The conclave: A call for companions
Come the 7th of May, the cardinals will be sequestered.
No outside world. No whisper of news. No reach of social media. Only them, their prayers, their frailty—and the burning presence of God.
Within the stone walls of the Sistine Chapel, the Church pauses her long pilgrimage to seek a shepherd for the road ahead. One by one, the Princes of the Church will cast their votes. But they will also be casting their souls into the fire of discernment, daring to ask the Spirit to descend once again upon a waiting Church.
The passing of Pope Francis—the tireless shepherd who bore the scent of the sheep and the bruises of the road—has left a hollow in the heart of the world. It is not just an empty throne that must be filled, but a profound wound that must be healed. The Church does not seek a manager now, nor a mere figurehead. She aches for a father, a brother, a friend of Christ.
And we, though we cannot walk the marble floors or cast ballots, are summoned, too.
For we are a Church on pilgrimage. Not yet triumphant. Not yet at rest. We are the Church of dusty feet and battered hearts. And we know: Without a shepherd, the journey falters. Without a voice crying, “This is the way; walk in it,” we are prone to wander.
The new pope will not be a savior—we have but one. He will be, God willing, a companion: a man who knows the weight of walking. A man who does not seek the thrones of the world but the cross at its heart.
Thus, this conclave is not theirs alone. It is ours. Ours to guard with prayer. Ours to sustain with hidden sacrifices. Ours to accompany with the fierce, aching hope that even now, the Spirit who drove the Church into exile and mission still stirs the hearts of men. It is the work of the whole Church, aching and longing for a shepherd after Christ’s own Heart.
Faithful
We pray not for a perfect man, but for a faithful one. Not for a king, but for a companion.
We must pray they will choose one. We must be their companions as they seek, in trembling freedom, to bind themselves to the will of the Father.
The Church today bears wounds both ancient and fresh. She carries the scars of betrayal, the fatigue of controversy, the weight of a world growing colder to her words. Yet she also carries the undying flame of Pentecost. And for her to shine anew, she needs a man who has knelt long enough in the dark to recognize how light breaks.
Ultimately, the conclave is not a matter of ecclesial politics or the careful calibration of ideological leanings, whether labeled “liberal” or “conservative.” It is a spiritual discernment—a surrender to the unpredictable grace of the Holy Spirit. It is about a choice as old as Peter’s trembling steps across the water: “Will you trust Me?”
And so we watch. We wait. We walk, still, as a pilgrim people—through the shadowed valley, toward the dawn we have not yet seen but believe with all our hearts is coming.
For the Spirit is still speaking. And beyond the painted ceilings and ancient rituals, there is a voice calling once again:
“Come, follow Me.”
