When I landed in Rome last year, renting a budget room tucked like an afterthought behind St. Peter's Basilica, I had zero intentions to see, or be near, the Pope. Why would I? As an atheist, my pilgrimage was to the city's 2500-year-old bones — its crumbling Forums, the ghostly whispers of emperors, the shadows of gladiators etched into cobblestones. My faith lies in science, cinema, and the stubborn rationality of Marie Curie — not men in robes peddling divine hotlines. Yet, fate (or irony, my preferred deity) had other plans. By the end of the 10-day slow tourism of Rome, I didn't just have a darshan of the Pope but found myself grudgingly in awe of the man who'd traded a palace for a guesthouse and turned Vatican Square into a shelter for the homeless.
Let's be clear: converting atheists is like selling ice to penguins. We're reformed sceptics, armed with raised eyebrows and a PhD in side-eye. But Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, aka Pope Francis, pulled off a miracle — he made me feel. Not faith, let me clarify, but something rarer still: respect.
The first Sunday of October, 2024, was perfect. Rome's air had the whiff of winter, but the summers hadn't yet said adieu. The bright blue sky was dotted with beauty spots of tiny white clouds, like in a child's painting. Standing in the St. Peter’s Basilica queue, I watched pilgrims press lips to ancient stones, their prayers blending with the murmur of tourists. The air smelled of devotion and impatience. Above us, the basilica's dome loomed, connecting the earth to the heavens. I scoffed quietly at the irony: a religion birthed in a manger now headquartered amidst ancient affluence? But my partner's words hummed in my ear: "This pope? He's the closest thing to Jesus the Catholic church has got in our modern times."
The sceptic needs proof. Surprisingly, despite the opulence, that wasn't hard to find, right where I stood.
Francis, I learned, had ditched the Apostolic Palace's penthouse — the ultimate holy real estate, all marble and mothballed majesty — for a modest two-room suite in the Vatican guesthouse. "Guesthouse!" I snorted, until a parable from a book from my favourite catholic priest of all time (before I even understood what a Catholic was), India's very own Anthony de Mello, flashed to mind.
A traveller visiting a sage asks, “Where are your belongings?” The sage replies, "Where are yours?" "But I'm just passing through," the traveller says. To which the sage smiles and replies: "So am I." Touché, Pope. Extravagance is the armour of the insecure; you, sir, your humility was your papal crown.
But it was the "Angels Unaware" statue that gutted me. Tucked like a bruise between Vatican's creamy colonnades, this 20-foot bronze scar depicts 140 migrants (mirroring the 140 angels in as many colonnades) — Mary and Joseph fleeing, a Jewish man escaping Nazis, a Syrian mother clutching a child ash-gray with hunger...
The hands — outstretched, desperate, frozen mid-reach — were gut-wrenching. My fingers brushed a sculpted palm, cold and eternal, its colour brightened from millions of touches of migrant solidarity, and suddenly my atheist heart cracked. Here, amid Baroque opulence and the musty scent of old devotion, was art that screamed: "Remember who we are meant to serve." A nun nearby wept into her rosary. I envied her release.
Nightfall unveiled Vatican Square's best-kept secret with a papal touch. Under those 52-foot colonnades — where Bernini’s 140 stone angels smirked at mortal folly — the homeless now slept, curled on cardboard thrones with the opulent pillars and roof providing shelter from rain and storm.
Before Francis became the Pope in 2013, police shooed them like pigeons. But this Pope’s instruction to the cops was protect, not pursue. He prevented Palazzo Migliori, a 19th-century palace next to the colonnades, from turning into a luxury hotel. It's now called the 'Palace of the poor' where they're fed dinner and breakfast. I lingered past midnight, watching shadows blur into pillars. A man wrapped in a donated blanket coughed — a wet, rattling sound — and I felt something suspiciously like hope. Or maybe it was shame.
But most of these, I would come to know later. Right then, it was still late morning on Sunday, October 6, 2024. The square was not just full, it was bursting. Delegations in matching sweaters — Peruvian alpaca, Nigerian kente — flooded in, trailed by kids clutching flutes and violins. A Latin American choir of children warmed up, their harmonies melting like caramel into the crisp air. I took in the energy — electric and itchy, like the moment before a rockstar takes the stage. And then — applause detonated behind me. I turned.
There he was.
A tiny figure in white, waving from a window like a benevolent ghost. His voice, when it came, was a raspy lullaby — warm gravel wrapped in Latin cadence. I understood nothing, but the crowd's applause and tears needed no translation. A Sudanese woman clasped her chest; an Afghan teen snapped photos, his smile tighter than his grip on the phone. Later, online, I would read that on that day he had condemned the bombings in both Palestine and Ukraine. But here in the square, he summoned a school band, and the instruments of the kids next to me burst out into a joyous melody. Hence, when he called out to the citizens of individual nations, I got carried away. When he shouted "India!" I cheered — a reflex even my cynicism couldn't stifle.
Late that night, I fell into a Wikipedia rabbit hole. Turns out, this pope checked most boxes for progressive: On LGBTQIA+, he said, "Who am I to judge?" He swapped a throne made of gold and jewels where the previous Pope sat, for a wooden chair. And he said it was better to be an atheist than a hypocritical catholic. Damn! He’s a Moner Manus — a man after one's heart. I remember Vivekananda saying: better to be an atheist than believe in a religion that does not help others.
But find a human and I'll find you many flaws. Francis had his share. He was criticised for not doing enough to root out the child molesters in his organisation. He also fumbled the feminism touchdown. While nuns now helm Vatican departments (take that, stained-glass ceiling), female ordination remains taboo. Yet, even the Catholic Women's Council — a global umbrella coalition of 44 Catholic women's organisations that battle patriarchal dogma with the ferocity of gladiators — tipped hats to his progress. Their press release conceded that he was "a pivotal figure who opened doors that had remained closed for centuries." High praise from those who've rattled locked gates for decades.
Inside the basilica, I remember craning my neck at Michelangelo's dome, its kaleidoscope of saints and angels swirling into a honeyed haze of candlelight. The floor groaned under centuries of knees. But one thing jarred: no papal throne. Just a simple wooden chair, thanks to the 'Slum Pope'.
I don't mourn religious figureheads. Their exit line — “Meet you upstairs!” —leaves me cold. But Francis? He was a paradox — a man who wore power like a threadbare sweater, who turned St. Peter's into a haven for the forgotten. Did he end Church corruption? No. Fix every flaw? Please. But in a world where faith often fuels fists, he wielded his as a shield.
So here's to Jorge Mario Bergoglio: the Pope who didn't convert me, but made me believe in the divinity of decency. My tears are reserved for the scientists, the activists, the doers of the world. But for him? For the human who went to his flock in the slums, who called doubters "kindred", who let the homeless inherit his colonnades?
Fine! My stone-cold, rational heart relents. I will shed a few tears.
I don't believe in gods—or their salesmen. But a good person? Now that scripture writes itself.
