A new pope has been elected. White smoke has risen, bells have rung, and the world now turns its attention to St. Peter’s Square. For many Catholics, this is a moment of awe, reverence, and global significance. But for Jews—watching from a distance yet never entirely outside the frame—it’s something else too: a moment to ask how far we’ve come, and how much closer we might yet draw.
To be clear, most Jews don’t follow papal politics with bated breath. The Vatican is not our home turf. The intricacies of liberation theology, Latin American ecclesiology, or papal encyclicals are not our bread and butter. And yet, the leader of 1.3 billion Catholics is not just a global religious figure; he is a signal—an echo chamber through which humanity still tries to hear the moral arc of the universe. And so, when a new pope steps onto that balcony, we watch—not with the loyalty of the faithful, but with the curiosity of cousins long estranged, occasionally reconciled, often wounded, and sometimes hopeful.
The history between Jews and the papacy is long and fraught. For centuries, popes presided over ghettos, enforced discriminatory laws, and gave theological legitimacy to supersessionism—the idea that Christianity had replaced Judaism as God’s chosen covenant. From the forced conversions of medieval Europe to the silence of Pius XII during the Holocaust, the institutional Church was, more often than not, a source of pain and alienation for the Jewish people.
And yet, history doesn’t end where suffering begins. The modern papacy has taken remarkable steps forward. In 1965, Nostra Aetate, the Second Vatican Council’s groundbreaking declaration, rejected the charge of deicide and affirmed that the Jewish covenant had not been revoked. It was a theological earthquake. Later popes, from John Paul II to Francis, walked that new path: visiting synagogues, praying at the Western Wall, recognizing the State of Israel, and calling Jews “our elder brothers.” In the sweep of Jewish history, that shift is extraordinary. The idea that a pope might not only reject antisemitism, but actively fight it; that he might teach Catholics to love rather than convert us; that he might sit with a rabbi as a partner in healing the world—this would have been unthinkable even a century ago.
And now, with the selection of a new pope, we stand at a fresh threshold. Will this pope continue that sacred trajectory? Will he deepen the commitment to Jewish-Christian dialogue, to moral clarity in the face of antisemitism, to honoring the Jewish people not as relics of the past but as living partners in God’s unfolding story? It is not a foregone conclusion. There are worrying winds in today’s world—resurgent nationalism, conspiracy theories, and an alarming rise in global antisemitism. In some quarters, traditionalist Christian voices still traffic in the old tropes: the Jew as Christ-killer, the Jew as puppet master, the Jew as problem. Social media has supercharged old hatreds. And in the halls of power—political and religious—some still look away.
In such a climate, the pope’s moral voice matters. We don’t need him to affirm every political position Israel takes. We don’t need him to recite verses from Torah. What we need—what the world needs—is moral consistency: a pope who stands unequivocally against antisemitism, who defends the dignity of Jews and Judaism, who does not remain silent when Jewish blood is shed in the streets of Paris or Pittsburgh or Jerusalem. But we also need something deeper: a vision of brotherhood that doesn’t paper over difference, but honors it. Judaism and Christianity are not the same faith. Our theologies diverge, sometimes profoundly. But if we can look each other in the eye—not to erase difference but to affirm shared dignity—then something sacred happens. Then history bends, even just a little, toward redemption.
Pope Francis modeled that kind of relationship. He called Rabbi Abraham Skorka his “brother and friend.” They co-authored a book. They debated God, faith, politics, and the afterlife. They ate kosher food together, traveled to Israel together, prayed together—though never pretending to pray as one. That kind of friendship—respectful, honest, spiritually intimate—is the most hopeful sign I know for Jewish-Christian relations in our lifetime. Can the new pope do the same? Will he seek out rabbis not for interfaith photo ops, but for real, vulnerable dialogue? Will he challenge the world’s indifference to Jewish suffering—not only past but present? Will he educate a generation of Catholics to see in Jews not a threat or a shadow, but a sibling?
If he does, he won’t just honor the past 60 years of Vatican reform. He’ll build something even rarer: trust. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, once said that “the test of faith is whether I can make space for difference.” We don’t need uniformity. We need mutual reverence. The Church’s history with the Jewish people was once marked by domination and erasure. But in our best moments today, it is marked by listening, learning, and love. So let us hope. Let us pray—yes, Jews can pray too—that the new pope chooses to walk in the footsteps of his predecessors, and maybe even blaze new trails of reconciliation. Because history remembers the popes who opened doors. And the Jewish people, though never quick to forget, are always ready to hope.
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