holy Spirit descended on those men like tongues of fire. This was Pentecost, and it was the birth of the Church—one, holy, apostolic. They spoke in many tongues, not to divide, but to gather; not to separate, but to unify. From the first breath, the Church was for all peoples, not one tribe alone. In this, it was katholikos—universal.

The First to Speak the Name

The first to write the word "Catholic" in reference to the Church was Ignatius of Antioch, a bishop and martyr, only one generation removed from the Apostles themselves. Around the year 107 AD, as he was led in chains to Rome to face death for the faith, he wrote a letter to the Church in Smyrna. In it, he said, “Wherever Jesus Christ is, there is the Catholic Church.”

That moment—the ink of that letter—is the first time we see the Church called Catholic in name, though it had always been so in spirit. Ignatius meant not that it was a sect or faction, but that it was the fullness of the faith, the Church for all nations, guarding the whole truth.

Why the Name Took Hold

As heresies arose and rival sects splintered from the apostolic tradition, the name "Catholic Church" became more than a description—it became a declaration. It told the world: this is the Church that holds the fullness of Christ’s teaching, passed from the Apostles themselves. We used the name “Catholic” to distinguish ourselves from those who twisted doctrine, rejected bishops, or invented new teachings. We were not the newest voice—we were the original voice, stretching from Peter to every corner of the earth.

By the time I became Pope, in 440 AD, the term “Catholic Church” was common in the West and East alike. Councils used it. Bishops preached it. And when I wrote letters or proclamations, I used it as a seal upon the truth. It reminded us that we were not local, not political, but eternal and universal.

What It Means to Be Catholic

To be Catholic is not merely to belong to a church—it is to belong to the Church that Christ founded, to the faith taught by the Apostles, guided by bishops in unbroken succession, with Peter at the helm. It is to be part of one body, united across lands and centuries. It is to stand in the truth when the world shifts. It is to welcome all, teach all, and endure all—for the sake of the Gospel.

So when you hear the word "Catholic," remember: it was not crafted by scholars, nor imposed by emperors. It was breathed into our bones by Christ’s own Spirit, spoken by martyrs like Ignatius, and guarded by shepherds like myself.

This is the Church—the Catholic Church—ancient, apostolic, and alive. And I, Leo, servant of servants, was honored to protect it in my day, as others have in theirs.

My Name is Pope Gregory VII: The One Who Bears the Name

When the people cried my name—Hildebrand! Hildebrand shall be Pope!—I trembled. Not out of fear, but out of awe. For to be called Pope, to be entrusted with the title "Papa", is no mere honorific. It is not a crown, though emperors may envy it. It is not a throne, though I have sat in the chair of Peter. It is a burden. A flame to guard. A cross to carry.

There are many bishops in Christendom, many shepherds tending to their flocks in the East and West. But only one is called Pope. Only one bears the mantle of universal pastor, the spiritual father to every Christian soul upon the earth. It is not because I am greater than the others, but because I sit where Peter once sat, and I must carry what Peter once bore—the keys to the kingdom of heaven.

The Meaning of the Title “Pope”

The word itself—Papa—means father. But not as a father to a household, or a city, or a kingdom. I am a father to the whole Church, across all lands and languages, through every storm and schism. Where emperors build empires of stone and steel, the Pope must build upon the Rock that is Christ, with the mortar of truth and the foundation of faith.

When I declared that no other man, bishop or patriarch, shall bear the title “Pope” but the Bishop of Rome, it was not to elevate myself above my brothers, but to preserve the unity of the Church. The world fractures when many voices compete for authority. But Christ said to Peter alone, “Upon this rock I will build My Church.” There must be one shepherd, or the flock shall scatter.

The Weight of the Keys

With the title comes responsibility beyond reckoning. I must defend the faith—not only from heresies of doctrine, but from the slow rot of sin within our own walls. I must protect the poor, correct the powerful, and sometimes rebuke kings when they trample upon the dignity of the Church or the law of God. The Pope cannot seek favor with the mighty. He must speak with the voice of eternal justice, even when it costs him his comfort, his city, or his life.

I must ordain bishops, oversee councils, answer disputes from distant lands, and offer clarity when confusion clouds the people’s souls. I must model holiness in my own conduct—for how can I guide others if I myself walk in darkness?

And when there is no emperor to shield the Church, the Pope must be the last wall standing.

The Spirit of Peter Lives On

I did not invent this duty. I inherited it. From Peter, to Linus, to Sylvester, to Leo, and now to me—a line unbroken, not in blood but in spirit. I believe, as those before me believed, that the Pope is not the master of the Church, but its servant. That the Pope must wash feet, not demand kisses. That he must weep with the penitent and stand firm before the unrepentant. That he must bear the wounds of Christ’s Body, even as the world misunderstands him.

A Shepherd for the Whole Earth

To be the Pope is to carry all of Christendom upon one’s shoulders—not as a tyrant, but as a shepherd, as a guardian, and as a witness. I am the last defense of the widow, the final appeal of the falsely accused, the anchor when storms shake the bark of Peter.

It is no boast to say that I am Pope. It is my sorrow and my joy. My strength and my trial. And when my time ends, another shall take my place—not to be greater than others, but to stand alone, where the fisherman once stood, holding the keys and hearing the same call: “Feed My sheep.”

A Fire in My Soul for Reform – Told by Pope Gregory VII

I was born Hildebrand of Sovana, a son of the Tuscan soil, poor in possessions but rich in purpose. I grew up witnessing the Church tangled in the snares of worldly power—bishops appointed by kings, holy offices bought like wares in the market, and priests torn between heaven and home by earthly attachments. From the moment I stepped into the sacred halls of Rome as a young monk, I burned with conviction: the Bride of Christ must be purified. She must be made worthy of her Lord again.

When I became Pope Gregory VII in 1073, after decades serving under reforming popes, I knew the task before me was not small. It was nothing less than to save the soul of the Church.

The Reform of Simony—Clearing the Temple

I began with the plague of simony—the selling of Church offices. Imagine it: sacred roles meant for the care of souls bartered like property by nobles and corrupt clerics. Bishops who owed their office to silver could never shepherd the flock with purity. They would serve not Christ, but coin.

I condemned this practice in the strongest terms and forbade the buying and selling of any Church office. A priest’s hands must be anointed by grace, not stained by gold. My decree was clear: no one who received a position in the Church through payment could rightfully hold it.

Celibacy—Calling the Clergy to Holiness

Next came the question of clerical celibacy. Too many priests had wives, concubines, and children, entangling themselves in family obligations, property disputes, and divided loyalties. But a priest is called to be a father to many, not just to a household. His heart must be undivided.

I made it law that priests must remain celibate, reaffirming what had long been expected, but too often ignored. I knew it would be difficult. I knew many would resist. But I also knew that holiness demands sacrifice, and that the priesthood is not a path to comfort—it is a crucifixion of self for the love of souls.

The Investiture Controversy—Wrestling the Church from Kings

The greatest of all my reforms, and the one that nearly cost me everything, was the battle over lay investiture—the right of kings and emperors to appoint bishops. These monarchs, seeing themselves as above the Church, placed their own men—sometimes unworthy, sometimes wicked—into holy office, as if the Church were another branch of the royal court.

I stood against it. I decreed that only the Pope had the authority to appoint bishops and invest them with their sacred authority. This was not ambition—it was preservation. The Church cannot serve Christ if she is bound in chains to kings.

The Holy Roman Emperor, Henry IV, refused to yield. He appointed bishops in defiance of Rome. I excommunicated him, a daring act, but a necessary one. He came to me at Canossa in 1077, barefoot in the snow, begging absolution. I forgave him, for Christ forgave His enemies. But the struggle did not end there.

The Dictatus Papae—Defining the Authority of the Pope

To give form to these reforms, I wrote the Dictatus Papae, a bold declaration of papal authority. In it, I proclaimed truths long understood but seldom spoken aloud:

• That only the Pope may depose or reinstate bishops.

• That only the Pope may depose emperors.

• That the Roman Church has never erred, and that it is the standard of truth for all.

• That the Pope is supreme over all other bishops, not by tyranny, but by divine commission.

These words were like fire in dry wood. Some hailed them as liberation. Others called them blasphemy. But I believed with all my soul that unless Christ’s vicar held firm, the wolves would devour the flock.

A Legacy in Exile, But Not in Vain

In the end, I was driven from Rome by Henry’s armies. I died in exile, far from the city I loved. But I do not call it defeat. I call it obedience. I loved justice and hated iniquity—and so I died as I lived: fighting for the purity of the Church.

