Conclave

 As the world waits for a new Pope, one particular saying keeps echoing in my mind: “If you walk into the conclave as a Pope, you will walk out as a cardinal.” At first, it sounds clever—almost humorous—but beneath the wit lies a sobering truth. It speaks to the paradox of power and the quiet wisdom of humility. The conclave, after all, is one of the most sacred and spiritually significant gatherings in the Roman Catholic Church. Cardinals, each deeply experienced and qualified, gather not to promote themselves but to prayerfully discern God’s will. 

That reality made me pause. It nudged me to reflect on my own life—on the expectations I carry, the ambitions I sometimes mask as calling, and the subtle ways I walk into rooms—be it ministry spaces, academic forums, or personal relationships—hoping to be recognized, hoping to be chosen, hoping to be seen. Sometimes, it's not even about arrogance. It’s about longing. Wanting to be seen as capable. Wanting to feel like we’ve finally arrived. But the saying reminds me—and perhaps reminds you too—that ambition can be a silent disqualifier. That entitlement can close doors that grace would have opened.

Jesus teaches us in Matthew 23:12 that, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” The kingdom of God turns human logic on its head. The way up is down. The throne belongs to the servant. The crown is laid upon the head of the one who bowed low. And Jesus didn’t just say it—He lived it. 

Philippians 2 reminds us that although He was in very nature God, He “did not consider equality with God something to be used to His own advantage,” but humbled Himself. Born in a stable. Raised in obscurity. Washing the feet of His disciples. Surrendering to death. No campaign. No self-promotion. Just faithful, quiet obedience.

And God exalted Him.

There’s a moment I always return to when I think about humility—not in the grand stage of theology or global leadership, but in my everyday life. It was during my time as a store keeper in a school. The days were long, the work unseen, and the people forgotten by much of society. I had no platform, no spotlight. Just a Bible, a heart, and a willingness to listen. And yet, that season became one of the most transformative of my life. 

Why? Because humility opens our eyes to what truly matters. It sharpens our sensitivity to God’s presence.

I often wonder: What would happen if we entered every space—every boardroom, pulpit, classroom, committee meeting, church pew—not as Popes but as servants? Not expecting to be crowned, but expecting to serve?

There’s a deep freedom in humility. It relieves us from the burden of self-importance. It reminds us that the world is not resting on our shoulders. That we are not indispensable, and that’s okay. God doesn’t ask us to prove ourselves—only to trust and obey.

But that’s hard, isn’t it? Especially when you’ve worked hard. When you’ve studied, prayed, sacrificed, given your all. It’s tempting to expect a reward. To walk into spaces with subtle entitlement. I’ve done it. And more than once, I’ve walked out disappointed. But God, in His grace, keeps teaching me that the reward isn’t in being recognized. It’s in being refined. It’s in becoming more like Christ.

Interestingly, the saying doesn’t shame the cardinal who walks in with papal dreams. It simply says he walks out still a cardinal. And maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s grace. Maybe walking out still robed in red is God’s way of saying: “You’re still called. You’re still needed. But I’m calling you to a different kind of greatness.”

Greatness that’s hidden. Influence that flows quietly. Leadership that kneels.

James 4:6 tells us that “God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.” I want that grace. I need that grace. And I suspect you do too. So, here’s my quiet prayer—for myself and for you:

When we enter the next room, let’s leave our titles at the door. Let’s walk in as learners, not experts. As servants, not stars. As vessels, not brands. Whether we walk out as “popes” or “cardinals,” may we walk out having pleased God. Because in the end, it’s not about the robe we wear, but the posture we carry. And humility, dear friend, never goes out of season.

 

We all have our conclaves. Moments or spaces where we step in hoping that our efforts, our titles, our degrees, our service will finally earn us something more. That promotion. That affirmation. That seat at the table.