“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Fr. Fibonacci could not help but roll his eyes when he heard the all-too-familiar voice of His Holiness, Pope John the 87th. He had come to visit the priest nearly every other day to confess some small sin or other ever since he had ascended to the papacy. His Holiness came when he thought the communion wafers were too dry or when he wondered if one of his fellow cardinals was sipping a little too much of the sacramental wine for something other than religious purposes. No matter how inconsequential, the Pope felt it necessary to confess.
Fr. Fibonacci could not guess as to why the Pope felt the need to come to the sacrament of reconciliation quite as much as he did. His granddaughter the psychologist would probably have much to say on the matter, but he was bound to silence, so there was nothing he could do in order to find out the truth behind the madness. All he knew for sure was that the Pope had a very specific reason for coming to Fr. Fibonacci above all other men of the cloth in Italy. Apparently, he gave out the highest penances.
Of course, His Holiness had no idea that this was done purely out of annoyance. It might have been a sin, but he could hardly be blamed. He didn’t think even God would have the patience to put up with a man who confessed that he almost cursed when he stubbed his toe at Mass.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” Fr. Fibonacci asked, trying to cover up the sigh. He was quite aware of how long it had been – two days. But ritual required the question, and so it was asked.
Silence filled the confessional box.
“Your Holiness?” Fr. Fibonacci prompted.
“Do you mind if we just sort of cut to the chase here, Father?”
Fr. Fibonacci’s eyebrow twitched. Sometimes he wondered what the other cardinals had been thinking when they elected such a young, and such an American pope. “You may, Your Holiness,” he answered, holding on to as much stateliness as he could in this situation.
A long intake of breath. “I want to quit the papacy.”
There was a very long moment in which Fr. Fibonacci could not think. His mind seemed as if it was trying to process thoughts through a steel wall. Finally, when the blood began to flow again, the first thing he thought of was how he finally understood that the term ‘jaw drop’ was not simply an exaggeration.
“I… I’m sorry, Your Holiness, I don’t quite understand,” Fr. Fibonacci stuttered.
“I, er… thought it was obvious,” the pope said, laughing quietly. “I just don’t want to be the pope anymore, that’s all.”
Fr. Fibonacci felt a headache coming on. Of all the priests in Rome, God had to lay this on his shoulders – a wayward pope. He had always longed for this kind of test in his youth, but now he had been perfectly content to live out the rest of his days as the priest who listened to popes confess. Perhaps it was his complacency that earned him this trial.
“This is a very serious thing, Your Holiness,” Fr. Fibonacci warned.
The pope sighed. “I know.”
“Your being the pope is God’s divine will. You cannot just cast it aside like this without giving it serious consideration.”
“It was divine will that the cardinals thought it would be funny to elect an American pope just to see how badly he would mess everything up?”
Fr. Fibonacci pondered this a moment, and found that things made a lot more sense when looked at from this lens. It was most unfortunate. “Have faith in your brothers, Your Holiness. I’m sure they--"
“I’m sorry. I know I must sound like some bitter teenager, but I have honestly given this a lot of thought. I really don’t think I’m cut out for this pope stuff. I’d just been earned the right of Cardinal when this happened, and that really only happened because there are so few people in the clergy. I was thinking about breaking with the Church when the last pope died, and then all of this happened. So, I realize I must sound like an inarticulate child, but I honestly don’t think that this is the right life for me.”
In spite of these assurances, Fr. Fibonacci had a feeling he knew what was really going on here.
“This is about the hat isn’t it?”
“It is not about the hat.”
“Because – I don’t know if they told you this – I don’t think you have to wear it as often as you do.”
“Father, I’m the pope. Of course I have to wear the pope’s hat. Not having to wear the hat is really just a fringe benefit of leaving the papacy.”
Fr. Fibonacci sighed and suddenly felt a great deal older. “Do you really wish to break from your faith so much, Your Holiness?”
“I still have faith,” the pope insisted. “I just feel like the Catholic Church is going about it wrong.”
“You’re the pope,” Fr. Fibonacci said, as if anyone needed reminding. “You can change whatever you like.”
“I can’t change how other people feel,” the pope said with a sigh. “I’m the most liberal pope in centuries, but the majority of the Church is still very conservative. All of these groups want me to change the Church’s stance on so many things, but they don’t understand that my hands are tied. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what I say because I’m not among like-minded people.”
Fr. Fibonacci sat up straighter, his wooden seat whining underneath his shifting weight. “And you want to be with like-minded people?”
“…I was really hoping we weren’t going to get into this.”
“No, I want to know,” the priest insisted. “Tell me what you want to do after leaving?”
The pause that filled the space between them was so long, the priest began to wonder if the younger pope had left. But then he heard the answer and could only wish that had been the case.
“I want to start a new religion.”
Fr. Fibonacci’s heart sank. “Lord have mercy, you want to be a cult leader.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“No, you’ve always been lenient on those kinds of people. Now I understand why.” Fr. Fibonacci shook his head, his fist falling against the armrest. “Forgive me, Your Holiness, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to say it. You’ve lost your mind.”
“I’m not crazy. Look, it makes perfect sense. I gather a bunch of people together who want to be a part of something. I teach them the basics – love thy neighbor, turn the other cheek, no ass coveting… And I can make it fun so that they actually want to show up.”
“Jonesboro,” Fr. Fibonacci moaned into his hands. “He’s telling me he wants to found another Jonesboro.”
“I would never do something like that,” the pope said, his voice far more grave than the priest had ever heard it.
Fr. Fibonacci took a deep breath. “I know. But you must admit that it is how it will look.”
“I don’t care if it looks right or not. All that matters is that I’m doing the right thing.”
Fr. Fibonacci turned his head, looking at the outline of the too-young pope through the screen that divided them. “And you’re sure that this is the right thing?”
“I’ve prayed about it.”
Fr. Fibonacci heaved a great sigh. This was his test. This was the moment of truth in which he had to decide whether to let the lamb wander to the lions or keep him save among a den of shearers. He knew there was no telling the young man to wait. The decision would have to be made now, and either way, Fr. Fibonacci did not think he could stop him from going.
“Why have you told me this?” Fr. Fibonacci asked. “What good can come of this conversation?”
“I want your blessing, Father,” the pope said, a little ashamedly.
Fr. Fibonacci drug a hand down his face, feeling out wrinkles he sometimes forgot he had. “You ask so much of me.”
“Too much?”
He felt a smile blossom beneath his palm. “Never too much, my son.” He made a sign of the cross in the air. “Go in peace. Do as your heart tells you to do and nothing less.”
“Does this mean I have your blessing?” the pope asked, his voice shaking a bit.
“You have my support any time you need it,” the priest reconciled.
“Thank you, Father.”
“You’re welcome… Marcus.”