Let it be known that my reforms were not born of pride. They were born of love—love for the Church, for her people, and for her Christ. I desired not to rule, but to serve. Not to be remembered, but to make the Church worthy to be called holy once more.

And if my name endures, let it be only as one who tried to cleanse the temple, and who trusted, even in exile, that the gates of hell shall not prevail against her.

From Noble Birth to Sacred Calling – Told by Pope Urban II

I was born around the year 1035, in the lands of Champagne, France, to a noble family. My name then was Odo of Lagery. Though the nobility often chased after glory in battle and pride in wealth, my heart turned instead to the service of God. As a young man, I entered the great abbey of Cluny, where prayer and reform were woven into every breath. There, among the black-robed monks, I learned that true power lies not in the sword, but in righteous discipline, in service to Christ alone.

My devotion caught the eye of Rome. I was summoned to serve under Pope Gregory VII, a man of fierce will and towering principle. He taught me that the Church must be free from the grasp of kings, that bishops must be servants of God, not pawns of emperors. I learned from Gregory how to lead—not as a lord, but as a shepherd.

Becoming the Bishop of Rome

After Gregory’s death and the troubled papacies that followed, I was elected Pope in 1088, taking the name Urban II. The Church was weary, wounded by imperial meddling and internal corruption. My mission was clear: restore unity, reform the clergy, and reclaim the dignity of the Church.

I knew my task would not be easy. The scars of the Investiture Controversy had not yet healed. Emperors and kings still sought to control the appointment of bishops, to make the Church an extension of their power. But I remembered Gregory’s courage—and I vowed that under my guidance, the Church would speak with one voice, independent of earthly thrones.

The Council of Clermont—A Cry for Help

In the year 1095, word reached us from the East. The Byzantine Emperor, Alexios I Komnenos, begged for help. The Seljuk Turks had taken much of Asia Minor and threatened Constantinople. Christian pilgrims could no longer travel safely to the Holy Land. The Eastern Church, long divided from us, now extended a trembling hand.

At the Council of Clermont, I stood before a crowd of clergy, nobles, and knights. My voice, once a whisper of prayer, now thundered with divine purpose. I called on Christendom to take up the cross, to march east and liberate Jerusalem, the city of our Lord, from Muslim control. I spoke not of conquest, but of pilgrimage and penance—a holy war to defend the innocent, protect pilgrims, and reunite the Churches of East and West.

And when I finished, they cried out in one voice: “Deus vult!” – “God wills it!

The First Crusade Marches

Knights from France, Italy, and beyond sewed crosses to their cloaks and marched toward a cause greater than their own feuds and fiefdoms. I appointed bishops to guide them, princes to lead them, and preached that all who took up the cross with pure hearts would receive remission of sins.

I never lived to see the outcome. In 1099, four years after my call, the Crusaders captured Jerusalem. The city bathed in blood, yes—but it was once more in Christian hands. Whether their zeal turned too harsh or their hearts too proud, I leave to God’s judgment. But I had ignited a flame that would burn for centuries.

My Legacy and Final Reflections

I died in 1099, before news of Jerusalem’s capture reached Rome. But I did not fear death. I had done what I believed was right: I united Christendom, gave purpose to wandering knights, offered hope to a suffering East, and reminded the world that the Church could still rally the hearts of men across nations and tongues.

Some call me ambitious. Some say I opened the gates to centuries of war. But I ask you to see my intent: to protect the weak, to defend the sacred, and to rekindle the spiritual fire that had dimmed in Christian hearts.

I was Urban II—a monk, a reformer, a Pope who dared to speak when the world cried out for purpose. And when I called, they answered: Deus vult! May God will it still.

A Cry for Help from the East – Told by Pope Urban II

When I sat upon the chair of Saint Peter, the world was restless. The Church in the West, battered but reforming, was still reeling from corruption and war. The Eastern Church, long separated from us by centuries of misunderstanding, now called upon us in desperation. In the year of our Lord 1095, a message arrived from Emperor Alexios I Komnenos of Byzantium. His empire, once mighty, was crumbling under pressure from the Seljuk Turks, who had captured most of Anatolia and now threatened even Constantinople.

The routes to Jerusalem—the city of our Lord’s passion and resurrection—had become perilous. Pilgrims were attacked, sacred places defiled. The East, weary and wounded, asked for help—not from kings, but from the Church.

I prayed. I fasted. And then I acted.

The Council of Clermont—Calling Christendom to Arms

In the chill of November 1095, I summoned the faithful to the Council of Clermont in France. Bishops, barons, knights, and common folk gathered in numbers too great to count. I stood before them in the open air, my voice rising above the murmurs of nobles and the rustle of winter cloaks.

I spoke of the suffering of Christians in the East. I spoke of the desecration of holy sites. And then I gave them a charge: “Take up the cross! March to the East as an army of God! Rescue your brethren, cleanse the Holy Land, and receive remission of sins!”

Their response was thunderous—“Deus vult! God wills it!”

Men wept. Nobles knelt. Whole families vowed to go. They stitched crosses to their tunics and swore to march, not for gold, but for God.

The Pilgrimage Turns to War

What followed was not one army, but many. Waves of Crusaders surged eastward in what would become the First Crusade (1096–1099). Some were noble knights, others peasants stirred by preachers. Not all understood the mission. Some acted in zeal without wisdom, and I mourn the atrocities that began even before reaching the Holy Land—particularly the massacres of Jewish communities in the Rhineland by rogue Crusaders. These were not sanctioned by Rome. Their hatred was not holy.

The real army gathered at Constantinople, where they were joined, cautiously, by Byzantine forces. Together they moved into Anatolia and fought their way across hostile lands, capturing cities like Nicaea and Antioch. The siege of Antioch was long and brutal, but their faith held. Some claimed to discover holy relics—such as the Holy Lance—which inspired the weary to fight on.

In 1099, the Crusaders reached Jerusalem. The city was defended fiercely, but the Crusaders stormed its walls. When they took it, the blood flowed—not only of soldiers, but civilians. Muslim, Jew, and Christian alike. It was a terrible victory.

Victory in Earthly Eyes—But At What Cost?

I did not live to see that final day, though I knew it was near. Reports had reached me that Jerusalem had fallen, that a Latin Christian kingdom had been established in the Holy City. Many rejoiced. Some wept. I knew this: the path of righteousness is often walked in bloodied sandals.

Had they saved the Holy Places? Yes. Had they rescued pilgrims and brothers in faith? In part. But had they kept the purity of heart I had begged them to carry? Not always. And that remains the great sorrow of the Crusade’s first chapter.

The Histories Written in Shadow and Light

Long after my voice fell silent, men wrote of what they saw. From the West came the chroniclers of the Crusade, men like:

• Fulcher of Chartres, a priest who marched with the Crusaders and later wrote his account shortly after the events, around 1100–1127.

• Raymond of Aguilers, who gave vivid, often triumphant accounts of God’s intervention in the battles.

• William of Tyre, writing later in the 1170s, who took a more scholarly and structured view of the events, offering insight into the politics behind the crusading effort.

Their writings glorify the cause. They speak of miracles and martyrdoms, of Christian triumph over heathen cruelty. They portray the Muslims as occupiers and persecutors. They write with fire in their hearts, but not always truth in full. But history has more than one pen.

The Muslim Chroniclers—Another Witness

From the East, the Muslim historians wrote with their own voices:

• Ibn al-Qalanisi, a Damascene chronicler, wrote soon after the Crusades began, offering a view from the heart of Syria.

• Ibn al-Athir, writing in Mosul in the early 13th century, gave a detailed and sobering account of the Crusades as a catastrophe and spiritual test for Islam.

• Later, Usama ibn Munqidh, a noble and soldier, wrote memoirs that reflected both admiration and bewilderment at the Crusaders' behavior. He spoke of their courage, but also their lack of manners, their odd faith, and their cruelty.

To them, the Crusaders were not liberators but invaders. They called us Franks and wrote of massacres, betrayal, and the strange zeal of men who would travel across the world to spill blood in foreign lands. They too spoke of bravery and sacrifice—but through a different lens.

A War Between Heavens—and Between Histories

I, Urban, called for a pilgrimage. What followed was a crusade—a mixture of faith and fury, of devotion and destruction. Christian writers praised the glory of Jerusalem’s liberation. Muslim historians lamented the loss and mourned the slain.

Both wrote with passion. Both recorded truth—as they saw it. And between them lies the complexity of the human soul: capable of both divine yearning and brutal violence.

