A New Pope, an Old Name
With the election of Leo XIV, many are asking: Why that name?
Actually, that’s not the first question. The first question—at least in my house—was what my wife asked:
“Why did he change his name again?”
That’s right. Popes traditionally change their names upon election. And they don’t pick names lightly. Choosing a papal name is about aligning oneself with a legacy—a tradition, a theological posture, sometimes even a political or cultural vision. That’s what a namesake is: someone who carries the name of another in order to honor or continue their legacy. It’s a way of stepping into a tradition—like dying to the old self and taking on a new calling.
And the name Leo carries more weight than most. Much more. It stretches back over 1,500 years, touching some of the highest—and lowest—moments in Church history.
So if you’ll allow me, I want to reflect on the legacy of the papal name “Leo.”
What’s that? You will allow me?
Well, I didn’t ask for permission. I was going to do it anyway.
Leo the Great: Defender of Doctrine, Protector of Rome
The first and greatest Leo was Leo I—Leo the Great! A rare title. Very few individuals in Church history are ever granted the honorific “the Great.” Leo I reigned from 440 to 461 AD and stands as a towering figure in both theology and history.
His most lasting contribution was theological: his Tome, written to resolve a Christological crisis, became the backbone of the Council of Chalcedon in 451. There, the Church officially confessed that Christ is fully God and fully man, two natures united in one person, without confusion or separation.
The words many of us know so well?
They’re plagiarized directly from Leo I.
That Chalcedonian definition is still embraced today by Protestants, Catholics, and Eastern Orthodox alike—a point of significant ecumenical agreement.
But Leo I is also remembered for one of the most dramatic moments in Christian history.
Leo the Great and Attila the Hun: A Pastor Faces a Warlord
Hanging behind me in my office is a six-foot painting of Pope Leo I confronting Attila the Hun in the year 452. By that time, Rome was on the brink. The emperor had moved the capital to Constantinople, leaving the Western Empire fractured, leaderless, and vulnerable—on wobbly knees, if you will.
Ah, heck—let me take a picture of it for you. I’m very proud of it.
And now, Attila was at the gates.
Rome had no army. No defense. And, by all appearances, no hope.
All they had was their pastor.
But his knees weren’t shaking.
So they sent Pastor Leo.
You have to understand: this would be like us sending Billy Graham to stop an unstoppable warlord. And somehow—somehow—against all odds, Leo came riding back over the seven hills of Rome as the people waited, hopelessly preparing themselves and their children to die.
Here comes Leo. He didn’t even bring a victory flag, but he raised one anyway. And in it, people saw the hand of God. Who needs an emperor? Let him stay in Constantinople. We have our pastor, our pope, Pope Leo the Great.
What happened? We don’t really know. The accounts are often too fantastic to believe. In the end, all we know is that Attila turned around and left. Ask historians why, and they can’t even tell you. Some credit Leo’s words. Some point to famine, politics, or strategic shifts. But there are others. Others who whisper tales of mighty works. Look closely—these legends are found in my painting. Some claim it was a miracle. Liber Pontificalis (Book of the Popes, 6th century and later) tells us that Peter and Paul appeared flanking Leo with swords drawn. They frightened Attila into submission.
Sure, these were later additions to the story, but who cares? As long as it shows God is with us. But in this case, it shows God is with us through the agency of the pope.
Nevertheless, however it happened, Rome. Was. Spared. And. The. Pope. Did. It.
Rome didn’t need a political leader. It had its pastor.
The unity between those two offices—bishop and emperor—found its symbolic birthday, July 452. Maybe it was the 4th of July?
Now, let me be clear: I don’t believe Leo intended to establish a union of church and state. That was not his goal.
I don’t even think he expected to return alive.
He was laying down his life for his people. Period.
And it’s that sacrificial spirit that made him Leo the Great.
Leo III and the Birth of the Holy Roman Empire
Fast forward a few centuries to Christmas Day, 800 AD.
That’s when Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne as Holy Roman Emperor.
It was a monumental act. It didn’t just restore imperial power in the West—it symbolically merged spiritual authority with political rule. Who had the right to crown kings now? The pope.
This was the fruit of that earlier legacy. What began as a desperate act of pastoral courage had evolved into something institutional—and imperial.
