What Does the Pope Wear — And What Does It Say About Pope Leo XIV?
What Does the Pope Wear — And What Does It Say About Pope Leo XIV?
The rain over Rome on the evening of May 7th was the kind that bled the streetlights into long, shimmering streaks across the cobblestones of the Via della Conciliazione. Inside the Borgo Santo Spirito, a brisk fifteen-minute walk from the high, imposing walls of the Vatican, Father Thomas Vance adjusted his damp collar and stared at the television screen mounted in the corner of his small study.
The screen was muted, but the images were frantic. News anchors from New York, London, and Paris were broadcasting live against the backdrop of a dark, expectant St. Peter’s Square. For the past forty-eight hours, the world had been holding its breath. The conclave was locked. The black smoke had risen four times, a bitter soot curling into the Roman sky, signaling that the Princes of the Church were deadlocked.
Thomas, an American priest from Chicago who had spent the last six years working in the Vatican’s Congregation for Bishops, knew the rumors. The media was spinning a tale of a bitter, ideological war: the progressives wanting a continuation of the radical simplicity of the previous decade, and the traditionalists demanding a sharp, uncompromising turn back toward ancient grandeur.
But Thomas knew it wasn’t a war of politics. It was a crisis of identity.
His phone buzzed on the desk. The name on the screen made his chest tighten: Monsignor Ghiberti.
“Thomas,” the voice on the other end said, skipping any greeting. It was breathless, tight with the gravity of someone standing at the axis of history. “It’s done. We have a Pope.”
Thomas stood up so fast his wooden chair scraped harshly against the tile floor. “Who?”
“Cardinal Alessandro Marini,” Ghiberti whispered, as if the walls of his own office might betray the secret before the official announcement. “The Augustinian. He’s chosen the name Leo. Leo XIV.”
Thomas felt a chill prickle his arms. Marini. A brilliant theologian, a quiet friar who had spent decades living a life of rigorous study and deep contemplative prayer, completely removed from the sharp-elbowed politics of the Roman Curia. He was a man who wore a threadbare habit and spent his evenings reading St. Augustine by the light of a single desk lamp.
“The white smoke will go up within the hour,” Ghiberti said, his voice dropping an octave. “But Thomas… there’s a problem. Or rather, a situation. You need to come to the Apostolic Palace. Now. Enter through the Sant’Anna gate. I’ve already cleared your security.”
“Monsignor, I’m an administrator, why would—”
“Just come,” Ghiberti urged, and the line went dead.
The Vatican at night during a papal transition is an eerie, electric place. The usual labyrinth of quiet corridors and echoing marble halls was alive with the hushed, urgent scurrying of Swiss Guards, papal master of ceremonies, and high-ranking prelates.
Thomas was escorted quickly past the security checkpoints, up the sweeping steps of the Scala Regia, and deep into the heart of the Apostolic Palace. He was led toward the back of the Sistine Chapel, to a heavy, unmarked wooden door.
The Sala delle Lacrime. The Room of Tears.
It was a small, windowless space, barely large enough for a few chairs, a mirror, and a table. Historically, it was the first place a newly elected Pope was brought, completely alone, immediately after accepting the most crushing burden on earth. It was called the Room of Tears because, stripped of his red cardinal’s robes, a man usually broke down under the agonizing weight of his new reality. He entered a prince; he walked out the Vicar of Christ.
Standing outside the door was Ghiberti, looking white-faced, alongside the Papal Master of Ceremonies, Monsignor Guido, who was frantically pacing the marble floor, his hands fluttering like trapped birds.
“Thank God you’re here,” Ghiberti muttered, grabbing Thomas by the elbow.
“What’s happening?” Thomas whispered, keeping his eyes on the closed door.
“He won’t come out,” Guido hissed, stepping into their huddle. “The white smoke is about to billow. The crowds in the square are swelling by the tens of thousands. Vogue has fashion correspondents standing by on the roofs across the square, for heaven’s sake! The world is watching, and the Holy Father is sitting inside, staring at the vestments like they are radioactive.”
“Why am I here?” Thomas asked, bewildered.
