^{On the left, Pope Leo XIV On the right, Robert Francis Prevost a Villanova University senior CLAS ‘77.}

There are moments in history when the winds shift—not with thunder, but with quiet clarity. When the white smoke rose above St. Peter’s Square and the name “León XIV” was announced, I did not cheer. I closed my eyes.

In that stillness, I felt the familiar rhythm of two homelands beating as one—Latin America and the United States—bound not by politics or power, but by service to others and soul. In Pope León XIV, born Robert Francis Prevost, the world has been offered something rare: a bridge between continents, between traditions, between an institution seeking renewal and a people still daring to dream.

I know something of that path—not the elevation, nor the mantle, but the journey that shapes a soul across borders. Like León XIV, I am a son of the Americas. I walk with one foot in the plazas of Mexico City and the other on the red-brick paths of Georgetown in Washington DC. I was raised not only by my mother, father, and grandparents, but by three enduring traditions—the LaSallian Brothers, who first opened my eyes in El Paso to the quiet nobility of service; the Jesuits, who taught me that intellect must always kneel before justice; and the Augustinians, who whispered that truth lives not in temples of stone, but in the restless, seeking heart. It was these companions—these communities of spirit—who would one day house me in distant cities, share bread and laughter in courtyard dinners, and help me architect BeNeXT Global and Futuro Las Américas, not as projects, but as promises to the continent we all call home.

It is no small detail to me that Pope León XIV is himself a graduate of Villanova University, an Augustinian institution that shaped my own path. Though I have never met him, his graduation in 1977 places him among a remarkable generation. Just down the road at St. Joseph’s University, Michael Gaynor—close mentor and former director of admissions, so deeply connected to the Augustinians—graduated in 1979. And at Villanova itself, Dean Stephen Merritt, another foundational mentor in my life, graduated in 1978. Whether or not they ever crossed paths, the fact that all three came of age in that same sacred corridor of time and space says more than coincidence can explain.

Pope León XIV brings this same spirit to Rome: not a man of spectacle, but of presence. His decades in Peru were not a tour of duty, but a quiet pilgrimage—one marked by humility, authentic leadership, and deep listening. He walked alongside campesino farmers, stood in solidarity with Quechua mothers, and served where incense rose not in ceremony but in sorrow, in courage, in quiet hope. His American birth is not a title—it is his context. He carries the American sensibility without the American ego: decisive yet deferential, formed yet free of pretension.

And here I must confess something of my own hope. During the conclave, I found myself quietly rooting for Cardinal Matteo Zuppi—a man whose view of leadership echoes many of my own hopes for the Church and the world. When friends or family asked, “Who do you think it will be?” I replied: “It won’t be the media favorite. It never is.” I admired Cardinal Tucho, I respected Prevost, but I thought—we had already had our turn. I thought Latin America would return to the margins of global leadership. That the weight of tradition would once again pull the world’s gaze elsewhere.

I was wrong.

Ironically, I found myself talking to my one-year-old son during the conclave. His name is León Mateo, and as our family followed the news, I would tell him—perhaps the next Pope will be your tocayo. In my mind, I pictured Zuppi—Matteo. But fate, with its gentle humor, had another plan. The man who emerged—León—was not only more aligned with my journey than I had imagined, but would also carry the name of my son. Another tocayo, after all. And in Spanish-speaking countries, of course, Leo becomes León—which is precisely my son’s name.

For the second time in modern history, the Church is led by someone who knows Latin America not as a mission field, but as a motherland. This matters. It matters that in back-to-back papacies, the values born of the Americas—our sense of community, our theology of the people, our fierce tenderness—have been called upon to guide the global conscience. From the barrios of Lima to the pueblos of Puebla, from the Andean highlands to the border towns of El Paso, our stories, our songs, our value systems, and our deepest ways of knowing have reached the Chair of Peter.

And this matters, too: the future of the Church—and perhaps the world—belongs to those who can carry more than one identity without losing their integrity. It belongs to those who can serve without needing applause, lead without seeking dominion, and heal without pretending history never left its mark.

In León XIV, I see the possibility of a Church without walls. A Church not trapped in the ideological skirmishes of yesterday, but reborn in the humility of accompaniment. A Church that understands the margins are not the edge of the story—they are where the deepest meaning is born. And I see a world, at last, recognizing Latin America not just as a place of faith, but as a wellspring of wisdom and leadership.

I am not a cleric. I am not a theologian. I am, however, a builder of systems that seek to empower. A writer of futures. A servant of the Americas.

And in this quiet turning of history, I feel affirmed that the work we do—in education, in narrative, in service—is not separate from the Church’s evolving mission, but its natural extension in the civic realm.

In fact, in just a few days, I’ll return—unexpectedly and humbly—to my alma mater, Georgetown University, to offer a keynote address at commencement. All week I have asked myself: why me? But this story—his story—has clarified everything. The path I’ve walked, the values I’ve carried, and the world I still believe we can shape… they’ve all led to this moment. I now know what I must say. I now know why I was called.

The Church of León XIV will not be perfect. It will face resistance, inertia, and the slow grind of centuries-old structures. But if it listens—truly listens—to the voices rising from Bogotá and Boston, from Santiago and Chicago, from the Andes to Appalachia, it may rediscover its purpose.

And in doing so, it may just rediscover all of us.

(Note: While the official papal name is Leo XIV, I use the Spanish form “León” throughout this reflection—not only in honor of my son, León Mateo, but to lift up the language, values, and cultural perspective of Latin America that have so deeply shaped this moment in history.)