What I Had Hoped For

I dreamed of a Church united. I hoped for East and West to reconcile through mutual aid. I longed for pilgrims to walk safely once more to Calvary’s hill. I did not ask for slaughter, nor did I preach hatred. My words were for love, for defense, for sacred cause.

But history is a flame easily fanned. I remain Pope Urban II—not the conqueror, but the caller. Not the general, but the shepherd. I opened a door that many would walk through, and I can only pray that in the centuries since, the Church has come closer to the Christ who wept for Jerusalem, rather than the men who fought for it.

My Name is Pope Innocent III (1198-1216): From a Scholar to Peter’s Throne

I was born around the year 1160 or 1161, in the region of Gavignano, near Rome. My birth name was Lotario dei Conti di Segni. Though I came from noble stock, I knew early on that my strength would not come from armies or lands, but from learning. I studied in Rome, then in Paris, where I soaked in the wisdom of theology, and finally in Bologna, where I sharpened my mind in the discipline of canon law.

Even as a young man, I was drawn to the idea that the Church must not be a servant of kings, but their guide. That the Pope must not bow to princes, but correct them as a father does a son. These thoughts did not leave me, even as I served under several popes. When I was made a cardinal by Pope Clement III, I continued to observe the politics of Rome and Europe, waiting for the day when Christ’s Vicar would rise to speak with the clarity of Heaven itself.

That voice, it turned out, would be my own. In 1198, after the death of Pope Celestine III, I was elected Bishop of Rome. I was not yet forty years of age. I took the name Innocent III—not for weakness or innocence of power, but to declare that my hands would be clean of earthly corruption and my cause devoted solely to the will of God.

The Vicar of Christ on Earth

From the beginning, I ruled with conviction that the Pope was not merely a bishop among bishops. I was the Vicar of Christ on Earth, and as such, I held authority over all Christians, including kings and emperors. Christ had said to Peter, “Feed my sheep,” and had given him the keys to the kingdom of heaven. I held those keys.

I did not wield them lightly. When kings defied the moral law or threatened the unity of the Church, I acted. I placed whole nations under interdict when necessary, silencing their sacraments so that rulers might bend their pride. I forced King Philip II of France to take back his lawful wife. I battled with King John of England when he refused to accept my choice for Archbishop of Canterbury. When he submitted, I lifted the sentence—but only after he recognized England as a fief of the papacy.

They called me harsh. They called me ambitious. But I acted only to protect the soul of the Church and the eternal good of her children.

The Crusades and the Sword of Heaven

I believed deeply in the Crusading cause. The Holy Land was still stained by the loss of Jerusalem in 1187. I called the Fourth Crusade with hopes of reclaiming the city of our Lord. But that hope was turned to grief. Instead of marching on the Muslim-held Holy Land, the Crusaders, for political and financial reasons, attacked Constantinople—the very heart of Eastern Christendom.

They sacked the city in 1204, looting its churches, desecrating its altars. I condemned the act, for it tore deeper the wound between the Eastern Orthodox and the Roman Church. Yet I also recognized that the Latin Empire born from that conquest might still be used for God’s purposes. In this, my conscience was never fully at peace.

Still, I did not stop calling Crusades. I organized a campaign in Spain to support Christian kings reclaiming lands from the Moors. I sent Crusaders into southern France to root out the Cathar heresy, which had grown like a cancer in the hills of Languedoc. That struggle—the Albigensian Crusade—was fought not against Muslims, but against those who claimed to be Christian while denying the goodness of God’s creation, of marriage, and of the Church’s sacraments.

The Guardian of Orthodoxy and Reformer of the Clergy

I convened the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, one of the most significant councils in the history of the Church. There, over a thousand bishops, abbots, and representatives gathered under my guidance. We clarified the central truths of the faith: that Christ is truly present in the Eucharist, that heresy must be confronted with both persuasion and discipline, and that the laity must be better instructed in the core of the faith.

We established rules for the reform of clerical life, required yearly confession and communion for every Christian, and affirmed that salvation comes through the Church alone. The council was a crown upon my years of labor, though it would be for others to carry its decrees into the world.

My Final Years and Lasting Shadow

I died in 1216, not long after the council had ended. My body rests in Perugia, but my voice still echoes in the halls of Rome, in the writings of canon law, and in the very way the papacy is understood.

I did not seek the papacy to become a prince of the world. I sought it to defend the Bride of Christ. I was no gentle shepherd, but I was not a tyrant either. I was a steward of the keys, and I used them to lock away heresy, to unlock the consciences of kings, and to guide the faithful in an age of turmoil.

History may judge me as ambitious. Let it. I only ask that it also remember: I believed that to rule the Church was to serve Heaven, and to hold Peter’s keys was to tremble under their weight.

If I erred, may God forgive me. If I stood firm, may He strengthen those who follow after. I am Innocent, but I ruled with purpose. Not for my glory—but for Christ’s.

My Vision for a Renewed Crusade – Told by Pope Innocent III

When I ascended to the papal throne in the year of our Lord 1198, the wounds of past defeats were still fresh. The loss of Jerusalem to Saladin a decade earlier had shaken all of Christendom. The Third Crusade, despite the valor of King Richard of England and others, had failed to recover the Holy City. I believed that the Church could not rest while the places of Christ’s life and passion remained in the hands of the unbeliever. So I called for a new effort—another Crusade—not just a march of armies, but a purification of Christian intent.

This time, I sought to take command not through kings, who often quarreled and pursued their own ambitions, but through pious knights and leaders who would act for the sake of God alone. I granted indulgences to those who would take up the cross, preached fervently across Europe, and sent legates to organize the mission. This would be the Fourth Crusade—and I hoped it would bring not only military success but also spiritual renewal.

The Fourth Crusade Turns from Jerusalem

But as with so many works of men, my holy intent was not matched by holy conduct. The Crusade, gathering in Venice, quickly fell into debt to the Venetians. Instead of sailing to Egypt or Palestine as planned, the Crusaders were persuaded to attack the Christian city of Zara on the Dalmatian coast, a city under the protection of the King of Hungary, a fellow Crusader himself. It was an outrage—Christian attacking Christian—and I was appalled. I excommunicated those involved, hoping to bring the campaign back to its divine mission.

Yet the diversion only grew darker. The Crusaders, entangled in the dynastic struggles of the Byzantine Empire, were lured to Constantinople, the ancient capital of Eastern Christendom. In 1204, they stormed the city, pillaged its churches, and established a Latin Empire in place of the Greek Orthodox rulers. They claimed they acted for the good of the Church, to bring the Eastern Church under Roman obedience—but I knew it was a worldly act, not a heavenly one.

Though I reluctantly accepted the new Latin Emperor and hoped for unity between East and West, I never ceased to grieve for the destruction of Constantinople. Instead of liberating Jerusalem, the Crusaders had plundered the second Rome. They had scarred the Church more deeply than they knew.

The Children's Crusade

In the years that followed, strange and sorrowful tales reached my ears. One was of a so-called Children’s Crusade in 1212. Stories told of young boys in France and Germany, moved by divine visions, setting off to peacefully convert the Muslims and reclaim the Holy Land. But they were poorly led, lacking support, and most were lost to hunger, slavery, or the sea.

Whether all the tales are true, I do not know. But the legend remains as a testimony to how far the dream of Crusade had spread—from princes to peasants, from warriors to children. And yet, it reminded me also of how easily zeal, without wisdom, leads to ruin.

The Fifth Crusade Begins to Rise

Before my death, I laid the foundation for what would become the Fifth Crusade. This time, I aimed to correct the mistakes of the past. The plan was to strike at Egypt, the stronghold of Muslim power and the gateway to Jerusalem. I desired it to be led not by kings but by Church-appointed commanders, guided by faith and discipline.

I summoned the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, where we finalized preparations and reforms. We decreed that the Crusade would begin in 1217, and that all Christendom should support it. I organized financial systems, launched preaching campaigns, and worked to ensure that this time, the Crusaders would not stray. I would not live to see it begin, for I died in 1216—but I prayed that what I had planted would grow into victory.

The Weight of the Cross and the Lessons of War

The Crusades I led or inspired were not the glorious marches I once imagined. Some were tainted by greed, others by confusion. Yet I do not regret the call to defend the holy places. I regret only the failings of men—their pride, their thirst for riches, their willingness to be swayed by worldly ambition.

I had hoped to rally Christendom under one banner. I had hoped to reunite East and West. I had hoped to reclaim Jerusalem, not just with swords, but with prayer, penance, and humility.

