Conclave is a rich meditation on the soul of The Church

Spoilers for “Conclave” abound.

I knew that I would probably enjoy Conclave as soon as I heard the line in the trailer about the importance of mystery in the experience of faith. As a sincerely religious person, I’m often found disappointed and appalled with the didacticism and underwhelming moralizing of so many depictions of faith in cinema. It’s so rare to find a film about spirituality that asks honest questions rather than providing formulated answers, and paints religious characters who feel real and flawed and complicated just like anybody else.

So I liked the speech in the trailer. Simply agreeing with what a film is saying, however, is not the same as genuinely communing with it as work of art. I didn’t know how much I would actually resonate with Conclave until I finally saw it.

By my count, it’s actually been a fairly fruitful year for authentic depictions of faith being represented in film. On my birthday back in May, I got to see Ethan Hawke in-person premiering his film Wildcat about the life of Flannery O’Connor—and I felt deeply seen by the way that it embraced the off-beat Southern Gothic strangeness of Flannery’s stories and the honesty of her struggle with reconciling her identity as both an artist and a faithful Catholic. Nobody saw it, but The Book of Clarence was actually pretty provocative and sincere in its depiction of Christ through the eyes of a swindler. And even Furiosa felt like a Biblical epic about the firstfruits of a righteous kingdom.

By the same token, I wasn’t certain exactly how much Conclave would actually touch on subjects of faith with any degree of real contemplation; I’ve grown more-or-less ambivalent about Berger’s All Quiet on The Western Front. Despite the compelling trailer, Conclave could’ve easily turned out to be a typical Agatha Christie whodunnit with an incidental backdrop of The Vatican.

Many of the reviews I’ve read for Conclave have painted it as a sort of “Real Housewives of The Papacy” melodrama caper about priests gossiping behind closed doors. Without a doubt, the film has its share of subtle tongue-in-cheek humor—a sardonic curtsy and an evil vape pen steal the show. Even so, I’m increasingly convinced that the reason people are playing up this camp/comedy interpretation is because they don’t quite know how to engage with the film’s actual setting and subject matter in a sincere way.

Excitingly, the setting and subject are not incidental. Conclave is not a by-the-numbers murder mystery with faith sprinkled in to spice things up, nor is it just a campy “priests gossiping” melodrama or an entirely politically-motivated allegory for the 2024 election; it is a movie whose text is quite deliberately interested in exploring the relationship between God’s will, man’s agency, and the church’s institutional limitations.

From the opening minutes, it is clear that Conclave has no interest in obsessing over the mere existence or non-existence of God; other movies have explored this well, but this one takes the piety of its protagonist as a given part of the world. Near the start, Stanley Tucci’s Cardinal Bellini says the late Holy Father never had any doubts about God. Instead, Bellini remarks, “what he had lost faith in was The Church.” This is what Conclave is truly about.

For a movie set in so many tensely silent spaces, Conclave has remarkably tactile (and sometimes anxiety-inducing) sound design. Even mundane sounds like coffee makers, door handles, copy machines, and broken seals leave a huge impact. If there’s one sound that defines the film, though, it’s heavy breathing. The sound begins when we first meet Cardinal Lawrence (Ralph Fiennes) walking briskly down the street to get to the Casa Santa Marta, where the Pope has died. Fienne’s breathing feels at first like a symbol of his sheer exhaustion, but as it continues throughout the film, it begins to convey something more: prayer. For all his talk about his struggles with praying, Lawrence seems to be one of the only characters in the film earnestly interested in discerning the will of God in a volatile and complicated situation. Spirit and breath have always been linked—and here, we feel Lawrence’s tormented commune with the spirit with every burdened inhale and exhale.

Ralph Fiennes’ Cardinal Lawrence has many traits of an excellent leader. Especially after his rousing and provocative homily near the very beginning of the conclave, it’s very easy to imagine him as Pope. Lawrence does not often will himself to imagine this—but he has been considering leaving his rank to join an order of monks, sequestering himself from the overwhelming and often banal goings-on of the Vatican to try and be more “spiritual” and make up for his crisis of faith.

But Lawrence has been given a different task, from the late Holy Father himself: “some are called to shepherd the flock, but others are called to manage the farm.” The Pope, and perhaps God, has called Lawrence to be a manager. The spiritual catharsis he seeks is not meant to happen in some faraway monastery. His work is on the homefront. Lawrence stares in the mirror the first night of the conclave: “You’re a manager. So manage.”

Lawrence resents this job. He questions why God would ask it from him; does it make him less spiritual? I don’t share the experience, but I can only imagine that some people who grew up being told that the greatest work on earth was becoming a missionary might resonate with this suspicion of mundanity and “unspiritual” busywork.

Of course, Lawrence’s job is far from mundane or unspiritual; he is helping to facilitate one of the most important decisions of a generation. And he is a devoted manager. He is honest, he seeks truth, he cares deeply for his colleagues even in their failures, and he does his best to trust the will of God in a growingly volatile situation.

