You’re probably familiar with ‘imposter syndrome’, even if you haven’t heard that term. It’s the sense we have when we’re trusted with a task and we don’t feel worthy of that trust. Some people might step back when those doubts arise, declining the opportunity. Others might push their insecurity to the back of their mind, and forge ahead. But is there a third way? A way to acknowledge and even live inside one’s sense of inadequacy, and humbly proceed anyway?
Pope Francis, I think, found that third way. One can only imagine the daunting task he faced when he was elected back in 2013. Reportedly, his first words on his election were, ‘I am a sinner, but I trust the infinite mercy and patience of our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Then repeated those words, ‘I am a sinner’, often, as if to remind us that although ‘infallible’ was in his job description, he was also human.
And he had failed. Many times. We know of Francis’ struggles as Provincial of the Jesuits in Argentina, which helped shape his more synodal approach to leadership as archbishop and later Pope. But there were other hints. After Pope Francis’ death, this personal ‘creed’ he wrote before he became a priest was circulated on social media, including these words that speak of his struggle against sin: ‘I believe in the daily death, which burns, from which I flee, but which smiles at me inviting me to accept it.’
There were also human failures as Pope. In one of the best obituaries published so far on Pope Francis, Madoc Cairns notes, ‘Francis hoped his leadership might augur an age of renewal for the Church. He presided instead over an era of decline.’ Many Catholics, and many outside the Church, were energised by his words and inspired by his actions. But the number of Catholics overall continued to decline in the West, divisions between those that remained continued to grow, and there remains little trust in the Vatican’s bureaucracy to meet the many challenges facing the Church despite improved efforts in combatting abuse and strengthening the role of women.
But could anyone, any human being, have done any better? Perhaps the genius of Francis, his third way, was to narrow the playing field, to redefine what was required of the role. One person can’t turn back the tide of materialism, nor the desire of the modern mind for convergent solutions, for sets of guidelines to address every problem. It’s the water into which most of us today are born, where we’re taught to swim on our own and obey all the signs, then to retreat into our underwater caves where finely-tuned algorithms prevent us from ever becoming curious about what might lie beyond. But he could give us glimpses of something different. Actions that might be broadcast onto our screens. Images that might cut through the noise. What if we flushed away all the rules and replaced them with one rule – love?
He failed at the bigger picture, because we human beings are failing. If the true measure of a Christian is how they follow Jesus’ advice in Matthew 19:21 (‘If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.’) then most of us fall short. And so Pope Francis preached mercy, infinite mercy. He dedicated a whole year of the Church to it, created missionaries to spread the message around the world, and even publicly attended confession himself – ‘Here I am, a sinner, just like you.’ It became not about the bigger picture, but the smaller picture – the prisoner, the disabled child, the homeless woman, the refugee, the disillusioned youth. It became not a contest for the world, but a contest for each heart, against the daily burning death that seduces and beckons us.
Here’s another term: ‘failing upwards’. Even if you haven’t heard of the phrase, you’ve probably seen the phenomenon it describes. In the Church, it might be the music director who alienates everyone but the priest and still gets appointed to lead the parish council; the priest who struggles with relationships but is great at theology and is set on the pathway to the episcopate anyway. It’s the idea that one can narrow the definition of ‘success’ in a role in such a way (e.g. sucking up to the boss) as to convince those responsible for promoting you that you can handle even greater responsibility.
'Whoever is elected to replace Pope Francis will struggle with doubt, uncertain whether they’re adequate to the task. And it will be a big task ahead of them, not least steering a pathway from discussions about ‘synodality’ to addressing the ongoing theological and ecclesial debates being waged across the globe. But the truth is that no human is adequate to the task of saving humanity, nor the Church.'
Yet as the Conclave gathers to meet to appoint a successor to Pope Francis, I wonder if one might make a small adjustment to that term ‘failing upwards’ – so that instead of manipulating the game unjustly, we recognise that we are playing an unjust game. If there is no way to win, then what matters isn’t that we succeed, but how we fail. And so perhaps Pope Francis’ pontificate could be described as ‘failing, upwards’. A humble sinner, trying to guide us fellow sinners towards heaven.
As Madoc Cairns writes in his obituary, Pope Francis confronted the ‘defeat of his hopes for the world’ in his final months through his daily conversations with Catholics in Gaza. Catholics had supported that war and supplied those who prosecuted it. The Church’s calls for peace had been ignored. Thousands continued to perish and starve amidst the ruins. The Pope could only reach out and offer solidarity with those who were trapped. Cairns writes:
‘It was an antidote to illusion: “a poor Church, for the poor”. It could never be administered. It could only be lived. To be poor, in the world as humans have made it, is to be weak; to suffer; to die. It is to share in the passion of Jesus Christ, the crucified God. It is to be defeated. And yet, somehow, not to fail.’
Whoever is elected to replace Pope Francis will struggle with doubt, uncertain whether they’re adequate to the task. And it will be a big task ahead of them, not least steering a pathway from discussions about ‘synodality’ to addressing the ongoing theological and ecclesial debates being waged across the globe. But the truth is that no human is adequate to the task of saving humanity, nor the Church. And perhaps that’s not what’s required of a Pope. Perhaps, just as St Peter constantly fell short of Jesus’ example, what we need is a Pope well acquainted with his own fallibility. One with the humility to accept the role fully aware of their sinful nature, but also the courage to continue to fail, upwards.
Michael McVeigh is Head of Publishing and Digital Content at Jesuit Communications.
Main image: Pope Francis prays in front of the statue of the Immaculate Conceptionon at Spanish Steps December 8, 2013 in Rome, Italy. (Photo by Franco Origlia/Getty Images)