Instead, I saw Christian swords turned against Christian throats, relics stolen from sacred places, and the heart of Byzantium shattered in fire and smoke.

Yet still, I believed the cause was just. The road was misused, but the destination was righteous. I pray that future generations may pursue the same cause with greater wisdom, and with hearts more conformed to Christ.

I am Innocent III—Pope of strength and sorrow, of vision and broken hopes. I bore the weight of the Cross not on my back, but in my soul. And in that burden, I hoped to draw all men to the Savior who bore it first.

The Pope Who Must Be More Than a Priest - Pope Innocent III (1198–1216)

When I took up the burden of the papacy in 1198, I did not see myself merely as a pastor or a bishop among bishops. I saw the Pope as the Vicar of Christ on Earth, a role that carried not only spiritual authority but a duty to shape and clarify the very foundation of Christian life. The Church was vast—stretching across kingdoms, languages, and customs—and it needed unity in doctrine, discipline in conduct, and purity in belief. I knew that if I failed to lead in truth, the soul of Christendom could splinter under the weight of its own confusion.

So I labored—not only to correct the wandering kings of the world—but to guide the Church itself toward reform, clarity, and spiritual renewal. My greatest work in this regard was the gathering of the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, a council that would define and defend the central teachings of the Catholic faith and reform how the Church governed its people.

Defining the Mystery of the Eucharist

For generations, the faithful believed that Christ was truly present in the bread and wine of the altar, yet no formal definition of this sacred mystery had been made by the Church. At the Fourth Lateran Council, I sought to affirm what the heart of faith had long accepted. We declared that in the Mass, the bread and wine are transformed into the body and blood of Christ—not symbolically, but in truth—through the power of the Holy Spirit and the words of consecration.

We named this transformation transubstantiation. It was not a new invention, but a clear declaration of what the Church had always believed. With this definition, the faithful could approach the altar with even deeper reverence, and heresies that denied Christ’s real presence could be refuted with the full voice of the universal Church.

Confession and the Care of Souls

The soul of a Christian must be tended like a vineyard, and for too long, many had neglected their spiritual care. Some priests were lax, some laypeople ignorant. I made it law that every Christian, upon reaching the age of reason, must confess their sins at least once each year to their parish priest, and receive the Eucharist during Easter season.

This was not a burden, but a gift—a way to ensure that no one would wander too far without guidance. I also required that priests learn how to instruct their flock, so that confession would not become a ritual of fear, but a moment of healing, reflection, and grace.

Guarding the Church from Heresy

The greatest danger to the soul is not always from without, but from within. The Cathars and Albigensians, particularly in southern France, had spread a dark heresy that rejected the material world, despised marriage, denied the sacraments, and claimed two gods: one of light and one of darkness.

Their teachings were poison—seductive, but deadly. I called for their correction through preaching first, and when they would not repent, I sanctioned the Albigensian Crusade. But beyond the sword, I also knew the Church needed tools of discipline and inquiry. I strengthened the power of local bishops to investigate heresy, laying the groundwork for what would become more formal methods of inquisition. The goal was always the same: to bring the lost back to truth, not to destroy, but to heal.

Reforming Clergy and Clarifying Roles

I required that clergy live uprightly, serve faithfully, and avoid greed and scandal. I forbade the creation of new religious orders without papal approval, to avoid confusion and ensure that monastic life remained true to its roots of prayer and poverty. I emphasized that bishops must reside in their dioceses, rather than treat their office as a title of honor while living in far-off courts.

At the same time, I affirmed the authority of the Pope above all other bishops, and I made clear that the Roman Church had never erred, nor would it ever, as it was preserved by Christ’s promise to Peter. I also took steps to limit the abuse of Church positions by kings and princes, ensuring that appointments to ecclesiastical offices were made based on merit and spiritual worth.

The Canon Law and the Foundation of Order

Under my authority, the principles of canon law—the legal system of the Church—were strengthened and organized. The decisions of councils, the judgments of popes, and the customs of the faithful were drawn into a more unified body of law. I encouraged scholars like Gratian and his successors to gather, interpret, and preserve the Church’s legal wisdom.

This was not mere paperwork—it was the architecture of the Church's daily life, from marriage to penance, from excommunication to ordination. Without law, the Church would fall into disorder. With it, she could remain both firm and merciful.

A Pope for All the Church

I did not reform for the sake of legacy, nor to be remembered as a builder of systems. I reformed because I loved the Church—not just its altars and thrones, but its people. Every peasant kneeling at Mass, every monk whispering psalms, every widow praying for the soul of her husband—they were my charge. I was not their king, but their shepherd.

Through doctrine, I sought to protect truth. Through confession, to cleanse souls. Through order and canon law, to uphold justice. Through clarity of belief, to guard unity.

I am Innocent III. My reign was marked by crusade and conflict, yes, but also by renewal of faith, reform of practice, and a deeper understanding of the sacred mysteries entrusted to us. I did not fear the weight of Peter’s keys—I lifted them high, so that all Christendom might walk in the light they unlock.

My Name is Pope Boniface VIII (1294-1303): From the Hills to the Gates of Power

I was born Benedetto Caetani around the year 1230, in the hilltown of Anagni, not far from Rome. My family was noble, proud, and deeply embedded in Church politics. I was raised among clerics and cardinals, trained in both theology and law. From an early age, I understood that knowledge was power, and that those who held the law in their hands held the destiny of kingdoms.

I studied at Bologna and possibly Paris, immersed in the canon laws that governed not only the Church, but the Christian world. My ascent was steady. Under Pope Nicholas III, I served as a skilled diplomat. Under Pope Martin IV, I gained influence. And under Celestine V, I saw the moment when the world would turn its eyes to me.

Celestine, poor man, was holy but utterly unsuited for the burdens of Rome. His abdication—rare though it was—opened the door for my election. In 1294, I became Pope Boniface VIII. I did not wear the tiara lightly. I knew what it meant. I would not be a placeholder. I would be a ruler.

The Pope as Sovereign and Judge of Kings

From the moment I took the throne, I declared what I believed without shame: the Pope stands above kings, for kings receive their crowns from men, but the Pope speaks with the voice of Christ.

I worked to strengthen papal authority in every direction. I centralized Church administration, expanded the reach of canon law, and resolved disputes between monarchs when they threatened Christendom’s peace. I also established the Apostolic Chancery, a more efficient system of issuing papal decrees. The machinery of Rome, under my hand, became more powerful than ever before.

But my most infamous and enduring battle would be against King Philip IV of France—a monarch who sought to tax the clergy, control bishops, and defy Rome’s authority. I issued the bull Clericis Laicos in 1296, forbidding secular rulers from taxing the Church without papal approval. Philip responded with hostility, blocking funds from flowing to Rome. The air between us grew heavy with conflict.

The Jubilee Year and the Heights of Glory

Though conflict swirled in France, I achieved a moment of great triumph in 1300, when I declared the first Jubilee Year—a holy celebration of Christian faith and penance. Pilgrims poured into Rome in the tens of thousands. The Eternal City glowed with prayers, processions, and gold. Indulgences were granted to those who came with true repentance.

That year, I stood at the height of my power. I was not merely a religious figure—I was a monarch of monarchs, a judge of emperors. I proclaimed that the Pope held plenitude of power, spiritual and temporal. The Church was not subject to the state. It was the sun, and earthly kings were but the moon, reflecting its light.

Unam Sanctam and the Breaking Point

The final clash with Philip came in 1302, when I issued the bull Unam Sanctam—one of the boldest declarations of papal supremacy in the history of the Church. I stated that “it is absolutely necessary for salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff.”

It was not merely a statement of pride. It was theology, law, and warning combined. I believed deeply that the Church must remain above all secular authority to safeguard its divine mission.

Philip, enraged, accused me of heresy, corruption, and madness. He demanded my deposition. And then, in the most humiliating act of my life, he sent his agents—Guillaume de Nogaret and Sciarra Colonna—to seize me in Anagni in 1303.

They entered my family palace and laid hands upon the Pope. They mocked me, struck me, imprisoned me for days. Though the people of Anagni soon drove them out, the message was clear: the days of unquestioned papal supremacy were over.

I returned to Rome, broken in body and spirit, and within a month, I died.

My Legacy—Defiance and Downfall

They remember me as proud, combative, unyielding—and perhaps I was. But I ruled in an age when kings sought to trample the Church, when monarchs believed they could defy Peter’s successor and still claim the favor of Heaven.

I stood in their path.

