Pope Francis died recently at the age of 88. This sets the stage for the imminent gathering of cardinals in Rome to elect his successor. The traditional mourning period and funeral rites are underway, and soon the conclave will begin – a process steeped in centuries-old tradition and secrecy. As anticipation builds, attention has turned to Africa. African cardinals are seen as serious contenders. Among the leading African candidates are Cardinal Fridolin Ambongo Besungu of the Democratic Republic of Congo, Cardinal Peter Kodwo Appiah Turkson of Ghana, and, though less likely due to age, Cardinal Robert Sarah of Guinea.
There has never been a black pope in the modern history of the Catholic Church, and the prospect of electing one has generated considerable excitement and debate around the world. For many, the possibility of a black pope is seen as a powerful step toward inclusivity and a recognition of the continent’s increasing significance within the Church. Supporters argue that such a choice would symbolise unity in diversity and reflect the Church’s demographic realities. However, others view the prospect with apprehension, interpreting it as a troubling omen.
The idea of a black pope as a bad omen is increasingly being interpreted in apocalyptic terms, with some people conflating spurious prophecies attributed to both Saint Malachy and Nostradamus. Saint Malachy was a renowned 12th-century archbishop and church reformer who played a major role in aligning the Irish church with Roman practices and restoring ecclesiastical discipline. Although he was celebrated for his piety and leadership, a set of cryptic predictions known as the Prophecy of the Popes was falsely attributed to him centuries after his death; these prophecies were first published in 1595 and are widely regarded by historians as a pseudepigraphic fabrication. Enthusiasts of these prophecies claim that after Pope Francis – the 112th and final pope as per the count of the prophecies – comes a period of tribulation and the destruction of Rome (possibly spearheaded by a figure named “Peter the Roman”).
Despite widespread speculation, Saint Malachy’s prophecy does not mention anything about a black pope; the idea is entirely absent from his list of cryptic Latin phrases, which simply describe each pope in symbolic terms and conclude with Peter the Roman.
The connection between a black pope and apocalyptic prophecy instead comes from interpretations of Nostradamus, the 16th-century French astrologer whose enigmatic quatrains have been linked to countless world events. Nostradamus published his famous work, The Prophecies, in 1555, filled with poetic and ambiguous verses. One such verse reads:
“Born in the shadows and during a dark day/He will be sovereign in realm and goodness/
Century V, Quatrain 41
He will cause his blood to rise again in the ancient urn/ Renewing the age of gold for that of brass.”
Another one reads:
“He will be born of the gulf and unmeasured city/ Born of obscure and dark family/He who the revered power of the great King/ Will want to destroy through Rouen and Evreux”
Century V, Quatrain 84
With a bit of imagination, it is possible to read into these verses and establish a connection between darkness or the colour black and ominous figures in prophecy. However, Nostradamus never specifically mentioned a pope with dark skin; his quatrains are famously ambiguous and open to interpretation, but none directly refer to a black or African pontiff. That has not stopped some from falsely claiming otherwise, such as when The Daily Mail recently attributed to Nostradamus the verse:
“A young man of dark skin with the help of the great king will deliver the purse to another of red colour.”
In reality, this verse does not appear anywhere in Nostradamus’ published works.
Not that it matters what Nostradamus actually wrote – even if he had predicted a pope with dark skin, so what? Nostradamus was, by most accounts, a charlatan whose reputation rests on the deliberate vagueness of his writings, making them endlessly adaptable to any event or figure. In reality, we shouldn’t take any prophet seriously, but Nostradamus is an especially poor candidate for credibility: his quatrains are so cryptic and ambiguous that they function like poetic Rorschach tests, allowing anyone to see whatever they wish in the text. This is a classic trick used by prophets throughout history: by employing deliberately opaque and nebulous language, they ensure that after something happens, it’s always possible to retroactively fit the prophecy to the event. The enduring popularity of Nostradamus’s predictions is less about genuine foresight and more about our innate tendency to find patterns and meaning, even where none truly exist
Although Nostradamus may have been a charlatan, he was not a racist. His use of dark or shadowy imagery was symbolic rather than racial, reflecting a long-standing tradition in many cultures – including several African languages – where darkness often represents mystery, danger, or misfortune, not necessarily skin colour. The tendency today to interpret these metaphors as literal references to race, especially in the context of a pope’s ethnicity, reveals more about contemporary biases than about Nostradamus’s intentions. It is those who link a pope’s race to ominous predictions who are perpetuating racist ideas, rather than the prophet himself.
