Turning a corner, I faced yet another row of yellow and peach pastel buildings, and I had to acknowledge that I was lost. Just a few hours earlier, I had landed in Rome and begun my journey across the city toward the Pontifical Urban College of Propaganda Fide.1 When I finally puffed up to the college’s front gate, beads of sweat rolling down my neck from the hot May sun, the gate attendant looked at me and shook his head. “No turista,” he declared, moving his finger side to side as he made a disapproving clucking sound. The group who had attempted to enter the college ahead of me were tourists, and after getting turned away, they wandered down the street snapping pictures. The Urban College’s location—a ten minute walk from Saint Peter’s Square, on a hill overlooking Rome—probably attracts a large number of sightseers. I was there, though, to look at historical documents, not the sights. After explaining that I was not a lost tourist but, rather, a lost historian, the gate attendant kindly shared step-by-step directions from the entryway to the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives.2
Amid the landscape of unfamiliar buildings, I quickly lost my bearings. I had correctly followed the first steps in his directions—walking up a hill, under a bridge, and up a flight of stairs. Then, I took a wrong turn—or two—that brought me to an overlook. Standing high over the city, I gazed at a panoramic view of Rome—beautiful, but not what I was looking for. Suddenly, I was reminded of the many visitors to the University of Notre Dame’s campus who have gotten lost amidst the quads of collegiate, buff-yellow buildings. When I have given directions to turned-around visitors, I often advised them to navigate using landmarks such as Hesburgh Library. Now, lost on a different campus, I remembered that advice and used it to reorient myself. Taking a deep breath, I again set off down the Urban College’s sidewalks. Ten minutes later, I walked down a winding tunnel and finally found what I was searching for. As I walked through the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives’ door, I felt myself transition from frazzled foreigner to curious researcher. A painting facing the entryway greeted me. Pausing, I gazed at a radiating cross atop a vibrant globe and, across the world, a banner exhorting the reader, euntes docete: “go and teach” (Matthew 28:19).
My visit to Rome for archival research coincided with an auspicious year for the global Church. In spring 2024, Pope Francis decreed that the Ordinary Jubilee of the Holy Year 2025 would begin on Christmas Eve 2024 with the opening of the Holy Door of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Soon after, senior Church leaders would open the Holy Doors at the three other papal basilicas—Saint John Lateran, Saint Mary Major, and Saint Paul Outside the Walls. These Holy Doors, Francis proclaimed, would “be flung open to invite everyone to an intense experience of the love of God.” Pilgrims could respond to this Jubilee invitation by celebrating in the papal basilicas in Rome or in their local churches around the world. A year later, Francis scheduled the Jubilee to end with the closing of Saint Peter’s Holy Door during Epiphany 2026. Reflecting on the transformative possibilities of the year, Francis declared that the Jubilee would be “a Holy Year marked by the hope that does not fade, our hope in God,” a hope needed by individuals and the world.3 The 2025 Jubilee continues a Christian tradition that began in 1300 and often featured pilgrims flocking to Rome. So as I planned my Vatican archival trip from South Bend, I looked forward to joining the “pilgrims of hope” converging on Rome from around the world.4
While I planned my trip to coincide with the Jubilee, I had no way of knowing that spring 2025 also would be a time of papal transition. Francis died on Easter Monday, April 21. Five days later, he was buried at one of the Jubilee pilgrimage sites—the Papal Basilica of Saint Mary Major, a church he had visited often to venerate the Salus Populi Romani icon. After a period of mourning, the conclave gathered in the Sistine Chapel on May 7, and the next day, the cardinals elected Pope Leo XIV. I landed in Rome less than a week into the new pontificate. Though dignitaries and reporters traveled from around the world specifically for Francis’s funeral and Leo’s inauguration, I was one of many global pilgrims who had planned our trips months or years in advance. Once in Italy, of course, we adjusted our itineraries in response to current events. In between archival work, I joined the pilgrims, tourists, politicians, and reporters visiting Francis’s tomb and attending Leo’s inauguration.
