Last Thursday and Friday were, hands down, the best days in Chicago social media history. Why? Because, in the words of the ginormous headline in the Sun-Times Friday morning, the papal conclave had elected “Da Pope.” Robert Prevost, born on Chicago’s south side, became, overnight, Pope Leo XIV–and Chicago, where I live, was here for it.
The memes were flying: The Wiener Circle, one of Chicago’s many beloved (treif) sausage vendors, posted an image of their marquee: “Canes nostros ipse comedit” (translation: “He has eaten our dogs”). “Chicago produced a pope before a quarterback who throws for 4,000 yards” (a reference to the Bears’ long and miserable history of quarterbacks). “God bless Pope Leo XIV! Since he is from Chicago, I heard that of the 133 Cardinals that voted, he received 140 votes!” I saw an AI-generated image of the Pope wearing imaginary Chicago Bears-branded papal garments with the caption, “Popes from Chicago:1. Popes from Green Bay: 0. I rest my case.” It was spectacular.
While Chicagoans, understandably, are fascinated by the new pope (and fascinated isn’t the right word for it–it’s probably closer to the Yiddish term “schepping nachas”), I’ve noticed that people from all walks of life, whether or not they’re Catholic, seem to be really taken with the pomp and ceremony surrounding a papal election in general. The success of the movie “Conclave”–even many of the cardinals watched it as preparation, apparently–testifies to that.
Perhaps part of the fascination, for Jews at any rate, is that so much of the papal office seems to be drawn from our own kohen gadol, or high priest, as described in the Torah. Most notably, of course, he wears white all the time (even a white kippah!)–a white robe, a white sash, a white mitre. The office of pope seems designed to draw on the conception of the kohen gadol: the holiest person among holy people. So while we no longer have a high priest, my guess is there is something about seeing someone who taps into that same vein that touches us as Jews.
Parashat Emor opens with a description of some key rules for the kohanim in general, and for the high priest in particular: Who they can marry, how they have to cut their hair, who they’re allowed to bury (since, according to the Torah, contact with a dead body conveys ritual impurity). While regular priests are subject to pretty strict limits in all these areas, the high priest, predictably, encounters even greater constraints. Most notably, perhaps, the Torah instructs that the high priest “shall not go in where there is any dead body; he shall not defile himself even for his father or mother” (Leviticus 21:11).
It seems important to point out right away that, in reserving this level of stringency for the high priest, the Torah throws into high relief that this is not an expectation for the rest of the Israelites, i.e. that we are not even remotely to think of ourselves as failures in comparison. If anything, I find myself experiencing some compassion for the kohen gadol at the idea that the ceremony of his office would prevent him from properly mourning for those he loves.
Yet later in the Torah we find that there exists a mechanism where the rest of us can voluntarily take on some of these stringencies: the institution of the nazirite. The Mishnah notes the parallel: “A High Priest and a nazirite may not become ritually impure even to bury their deceased relatives. However, they become impure to bury a corpse with no one to bury it” (Nazir 7:1). While the Rabbis generally seem to frown on the practice of taking nazirite vows, the fact that the institution of the nazirite exists, and that it holds out a way for regular folks to experience the quasi-monastic life of a priest, seems like it’s meant to teach us something.
Perhaps that something is the intuitive need we may experience for depth and significance in our spiritual practice. On its own, the way of the Torah is meant to be a meaningful spiritual path: we eat special foods (discussed later in Emor); we mark special time through Shabbat and the Jewish calendar (also discussed later in Emor); we hold our possessions lightly and share what we have with all who need it through the practices of tzedakah (the subject of next week’s Torah portion). When these practices become routine, though, we may feel a stirring toward something more, something deeper, something renewing. In ancient times, that may have resulted in taking the vows of a nazir; today it might lead us to go on retreat.
I wonder whether the collective fascination with the pope might reflect some of this too. Though our political leaders today might be a particular case study, I think it’s safe to say that such leaders have more rarely than frequently been our spiritual role models. Nor, for that matter, have many popes, or perhaps even high priests in their day. Yet we seem to have a natural thirst, a desire to project images of leadership that reflect holiness, sacredness, spiritual depth and significance. I think we do that because, deep down, a voice within us wants that for us. And I would suggest that the Torah reminds us that the act of projection may, in fact, be a distraction. As Moses himself reminds us at the end of his life: That spiritual significance we seek isn’t in heaven or across the sea–or, perhaps, in the guy in the white robes. “It is very close to you–on your lips and in your heart, that you may do it” (Deuteronomy 30:14).