“I Went to College With the Pope — And I MISJUDGED Him So Bad”

I used to say I went to college with a future pope as a party trick — a funny line, a quirky icebreaker. People laughed. I laughed. It made for a good story.

But I never told them the real story.

Not the part about how I hated him. Or how I thought he was arrogant, cold, judgmental — the kind of person who ruined lives in the name of virtue. Not the part about how I was wrong. So deeply, unforgivably wrong.

The man the world now calls Pope Leo XIV, I once called “the most self-righteous guy on campus.” Back then, he was just Robert Post. And to me, he was everything I didn’t want to be.

We both graduated from Villanova in 1977. If you dig up the senior class photo, you’ll see me — second row, dark circles under my eyes, fake confident smile. I was loud. Sharp-tongued. Wore thrift store denim and thought I was edgy. Thought I had the world figured out.

And then, off to the side, you’ll see Robert. Standing a little apart from the group. Calm. Almost detached. He had this stillness about him, like the noise and competition of college life didn’t reach him.

I thought that made him a snob.

Looking back, I see now — he wasn’t detached. He was grounded. He wasn’t cold. He was calm. And he wasn’t judgmental. I was.

Back then, I decided I didn’t like Robert Post. And once I made that decision, I started building my case. Every little thing became evidence: the way he left campus events early, how he quoted Bonhoeffer in ethics class, how he didn’t join our debates or protest marches. He didn’t try to impress anyone. That alone felt like a crime.

But the moment that sealed it came during senior year. A student named Brian — nervous guy, sweet kid — got caught plagiarizing a paper. Word spread like wildfire, and by Monday morning, the campus rumor mill said Robert had reported him. “Of course it was him,” I said to my roommate. “Saint Robert, protector of the moral order.”

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know the truth. I believed it — because I wanted to.

I wanted to believe Robert was the villain. That he was small, sanctimonious, and self-important. That he acted holy to feel superior.

Because if I was right about him, then I didn’t have to change.

I didn’t have to feel bad about myself.

So I iced him out.

If he passed me in the hallway, I stared straight through him. If he answered a question in class, I sighed loudly or scribbled in my notebook to drown him out. If he smiled — and he did, sometimes, just politely — I looked away like he was invisible.

But there was one morning I’ll never forget. Cold. Still. I was rushing to the print lab to fix an unfinished paper. My backpack was falling apart. I hadn’t slept. I was muttering curses under my breath.

And there was Robert, standing alone outside the campus chapel.

Hands in his coat pockets. Looking up at the sky. Not moving. Not scrolling his phone. Not in a hurry. Just being.

I stopped for half a second and stared at him, irritated. “What is wrong with this guy?” I thought. “How can anyone be so still in a world that never shuts up?”

Then another thought came: “He thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

And that was it. The story was sealed. He was the problem. Not me.

Graduation came. Life moved on. I never spoke to Robert again. I went to law school, got married, got divorced, raised kids, chased promotions, missed funerals, lost friends. The world spun forward. I stopped thinking about Villanova.

But then it happened.

White smoke. Latin hymns. A man in white stepped out onto the balcony. I leaned closer to the TV.

And I almost dropped my coffee.

It was him.

Robert Post. Pope Leo XIV.

And in that moment — not when the crowd cheered, not when the cameras flashed, not when he raised his hands — but in that tiny, private moment when he bowed his head in silent prayer, I felt something I hadn’t felt in decades:

Grief.

Because I remembered who he really was.

Not the version I created in my head. Not the fantasy villain who made me feel justified in my bitterness.

I remembered the guy who held doors open longer than he had to. The one who answered questions gently. Who listened more than he spoke. Who quoted Bonhoeffer and left the room quiet. Who stood still in a world obsessed with motion.

And I remembered something else, too.

That story about Brian? The plagiarism?

It wasn’t Robert who told the dean. It was Brian himself.

He confessed. He turned himself in. Robert, it turns out, helped him write the apology letter. He sat with him outside the dean’s office for two hours, holding his hand while he cried.

I didn’t know. Because I never asked.

I never gave Robert a chance.

Years later, after he was named pope, I tried writing him. Just a short note. I never got a reply — maybe he never saw it. But I wrote what I needed to say:

“I judged you, and I was wrong. You were the most Christlike person I ever met. I’m sorry.”

Now he leads a billion people. The same quiet man who stood alone outside the chapel, breathing slow, unhurried, unbothered by the world’s frenzy.

And here I am. One of the many who never saw him clearly until it was too late.