On January 19th, eight months into his pontificate, Pope Leo 14th convened a private audience with 43 cardinals—men who had elected him but still wrestled with doubts about their choice. The Vatican press was unaware; no cameras or transcripts would mark this moment. In the Renaissance Hall, Leo sat simply, without throne or ceremony, his weathered face reflecting decades spent in Peru’s harsh sun.

Cardinal Parolin, Secretary of State, observed quietly, while Cardinals Müller and Teagel—representing the church’s traditionalist and reformist wings—sat nearby, embodying the fractured unity Leo had inherited.

After a long silence, learned in the patience of his missionary years, Leo spoke: “You want to know why I chose the name?” His voice needed no amplification; it carried through the chamber with quiet authority.

He reflected on the few seconds after his election when he chose “Leo” as his papal name—not for homage, but as a warning. Pope Leo XIII’s 1891 encyclical Rerum Novarum had addressed the suffering of workers amid the industrial revolution, asserting human dignity against the dehumanizing forces of mechanization and capitalism.

Leo 14th reminded the cardinals that today, the world faces a similar crisis—not steam engines or factories, but artificial intelligence and automation threatening to replace 40% of jobs in Latin America within a decade, with global repercussions.

He emphasized that technology itself is neutral, but the systems deploying it carry assumptions that exclude the dignity of workers. The church, he insisted, must speak urgently and clearly.

As he paced the room, Leo recounted Javier, a fisherman displaced by automation, who asked him, “Padre, does God see us anymore?” This question, Leo said, was not theological but a cry for justice.

The hall fell silent under the weight of that question.

Leo challenged the cardinals: the church must resurrect the prophetic courage of Leo XIII—not to repeat his solutions, but to confront today’s crisis with similar moral clarity.

Some cardinals voiced concerns about expertise and relevance, but Leo countered with examples from history—the church had spoken on slavery, nuclear weapons, and abortion without technical expertise because these were moral issues squarely within its mission.

He vowed that this papacy would not be silent, that it would confront the architects of the new economy and defend human dignity as non-negotiable.

The cardinals sat in stunned silence. Cardinal Müller whispered, “He means it.” Cardinal Teagel nodded: “God help us all.”

The debate continued, but beneath it all lay the recognition that Leo 14th had set a course that could not be reversed.

In the weeks that followed, rumors whispered of an encyclical or synod addressing technology and labor. Yet publicly, the pope remained quiet, meeting privately with economists, ethicists, tech leaders, and labor organizers.

One Silicon Valley CEO recalled a private audience where the pope’s questions revealed deep familiarity with internal reports on algorithmic bias and worker displacement—leaving the executive pale and unsettled.

Behind the scenes, Leo studied dense economic data and ethical analyses late into the night, preparing not for a gesture but a reckoning.

In a small chapel near his private apartments, Leo prayed not for success or approval but for courage to do what must be done, carrying the weight of history and the hopes of displaced workers like Javier.

The machinery of the church began to turn toward a new teaching moment, deliberate and inexorable.

Leo 14th’s choice of name was no mere formality; it was a prophetic commitment to speak for the voiceless in a new industrial revolution.

Whether welcomed or opposed, his papacy promised to challenge the church and the world to recognize that human dignity cannot be sacrificed to efficiency or market forces.

The cardinals who left that audience bore a new understanding: they had elected a prophet, one who would not rest until the church confronted the moral crisis of our age.