This is why, one sunny May day, I examined 19th-century missionaries’ letters held at the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives in the morning and then hopped on a city bus toward Saint Mary Major that afternoon. As I stepped off the bus and walked to the basilica, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Hundreds of thousands of mourners had already paid their respects to the first pope from the Americas in the week after he died—gathering in Saint Peter’s Basilica where he lay in state, attending his funeral Mass in Saint Peter’s Square, lining the streets along the procession to his chosen burial site, and visiting Saint Mary Major to see his final resting place. Weeks later, at the beginning of a new papacy, on a random weekday afternoon, would people still be gathering to pay their respects to Francis? Searching for the end of the line that stretched around Mary Major’s monumental baroque and Romanesque complex, I had my answer. Yes. Thousands of people were waiting to enter the Holy Door and visit Francis’s tomb. As we inched forward, I looked at the statues of saints like Luke the Evangelist and listened to conversations about food plans and neighborhood gossip. Those around me continued chatting through the security check, where I saw an impressive pile of confiscated umbrellas. As we approached the Holy Door, though, the chatter ceased. Pilgrims of hope reached out to touch Mary and Jesus’s hands, bowed their heads, and offered quietly spoken prayers. Once in the church, casual conversations in many languages resumed around me, but people lowered their voices as we shuffled past chapels and gravesites. The next hush fell as the queue approached the newest tomb. Facing the stark simplicity of Francis’s final resting place—a Ligurian stone inscribed “Franciscus,” a replica of his pectoral cross spotlit on the wall, a single white rose on his tomb and bouquets of roses and daisies in front—the sounds of sorrow filled the space. Here, Jubilee pilgrims mourned their beloved pope.
A few days later, I experienced another side of the papal transition when I attended Leo’s joy-filled inauguration in Saint Peter’s Square. Three hours before the Mass, I joined a stream of people navigating security. Around me, guards carefully unrolled and read the many signs people wanted to bring into the square—banners emblazoned with national flags and well wishes such as “Viva il Papa!” Through security, I settled into an open spot in the already-crowded square, and the waiting began. To my left, a Spanish woman prayed continuous rosaries. She had traveled to Italy for the inauguration. In front of me, a group of Roman women discussed their new bishop’s strengths. To my right stood an American family from Michigan. When they planned their Italian vacation months ago, they explained, they had purchased Coliseum tickets for this Sunday morning, but they “obviously” had to attend this Mass instead. Behind me, a Chicago man in his 70s shared with a twinkle in his eye that, “Pope Leo is in my school yearbook!”
Behind me, a Chicago man in his 70s shared with a twinkle in his eye that, ‘Pope Leo is in my school yearbook!’
Excitement spiked when Leo made his way through the crowds in a popemobile, greeting those gathered for his inauguration Mass. Well-wishers waved flags, took pictures, raised their hands in prayer, shouted greetings, and lifted their children toward the second pope from the Americas. After Leo passed us, the Spanish woman turned to me and said with tears in her eyes, “Somos bendecidos” (we are blessed).
In contrast to the boisterous crowds filling the streets of the Vatican and Rome celebrating Leo’s inauguration, the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives remained a tranquil space of quiet study. Every day, about ten other researchers and I handed in our access cards at the front desk, placed our belongings in lockers, and entered the consultation room with our laptops, paper, and pencils. There, we read and took notes on a collection that spans global Church missionary activity from the 17th through the 20th centuries. My research on 19th-century correspondence set me apart as a “modern historian” from most of the scholars around me who paged through far older documents. As I looked at the mosaic of paper fragments left on their desks at the end of the day, I felt grateful that the sources I was examining were, as-yet, more stable.
I found many similarities between working in the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives and in U.S. and Canadian archives. The Historical Archives maintains exacting entry requirements—researchers must submit an application with personal and professional details as well as a recommendation letter from a “recognized” institute or a “qualified” person. Other private archives in America use similar stipulations for entry. Once a researcher’s application is approved, she can schedule an appointment to visit. Often, available dates are many months away—not unheard of in small, private, or popular depositories. Once inside the Historical Archives, many regulations mirror those of North American archives. For example, researchers should “observe absolute silence” with the “exception of brief communication in a low voice with the staff”; the staff requests that researchers report damaged materials to them; and scholars are “committed” to send the archives two copies of publications resulting from its documents.5 The Historical Archives’ entry requirements and on-site regulations are strict, but they fall within expected parameters.
My research on 19th-century correspondence set me apart as a ‘modern historian’ from most of the scholars around me who paged through far older documents.
