By Fr. Dwight Longenecker
Crisis Magazine
May 6, 2025
Now that the papacy of Jorge Mario Bergoglio is behind us, it is worth not only assessing his papacy but also the papacy itself. While conservative Catholics criticized Francis' doctrinal ambiguity, his watered-down moral teaching, and his support for compromised prelates, it is only fair to ask ourselves what his motivations were.
I think they can be summed up in his rejection of the mozzetta before his first appearance that evening of March 13, 2013. In rejecting the traditional red shoulder cape, he reportedly said to Msgr. Marini, "You put it on. The carnival is over." This, however, is likely an urban legend. Another report has Francis simply saying, "I prefer not to." Either way, the decision was symbolic.
Francis was signaling a shift away from what he considered an overly grandiose papacy. From his first appearance, saying "good evening" and asking for the people's blessing, Francis aimed to shift away from a focus on the pope to a focus on the people. Coming from the social struggles of South America, Francis wanted a "poor Church for the poor."
So, he set about displaying his vision for the Church: He eschewed papal trappings, rejecting ornate vestments and the apartment in the Apostolic Palace for simpler attire and the Casa Santa Marta guesthouse. He referred to himself as the "Bishop of Rome" rather than grander titles, signaling a return to service over splendor. He intended for his leadership style to prioritize dialogue and synodality, encouraging bishops and laypeople to share responsibility for the Church's mission. He embraced non-Catholic Christians and members of other religions, chatted with atheists, and insisted that the Church was for everyone.
History will judge whether he succeeded in his aims. His critics soon lamented the ambiguity and watered-down Catholicism that invariably accompany attempts at accommodation. His pastoral flexibility undermined the clarity of Catholic moral standards while his ecumenical and interreligious outreach blurred the lines of doctrinal clarity.
All of these elements-both laudable and lamentable-are part of Francis' legacy, but I doubt whether the Franciscan shift will be more than a blip in the venerable history of the papacy. There are signs that the Catholic Church, and the world in general, has had quite enough of the dialogue and openness that is too often a mask for relativism. There is a hunger for clarity, stability, and the beauty, truth, and goodness that can only be found in traditional Catholicism.
Perhaps instead of pastoral openness, flexibility, synodality, and easygoing ambiguity, Pope Francis' more lasting legacy will be the fact that he helped Catholics to reassess the papacy itself. In so doing, he helped them regain a fresh understanding of the core of the Faith, what it really means to be a Catholic, and what a pope's job really is.
The uncomfortable truth is that too many Catholics have a bloated understanding of and admiration for the person and role of the pope. In an age of global celebrity, the pope is right up there with the monarch of England as one of the most famous authority figures on the world stage. And for too many Catholics, the pope is the Catholic Faith. Like the crass Rex Mottram in Brideshead Revisited, in their minds the pope really is an absolute and infallible monarch who cannot err even in the weather forecast. Pope Francis helped to correct that misapprehension. For that, I, for one, am grateful.
Ultramontanism Revisited
Someone quizzed me on social media some time ago, "Is ultramontanism a heresy like Montanism?" I answered, "Montanism is a heresy. Ultramontanism is a mistake."
Ultramontanism is that 19th-century movement within Catholicism that emphasized the supreme authority of the pope over national churches and secular governments. It emerged as a response to liberalism and secular modernism. It championed centralized papal authority, culminating in the First Vatican Council (1869-1870), which defined papal infallibility; but, over time, a kind of broader ultramontanism became the default setting. One of the contributing factors is that through two world wars the popes provided strong, unified moral leadership-leadership that transcended the political and cultural chaos of the first half of the 20th century.
This centralization strengthened the Church's unity but also created an image of the pope as an almost superhuman figure. So, by the second half of the 20th century, the stage was set for the larger-than-life papacies of John Paul II and Benedict XVI.
In many ways, the pontificate of Pope John Paul II marked the apex of the ultramontanist vision of the papacy—not because he was carried about in the sedia gestatoria wearing the triple tiara and being fanned by the flabella, but because he was a genuinely charismatic figure on a global scale. His tireless international apostolic journeys brought him face-to-face with millions. His role in the fall of communism cemented his image as a global moral authority. His writings addressed universal issues, appealing to both Catholics and non-Catholics.
The pope became not just a spiritual leader but a global cultural icon, expected to wield influence over geopolitics, morality, and pop culture. This "rock star" pope catapulted the papacy itself to an unprecedented but unsustainable height.
In comparison, Pope Benedict XVI was a shy, bookish man. But in his own way, he brought an equally lofty dimension to the papacy. Benedict was a capable linguist (he was fluent in six languages) and a world-class theologian and Bible scholar; and his pontificate was marked by clear teaching, moral clarity, and quiet but consistent leadership.
While he did not attempt to emulate John Paul's star status, Benedict's papacy further elevated expectations of the pope as an almost superhuman figure. His erudition, combined with John Paul II's global legacy, created an image of the papacy as a singular institution, towering above the Church and the world.
This placed immense pressure on the office, as popes were expected to be charismatic, infallible in doctrine, intellectually dazzling, and globally influential—all while navigating a polarized Church and a skeptical world. The cumulative effect was a papacy that seemed unattainable. Who could follow the Wojtyla/Ratzinger double act?
Francis' about-face was a shock to Catholics who loved JP2 and Benedict. But in hindsight, the correction was, perhaps, overdue. Was the pope a universally admired rock star? Francis clearly wasn't. Was the pope necessarily a brilliant theologian, writer, philosopher, and poet? Francis declined. Did the pope teach clearly, dogmatically, and firmly? Francis said he didn't plan to. Did the pope claim to be the Vicar of Christ, the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, and Successor of the Prince of the Apostles? Francis preferred "The Bishop of Rome."
In my book, that's ok. He didn't deny those titles. It's just that, like the mozzetta, he said, "I prefer not to." At the beginning of Francis' papacy, I found myself, along with other conservative Catholics, being a complainer and a "popesplainer." Then I realized that Pope Francis didn't mind if I disagreed with his opinions because he didn't intend to be an infallible dogmatist. Francis haters loved to paste the heretic label on him. Sure, he was pretty fuzzy sometimes, but I don't think he ever explicitly denied any Catholic dogmas. And the fuzziness itself had an ironic side effect: it helped us focus on the non-negotiables.
Pope Francis' papacy helped Catholics realize that our Faith is built not only on the rock that is Peter but also on his God-breathed confession that Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ, the Son of the Living God—and that our hope is in Christ's redeeming work: His incarnation in His Blessed Mother; His life, death, Resurrection, and Ascension into glory; and the hope of His imminent return—and that is the essence of it all anyway, isn't it?