The Other American ‘Popes’

WHEN WHITE SMOKE DRIFTED over the Sistine Chapel and the name Leo XIV was announced earlier this month, billions of Catholics and non-Catholics alike around the world raced to learn more about the new pontiff. Born Robert Francis Prevost and raised in Chicago, he is the first American to ascend to the papacy. He is a product of an American Catholic family and an alumnus of American Catholic institutions, having graduated from Villanova and the Catholic Theological Union in Chicago before joining the Order of St. Augustine and spending years in missionary service in Peru. As news of his election spread, so did Chicago-themed memes and other displays of hometown pride.

A small number of Americans, though, believe we’ve already had an American pope. Unrecognized by the Vatican and distant from mainstream Roman Catholicism, a handful of would-be pontiffs have made claims to the throne of St. Peter, enjoying support from internet users, eliciting the curiosity of many who came across them, and attracting followings—dedicated if not large. Few of these figures ever set foot in a seminary, let alone rose through the clerical ranks; you won’t find them in cathedrals or basilicas. Their holy haunts are garages, rental halls, and the occasional roadside chapel. And while they can be found at the very edge of the religious fringe, these figures personify the continuing challenges to papal authority presented by and within our postmodern age.

The main thing that unites this diverse bunch of papal claimants is their shared rejection of Vatican II. Convened between 1962 and 1965, the Second Vatican Council was a landmark effort by the Roman Catholic Church to engage more directly with the modern world. Initiated by Pope John XXIII, the council introduced sweeping reforms: It permitted the Mass to be celebrated in vernacular languages rather than Latin, emphasized ecumenical dialogue with Orthodox and Protestant communities, redefined the Church’s relationship with non-Christian religions (especially Judaism), and shifted the Church’s tone from one of hierarchical authority to one of pastoral outreach.

For many, these changes felt like an enlivening wind, in keeping with Pope John’s (possibly apocryphal) call to “open the windows of the Church” and let some fresh air into it. Chief among the council’s champions was Pope John Paul II, who had attended Vatican II as a young bishop and later embodied its spirit through global outreach, interfaith dialogue, and a renewed emphasis on human dignity. He also helped modernize the papacy itself, embracing television, global travel, and media interviews to bring the Church’s message to a wider, contemporary audience.

But while some Catholics found Vatican II exhilarating, for others, it was deeply disorienting. Many Catholics felt alienated by the rapid changes, whether because they preferred the Latin Mass or were uncomfortable with various other reforms.

This sense of upheaval gave rise to movements like the Society of St. Pius X (SSPX), founded by Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre in 1970, which flatly rejected key aspects of Vatican II and has maintained an uneasy relationship with Rome ever since while undergoing continuous institutional and communal growth. Even among conservative Catholics who don’t go as far as SSPX, Vatican II remains a point of deep concern and contention, and it remains an abiding preoccupation among hyperonline Catholic commentators. The resurgence of young Catholic women wearing veils, the renewed popularity of the Latin Mass, and the proliferation of apologists defending every conceivable Church teaching all point to a growing skepticism toward, or at least a re-evaluation of, Vatican II’s more open ethos.

There are also those so radical as to not only reject the council but also to deny the legitimacy of the popes who have upheld it. These are the sedevacantists—those who believe “the seat”—sedes, referring to the papal throne—is “vacant,” which is to say, the one who currently occupies it is illegitimate. Sedevacantists hold that this has been the case since the 1958 death of Pope Pius XII on the grounds that all officially recognized popes since Vatican II have embraced its alleged heresies. In the words of Philippe Roy-Lysencourt, a scholar of Catholic traditionalism, “For these movements, the council is like a foreign body in the life of the Church, like a cancer to be fought.” While its community of adherents is small and fragmented, sedevacantism represents the furthest extreme of traditionalist dissent—after all, who else would answer “no” to the question, “Is the Pope Catholic?”

And way out at the furthest reaches of the sedevacantist world, we find a handful of those who, unwilling to wait for a legitimate pope to emerge, have taken matters into their own hands. These are the people who have conducted their own conclaves in living rooms and hotel conference rooms, and who claim to have found St. Peter’s true successor living in their own hometowns.

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THE STORY OF OUR COUNTRY’S original homegrown papal claimant must be regarded as a prelude, because his actions took place decades before the Second Vatican Council that would unite the later generation of faux popes in opposition to it. Adam Anthony Oraczewski, a Polish-born immigrant, declared himself “Pope Adam II” in 1927 following several years of religious mischief, fraud, and forgery, much of his behavior likely resulting from undiagnosed mental illness. At one point, he circulated a photo to newspapers that depicted him in an approximation of papal garb; a reporter at one of the papers pointed out that the young would-be pontiff had left his tennis shoes on for the picture.

