7-8 | FUMATA NERA.
On May 7, the great square before the Basilica of Saint Peter lay beneath a somber Roman sky, its ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of pilgrimage and supplication. It's regularly teemed with the faithful and the pilgrims drawn by either custom or curiosity of the soul, or an intentional waiting. All eyes, all longing, all silent invocations turned toward the unremarkable chimney above the Sistine Chapel where the cardinals congregate to discern and elect the next Pope.
Hedged by towering colonnades, the multitude gathered—not merely as spectators, but as souls motivated by history, a force older than time, older even than the stones and carved sculptures upon which they stood. They waited, hushed, the breath of nations stilled beneath the dome of Heaven.
The air was taut with expectancy, and yet within it, moved the whisper of prayers, the murmuring of Latin devotions, the shuffling of feet as the weary shifted their weight. Some old women clutched worn rosaries, some others toyed with their mobile phones in restless rhythm, their eyes often lifted toward the thin chimney above the Sistine Chapel—simple, unadorned, and yet the focus of the world’s longing. Funny, metaphorically considered as the conclave's "mouth of heaven."
There was no spectacle here, not in the vulgar sense. No fanfare, only the slow, inexorable turning of history within cloistered walls, and witnesses from diverse nations.
For from time to time, a gull or pigeon would alight upon the curved roof of the Sistine Chapel, as if summoned by the same divine whisper that had drawn the group of people below, including those who are remotely observing across nations. The birds stood like sentinels, heads cocked, unafraid of the gaze of thousands. One or two seagulls, its feathers accurately folded as it landed, paced near the base of the chimney, drawing a ripple of gentle laughter and scattered applause from the sea of upturned faces. There was relief at the moment—an easing of tension, a quiet wonder at the absurdity of an erstwhile symbolic meaning of the spirit, as speculated.
And then all eyes turned on a large multimedia flat screen positioned in the square or skyward in a collective intuitive heartbeat of waiting. A sacred hush, the gentle rustle, the distant murmur of prayers, and the movement of rosary beads in the hands of women whose eyes bore the long sadness and hope of generations. There were those who were in a honeymoon but have preferred to highlight their vacation with the dark smokes emitted from the conclave. Yet even amid this profound stillness, a touch of the whimsical stirred—a reminder that God, in His mystery, had not abandoned simple joys. A sigh swept the square, half of gasp, half of resolve.
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| Screen photographed via Vatican Media. |
May 8, 2025. Hours passed after the conclave begun, a wisp of smoke curled into the air—dark. Fumata nera. No elected pope yet. No consensus, as yet. Not yet. The Lord had not yet spoken through His servants. But at least, the first voting brought forward chosen names. Known only to cardinals. The Holy Spirit indeed unites, but He does so in due time. Even the Apostles tarried in Jerusalem before the descent of Pentecost. Delay is not opposition to grace, but its preparation.
The reporters and commentators—those curious apostles of the modern age, came armed not with thuribles or breviaries, but with cameras, microphones, and devices that blinked with restless urgency. They moved with constrained energy, as though conscious that they were treading upon holy ground. Some whispered into their headsets and microphones with the solemnity of confessors; others gestured urgently to camera crews, directing angles and lighting with the anxious fervor of men seeking to frame eternity for the evening news. And, still, others, raised their mobile phones to photograph the billowing dark smoke from the chimney. Their voices, carried across air waves, did not merely report—they interpreted, speculated, embroidered situations or behaviors or gestures of cardinals with meaning.
It is said the Holy Spirit whispers in Latin, but no reporter could confirm that and neither will they be able to verify who were balloted by cardinals to become the next Pope-- whether it's going to be an African, Latin American, Asian, European, conservative or leaning liberal. They can only speak their speculations with hope, with fear, with geopolitical significance and whether the next smoke will signify doctrinal stability or a turning point for the marginalized around the globe. Yet, for all their striving, the reporters too would only focus when the chimney smoked. For even the most seasoned correspondent knows: there are days when news is not made, but revealed.
But should the smoke turn white—ah! Then the stones would resound with the footfall of angels, and the bells of Rome would cry out the glad tidings: Habemus Papam. And people would remember, for a little while, that eternity still walks among them.