The same cannot be wholeheartedly reiterated about the other Cardinals convening for the conclave. Regardless of their moral fortitude or lack thereof, the one thing these prominent Cardinals don’t seem to have is very much faith in God—or intimate, prayerful relationship with him. Whatever his “will” might be, they believe they will need to muscle it into being with their convincing words and reputations. When Lawrence earnestly presses his friend Bellini, saying “I thought we serve God,” Bellini retorts, “oh, don’t be naive.” The other Cardinals’ allegiance is less aligned with Jesus Christ and more aligned with The Church (with a capital C) and its continued survival around the world.

This, perhaps, is not entirely without reason. One of the things that Conclave rightly understands and acknowledges is the capacity of The Church to do profound good in the world—especially under the right leadership. That’s why this election of a new Pope matters; one reactionary man could transform that potential good into irreversible harm.

Or could he? Perhaps this is my Protestantism showing, but the belief that God’s work in the world would live or die on the shoulders of one well-chosen individual seems to sequester the divine Himself within the walls of a limited institution.

Indeed, one of the questions Conclave poses is whether this Catholic institution has actually been constructed in a way that truly honors or embodies the God of the New Testament. Robert Harris, the author of the novel, said: “My preparation began by reading the Gospels, which are revolutionary. And the contrast between that and this great edifice of ritual and pomp and power and wealth of the Church is striking.”

As we seek to honor the divine and codify our worshipful practices into established traditions, at what point do we stray too far from the path and become legalistic? Why have the worldly and limited ideas of “progress” vs. “tradition” infiltrated the church? Why does this feel like an American political convention? Shouldn’t it feel entirely different? Is there truly no other way to worship God than this?

I’m a believer in organized religion. I think The Bible supports it too. But I also believe that many churches today—of many denominations—do not organize themselves in a way that reflects a genuine or vulnerable trust in divine sustenance. Many churches do not operate with wholehearted dependence on God to provide, with belief that miracles might occur, or with trust that he will work in a person’s heart without a ham-fisted “turn or burn” speech. And when you could switch between a megachurch meeting and a corporate boardroom without any change of mindset, some vital form of faith has been lost.

Indeed, watching Conclave, it may seem like God is absent from the space within these walls. All light—the first Good thing God ever created—has been locked out. The colors green and blue—those two colors who God so favored when he crafted the earth among the heavens—are nowhere to be found. Even birds are locked in cages, chirping away aimlessly without attention given. Like the birds, music has been confined as well—to the Sunday service only.

My opinion should be taken lightly as someone raised more-or-less protestant, but I think if I was attempting to discern the will of God, it would involve deliberately engaging with the world he created: taking long silent hikes in beautiful places with my colleagues, observing the lilies and sparrows, making music and art, reading both scripture and literature together, speaking with strangers young and old, and pilgrimaging to a decision not shielded from the world but shaped by it. This kind of earthy meditation is not completely foreign even to the Catholic Church; in many ways, it is found in the Camino De Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage stretching across Europe and ending in Spain.

The Bible has a rich and compelling through-line of men demanding systems and sacrifices, temples and tyrants, strife and scarcity—and God warning them against it every time. Despite all this, he never abandons them. He continues to work within the systems they erect, however broken and unjust, to bring about gradual change and justice and redemption.

In the same way, despite all the dehumanizing claustrophobia of the conclave, one thing is still clear: God is not wholly absent. Regardless of man’s distancing from God’s world and voice, he is regardless working to turn the tables, make small the mighty, and lift up the humble.

One of the ways God’s presence makes itself known in the film is through the nuns, silently working and watching. Some of the only shots of real life and beauty are when we see the food these women are cooking with hospitable hearts. At the forefront, of course, is Isabella Rossellini’s Sister Agnes. She says in her brief and biting speech:“We sisters are supposed to be invisible, but God has nevertheless given us eyes and ears.” Agnes uses her eyes and ears to observe the true reality of everything going on. She notices the scandal happening beneath the surface, seeing with righteous objectivity. And even when she has every cause to sound the alarm that Cardinal Lawrence has broken the holy seal to go into the Holy Father’s room—she stops, breathes, contemplates, and begins to understand that his heart is truly where it should be.

It’s dramatically ironic to me that many of the memes around the film have portrayed Ralph Fiennes’ Cardinal Lawrence as a sort-of gossiping busybody intent on digging up dirt about his peers and spreading it, Mean Girls style, with the proverbial “classroom.”

Why is this ironic? Because it’s exactly how many of the people earnestly seeking justice for grave scandals within the church have been treated for speaking out. You’re just trying to stir up drama. You’re clearly trying to tarnish that leader’s name. Maybe you’re attempting to take the authority for yourself. We don’t speak ill of other people. Check your heart. Make sure you’re not doing this for the wrong reason.

Cardinal Lawrence faces a few of these very accusations from his colleagues. They are all acting out of self-defense. And as the weight of their individual scandals, cowardice, and self-protection continues to be exposed, Lawrence’s actions are continually vindicated.

Maybe it’s because I’ve read the book, which gives a deeper window into the interiority of the character, but I think Cardinal Lawrence is closer to a hero. A man who, at nearly every turn, does his best to accept the role God has given him. He does waver into considering ego once or twice; you can see it happen when he admits, very honestly, that he has indeed chosen the name he would assume as Pope.

