IN A WORLD OF POLARIZATION, populism, and moral exhaustion, it feels almost miraculous that a moment of clarity — or perhaps divinely timed disruption — would arrive not from Capitol Hill, Wall Street, or Silicon Valley, but from the marble balconies of the Vatican.
This week, my compadre and oldest son's father-in-law, Modesto Cordero, shared photos from a rare and extraordinary trip to Rome. Modesto, an ordained deacon and worship director for the Diocese of Orange, is part of a special archdiocesan delegation granted an audience with history’s latest curveball: the new pope. With his beloved wife Nydia Aileen Santiago-Cordero by his side, the two are reveling in the breathtaking gravity of the moment.
It feels like just yesterday that Pope Leo made history — the first American pontiff. A spiritual leader not born in Rome or Rio, but raised in Dolton, Illinois — a suburb of Chicago, and yes, a White Sox fan.
If the name feels regal, it should. Leo the Great, his namesake, was said to have turned back the armies of Attila the Hun with nothing but faith and resolve. Now, this Pope Leo — younger than many expected, clear-eyed and silver-tongued — faces a world perhaps just as ferocious. Not with swords, but with scrolls. Not with invaders, but with ideologues. Not with lions, but with cynics and screens.
Let us pause and consider the magnitude. For the first time in two thousand years of Church history, the man wearing the Ring of the Fisherman hails from the United States — a country with an uneasy dance history with Catholicism. The U.S. once recoiled at the idea of a Catholic president, demanding that John F. Kennedy prove he wouldn't take orders from Rome. Catholics were once slurred, scorned, shunned.
And yet, here we are. It’s as if history turned on its heel, looked back at America, and whispered: Your turn.
The symbolism couldn’t be richer. America — drowning in moral questions about justice, decency, violence, and greed — now sees one of its own tasked with leading the oldest institution of moral authority on Earth. In Pope Leo, some glimpse a fantasy: a figure not of ideology or partisanship, but of conscience and clarity.
Leo’s challenge, of course, is colossal: not merely to lead the Church, but to restore its relevance. To rebuild the credibility of a faith wounded by scandal and weakened by bureaucracy. But there is something about him — a lightness in his tone, a gravity in his gaze — that suggests a turning.
In his first address, he didn’t pontificate on doctrine. He spoke instead of dignity — for migrants, for children, for the lonely and forgotten. And in a powerful, almost cinematic moment, he offered his blessing not only in Latin, but also in Spanish and Italian — embracing the pulse of the Americas, the wounded soul of Europe.
It was small. But it thundered.
Here in the U.S., we are in a kind of spiritual free fall. Our politics are tribal. Our media, theatrical. Our conversations, bitter and brittle. Religion, once the heartbeat of conscience, has too often become a cudgel — used not to inspire, but to divide.
Into this vacuum steps Pope Leo. Not as a savior. But perhaps as a shepherd.
He doesn’t need votes. He doesn’t chase clicks. His authority doesn’t stem from algorithms — it stems from authenticity. He can speak to injustice without poll-testing. He can call for mercy without fear of the mob. And because he stands above the din, his voice may rise above it.
And that, in our moment, makes him both powerful… and necessary.
Of course, the risks are enormous. An American Pope will be seen — rightly or not — as carrying the moral baggage of a divided country. Every word, every silence, will be read through the lenses of race, rights, tradition, and tolerance. He will be asked to weigh in on everything from LGBTQ rights to global poverty. And in doing so, he must somehow remain both prophetic and pastoral.
But if he succeeds — even a little — he may spark a revolution not of riot, but of renewal. Not of doctrine, but of decency. And not in pews, but in people’s hearts.
It’s too soon to canonize Pope Leo with praise. But it is not too soon to hope.
Hope that he can rekindle something glowing dim — not just faith in a church, but faith in each other. That he can call not to politics, but to principle. That in a time when power has grown cheap and virtue rare, one voice might rise from the marble steps of Rome and call us back to ourselves.
Because sometimes, grace wears a mitre.
And sometimes, even history bows to a whisper.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author, is a writer-at-large and the national political writer for LAMonthly.org. He is the author of nine books, including his new debut novel, THE BOOK OF MARILYN. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com.
