When the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica finally start clanging, the sound isn't just loud. It’s heavy. It’s the sound of a transition that affects over 1.3 billion people, yet the actual decision happened in a room where no one has a cell phone and the windows are literally painted over. Most people think they know the process of picking a new pope because they’ve seen The Two Popes on Netflix or caught a glimpse of the smoke on the news.
Honestly? Most of that is just the tip of the iceberg. The real grit of a papal election, or "conclave," is a mix of medieval ritual, high-stakes diplomacy, and some surprisingly intense chemical engineering.
It starts with a dead—or retired—pope and a period called Sede Vacante. That’s Latin for "the seat is empty." During this time, the Church is technically headless. No new laws, no big appointments. Just waiting.
The Lockdown: Extra Omnes
The word "conclave" literally means "with a key." They aren't kidding.
Once the Cardinals shuffle into the Sistine Chapel, a guy called the Master of Papal Liturgical Celebrations shouts "Extra omnes!" which basically means "Everyone else, get out." The doors are locked from the inside and the outside. In the 2025 conclave following Pope Francis, the Vatican took this even further. They didn't just lock doors; they brought in technicians to sweep the 500-year-old chapel for bugs. No Wi-Fi. No TikTok. No leaked texts. If a Cardinal is caught with a recording device, they aren't just in trouble—they face immediate excommunication.
It’s a total blackout.
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The electors—all under the age of 80—stay at the Casa Santa Marta, a guesthouse inside the Vatican. They walk or take a small bus to the chapel. They aren't allowed to talk to anyone on the way. No newspapers. No TV. It’s the ultimate digital detox, but with the fate of the world’s oldest institution on the line.
How the Voting Actually Happens
You might imagine a big debate where Cardinals stand up and nominate their friends. Nope. It’s silent. Deadly silent.
Each Cardinal gets a rectangular piece of paper. At the top, it says Eligo in summum pontificem—"I elect as Supreme Pontiff." They’re supposed to disguise their handwriting. Seriously. The rules explicitly tell them to write in a way that no one can recognize who they are. They fold the ballot twice.
One by one, in order of seniority, they walk up to the altar under Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. They hold the ballot up high. They swear an oath: "I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected."
The Scrutiny
- The Scrutineers: Three Cardinals are chosen by lot to be the "judges." They sit at a table in front of the altar.
- The Counting: One scrutineer shakes the urn (it looks like a bronze wok) to mix the ballots. They count them to make sure the number of papers matches the number of voters. If the numbers don't match? They burn them immediately and start over.
- The Reading: The third scrutineer reads the name on each ballot aloud. Every Cardinal has a tally sheet to keep track.
- The Needle and Thread: As each ballot is read, the scrutineer pierces the word Eligo with a needle and threads it onto a string. By the end, all the votes are literally tied together.
To win, a candidate needs a two-thirds majority. In the 2025 election, with 133 electors, that magic number was 89. If nobody hits it, they do it again. They can vote up to four times a day—two in the morning, two in the afternoon.
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The Science of the Smoke
This is the part everyone waits for. The smoke.
The ballots are burned in a cast-iron stove. But paper alone doesn't make that thick, dramatic smoke you see on TV. They use two stoves now. One for the papers, and one for a series of high-tech pyrotechnic cartridges.
For black smoke (no pope yet), the Vatican uses a mix of potassium perchlorate, anthracene (a coal tar component), and sulfur. It’s thick and dark. For white smoke (we have a pope!), the recipe changes to potassium chlorate, lactose, and pine rosin.
In 1958, the smoke was so gray and confusing that people didn't know whether to cheer or go home. Now, they don't take chances. When the white smoke goes up, the bells of St. Peter's start ringing to confirm it. It’s a fail-safe.
The Room of Tears
Once a man hits that two-thirds mark, the youngest Cardinal Deacon rings a bell. The Dean of the College of Cardinals walks up to the winner and asks: "Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff?"
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If he says "Accepto," he is officially the Pope at that exact second. He’s then asked what name he wants. This is a big deal. Picking "Francis" signaled a focus on the poor. Picking "Benedict" signaled a link to tradition.
Then comes the "Room of Tears" (Camera lachrymatoria). It’s a tiny, red-carpeted room off to the side of the Sistine Chapel. The new Pope goes in there alone to put on his white cassock. It’s called the Room of Tears because, historically, the weight of the job hits the person right then and there. Most of them break down.
Outside, the Vatican tailors have already prepared three sets of white robes: small, medium, and large. They have to guess who might win. Sometimes they still have to use safety pins.
Why This Still Matters in 2026
The process of picking a new pope feels like something out of a history book, but the implications are modern. The 2025-2026 era of the Church is dealing with massive questions about climate change, artificial intelligence, and global migration. The man who steps onto that balcony—the Loggia of the Blessings—isn't just a religious leader; he’s a sovereign head of state with a diplomatic network that rivals the UN.
The College of Cardinals is now more "global" than ever. Pope Francis spent years appointing bishops from places like Tonga, Ethiopia, and Myanmar. The old "Italian bloc" that used to run things is basically gone. This means conclaves are getting harder to predict. You can't just count the European votes anymore.
Things to watch for next time:
- The "Great Pause": If they haven't picked a guy after three days, they stop. They take a day off for prayer and "informal conversation." Basically, they grab coffee and try to hash it out.
- The Age Limit: Cardinals over 80 can’t vote, but they can be elected. It’s rare, but possible.
- The Announcement: When the Cardinal Deacon says "Habemus Papam" (We have a pope), he reveals the name in Latin. If he says "Eugenium," it’s Eugene. If he says "Georgium," it’s George.
Next Steps for the Curious
If you want to understand the current "frontrunners" for the next vacancy, look at the Cardinal Electors list on the Vatican’s official press site. Focus on those holding "Prefect" roles in the Roman Curia, as they have the administrative experience the electors usually look for. You should also look up the Universi Dominici Gregis, the actual "rule book" written by John Paul II that governs this entire process. It’s a dense read, but it explains exactly what happens if there’s a tie or a medical emergency inside the lockdown.