By Brother Reginald, Prior of the Abbey of St. Alban-in-the-Fen
The bells tolled from the great tower of St. Hildegarde’s at dawn, their deep voices echoing through valleys and across the rooftops of Eyehasseen, announcing the end of a pontificate and the passing of a man both beloved and bewildering.
The Pope is dead.
As is custom, the mourning veil was affixed to the great crucifix in the Cathedral of the Holy Wounds, black bunting was hung along the nave, and candles were lit in silent procession by the faithful. In the countryside, the Rosary was prayed with quiet devotion. In Inverness, masses were offered from dawn to dusk. The Kingdom joined the wider world in solemn pause.
And yet, as the incense cleared and the dirges faded, another sound began to emerge: the murmur of a reckoning.
For while it is an act of piety to pray for the soul of a deceased pontiff—and we do—it is also an act of fidelity to truth to weigh his legacy with the seriousness it deserves. To love the Church is to be honest about what strengthens it… and what weakens it.
This pope, born of good intentions and pastoral warmth, ascended the Chair of Peter with the promise of mercy. He wished, above all, to reach the wounded. He spoke often of the peripheries. He called us to the margins. And there, he sought the face of Christ—sometimes in unexpected places. Many hearts were moved by his gentleness, his simplicity, and his emphasis on personal encounter over rigid policy. There is no denying that.
But mercy untethered from truth becomes sentimentality. And sentimentality—disguised as compassion—has a way of hollowing out the very structures meant to uphold love. In his attempt to soften the Church’s face, he sometimes blurred her voice.
Faithful Catholics, especially those in the pews week after week, began to feel adrift. Dogmas once firm were described as “developing.” Disciplines long observed were “reimagined.” And those who clung tightly to tradition found themselves cast in the role of obstructionists. The shepherd, in trying to gather the lost, sometimes left the ninety-nine to wonder if they had become the problem.
Confusion became the coin of the realm. Bishops contradicted one another openly. Cardinals issued dueling statements. Entire national churches took divergent paths—on doctrine, on worship, on moral clarity. Rome, once the guardian of unity, had become a fountain of ambiguity.
And the world noticed.
This pope was celebrated by many outside the Church—journalists, politicians, those who had long regarded Catholicism with suspicion. But their applause came not from renewed belief, but from the sense that the Church was bending to meet their terms. When the Gospel is cheered by those who deny its demands, something is amiss.
Yet, let it be said plainly: he was no heretic. He loved Christ. He loved the poor. He prayed with sincerity. He bore suffering with dignity. The intentions of his heart were not malicious, nor his motives corrupt. He sought to do good. He simply, perhaps tragically, underestimated the consequences of doctrinal instability.
In the cloister and the street alike, Catholics now find themselves in a strange tension—grieving the death of a man who wore the shoes of the fisherman, even as they quietly whisper prayers for a stronger hand on the rudder.
This is not disloyalty. It is devotion. It is the sorrow of children whose father, in trying to open all the doors, accidentally left a few wolves inside.
In Eyehasseen, we pray for his soul with full hearts. We offer Requiem Masses. We chant the Psalms. And yet, we also turn our eyes toward the conclave to come, begging the Holy Spirit to grant us a pope who will both embrace the broken and boldly proclaim the boundaries that protect them.
For mercy without truth is not mercy. And truth without love is not the Gospel. We must have both. The world must see both. The Church must be both.
The Pope is dead. May his soul, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. And may the next shepherd, whoever he be, walk with the tenderness of Christ—yes—but with His clarity, too.