He was hideous.
With an oversized skull that bulged forth frontally with multi-lobed bony protuberances, a chin that jutted rightward dragging his mouth down in a permanent frown, scales and scars dominating half of his face, and awkward wisps of hair pronouncing (and not obscuring) his deformity, John Merrick seemed a monstrosity.
Was it any wonder that he was exploited in a London freak show? Was it any surprise he was hunted, harassed, and hounded by brutal street urchins?
The Elephant Man, based on the true and tragic nineteenth-century story of Joseph Merrick, was director David Lynch’s masterpiece. Garnering eight Academy Award nominations in 1980, the tale unfolds the rescue of a severely deformed man (presumably afflicted with Proteus syndrome) from the brutality of the freak show by the caring physician, Dr. Frederick Treves, who seeks to study and help Merrick. After suffering from years of neglect and abuse, John Merrick (the film changing his name from Joseph) finds himself clothed, fed, and housed in a comfortable private suite in London Hospital. And even though he is contending with overwhelming physical deformities, searing emotional trauma, and ongoing illness, Merrick proves to be a kind soul, a sensitive gentleman, and a keen devotee of the beautiful. Increasingly, as people begin to know John Merrick, his disfigurement is eclipsed by his congenial persona.
In an early scene, Dr. Treves brings John to his home for tea. There he meets and engages Mrs. Treves in polite conversation,
Mrs. Treves: I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Merrick.
John Merrick: I’m very pleased . . .
[John begins to cry]
Dr. Frederick Treves: What is it, John? What’s the matter?
John Merrick: It’s just that I-I’m not used to being treated so well by so beautiful a woman . . .
As their engagement continues, John is shown pictures of the Treves family on the mantelpiece. Intrigued by this unfamiliar way people display family photos, he asked,
John Merrick: Would you care to see my mother?
Dr. Frederick Treves: [surprised] Your mother? Yes, please.
[John pulls out a small portrait]
Mrs. Treves: Oh but she’s . . . Mr. Merrick, she’s beautiful!
John Merrick: Oh, she had the face of an angel! [sadly] I must have been a great disappointment to her.
Mrs. Treves: No, Mr. Merrick, no. No son as loving as you could ever be a disappointment.
John Merrick: If only I could find her, so she could see me with such lovely friends here now, perhaps she could love me as I am. I’ve tried so hard to be good.
[Mrs. Treves begins to cry]
In 2013, eight months into his papacy, Pope Francis concluded his Wednesday audience and found his way into the crowd. The forty-eight-year-old Vinicio Riva stood alone in a sea of faces. With a deformed face and neck littered with pedunculated neurofibromas and open sores, this victim of von Recklinghausen’s disease was among the first the pope approached. As Riva recalled, “When the pope drew close to me and hugged me tightly and he kissed me, he gave me a kiss on the face. My head was against his chest. And his arms welcomed me, he hugged me tight. Tight. I tried to speak. I couldn’t.” It was in that moment, the shocked man admitted, that all of his sorrows left him. “The pope didn’t think about whether to hug me or not. He didn’t know if I was contagious or not. But he caressed me all the same. And I felt his love.”
What will comfort the weary and the afflicted who wonder whether we are truly loved or loveable?
Pope Francis has died, but this is the story I will always remember. The unwanted and undesired, the unclean and untouchable who has forgotten his dignity—who has lost the sense that he is an irreplaceable child of God—is the person whom we, as Catholics, need to reach. You whom others mock. You who are invisible. You who are hated. You who are broken. Christ loves you. Christ hungers for you. Christ will never leave you. Ever.
In this embrace of an “untouchable,” Pope Francis offered his greatest homily.
And he didn’t have to say a word.
In the final nighttime scene of The Elephant Man, John Merrick glances at the painting of a child sleeping serenely in his bed. Wanting so desperately to be “normal,” he walks to his bed and strips it of its pillows—pillows used to prop him up lest he suffocate in his sleep—one last time, one last time, he would like to be like everyone else. Then he lies down, almost with a perceptible smile. And, shortly thereafter, he breathes his last.
When I reflect upon the life and pontificate of Pope Francis, this is what I will remember. I will remember the loveliness of Joseph Merrick. I will remember the kindliness of Vinicio Riva. And I will remember the warmth of Francis. These are the images that I will remember—these wonderful men desperate for authentic love and the pope who acted in persona Christi.
Joseph Merrick died in 1890. He was nearing twenty-eight.
Vinicio Riva died in 2024. He was fifty-eight.
And Pope Francis died on Monday. He was eighty-eight.
What awaits them—and us—after stumbling our way through this earthly vale of tears? What will comfort the weary and the afflicted who wonder whether we are truly loved or loveable? Perhaps Georges Bernanos said it best: “Such distress, distress that has forgotten even its name, that has ceased to reason or to hope, that lays its tortured head at random, will awaken one day on the shoulder of Christ.”
Pope Francis, requiescat in pace.