It would be half a century before the first of the Vatican II–rejecting American-born papal claimants would emerge. Chester Olszewski was originally an Episcopal priest in Pennsylvania. After encountering Anne Poore, a visionary claiming miraculous experiences and stigmata, Olszewski embraced a radical traditionalist Catholicism. He would eventually claim to receive his own mystical visions, and in 1977, he proclaimed himself Pope “Chriszekiel Elias,” later adopting the name “Peter II.” He led a small sect calling itself the True Catholic Church, rooted in apocalyptic Marian devotion; it has since faded into obscurity.

A little over two decades later, in 1998, Lucian Pulvermacher, a former Capuchin friar from Wisconsin, was elected pope by a roughly fifty-member conclave of sedevacantist lay people associated with the True Catholic Church network. Taking the name “Pius XIII,” he operated his ministry and issued papal decrees from a trailer in Kalispell, Montana, and later from Springdale, Washington. He died on November 30, 2009, at the age of 91. His followers’ plans to convene a new conclave to choose a successor have so far come to naught.

Another: Citing inspiration via mystical revelation, Reinaldus M. Benjamins of Malone, New York, claimed to be “Pope Gregory XIX.” But as “alternative popes” researcher Magnus Lundberg writes, little is known of Benjamins today.

But the best-known American claimant to the papacy is the late David Bawden, known to many by his chosen papal name of “Pope Michael I.”

Born in Oklahoma in 1959 and raised in a fiercely traditionalist Catholic household, David Bawden came of age believing that the Second Vatican Council was not a reform but a rupture, one that cut the institutional Church off from its own timeless teachings and liturgical beauty. His family refused to attend the post-conciliar Mass, clung to pre-1958 catechisms, and eventually aligned with the dissenting SSPX. Bawden enrolled in an SSPX seminary but was dismissed after a brief tenure, prompting him to pursue his theological education on his own—through books, correspondence with traditionalist and sedevacantist Catholics, and fervent prayer. By the mid-1980s, he had moved on from the SSPX to embrace outright sedevacantism.

Convinced that the Catholic Church was in a state of emergency, Bawden took a radical step. In 1990, at the age of 30, he gathered five others (including his parents) into a makeshift conclave in a Kansas thrift store chapel. They elected him pope by unanimous vote. He took the name “Michael I” and claimed divine sanction to restore what Rome had lost. From a farmhouse-turned-chapel in Delia, Kansas, he spent the next three decades issuing papal decrees, publishing newsletters, and maintaining a website called “Vatican in Exile.” Toward the end of his life, he had a channel on YouTube, a platform on which his sermons, theological discussions, interviews, and explanations of his papal claim have been watched by thousands.

While many dismissed him as a crank, a curiosity, a theological prank, or a person disturbed in the manner of his predecessor Oraczewski, Bawden’s sincerity was difficult to deny. As documented in the 2010 film Pope Michael, he lived with monastic simplicity, took no salary, and led a quiet life of devotion alongside his elderly mother, Tickie. He prayed daily for the Church, answered emails from curious seekers, and carried out his self-imposed papal duties with unwavering conviction.

In 2011, after more than two decades without the ability to celebrate the sacraments (despite claiming to be pope), Bawden was ordained a priest and consecrated a bishop by Robert Biarnesen, an independent bishop from a schismatic Old Catholic lineage (he himself had only just been consecrated a month prior by Bishop Alexander Swift Eagle Justice). Because Bawden had never been ordained by a bishop, valid or otherwise, prior to this, he had taken himself to be unable to perform even the most basic sacramental duties of the priesthood, let alone exercise the full authority of his alternative papacy. Beginning in 2011, though, Bawden at last felt authorized to celebrate Mass, hear confessions, and ordain others, a possibility that he seized with his first (and possibly only) seminarian, Phil Friedl.

His movement remained minuscule, with perhaps a few dozen core followers, but the internet gave Pope Michael surprising reach, drawing adherents from as far away as India and the Philippines. One of those, a Filipino bishop named Rogelio Martínez, became his right-hand man and, after Bawden’s death in 2022, Martínez was elected by his predecessor’s remaining followers to become “Pope Michael II.” He still posts to the movement’s YouTube channel, but viewership remains scarce.

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LEO XIV’S PAPACY HAS NOW BEGUN. The Chicagoan begins his tenure at a time when papal authority is contested. Pope Francis, pastoral reformer that he was, was a figure of great controversy among both liberals and conservatives in the Church, and especially among hyperonline traditionalists, for whom he represented a corruption of the office. For years, such figures accused him of sowing confusion, undermining tradition, and embracing a modernist agenda. Some of his critics began to flirt openly with sedevacantist ideas, creating a cultural commotion in the Church.

So it is that in our digital present, when YouTube apologists, livestreamed liturgies, and anonymous Twitter accounts shape the Catholic imagination, the claims of figures like Bawden no longer feel quite so radical or strange. This is part of what Leo XIV has inherited from Francis: a Church that is struggling, along with every other societal institution, to find its way in an increasingly chaotic information environment—a virtual world in which, it seems, everyone gets to be their very own pope.