Benedict and Francis: A Tale of Two Fathers

"I .... came to irrevocably embrace the truth of the Catholic Faith, no matter what evil any priest or bishop might do. Pope Francis, however, tested that conviction."

From Crisis

By S.A. McCarthy

Following the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, many Catholics felt abandoned by the father they loved, only to be straddled by a less-than-loving stepfather.

I was nearly ten years old when Pope St. John Paul II died. I remember watching his funeral on the tiny television in the corner of our kitchen. Being so young, I had no significant grasp of who the Polish pope was—and never could have imagined that, some years later, my Polish wife and I would tour the very Kraków where Karol Wojtyła had served as archbishop. But I knew that he was the Holy Father and had a sense, in that moment, that I was witnessing the passing of a great man. Thus, I cried.

Nearly a decade later, I was sitting in a classroom at the Christian academy I attended for high school when my Catholic teacher told us that Pope Benedict XVI was resigning. We dragged the television into the room to watch news coverage of this historic event. I knew Benedict XVI better than I had known John Paul II and, thus, loved him more, but he was still really the only pontiff that I had ever known. 

I had grown up with him, under his paternal care. I wanted to read his books and encyclicals and, when I was a little older, I did. I went to Mass in Washington, D.C., when he made his first apostolic visit to the United States and contented myself with a bumper sticker from the event when I couldn’t afford a t-shirt. When he resigned, I didn’t understand what was happening; and I didn’t cry. If I could have had even a glimpse of the next twelve years, I’m sure I would have.

Over the course of the succeeding twelve years, I briefly fell away from practicing my faith—as many of us are wont to do in our youth—before dutifully returning to the Church. I really began taking my Catholic faith far more seriously in 2018, during the “Summer of Shame.” The horrific crimes of then-cardinal Theodore McCarrick were devastating, but they caused me to ask a question that would come to define much of the rest of my life: How did this happen?

In trying to discover how such a notoriously perverse man could advance so rapidly into the upper echelons of the Catholic Church’s ecclesial hierarchy, I delved deep into the history of the Catholic Church and came to irrevocably embrace the truth of the Catholic Faith, no matter what evil any priest or bishop might do. Pope Francis, however, tested that conviction.
Shortly after McCarrick’s crimes were made public, the now-excommunicated archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò published a letter alleging that Pope Francis had known of and covered up McCarrick’s penchant for serially raping young men and boys, including seminarians and priests, and removed all sanctions and restrictions placed on McCarrick by Benedict XVI. When reporters asked Francis about the allegations during a press conference, the pontiff refused to respond, saying only, “I won’t say a word about it.” Even then, I did not think that these were the words of a man innocent of wrongdoing.

The following year, my love for both the Catholic Church’s history and the life and literature of Evelyn Waugh led me to the Tridentine Mass. The experience was, for me, life-changing, like a bottomless well of clear, cool water stumbled upon in the midst of an arid desert. I was astounded that this liturgical treasure was not more widespread, and not for the last time was I grateful for Benedict XVI and his Summorum Pontificum proclamation. But, once again, Francis was waiting, wielding disappointment and dismay.

In 2021, Francis issued Traditionis Custodes, effectively undoing Summorum Pontificum and placing heavy restrictions on the celebration of the Mass that I had come to love so much. I long suspected that the document was written by Cardinal Arthur Roche, given its cold, impersonal, characteristically-British tone. This suspicion was all but confirmed when Roche personally issued subsequent rescripts further restricting celebration of the Tridentine Mass. Nonetheless, the document still bore Francis’ name and signature and was perfectly consistent with his frequent derisive comments about the “rigidity” of tradition-minded Catholics.

When Benedict XVI died, I wept. I was in Poland at the time, visiting my wife’s hometown with her. I left our hotel room and went to the nearby church—an expansive, cavernous, medieval sanctuary, intrinsically Polish, very much out of place among the dilapidated ruins of Soviet rule—and knelt before the Blessed Sacrament and prayed for Benedict XVI’s soul, crying. Last year, when visiting Rome, I considered it a blessing to kneel by the tomb of Benedict XVI.

When I opened 𝕏 the day after Easter and read that Francis had died, I did not cry. To be perfectly honest, I breathed more easily. Losing Benedict XVI felt very much like losing a father, albeit a father whom I hadn’t seen in years, a father who just wasn’t there one day when I came home, but a father whom I loved dearly. Francis felt to me much more like the less-than-loving stepfather I was saddled with afterward. 

Unlike some “traditional Catholics,” I do not believe that Francis was evil; I do believe that his actions as pontiff were confusing, divisive, destructive, hurtful, and sometimes malicious, spiteful, and petty. For over a decade, I have felt fatherless but have had to confess that I do, indeed, have a father—pope—papa. Indeed, to do otherwise would be sinful, it would be schism, and it would separate me from the Church I love more than my own life.

We all know that Francis caused much pain in the hearts of many—I might even hazard a guess at most—Catholics. Of all the many wounds his pontificate dealt, perhaps one of the most grievous was the pain of leaving us all feeling fatherless.