“Because you served as his administrative assistant during his brief tenure on the theological commission five years ago,” Ghiberti explained rapidly. “He trusts you. He thinks the Curia is a nest of vipers, but he remembers you as an honest American who just wants to do his job. Go in there, Thomas. Find out what’s wrong. We are running out of time.”
Thomas swallowed hard. He looked at the heavy door, took a deep, steadying breath, and knocked gently.
No answer.
He turned the brass handle and slipped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
The room smelled faintly of old wax, cedar, and the sharp, crisp scent of fresh linen. Sitting on a simple wooden stool in the center of the room was Cardinal Alessandro Marini—now Pope Leo XIV. He was seventy-two years old, with deep-set, intelligent eyes and a face lined by decades of fasting and intense study. He was still wearing his scarlet cardinal’s cassock, but he had removed his red zucchetto, leaving his silver hair uncovered.
Laid out on a long table across from him were three different sizes of the white papal cassock, ready to be tailored on the spot. Beside them lay the wide white silk sash known as the fascia, the small shoulder cape called the pellegrina, and the little white skullcap—the zucchetto, or “little pumpkin” in Italian.
Further down the table sat the symbols of the office that had set the Vatican rumor mills ablaze for weeks: a beautiful, deep-red satin mozetta—the short, buttoned cape that the previous Pope had famously refused to wear in a bid for utter simplicity—and an ornate red stole embroidered with heavy gold thread depicting the Apostles.
Leo XIV did not look up when Thomas entered. He was staring at the white wool of the cassock as if it were a shroud.
“Your Holiness,” Thomas said softly, his voice trembling slightly. He bowed his head.
The old man sighed, a long, ragged sound that seemed to come from the very soles of his feet. “Thomas. They told me they were bringing an American. I hoped it would be you.” He finally looked up, his eyes glassy but piercing. “Look at this table, Thomas. Look at all of this.”
“It’s… the tradition of the Church, Holy Father.”
“It is a theater,” Leo said, his voice laced with a quiet, profound exhaustion. “For fifty years, I have been a friar of the Order of St. Augustine. I wear black wool. I sleep on a cot. I try to find God in the quiet pages of the Confessions. And now, they want me to step out onto that balcony, under the glare of a thousand television cameras, dressed like an emperor. They want me to wear the red satin. They want me to put on the gold. The media is outside right now, ready to dissect my buttons like I am a model walking a runway in Milan.”
Thomas stepped closer, his eyes moving from the weary old priest to the vestments on the table. He understood the crisis now. It wasn’t about vanity; it was the sheer terror of a humble monk being swallowed by the crushing, performative institutional weight of the papacy.
“Holy Father,” Thomas said carefully, choosing his words with immense deliberate care. “If I may… it isn’t fashion. None of it. And it isn’t theater.”
Leo tracked Thomas as the young priest walked slowly toward the table, reaching out to touch the heavy white wool of the cassock.
“The white, Holy Father,” Thomas said quietly. “You think of it as royal garb. But remember why it’s white. It wasn’t always the papal color. In the early Church, popes wore red and purple—the colors of royalty, yes, but more importantly, the colors of Christ’s suffering, the color of the cloak placed over Him during His scourging. But in the thirteenth century, a Dominican friar was elected Pope. He refused to give up the white habit of his order. The tradition stuck. This white isn’t the clothing of a king, Your Holiness. It is the clothing of a monk. It is a reminder that you are, first and foremost, a servant of the Word.”
Leo’s gaze shifted to the white garment. His expression softened slightly, the fierce intellectual in him engaging with the theology of the cloth.
Thomas pointed to the white cassock, tracing his finger down the long row of fabric-covered buttons. “Thirty-three buttons down the front, Holy Father. One for each year of Christ’s life on earth. Every time you button this garment, from today until the day you die, your fingers will count the years of the Savior’s humility. It’s made of wool—not silk, not satin. Wool. The symbol of innocence, but also a reminder of the sheep. It’s meant to be heavy on your shoulders, because the flock is heavy.”
The room was utterly silent save for the distant, muffled roar of the crowd growing outside in St. Peter’s Square. The white smoke had undoubtedly begun to rise. The clock was ticking.