Was I too proud? Perhaps. Did I overreach? Time will tell. But I believed—utterly, unwaveringly—that the Pope must not bow to kings, and that the soul of Christendom depends on the Church remaining above the sword.

My name is Boniface VIII. I rose with fire and fell with fury. Yet I lit a flame that would smolder through centuries. And though kings may strike the shepherd, the keys of Peter do not rust.

Crowned by Heaven, Not by Men – Pope Boniface VIII (1294-1303)

When I, Boniface VIII, placed the triple tiara upon my head in 1294, I did not do so lightly. I knew what it meant. The Pope is not merely the bishop of Rome. He is the Vicar of Christ, the supreme authority over all Christians—lay and cleric, prince and pauper, emperor and king. The world was shifting, monarchs were rising in pride and power, and many had begun to believe that the sword of the state could eclipse the voice of Peter.

I would not let it. My hands held the keys of heaven, not the reins of horses. Yet kings would learn that the power of a Pope, spoken through parchment and sealed by Christ’s commission, could shake thrones and humble the mighty.

The King of France: Philip IV, the Bold in Pride

No man tested me more than Philip IV of France, whom some call Philip the Fair, though his fairness lay only in his face. His soul was wrapped in cunning. He sought to tax the clergy of France to finance his wars, treating the Church as if it were a purse to be opened at his will. I forbade it. In 1296, I issued the bull Clericis Laicos, declaring that no lay ruler had the right to tax the Church without papal consent.

Philip was enraged. He responded not with words of faith, but with economic strangulation—blocking gold and silver from leaving France, drying the stream of support that flowed to Rome. Still, I stood firm. The Church had endured persecutions far worse than a king’s tantrum.

Our conflict grew deeper. Philip spread rumors of corruption. He manipulated bishops and nobles. He claimed the authority to judge the Pope himself. I answered with a thunderclap: Unam Sanctam, in 1302, declaring that every human creature must be subject to the Roman Pontiff for salvation. It was a bold statement—but no bolder than the Gospel itself.

Philip dared to defy heaven. He convened his own assembly and branded me a heretic and criminal. Then, in an act of unholy arrogance, he sent men to capture the Pope himself.

The Outrage at Anagni

In 1303, at my family estate in Anagni, they came. Guillaume de Nogaret, a servant of Philip, and Sciarra Colonna, a traitor from a noble Roman family, burst into my palace with swords drawn and hatred burning in their eyes. They seized me, the successor of Peter, the head of the universal Church. They struck me, mocked me, held me prisoner.

They thought they could break me. But I did not beg. I did not plead. I stood in silence. For even in chains, I was Pope.

After three days, the people of Anagni rose and drove them out. I was freed—but weakened. My body bore the marks of outrage, and my soul the wounds of betrayal. I returned to Rome, but I did not recover. Within a month, I was dead.

Kings May Rule the Earth, But the Pope Rules the Soul

Philip IV believed he had won. He would place a French Pope on the throne and bring the papacy to Avignon, under his watchful eye. And he did—for a time. But his victory was hollow. Though he broke my body, he did not silence my cause.

I also stood firm against Edward I of England, when he too sought to tax the Church and interfere with clerical matters. I reminded him, as I reminded all kings, that the Pope is the spiritual father of all Christians, and that no crown grants immunity from divine authority. While Edward’s resistance was less dramatic than Philip’s, he too learned that no ruler stands above the Church in matters of faith.

I rebuked the Colonna family, who tried to carve their own empire within the Papal States, defying both spiritual and temporal authority. I excommunicated them and had their fortresses destroyed. Some called this harsh. I called it necessary. The Church must be one, not fractured by families seeking to wear both mitre and crown.

My Struggle Was Not for Myself

Some have called me arrogant, imperious, mad with pride. But I tell you, I did not fight for myself. I fought for the freedom of the Church, the dignity of the Petrine office, and the truth that no man—no matter how crowned or powerful—can place himself above God’s Church.

I am Boniface VIII. I held fast when kings rose in defiance. I declared truths they dared not hear. I suffered violence for the cause of heaven. If I erred in passion, let the Lord correct me. But if I stood as a wall between the world and the corruption of sacred things, then let the world remember: the Pope does not kneel before kings.

My Name is Pope Leo X (r. 1513–1521) - From Florence to the Papal Throne

I was born Giovanni de' Medici in 1475, the second son of the great Lorenzo the Magnificent, ruler of Florence and patron of artists, poets, and philosophers. The Medici name carried the weight of wealth and genius, and I was raised in a court where Plato and Aristotle were quoted as often as the Psalms. I was destined for the Church from the cradle. At the age of thirteen, I was made a cardinal in secret. By seventeen, I wore the red hat publicly, and by thirty-seven, I was elected Pope Leo X—a Medici on the throne of Peter.

My upbringing had shaped me into a prince of the Renaissance. I loved beauty, music, architecture, classical wisdom, and the human spirit. I believed the Church should reflect the splendor of God—not in poverty, but in art, in majesty, in harmony. My Rome would be a beacon of culture and glory, a city fit for saints and Caesars alike.

A Renaissance Court in the Heart of Christendom

As Pope, I brought the spirit of Florence to the Vatican. I surrounded myself with scholars, poets, and artists. I commissioned Raphael to decorate the papal apartments. I supported men like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, though the latter was aging when I rose. I opened my court to music, literature, and celebration. They said my papacy was too lavish, but I believed beauty brought souls to God.

I also worked to complete the greatest building project of my time: St. Peter’s Basilica. It would rise as the new temple of Christendom, a monument to the glory of God and the power of the Church. But such magnificence required gold—and the means to raise it would lead to a tempest I did not foresee.

The Sale of Indulgences and the Shadow of Reform

To fund the construction of St. Peter’s, I authorized the sale of indulgences—grants of remission for temporal punishment due to sin. It was a long-standing practice, and I saw it as both a spiritual aid and a financial solution. But in Germany, one Dominican friar in particular, Johann Tetzel, took the practice to extremes, preaching more like a merchant than a penitent.

His sermons stirred a fire in the heart of a young Augustinian monk named Martin Luther. In 1517, Luther nailed ninety-five theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, condemning the abuse of indulgences and questioning papal authority itself.

At first, I dismissed it. “It’s just a monk’s quarrel,” I said. I believed it would pass like a storm, loud but brief. I even offered Luther dialogue and counsel. But he refused to recant. He burned my bull of excommunication in public. He claimed that the Pope could err, that the Church had fallen, that Scripture alone was supreme.

The Birth of a Crisis

I excommunicated Luther in 1521 with the bull Decet Romanum Pontificem, but the damage was done. Luther had found shelter under powerful princes in Germany. His words spread with the speed of the printing press, and what had begun as a protest now threatened to become a schism.

I called for his condemnation at the Diet of Worms, but he stood firm. There, before emperor and empire, he defied both Church and crown. I had never known such rebellion from within. The unity of Christendom—once secure under Peter’s keys—now trembled.

It grieved me, yet I still believed it could be contained. I thought the Church too mighty to fracture. I thought the world would return to Rome in time. I underestimated the winds of change.

My Final Years and the Weight of Splendor

Even as the embers of rebellion began to glow, I continued to shape the Church as a monument of light. I created thirty-one cardinals, many of them loyal to the Medici cause. I ensured my cousin, Giulio de' Medici, would succeed me—he would become Pope Clement VII.

But beneath the wealth and ceremony, the ground was shifting. I had brought glory to Rome, yes—but I had not answered the cries for reform. I ruled as a Renaissance prince, but not as a shepherd for a Church in pain.

I died in 1521, just as the storm I had ignored began to rage across Europe.

What Will They Say of Me?

Some will remember me as a lover of art, a patron of beauty, a prince of the Renaissance. Others will curse my name as the Pope who let the Reformation slip through his fingers. I did not seek to divide the Church. I sought to raise her up—to drape her in majesty befitting the Bride of Christ.

Yet perhaps I forgot that no stone, however gilded, can replace the cornerstone of truth. I loved the Church, but I did not listen closely enough to her needs. And when a lone monk’s hammer struck wood in Wittenberg, I failed to hear the echo.

I am Pope Leo X—the last Pope of a united Christendom, the first to feel it slip away. And though I filled the world with light and art, I could not stop the shadow that followed.

A Storm Rising in the North – Pope Leo X

When I assumed the mantle of Peter in the year of our Lord 1513, the Church stood grand and unshaken—or so it seemed. Rome glittered in the sun like a second Jerusalem. The basilicas, the courts, the choirs, the schools—this was the heart of Christendom. But beneath the gold leaf of papal triumph, a wind stirred, faint but persistent, and it carried the scent of dissent.