And I’ve always found it a bit funny that we just added the word “Holy” to “Roman Empire,” like that somehow sanctified the whole thing.
And yes—I said “we.”
The Church’s mistakes are our mistakes. We need to take ownership of our history and stop handing it off to someone else. When the Church does something good, we say, “That’s us.” But when it does something bad, we say, “That’s them.”
These are our teenage pictures we’re looking at.
We were young. We were clumsy.
But we didn’t know better.
Blaming everything on “the Roman Catholic Church” has become a convenient dodge for far too long.
Leo X: The Pope of the Reformation
Now jump ahead to the early 1500s, and we find Leo X—a cultured Renaissance pope, more interested in art and indulgence than reform or repentance. With all that the papacy had become by his time, he really didn’t have a chance.
He represents the successive fall of the dominoes that got pushed down by Leo III on Christmas Day in 800.
And though not as scandalous as some of his predecessors, Leo X presided over a Church riddled with abuse and excess. He was in love with culture, splendor, and celebration. Reform wasn’t high on his list.
And under his watch, the unthinkable happened. Let me rephrase. Under his watch, the unthinkable happened again: a division within the church. It was the start of the Protestant Reformation.
Instead of taking Martin Luther’s (the primary whistleblower of the Reformation) concerns seriously, Leo dismissed him entirely—eventually issuing the bull Exsurge Domine (“Arise Lord”) to condemn him. Rather than seeing the need for substantial change, Leo dug in his heels and defended the status quo.
Isn’t that what we often do at our worst moments?
When we know someone’s right, but we don’t want to admit it?
Leo didn’t cause the Reformation—but his refusal to listen, his pride, and his political calculation helped lock the Church into a posture that made reconciliation impossible. He didn’t start the fire, but he poured oil on it.
So while Leo X wasn’t the worst of the Renaissance popes, he was perhaps one of the most consequential.
Leo XIII: Thomism and Social Renewal
Then came Leo XIII (1878–1903). I’ll be honest—before writing this, I knew nothing about him. The new pope could’ve taken the name “Leo XI” and I wouldn’t have blinked.
But it turns out, Leo XIII is remembered with great respect. He helped guide the Church into the modern era with both intellectual depth and pastoral concern.
His encyclical Rerum Novarum became the foundation of modern Catholic social teaching, addressing labor rights, the dignity of work, and the dangers of both unrestrained capitalism and radical socialism.
He also championed a return to Thomistic theology, encouraging scholars and clergy to rediscover Thomas Aquinas.
(There. I knew that would get some of you to wake up.)
In many ways, Leo XIII was a corrective to Leo X:
Less indulgent. More thoughtful. And far more in tune with a changing world.
Leo XIV: The Legacy Continues?
And Now We Have Leo XIV
We don’t yet know how he’ll lead, what legacy he’ll leave, or which Leo he’ll resemble most.
Will he follow in the footsteps of Leo I, grounding the Church in doctrine and sacrificial leadership?
Will he crown kings, or call for reform?
Will he entrench, or reach out?
We don’t know. But what we do know is that the name he chose carries weight—theology, empire, division, courage, and renewal.
Each Leo left a mark.
Some healed.
Some divided.
Some crowned.
Some resisted.
Some saved cities.
Some changed the Church forever.
Leo the Great’s Legacy for Me
I keep Leo I on my wall for one reason: not because of what he ended up helping to build, but because of what he was willing to give.
He reminds me that God uses moments like these as turning points. And often, we don’t realize the direction things turned until long after the dust has settled.
Well… if I’m honest, I keep him on my wall for a second reason too.
He was the first stop in my 45-minute visual tour through Church history at the Credo House.
That painting? I paid a lot to have it reproduced. It was the first thing people saw when they walked through the front door.
The second?
A Latin quote painted just beneath it—the Vincentian Canon:
Quod ubique, quod semper, quod ab omnibus creditum est, hoc est vere proprieque catholicum.
“That which has been believed everywhere, always, and by all—that is truly and properly Catholic.”
I wanted people to feel a sense of unity with the entire history of the Church—the good, the bad, and the ugly.
May we learn from the good, repent from the bad, and be humbled by the ugly—
in every Leo, and in ourselves.
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