A Non-denominational Jew Weighs in on the Conclave and Catholic Leadership
I am not one of the 61.9 million Catholics in America with skin in the game over who becomes the next pope. But I am interested in it the same way 106.8 million white women are interested in whatever the hell is happening with Britain’s Royal Family. Well, maybe not that much, but I’m curious, to say the least. Because the Pope matters. He guides the Church into and out of pedophilic rape cover ups, he sets the tone on how a two thousand-year-old religion will remain relevant in modern society, he makes dressing like a pimp in church acceptable. Plus, I’m a fan of pomp and circumstance. Which is also why I have watched royal weddings and funerals. But the papal conclave is much more than an exciting formality. It’s the perfect blend of showmanship and secrecy.
And isn’t it my luck—or perhaps I’m blessed—that just a day before Vice President J.D. Vance killed Pope Francis, I watched the film Conclave. My interest is piqued, and I’m evermore convinced that God sometimes pays attention to me.
This opinion doesn’t matter, but I liked Pope Francis. I know a lot of Catholics didn’t because of his liberal leanings, friendly relationship with the media, and bucking of many traditions. And maybe that’s why I’m not Catholic. That, and my circumcision and inability to digest dairy. It seemed that Pope Francis was a near 180-degree shift from the previous popes, so I’m curious how far the pendulum may swing, or how little. Either way, it’s probably not going to affect my life much at all. Which is good. Because I’m tired of being affected by things.
All the wondering over who will lead the world’s 1.4 billion Catholics and follow in Peter’s footsteps got me thinking about two Catholic priests whom I will always think fondly of. Two men who represented the good stuff Jesus and that Peter fella were all about.
The first is Father Richard Peddicord, O.P. Fr. Peddicord was the president of Fenwick High School for a good number of years, most germane to this story, while I was working as the private school’s director of marketing and communications for four years. It was 2015, the Thursday before Labor Day. That morning, after mocking a friend’s girlfriend’s YouTube videos with my then-girlfriend of three years, I proposed marriage to her. It was improvised and wholly authentic. And awkward. After saying some nice things from my heart, placing the ring on her finger, kissing a bit, we realized we had to get to work. So, out of bed I got, into the shower I hopped, and off to Fenwick I went where I was meeting with Fr. Peddicord to discuss marketing and communication things.
I arrived at his office and the usual small talk began.
“Do you have any plans for the holiday weekend?” Fr. Peddicord asked me.
“I do! My girlfriend and I are heading up to Milwaukee. Her best friend is getting married. She’s the maid of honor.”
“That’s nice. That’ll be fun.”
“Yeah…” I said trailing off as the reality of what had transpired just an hour before. “But… I guess she’s not my girlfriend anymore…”
Fr. Peddicord looked terrified. Maybe more shocked. Certainly surprised at the idea that this typical meeting with his marcom director David may turn into a kind of confessional/therapy session.
“Oh...?” he said cautiously.
“Yeah…” I looked at him. “I, um… I got engaged, like, an hour ago…”
“Congratulations?”
“Yeah… yeah, congratulations works. Yeah. I got just got engaged. I’m getting married!”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you!”
Fr. Peddicord, a Catholic priest, was the third person to know that I was engaged. I hadn’t even told my parents. For the first part of the morning, my engagement was a secret between me, my fiancé, and a priest. Not at all how I could have imagined it playing out. Looking back, it set the tone for the rest of my marriage.
The second priest is Father Fred. Fr. Fred was the leader of the Catholic Newman Club at UNLV, where I attended college—or university as the Royals might say. I was involved with Hillel, the Jewish organization, and often killed time hanging out napping or studying at the school’s Student Interfaith Center, which was home to Hillel, the Catholic Newman Club, and some Protestant organization that kind of kept to itself.
Fr. Fred came off more as a hippie than a priest. He wore the collar, but other than that, you never would have guessed he was a man of the cloth. He was a small man, cute, even. His office was adorned with macramé plant holders and beanbag chairs and quilts. It felt like a new-age birthing center without the feminists. Fr. Fred was a little effeminate, which made him being a priest all the more disarming and approachable. He was funny, lively, and kind.
Often, I’d swing by the Center just to chat with Fr. Fred. I mostly drove the conversation, which I think was the point of having an audience with a priest. We’d talk about my life—friends, girls, classes, and such. Neither of us were fans of President Bush, so we’d bemoan his idiocy and his administration’s hateful approach to diplomacy. We’d talk about religion—the differences and similarities between our two faiths. We’d talk about God and heaven and the chance that neither may exist. Fr. Fred was a person who offered a place and feeling of calm, rest, understanding, honesty. Time with him was truly a respite from the fun, but at times hectic life I was living as a twenty-something go-getter with a lot of energy and promise bursting from my pores.
Then, one day, Fr. Fred was gone. No announcement, no farewell party, nothing. I came in for a chat and his office was bare. Not even a rogue Styrofoam ball from that one beanbag chair with the small rip. It was very Jesus-On-Easter. An open door, a hollow room. And no one at the Interfaith Center could tell me what happened. It was, apparently, something the Church decided. The action was swift and secretive, which, over the years, has made me wonder if Fr. Fred was one of those priests getting shuffled around to avoid prosecution or accountability for deeds unbecoming of a Catholic leader—or any human, for that matter. But, no. Not Fr. Fred. He was a good man. A good person. Then again, a spider doesn’t catch its prey by being anything but peaceful and patient…
No. I refuse to believe that. And it’s belief that matters here. Belief that the new Pope will be just what the Catholic Church needs—whatever that is. So, here’s to a successful and speedy conclave!
And let us say, amen.