It was not new. Reformers had arisen before—Wycliffe in England, Jan Hus in Bohemia—but the Church had weathered them, corrected them, and returned to order. I believed this new protest in Germany would pass the same way. I was wrong.

A Monk and a Hammer

In 1517, word reached me of an obscure Augustinian monk named Martin Luther, who had nailed ninety-five theses to the church door in Wittenberg. He questioned the sale of indulgences, a practice by which the faithful, moved by charity and repentance, received remission of temporal punishment for sin. Indulgences were long accepted, their theology rooted in mercy and grace. But Luther’s complaint went beyond excess—it struck at the very authority of the papacy.

At first, I did not give it weight. A monk stirring debate in a far-off university was no threat to the rock of Peter. My attention remained on the arts, on diplomacy, on raising funds for the new St. Peter’s Basilica—the glorious temple I envisioned to crown the heart of Rome. I sent envoys to quiet Luther, to reason with him. He refused them.

Then, in 1518, he appeared before Cardinal Cajetan at Augsburg. He did not kneel. He did not recant. He declared that the Pope could err, and that the Bible alone, not the Church, was the final authority. I realized then this was no mere theologian—he was a rebel.

Words Against the Keys of Heaven

Luther wrote furiously. Pamphlets poured from the printing presses of Germany, carried by the hands of merchants and the minds of students. He wrote not in Latin, but in German, the language of the people. And in those pages he denied the very structure of the Church: the papacy, the priesthood, the sacraments beyond baptism and the Lord’s Supper.

He called me the Antichrist, Rome the Whore of Babylon, and the Church of the apostles a corrupt institution of man. He appealed to princes, not bishops, for protection. He drew power from his defiance, and the more I tried to silence him, the louder he became.

The Bull and the Fire

In 1520, I issued the bull Exsurge Domine: "Rise up, O Lord, for a wild boar has entered your vineyard." I named forty-one of his errors and gave him sixty days to repent. He responded by burning the bull in public, alongside a copy of canon law.

This was not a scholar seeking truth. This was a man at war with the Church.

In 1521, I formally excommunicated him through the bull Decet Romanum Pontificem. He was summoned to the Diet of Worms, where he stood before the Holy Roman Emperor and refused to retract a word. His famous defiance—“Here I stand, I can do no other”—echoed through the halls of history.

Too Late to Hold the Fracture

I believed the Church would remain united—that reason, authority, and tradition would prevail. But I underestimated the printing press, the discontent of the people, and the ambition of German princes who saw in Luther a chance to shake off the influence of Rome and seize power for themselves.

My excommunication pushed him outside the Church, but it also solidified his movement. What began as protest now birthed a new Church—or rather, a collection of them. Protestantism, they called it later, but to me, it was the shattering of Christendom.

The souls once guided by one shepherd now followed a thousand voices.

My Regret and My Reflection

I did not seek division. I sought glory—of the Church, of God, of Rome. I believed the Pope was the steward of unity, not its destroyer. Yet under my watch, the Church fractured. I adorned altars while pulpits burned. I built basilicas while the faith of many began to slip through Rome’s fingers.

Perhaps I failed to see the depth of the hunger for reform. Perhaps I placed too much faith in tradition and not enough in transformation. But I believed then, as I believe now, that the keys of Peter are eternal, and that the storms of men cannot unseat the throne of Christ.

I am Leo X, Pope of the High Renaissance and first witness to the Protestant Reformation. I gave the Church beauty, but not the healing it needed. And in that silence, the echo of hammer on wood became the sound of a world reborn.

My Name is Pope Gregory X (r. 1271–1276): A Quiet Beginning, Far from Rome

I was born around the year 1210 in the city of Piacenza, in the north of Italy. My name was Teobaldo Visconti. I was no prince of the Church, no scion of a great family. I was a man of learning, of peace, of quiet contemplation—though God would soon draw me into the whirlwind of the world.

I studied law and theology, and served in the papal court with diligence and discretion. It was not the age of saints but of conflict—between emperors and popes, cities and kings, East and West. I took up the duties of a papal legate, traveling across Europe and into the East, acting as a bridge between worlds, not knowing then how greatly I would be needed.

The Longest Election and a Most Unexpected Choice

In 1268, Pope Clement IV died, and with him, peace left the Church. The cardinals gathered in Viterbo to elect a successor. They argued. They schemed. They delayed. For almost three years, the seat of Peter sat empty while the Church trembled. The people of Christendom waited and wept while the princes of the Church played their political games.

At last, in desperation—and perhaps divine providence—the cardinals looked outside their own number. They turned to me, a cardinal-deacon and legate, far away in the Holy Land, still working to reconcile Latin and Eastern Christians after the Crusades. I had no expectation of election. Yet in 1271, I was called to Rome and made Pope Gregory X.

I was stunned. I had never even been ordained a priest. But I accepted, for I believed God chooses not always the strongest, but often the most willing.

Pilgrim Pope and Reformer of the Church

As Pope, I felt not power, but burden. My first priority was to heal the divisions in the Church and restore dignity to her governance. I had witnessed firsthand the disunity between the Latin West and the Greek East. I called the Second Council of Lyon in 1274, not to celebrate, but to rebuild.

There, I worked tirelessly to promote reconciliation with the Eastern Orthodox Church, and we achieved a moment of fragile unity, as envoys of the Byzantine emperor pledged allegiance to Rome. Though this union would not last, I believed every step toward peace was worth the journey.

I also called for a new Crusade, not for conquest, but for the defense of the Holy Land and the protection of Christians in the East. Though I would not live to see it, I hoped my plea would stir hearts beyond ambition.

The Birth of the Conclave

But of all my works, the one that would echo through the centuries was born not of triumph, but of frustration. I had seen what happens when cardinals are left to quarrel unchecked. The 1268–1271 election—my own—was a disgrace to the memory of Peter. It had nearly shattered the trust of the faithful.

So, I issued a decree: Ubi periculum, which established the system we now call the conclave.

Cardinals, I ruled, must be locked in seclusion, with no contact with the outside world, until a new pope is elected. Food would be restricted over time, and luxuries denied. They would pray, not politic. They would remember they were not choosing a prince, but a shepherd.

This was not cruelty—it was discipline, born from love for the Church. And though some cursed the confinement, it worked. And it endures.

A Death Before My Work Was Done

I did not rule long. I died in 1276, only a few years after taking the papal throne. My time was brief, but I had done what I could. I had brought structure to chaos, peace where there had been pride. I had given the Church a tool to govern herself with grace and order.

I never sought greatness. I was a pilgrim, a peacemaker, a reluctant pope. But in the shadow of conflict, I planted seeds of unity.

I am Gregory X—not the loudest voice, not the longest reign, but perhaps the right man for a troubled time. And though my hands now rest, I pray that the conclave I shaped will always choose wisely, guided not by crowns or coin, but by the quiet voice of God.

Church Weighed Down by Silence and the Council of Lyon – Told by Gregory X

When I accepted the papal mantle in the year of our Lord 1271, I did so not from ambition, but from duty. The Church had gone nearly three years without a pope following the death of Clement IV. I was not even in Rome when I was elected. I was in the East, laboring as a papal legate to reconcile the Latins and the Greeks, pleading for unity, praying for peace.

The cardinals had gathered in Viterbo, and there they remained, locked in bitter division, until even the townspeople—frustrated by their delay—locked the cardinals inside, removed the roof, and fed them only bread and water. It was only then that they could agree, and they turned to me—Teobaldo Visconti, a man not even yet ordained a priest.

I accepted. And I carried with me the memory of that broken process, the embarrassment, and the damage it had done to the Church’s soul.

A Council for Healing and Order

I called the Second Council of Lyon in 1274, not merely as an assembly of prelates, but as a gathering to restore harmony to Christendom. Bishops, abbots, patriarchs, kings’ envoys, and scholars from across Europe—and even from the distant East—came to Lyon. Our goals were vast: the reunification of the Eastern and Western Churches, the call for a new crusade to defend the Holy Land, reform of the clergy, and the cleansing of the Church’s inner life.

But above all, I knew we must address the papal election process, which had become an object of scorn and disunity. A shepherd cannot leave his flock without guidance for years at a time. We had to act.

The Birth of the Conclave

Thus, during that council, I issued the decree Ubi Periculum—“Where there is danger.” For indeed, I had seen the danger firsthand. When the See of Peter sits vacant too long, wolves circle. Factions rise. Faith falters. And the sacred trust placed in the cardinals is buried under politics and pride.

