“Feed My Sheep”: On the Possibility of an American Pope and the Call to Courageous Witness 05-04-2025
In an age where fear dominates headlines and division threatens even the Church’s interior peace, the question of who will lead the next generation of Catholics is not merely political or institutional—it is deeply spiritual. One question that sometimes surfaces, with curiosity or controversy, is this: Could the next pope be American?
Historically, the answer has leaned toward no. The Church has long avoided placing the papacy in the hands of a global superpower, especially one as politically and economically dominant as the United States. The papacy is not meant to echo the ambitions of nations but to echo the Gospel. No American has ever been elected pope. Most have come from Europe, particularly Italy, with more recent exceptions like Poland’s John Paul II and Argentina’s Francis. Today, Catholicism is flourishing most rapidly not in the U.S. or Europe, but in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Understandably, many cardinals look to those regions for future leadership.
And yet, the idea is not unthinkable. If an American were elected, it would have to be someone who transcends the label—not an American pope, but a Catholic pope who happens to be American. Someone who carries not the flag of a nation, but the Cross of Christ. Someone unafraid to speak truth with mercy, and to shepherd a Church increasingly tested by cultural upheaval, moral confusion, and institutional fatigue.
This Sunday’s readings offer unexpected insight into that kind of leadership. In the first reading from Acts, Peter and the apostles stand before the Sanhedrin. Ordered to stop preaching in the name of Jesus, they respond with a boldness that should still echo in the Church today: “We must obey God rather than men.” (Acts 5:29). The apostles were not elected, approved, or flattered into leadership. They were witnesses—and being a witness meant being willing to suffer dishonor, rejection, even death, for the sake of the Name.
This kind of leadership—anchored in obedience to God over popularity, mission over comfort—is exactly what the Church needs, regardless of nationality. We do not need a pope who will manage headlines. We need one who will bear witness.
In Revelation, we are shown a heavenly vision: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain… to receive power and riches, wisdom and strength, honor and glory and blessing.” (Rev 5:12). Power and wisdom belong not to politicians, not to CEOs, and not to cardinals jockeying for alliances—but to the Lamb who was slain. Every pope, no matter where he comes from, must sit beneath that throne. His authority is not won; it is surrendered to. And the Church, in every age, must follow that Lamb—wounded, glorified, and leading us toward communion.
The Gospel drives the point home with piercing tenderness. Jesus, now risen, meets His disciples by the sea. It is Peter—flawed, impulsive, still healing from his denial—who leaps into the water to meet Him. After breakfast, Jesus asks him three times: “Do you love me?” And each time, Peter affirms his love, and Jesus responds with a charge: “Feed my sheep.”
But then, Jesus says something that few leaders want to hear:“When you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, someone else will dress you, and lead you where you do not want to go.” (John 21:18)
That is the cost of leadership in the Church—not celebrity, not control, not a global platform—but the humility to be led, the willingness to suffer, and the obedience to love as Christ loved.
So could an American be pope? Yes—if he is the kind of man willing to jump into the water when he hears the Lord’s voice. Yes—if he is willing to feed the sheep rather than please the crowd. Yes—if he has the humility to follow, even when it leads to the cross.
The world needs shepherds who are not afraid of unpopularity. The Church needs witnesses who will say, like Peter, “We must obey God rather than men.” And the next pope—whoever he is—must be someone whose heart is not shaped by national interest or media cycles, but by the love of the Risen Christ.
In a culture of spectacle, the Gospel calls us back to substance. In a time of fear, Christ still says: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”
And that, in the end, is the only qualification that matters.
Historically, the answer has leaned toward no. The Church has long avoided placing the papacy in the hands of a global superpower, especially one as politically and economically dominant as the United States. The papacy is not meant to echo the ambitions of nations but to echo the Gospel. No American has ever been elected pope. Most have come from Europe, particularly Italy, with more recent exceptions like Poland’s John Paul II and Argentina’s Francis. Today, Catholicism is flourishing most rapidly not in the U.S. or Europe, but in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Understandably, many cardinals look to those regions for future leadership.
And yet, the idea is not unthinkable. If an American were elected, it would have to be someone who transcends the label—not an American pope, but a Catholic pope who happens to be American. Someone who carries not the flag of a nation, but the Cross of Christ. Someone unafraid to speak truth with mercy, and to shepherd a Church increasingly tested by cultural upheaval, moral confusion, and institutional fatigue.
This Sunday’s readings offer unexpected insight into that kind of leadership. In the first reading from Acts, Peter and the apostles stand before the Sanhedrin. Ordered to stop preaching in the name of Jesus, they respond with a boldness that should still echo in the Church today: “We must obey God rather than men.” (Acts 5:29). The apostles were not elected, approved, or flattered into leadership. They were witnesses—and being a witness meant being willing to suffer dishonor, rejection, even death, for the sake of the Name.
This kind of leadership—anchored in obedience to God over popularity, mission over comfort—is exactly what the Church needs, regardless of nationality. We do not need a pope who will manage headlines. We need one who will bear witness.
In Revelation, we are shown a heavenly vision: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain… to receive power and riches, wisdom and strength, honor and glory and blessing.” (Rev 5:12). Power and wisdom belong not to politicians, not to CEOs, and not to cardinals jockeying for alliances—but to the Lamb who was slain. Every pope, no matter where he comes from, must sit beneath that throne. His authority is not won; it is surrendered to. And the Church, in every age, must follow that Lamb—wounded, glorified, and leading us toward communion.
The Gospel drives the point home with piercing tenderness. Jesus, now risen, meets His disciples by the sea. It is Peter—flawed, impulsive, still healing from his denial—who leaps into the water to meet Him. After breakfast, Jesus asks him three times: “Do you love me?” And each time, Peter affirms his love, and Jesus responds with a charge: “Feed my sheep.”
But then, Jesus says something that few leaders want to hear:“When you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, someone else will dress you, and lead you where you do not want to go.” (John 21:18)
That is the cost of leadership in the Church—not celebrity, not control, not a global platform—but the humility to be led, the willingness to suffer, and the obedience to love as Christ loved.
So could an American be pope? Yes—if he is the kind of man willing to jump into the water when he hears the Lord’s voice. Yes—if he is willing to feed the sheep rather than please the crowd. Yes—if he has the humility to follow, even when it leads to the cross.
The world needs shepherds who are not afraid of unpopularity. The Church needs witnesses who will say, like Peter, “We must obey God rather than men.” And the next pope—whoever he is—must be someone whose heart is not shaped by national interest or media cycles, but by the love of the Risen Christ.
In a culture of spectacle, the Gospel calls us back to substance. In a time of fear, Christ still says: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”
And that, in the end, is the only qualification that matters.