“And the red mozetta?” Leo asked, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the crimson satin cape lined with gold trim. “The previous Pope rejected it. He chose a simple white cassock. If I put that red back on, the world will say I am turning back the clock. They will say I am a reactionary, a man who loves the pomp more than the poor.”
Thomas shook his head, looking directly into the Pope’s tired eyes. “Pope Francis chose black shoes and a simple white dress because that was his testimony of simplicity. But tradition isn’t a prison, Your Holiness; it’s a vocabulary. If you wear the red, you aren’t saying you love wealth. Look at what the red means. It is the color of blood. It is the reminder that the Vicar of Christ is called to be the ultimate martyr. It means you are willing to lay down your life for the flock.”
Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box that Ghiberti had handed him before he entered. He opened it, revealing an ornate, heavy silver cross hanging from a thick chain.
“They asked me to bring you this,” Thomas said, holding it out. “Your pectoral cross.”
Leo looked at it, and for the first time, a look of profound recognition flashed across his face. He reached out with a trembling hand and took the cross, his thumb tracing the intricate engravings on its surface.
“This is…” Leo whispered.
“It contains the relics,” Thomas said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “Father Pasquale from the Basilica of St. Augustine sent it over the moment the bells began to ring. Inside this cross are the physical remains of St. Augustine, St. Monica, and St. Thomas of Villanova. It even holds a relic of Blessed Anselmo Polanco, the Augustinian bishop martyred during the Spanish Civil War.”
A single tear finally escaped the old man’s eye, tracking down the deep lines of his cheek. He pressed the heavy silver cross against his chest, right over his heart.
“You aren’t going out there alone, Holy Father,” Thomas said, his own throat tightening. “You aren’t being swallowed by the institution. You are carrying your spiritual family on your chest. You are an Augustinian friar, and you are bringing Augustine and Monica onto that balcony with you. When you wear these garments, you aren’t putting on a costume. You are putting on a vocation. Every single piece—every color, every button, every ring—carries centuries of meaning. It tells the world exactly who you are, even before you speak a single word.”
Leo XIV sat in silence for a long moment, the silver cross clasped tightly in his fist. He looked at the white cassock, then at the red mozetta, and finally at the simple black leather shoes he had worn into the conclave.
Slowly, the old man stood up. The posture of defeat was gone. His shoulders squared, and the quiet dignity of a shepherd took its place.
“Call the tailors,” Pope Leo XIV said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. “And tell Monsignor Guido that I will wear the red mozetta. But tell him to leave the red silk shoes in the closet. I am keeping my old black ones. A man must keep his feet on the ground, even if his head is in the clouds.”
Thirty minutes later, the massive velvet curtains of the loggia of St. Peter’s Basilica swung inward.
The night air was crisp, and the roar from the square below was a deafening, tidal wave of human emotion. Thousands of smartphone screens illuminated the dark square like a galaxy of artificial stars. Flashbulbs exploded in blinding, rhythmic sequences.
Thomas stood in the shadows just behind the heavy curtains, his heart pounding against his ribs. He watched as the elderly Augustinian friar, now clad in the gleaming white wool cassock with its thirty-three buttons, stepped forward. Over his shoulders sat the deep-red satin mozetta, catching the bright television lights, and around his neck hung the ornate red stole woven with gold images of the Apostles. Beneath the white hem of his cassock, his worn, unpolished black leather shoes stepped firmly onto the stone balcony.
The crowd gasped, then erupted into a thunderous cheer that shook the ancient stones of the piazza.
Tomorrow, the editorial boards in New York would debate the theological shifts of the new papacy. Vogue would write articles dissecting the return of the crimson satin, interpreting it as a calculated political statement, a deliberate nod to the traditionalist wing of the Church. The pundits would talk about continuity, about rupture, about formatting the future of a global institution.
But Thomas, standing in the dark corridor of the palace, just smiled.
He watched the old Pope reach down, his hand instinctively grasping the heavy silver pectoral cross resting against his chest, feeling the relics of the saints hidden within the metal. Leo XIV took a deep breath, raised his arms to bless the city and the world, and let the clothes speak for themselves.