Ubi Periculum mandated that, upon the death of a pope, the cardinals would be locked in strict seclusion—a “conclave,” from cum clave, meaning “with a key.” They were to be isolated from the outside world, with no messages in or out. If after three days they failed to elect a new pope, their meals would be reduced, and after further delays, rations would be limited again—so they might fast not just in body, but in spirit.

They were to focus only on prayer, discernment, and the will of the Holy Spirit—not earthly alliances or personal gain.

It was not cruelty. It was medicine. The soul of the Church had grown weary of indecision. It needed clarity.

A Glimmer of Reunion with the East

At that same council, something remarkable happened. Envoys from the Byzantine Empire—from Emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos—arrived and, in a moment of rare beauty, proclaimed submission to the Roman Church. The East and West, long divided since the Great Schism of 1054, professed unity under the Pope.

It was fragile. It was political, yes. And it would not last more than a few decades. But for a moment, one Church stood across continents, united again beneath Peter’s successor. My heart rejoiced. I had seen what division could do, and I hoped the light of Lyon would grow stronger.

Legacy Forged in Reform

I did not reign long—just over four years. But I left behind the seeds of discipline, order, and hope. The conclave system would be refined in time, altered here and there, but the core of it—the seclusion, the urgency, the sacred responsibility—remains.

I did not seek greatness. I was a pilgrim, a peacemaker, a reluctant reformer. But I knew the Church needed guardians who would not waver and structures that would not collapse beneath the weight of pride.

I am Gregory X, called from the East to bind up the West. And if my voice still echoes in the vaulted halls where popes are chosen, it is only because I listened first to the silence and answered it—not with power, but with purpose.

My Name is Pope Clement VII - Born in Blood and Raised Among Power

I was born in 1478, in the grand city of Florence, though my entrance into the world was overshadowed by violence. My father, Giuliano de’ Medici, was murdered in the infamous Pazzi Conspiracy, a brutal attempt to destroy Medici power. My uncle, Lorenzo the Magnificent, survived and took me under his protection. Though I was born out of wedlock, I was raised as a Medici, trained in diplomacy, educated in theology, and shaped by the politics of both palace and pulpit.

In time, I took holy orders and was made Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici by my cousin, Pope Leo X, in 1513. I served not only as a prince of the Church, but as a statesman. I navigated the currents of empire and diplomacy, defending papal interests and Medici ambitions alike. I was no mystic. I was no reformer. I was a guardian—of legacy, of Rome, and of a Church under siege.

From Cardinal to Pope in a World on Fire

When Pope Adrian VI died in 1523, I was elected to succeed him. I became Pope Clement VII, heir to both the Renaissance and the gathering storm of Reformation. I was a man of caution, and the world I inherited offered no safe path. Martin Luther’s defiance had already taken root, and northern Europe was slipping from Rome’s grasp. The balance of power among France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire shifted like sand beneath my feet.

I wished to be a peacemaker, a broker of equilibrium between kings. But the age of negotiation was giving way to the age of force. And the tiara sat heavier on my head than I ever imagined.

The Sack of Rome—Rome’s Hour of Agony

The gravest wound of my pontificate came in 1527. Caught between Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, and Francis I of France, I tried to play the neutral, to preserve Rome’s independence through diplomacy. But Charles grew impatient. His unpaid imperial troops, many of them German Lutherans, marched south.

What followed was horror. In May of that year, Rome was sacked by the very soldiers who claimed to defend Christendom. Churches were defiled, altars desecrated, priests slaughtered. I, the Pope, fled to Castel Sant’Angelo, where I remained imprisoned for months while my city bled beneath me.

That moment broke something—not only in me, but in the Church. We had lost not just a battle, but our aura of inviolability. The enemies of Rome saw that even the Eternal City could be taken.

The English Question and a Fractured Church

No less delicate, and no less tragic, was the matter of King Henry VIII of England. He was once called “Defender of the Faith,” a devout son of the Church. But when he sought an annulment from his wife, Catherine of Aragon, I was placed in an impossible position. Catherine was the aunt of Charles V, the same emperor whose troops had ravaged Rome. Granting the annulment would enrage him; denying it would push Henry to defiance.

I delayed. I hesitated. I hoped for a resolution that never came. In 1533, Henry defied Rome and married Anne Boleyn. When I refused to recognize the marriage, he declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England. Thus began the English Reformation, and with it, the loss of yet another crown from Rome’s circle.

They say I was indecisive. They say I should have acted swiftly. But I ask: would a reckless yes or no have changed the tide? Or would it have only chosen one ruin over another?

Art, Science, and the Spirit of the Renaissance

In the shadows of loss and war, I still held fast to the light of the Renaissance. I was a patron of the arts, as any Medici must be. I supported Michelangelo, even commissioning him to paint the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel, though I would not live to see it completed. I worked to fortify the Vatican, to strengthen Rome’s defenses, and to support learning and science even as Christendom fractured.

My Florence, though bound to Rome, remained a center of brilliance. I never forgot the power of ideas—even as I struggled to hold them within the Church’s fold.

A Pontificate of Wounds and Warnings

I died in 1534, weary of battles I could not win and of unity I could not preserve. My papacy was no triumph. It was a struggle against forces greater than any one man—reformers with fire in their pens, kings with swords in their hands, and armies that trampled over the sacred and the secular alike.

I am Pope Clement VII, a Medici in robe and in blood, who ruled during the breaking of the Christian world. I did not forge unity, but I tried to delay its collapse. If I am remembered, let it not be for weakness, but for bearing the crown in an age when the world burned—and I stood, however imperfectly, between the flames and the altar.

A King Once Called Defender of the Faith – Told by Pope Clement VII

When I first became pope in 1523, the crown of England rested upon the head of King Henry VIII—a man of fierce will, noble lineage, and uncommon intelligence. He was no ordinary monarch. He fancied himself a theologian and had written a rebuttal of Martin Luther's doctrines, earning from my predecessor the title “Fidei Defensor”—Defender of the Faith. I believed then that England stood firmly with Rome, a loyal daughter of the Church.

But I underestimated the hunger that stirs within even the most outwardly devout. Henry’s problem was not one of doctrine at first—but of dynasty.

The Matter of the Queen and the Womb

Henry’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon had lasted nearly twenty years by the time he approached me. She was a pious and regal woman—the widow of Henry’s elder brother and the aunt of Emperor Charles V, who wielded immense power throughout Europe. Their union had produced only one living child: Mary, a girl. No son had survived infancy. Henry believed, or perhaps convinced himself, that the marriage had been cursed in the eyes of God.

So he came to me—not in person, but through his envoys and his chancellor, the cunning Thomas Wolsey—seeking an annulment. Not a divorce, mind you, for marriage is indissoluble in the eyes of the Church. But he argued that the original papal dispensation allowing him to marry his brother’s widow had been invalid, and thus the marriage was never truly sacramental.

I was not unmoved by his plight. I understood the desire for a male heir. But this was not a simple legal question—it was a matter that involved politics, alliances, and the sanctity of the sacraments.

Between an Emperor and a King

Had the situation involved only Henry, I might have granted the annulment. But the world is not so simple. Catherine was the niece of Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor. And Charles was no distant ruler—his armies had sacked Rome in 1527, only six years into my pontificate. I had watched from the Castel Sant’Angelo as my city burned and my people were ravaged. I was his prisoner in all but name.

To grant the annulment would be to insult the emperor, to declare his aunt’s marriage illegitimate, to provoke the wrath of a man who had already laid waste to my holy city.

So I stalled. I delayed. I promised review. I sent the case to ecclesiastical courts. I sought a path that would offend neither king nor emperor. But in trying to please both, I satisfied neither.

A King’s Patience Wears Thin

Henry waited—impatiently, indignantly. His frustration boiled over. By 1533, he could wait no longer. He dismissed Wolsey, raised Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury, and secretly married Anne Boleyn, already carrying his child. Cranmer quickly declared the first marriage null and the second valid.

It was a direct act of defiance. I had given no such permission. I had not yet ruled, and Henry had moved ahead without me. I had no choice. In 1533, I issued a formal bull declaring his marriage to Anne invalid and excommunicated both him and Cranmer.

But the crown did not yield. Instead, Henry turned from Rome entirely. In 1534, he passed the Act of Supremacy, declaring himself the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Thus was born a new church—one still wearing the vestments of tradition, but severed from the authority of Peter’s throne.