To their credit, the Catholic Church has never officially embraced apocalyptic prophecies like those attributed to Malachy or Nostradamus, and among Christian groups, Catholics are often the most restrained in their public expectations about the end times. While Protestant traditions sometimes focus intensely on biblical timelines and predictions, Catholic teaching tends to steer clear of overly fear-based interpretations. Nevertheless, the Church is not entirely immune to apocalyptic fascination. The rise of the Fatima cult in the 20th century, with its emphasis on secret messages and warnings about global catastrophe, captured the imagination of millions and became a focal point for end-times speculation. Pope John Paul II, in particular, had a deep personal devotion to Our Lady of Fatima, interpreting his survival of the 1981 assassination attempt as a sign of her protection and publicly linking his papacy to the Fatima apocalyptic messages.
It’s no surprise that the Catholic Church, with its long-standing power and global influence, has never fully embraced apocalyptic worldviews – apocalyptic movements typically arise among people who are disenfranchised or marginalised, seeking hope for divine intervention to overturn their oppression. Even Jesus, living under the shadow of Roman rule, spoke passionately of imminent cataclysm, famously declaring that some of his contemporaries would witness the world transformed before their deaths – a prophecy, it turns out, that never came to pass. The institutional Church, by contrast, is far from disenfranchised and has little incentive to promote visions of imminent upheaval. Yet, the appeal of apocalyptic timelines persists among those who feel alienated or powerless, for whom the promise of dramatic change is deeply attractive.
The real danger of apocalyptic ideas lies in the temptation for enthusiasts to actively hasten doomsday, turning symbolic expectations into concrete – and sometimes catastrophic – actions. While efforts to breed a red heifer – seen by some as a fulfilment of the ritual described in the biblical book of Numbers and a sign of the coming end times – or speculating about the election of a Black pope may seem relatively harmless, the risks become much greater when these beliefs inspire more drastic interventions. For instance, some extremists have advocated for the destruction of the Al Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem to make way for a third Jewish temple, believing this will trigger the messianic age. Similarly, certain apocalyptic-minded groups view the proliferation of nuclear weapons as a tool for bringing about the end times.
All of these apocalyptic expectations, of course, are rooted in delusion and superstition. But that doesn’t mean we should ignore the possibility of catastrophe altogether; rather, we should approach the prospect of disaster with rational concern and proactive planning, not with the feverish enthusiasm that characterises religious end-times thinking. Unlike the fantastical visions of antichrists, apocalypses, or cosmic battles between angels and demons, the real threats facing humanity – such as pandemics, asteroid impacts, wars, and global warming – are tangible and scientifically grounded. These dangers require thoughtful, collective action and a commitment to prevention, not resignation to fate or the hope that destruction will somehow usher in a better world.
Whoever is elected as the new pope – regardless of race, needless to say – will inherit a role that extends far beyond religious ritual and doctrine. The pope is not only a spiritual leader for over a billion Catholics but also a figure with significant influence on global affairs, often shaping public opinion and policy on issues ranging from peace and social justice to climate change and nuclear disarmament. While much of what the pope says will revolve around theology, which will not resonate with us skeptics, his voice carries real weight in the secular world and can mobilise action or shift attitudes on pressing global challenges. As skeptics, we can only hope the next pope adopts an “apocalyptic” mindset in the secular sense – concerned not with mystical end-times, but with the urgent, real-world threats facing humanity.
