What Pope Francis knew

Boston Globe

23-04-2025

I have several stories from the past couple of years when I have been blessed enough to meet with Pope Francis, but one in particular stands out, when, late last summer, he invited a small delegation to the Vatican to discuss issues of storytelling and peace in the Middle East.
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Refugees and migrants rescued by members of the Spanish NGO Proactiva Open Arms in the Mediterranean Sea in 2020.
Sergi Camara/Associated Press
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Our delegation of five met near the papal apartments in the Cortile del Belvedere in the Vatican. We walked over cobblestones damp from an early rain. We were greeted in the entryway and guided toward the elevators. It was a pristine building, well kept, high-ceilinged. As we turned a corner, we were surprised to see a large artwork on the wall. Six-and-a-half feet high, it was in the shape of a crucifix. It took a moment to realize that the giant cross was made of transparent resin and that the 'body' of the cross was not a body at all but an orange life jacket.
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The artwork hung in the entryway to the pope's personal quarters, a startling symbol of the world's refugees. A life jacket, most likely belonging to an African refugee rescued, or maybe drowned, at sea, in the place of, or in tandem with, Christ on the cross.
The artwork the author saw in the Vatican last summer.
Colum McCann
We knew then that we were there to meet a person who held the stories of others.
Among our delegation were a Palestinian Christian, a Palestinian Muslim, and an Israeli Jew. We remained in the waiting room a considerable time while other parties came and went from behind the door. Time held itself. Toward late morning, we were the last delegation. Pope Francis stood from his chair to shake hands. He was 'deeply moved' to meet our Palestinian and Israeli delegates, he said. They were an important part of the peace movement, not just in the Middle East but around the globe.
Then he sat to listen. What was most extraordinary about him was how the words seemed to enter him. Viscerally. Tranquilly. His was a gentle presence, but candescent too. He seemed to be accepting the words as gifts. A pang of pain went across the hood of his eyes as his visitors talked of occupation, genocide, apartheid. The dark abysses of the human condition that he himself had often spoken about. He wanted to hear these words in order to know what he could properly say to the rest of the world. It struck me that I had never seen words being accepted in the same way. The brutal realities. The common thread of pain. The anguish of the unsaid. The ignorance. The disinformation.
He wanted to hear all this in order to know what he might say, at another time, to other people around the world. When he finally did speak, he did so quietly, with care, compassion, and startling humility. For common phrases — 'Thank you for coming,' 'I am very moved by your stories' — he used English, but for that which he truly wanted to say, he spoke to a Spanish interpreter.
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'You remind us that we still have light, even in the darkest moments.'
'The peacemakers must embrace one another first.'
'You have the ability to bring change into history.'
There was humor too. When it was suggested that he might make a good candidate for the presidency of the United States, he quietly smiled and said, 'I am not quite sure that it would be a benediction.'
To be in such a presence was a great gift, not just for the quality of the moment itself but for what it suggested for what might come after — the struggle for any sort of peaceful engagement in a shattered world. I was reminded of a line from Arabic poetry: 'Is there any hope that this desolation might bring us solace?'
As we left, we passed the artwork again. It had become more crucifix than sculpture. The life jacket was, of course, representative of whoever had once worn it, but it also represented the lives that the Palestinian and Israeli delegation's families had lost, or the current realm of terror and global indifference.
Pope Francis kissed the foot of a man at the Castelnuovo di Porto refugee center outside Rome in 2016. The pontiff washed and kissed the feet of Muslim, Orthodox, Hindu, and Catholic refugees, declaring them children of the same God.
l'Osservatore Romano
In the corner of the vaulted ceiling above where the crucifix hung, there was a small crack in the plasterwork. The paint was swollen and bubbling. This, in itself, was incredible in such a building: One did not expect there to be a blemish. Not only that, but the crack in the wall had allowed water to seep in.
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It appeared to us, as we left the building, that the outside was seeking the inside and that the rainwater was looking for the life jacket. It was like the line from the Leonard Cohen song 'Anthem':
There's a crack, a crack in everything
/
that's how the light gets in
.
It turned out that the crucifix was controversial to some who were critical of Pope Francis. Some right-wing critics said that he was 'deifying the poor and the marginalized.' But that was not something Pope Francis would have responded to. He had blessed the crucifix in 2019. He had embraced the wider meaning. He knew.