The Shattering of Unity

I watched with grief as England broke away. Monasteries were dissolved. Priests and bishops were forced to choose between their king and their pope. Saints like Thomas More, who remained loyal to Rome, were executed for their conscience. A realm once rich in faith now stood in open schism.

Many blame me for the loss. They say I should have acted sooner, with clarity and courage. That I should have granted the annulment, or denied it more forcefully, or moved more decisively. But they forget—I was surrounded. Rome was vulnerable, my influence over kings was waning, and the world was already tearing at the seams.

What I tried to preserve was not simply a marriage, but the unity of Christendom, which had already begun to fracture under the weight of Luther’s defiance and imperial politics.

My Wounds and My Warning

I am Pope Clement VII. I did not seek to provoke a rebellion. I sought peace where there was none. I sought patience where kings demanded haste. And I stood between the crown and the cross, and found myself crushed by both.

Let it be remembered that the Church of England was not born from reform, but from refusal—from a king’s desire for an heir, and a pope’s refusal to bend under pressure. And though the wound of schism still bleeds, I pray that one day the flock shall return to one fold, under one shepherd.

My Name is Pope Francis: A Son of Immigrants in the South of the World

I was born Jorge Mario Bergoglio on December 17, 1936, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, to Italian immigrants. My father was a railway worker, and my mother dedicated her life to raising me and my four siblings. We lived simply, but with deep faith and a love for family. I remember the laughter in our home, the scent of my grandmother’s cooking, and the Rosary often prayed together. Those early years gave me a love for ordinary people and the sacred beauty of daily life.

In my youth, I studied chemistry, and I worked for a time in a laboratory. I was an ordinary young man, with friends, hopes, and plans. But something stirred deeper within me, especially after a serious illness in my early twenties. During my recovery, I experienced a profound moment of grace in confession. It was there that I felt the call of God—not to remain in the world of science, but to give my life to Him entirely. I entered the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits, drawn to their simplicity, their mission, and their deep focus on service and education.

A Jesuit on the Streets and in the Heart of the People

After years of study and spiritual formation, I was ordained a priest in 1969. The streets of Buenos Aires became my parish. I taught literature and philosophy, served the poor, and tried always to be a pastor who listened before speaking. In 1973, I became the provincial superior of the Jesuits in Argentina, during a time of political repression and violence. These were painful years, and I carry with me both memories of courage and the sorrow of knowing I could have done more to protect the vulnerable. I always tried to follow my conscience and to walk beside those who suffered in silence.

Later, I was appointed bishop and then archbishop of Buenos Aires. I chose not to live in the bishop’s palace, but in a small apartment. I cooked my own meals, rode the bus, and walked the city streets. Not out of austerity, but because I believed a shepherd must be among his sheep. I grew close to the poor, to slum communities, to the elderly and forgotten. I listened more than I spoke. I tried to help others feel the nearness of God.

In 2001, I was made a cardinal by Pope John Paul II. I traveled to Rome often, but my heart remained with my people in Argentina. I never imagined I would become pope. I expected to return to Buenos Aires when the 2013 conclave was over. But God had other plans.

The Call to Rome and the Name I Chose

In March 2013, after the historic resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, I joined my brother cardinals in the Sistine Chapel. When the ballots turned toward me, I felt peace, not fear. I accepted. I chose the name Francis, after Saint Francis of Assisi—a man of poverty, humility, and care for creation. It was the first time a pope had taken that name. I did so because I hoped to remind the Church, and myself, to stay close to the poor and to walk lightly on this earth.

I became the first Jesuit pope, the first pope from the Americas, and the first non-European in over a thousand years to sit on the Chair of Peter. The weight of the responsibility was great, but I carried it with the trust that I was not alone.

A Church that Goes Out, a Church of Mercy

From the first days of my papacy, I called for a Church that goes out, that seeks those on the margins. I asked that we become a Church of mission, not one turned inward. I opened the Holy Year of Mercy, preached the need for tenderness, and reminded the world that no one is excluded from the love of Christ.

I wrote Laudato Si’, calling all people to protect our common home, and Fratelli Tutti, urging a culture of fraternity and dialogue. I visited the poor, prisoners, migrants, and war-torn lands. I wept with those who suffered and listened to those the world too often ignores. I worked to renew the Church from within, calling for synodality, where all voices are heard, and for a more compassionate understanding of human fragility.

Still Walking with the People

I am not a perfect man. I have made mistakes. But I have tried to be a pastor. I have tried to remain close to the people, especially those wounded by life. I believe the role of the pope is not to rule from a throne, but to walk alongside others, carrying the joy of the Gospel and the cross of Christ. Even now, in the twilight of my years, I continue to hope, to pray, and to believe in the goodness of humanity.

I am Francis, a servant of the servants of God, called from the far corners of the earth to the heart of the Church. I have tried to build bridges where there were walls, and to remind the world that love—humble, courageous, forgiving love—is stronger than hatred, and more enduring than power.

If you remember anything of me, let it be this: God never tires of forgiving. And we must never tire of seeking His mercy and sharing it with one another.

My Final Benediction – Told by Pope Francis

If you are hearing or reading these words, then my earthly journey has reached its end. I speak now not with the voice of a reigning pontiff, but as a humble servant who has loved and labored for Christ and His Church. I was never worthy of the task laid upon me in 2013, when the cardinals of the Church called me from the end of the world to shepherd the people of God. But I said yes, trusting that the Lord does not always choose the strongest, but the willing.

I have tried to walk with you. I have tried to listen. I have tried to smile. I have prayed each day that my witness might lead souls closer to Jesus. I have stumbled at times. I have said too much, and not enough. But I have never stopped loving you, the People of God, with all my heart.

To the World, With Gratitude and Hope

To the world outside the Church, to those of different faiths or of no faith at all, I say thank you. Thank you for welcoming me, for challenging me, for walking with me. We live in a time of great division, yet I have seen in your eyes the same yearning for peace, for meaning, for love that I see in the Gospel. I believed then, and still believe, in the dignity of every human person. If I have left anything behind, let it be the echo of mercy—a reminder that kindness is not weakness, and that compassion is the language God speaks in every land.

To the Church I Have Loved

To my beloved Church, my home, my mother: remain faithful to Christ. He is the center. Not customs, not ideologies, not structures—but Jesus Christ, crucified and risen. I know how divided our world is, and how those divisions can find their way even into the sanctuary. But I beg you, as a brother in Christ, to resist the temptation to close in on yourselves. The Church must go out. To the margins. To the wounded. To the forgotten. That is where the Gospel longs to be carried.

Stay close to the poor. Do not forget them. Let the voice of the least be heard in your churches, in your meetings, in your hearts. And never be afraid of joy. The joy of the Gospel is the flame that no darkness can extinguish.

What Comes After Me

Now that the Chair of Peter is once more vacant, the cardinals of the Church will gather in Rome to choose my successor. This sacred assembly is known as the conclave—a name meaning with a key, for the cardinals will be sealed away from the outside world, praying, discerning, listening to the whisper of the Holy Spirit.

They will gather in the Sistine Chapel beneath the image of the Last Judgment. They will vote in silence. Their ballots will be burned, and the smoke that rises will speak to the world—black if no pope has been chosen, white when the Church has a new shepherd.

The process is not about politics, not truly. It is about surrendering to grace. Each cardinal, each man called into that room, must leave behind ambition and enter with the heart of a disciple. I have prayed for them already, and I ask you to pray as well—that they may be led not by opinion, but by the Spirit of God.

What I Ask of the One Who Comes Next

To the one who follows after me, I leave no crown, only a cross. Walk with the people. Smell like the sheep. Preach the Gospel with tenderness and fire. Be firm in truth, and never lose the tenderness of mercy. The Church does not need a manager—it needs a father, a brother, a servant. The world needs witnesses more than words. Do not be afraid to bend down. Do not be afraid to weep.

You will feel the weight of Peter’s keys. They are heavy. But Christ carries them with you.

Into the Father’s Arms

Now I go to the house of the Father, with peace in my soul. I have seen the world, and I have seen God’s light in it. I have known sinners and saints, and often I was both. I entrust everything now to the mercy of the One who first called me from Buenos Aires, from the ends of the earth, to Rome.

And so, dear friends, may the Lord bless you and keep you. May He make His face shine upon you. And may the Church of Christ, ever ancient, ever new, continue to walk in hope, until the day we are all gathered at the heavenly banquet.

Pray for me. And do not forget: never lose joy. Never lose tenderness. And never stop loving. I am Francis, servant of the servants of God.