But even this momentary wavering feels to Lawrence like a filthy thought. You can see it on his face when he feels forced, compelled by bitter circumstance, to write his own name on what might be the final ballot. Could this be God’s will? Maybe he wasn’t meant to be “just” a manager after all. Maybe the best leaders don’t desire to lead; they’re called to it.

Lawrence prepares to cast his ballot. He recites the script that proclaims he is voting for the person he believes should be Pope. It rings completely hollow, and the process which once felt so divine now feels so abundantly and grievously human.

And then the ceiling falls in.

This is not a fully holy moment. A car bomb has exploded outside. People have been killed. And yet, God’s redeeming hand shines amidst this grave evil, in spite of it all. Light and dust—two symbols of God’s earliest creation—fill the once cavernous air.

In a profound grace, the vote must be reconvened.

There’s a lot of talk throughout the film from various Cardinals about how much they feel unworthy of the mantle of Pope—too sinful and broken for it. Sometimes, this feels like genuine humility; these characters are nuanced, and throughout the runtime, some even apologize and forgive. Other times, though, this acknowledgement of “brokenness” plays like a covert understanding of the rules required to win the race. And within it all, these men still seem to be letting their sin define them. One Cardinal says, “you will never find a candidate who doesn’t have a black mark against him; we serve an ideal, we cannot always be ideal.” In another context, this might be wisdom. But here, it feels like excusing sin—accepting it as part of the way the world goes around.

There is only one man who does not accept this brokenness as an immutable truth: the man who chooses the name “Innocent.”

The rogue and mysterious Cardinal Benitez does not downplay the reality of evil in the world; indeed, as someone coming from an active warzone, he knows it better than any. But he holds the equally important truth at the forefront: in Christ, our “black marks” can be made clean. We can be made pure again.

When the Cardinals gather to vote one last time, the windows above the room remain blown open by the blast. As they sit in a contemplative daze, something changes. The air begins to move and stir, reaching deep into their hearts. Rarely have I witnessed such a perfect cinematic distillation of the ancient understanding of the Holy Spirit as “breath” or “wind.” And not just wind, but song. The birds, free from their cages like the nuns soon to return to the world, begin to sing again through the open windows. The Cardinals cast their vote accordingly, with renewed relationship to God’s good world.

The final result of the film is a sort of eucatastrophe. As JRR Tolkien famously described, it’s a moment where only a horrible outcome seems likely—and then, a sudden and unforeseen grace peeks through the clouds and brings an unexpected redemption.

A kind and selfless man has been given authority once again. In the midst of the institutional limitation and the human corruption, God’s will has nevertheless been done, after all.

Or has it?

I say “sort-of” eucatastrophe, of course, because Cardinal Lawrence quickly discovers that this seemingly “perfect” candidate has a very uncertain past.

Many have called this twist—that Cardinal Benitez has spent much of his life unknowingly intersex—completely out of left field and “pointless.” I was touched beyond words.

Despite Cardinal Lawrence’s earnest efforts to hold his colleagues to justice and open their eyes to their sins, his motivations have not been without one dramatic irony: all along the journey, he has been seeking certainty that the candidate who will be elected will not have any skeletons in their closet—any “black marks” against them.

Lawrence is faced with Cardinal Benitez. And suddenly he must accept many uncertainties all at once. What is this Cardinal’s “true” identity? Will the public ever find out about his condition? What will they say, knowing the Pope might have lived as a female? Will he be blamed? Does God, in fact, want those with such unique “conditions” to have the highest esteem in the church?

There is a subtle and unspoken irony within Lawrence’s (and his colleague Ray’s) fears about Benitez’s “situation”: in the eyes of the church, this natural biological condition could be viewed as an even graver scandal and black mark than any of the true crimes committed by the other Cardinals. Those were just misguided choices, after all, capable of forgiveness. This situation, to some, would be an innate and unchangeable transgression.

This is unjust and heartbreaking; a completely skewed institutional moral compass.

Lawrence, however, does not buy into the fear and outrage. In fact, all that he has seen and experienced in the last week has put him into the position of the Late Holy Father: he believes in God again, but he has begun to doubt the church. Indeed, how many of the concerns of his colleagues have been motivated by a genuine desire for justice, and how many have truly stemmed from a desire to maintain an institutional reputation?

He looks at the garments and robes awaiting their owner. He glances at the light out the window. He inhales and exhales. And he realizes that his time of being a “manager” is, for the moment, finished. If God has declared this man Innocent, he is Innocent. It is time to step back and trust that God’s will shall be done. Indeed, it is time to heed his own words and learn to live with mystery and uncertainty.

On his way out of the Vatican, Lawrence encounters a turtle—the affectionate symbol of the late Holy Father. Perhaps he is winking at him. Or perhaps these turtles have become a symbol of the new Holy Father as well: amphibious, one way on the outside and something more mysterious on the inside.

Lawrence begins to pray again.

And then the windows and doors finally open, letting the light streaming in, and sending God’s people back out into his wide world once more.