However, there are notable differences between this Vatican repository and archives I have visited in North America. In addition to the vast chronological and geographic scope of the collections, the expectations for behavior, rules about reproduction, and customs around databases set the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives apart. When I work in U.S. and Canadian archives and request 19th-century correspondence, the letters often arrive in protective sleeves. Sometimes, staff hand me a photocopy instead of the original document. On one memorable trip, an archivist stipulated that I wear gloves while handling the photocopy that he had just created. While documents in the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives must be treated “with the utmost care,” gloves are not provided or required.6 Seeing a person working next to me touch 18th-century documents with his bare hands shocked my American-trained sensibilities. Another policy difference changes scholars’ pace and mode of research. While researchers can pay for official scans, personal photography of materials is forbidden. So more people read and analyze documents in the archive—instead of taking photos in the archive and then working through them at home. As a result, common background sounds at the Historical Archives were the slow turning of pages and the scratching of pencils on paper—instead of the swift shuffling of papers and quiet tapping on phone camera screens. Finally, unlike many North American archives, the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives does not have a searchable online database describing its holdings. Instead, researchers rely on word-of-mouth and meticulous calendars, descriptive lists of the archives’ holdings compiled by other academics. Before visiting the Historical Archives, I had consulted with Luca Codignola, Cushwa Center Senior Fellow in Rome, who shared invaluable advice and support, and I had pored over the calendars, flagging letters written by missionaries working in the Northwest. Such preparatory work becomes essential when the archive does not provide a searchable database—and when there is no Internet access in the building. For those more accustomed to American and Canadian archives, knowing regulations and expectations like these can prepare researchers to have a productive trip in Rome.
I was prepared for the Historical Archives’ policies, but from the first document I examined to the last, I was dazzled at the wealth of sources. Materials arrived in thousand-page bound volumes. Often, archive staff juggled three of these massive tomes in their arms at a time. I came to expect the soft thud they made when the staff placed them on the desk in front of me. I never, though, got used to the depth of original documents housed inside. Written in French, Latin, Italian, and English, the letters, petitions, and certificates revealed a glimpse into the Catholic Church’s missionary activity in North America from the perspective of missionaries, lay Catholics, and Church officials. Filed around the Grey Nun and Oblate correspondence that I focused on, I read requests from lay Catholics for the pope to discipline their bishops, letters from teachers detailing conflicts between their schools and nearby Protestant schools, and reports from missionaries on their work with Indigenous communities.7 These documents frequently included meticulous details of particular incidents and clearly articulated personal opinions. As one historian friend commented when I described an irate letter from a group of lay Catholics to the pope, the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives contains “hot historical gossip.”
When I returned to Pope Leo’s regional homeland, a visit to the University of Notre Dame Archives complemented my research in the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives. The Notre Dame Archives contains important collections on Catholic and regional history—such as the Potawatomi Nation Collection, which includes 19th- and 20th-century journals, letters, and treaties about the Indigenous nation; the Jean Meyer Cristero Rebellion Oral History Collection, which features interviews with Mexican citizens, military personnel, and government officials about the early-20th-century conflict; and the Patrick and Patricia Crowley Papers, which highlights mid-to-late-20th-century lay perspectives on marriage, birth control, and parenthood. Thanks to the work of University archivist Father Thomas McAvoy, C.S.C., Notre Dame also offers researchers access to microfilm copies of Vatican documents. These extraordinary materials were gathered during a mid-20th-century push to grow Notre Dame’s library and archival collections. In 1961, construction commenced for Memorial Library (renamed Hesburgh Library in 1987), and McAvoy oversaw a multi-pronged project to obtain microfilm copies of U.S. Catholic materials held at European institutions. Notably, this digitization included a “mammoth microfilming project” of 17th- to 20th-century Propaganda Fide records about the lands today known as the United States.8 The result—the Catholic Church Congregatio de Propaganda Fide Records—provides scholars based in the Americas with accessible copies of some of Propaganda Fide’s holdings. The Vatican repository contains many more materials than the Notre Dame collection, but scholars of American Catholicism can pair a visit to the Notre Dame Archives with an appointment at the Propaganda Fide Historical Archives, examining at the latter documents not included in McAvoy’s microfilm project. At both places, art reminds researchers of the Catholic Church’s historical and contemporary work in the word. In Rome, all who enter the archives are exhorted to “go and teach.” In South Bend, “Christ the Teacher” in the Word of Life mural greets visitors, a visual reminder of Notre Dame’s connections with the global Church.
Melissa Coles is a postdoctoral research associate at Notre Dame’s Cushwa Center. A historian of 19th- and 20th-century North America, Coles specializes in the intersection of Catholicism, Indigenous traditions, the environment, and sacred places. She earned her Ph.D. in history from the University of Notre Dame, where she also received her B.A. in honors anthropology and peace studies. She earned her M.Div. at Harvard Divinity School.
This article appears in the fall 2025 issue of the American Catholic Studies Newsletter.
Notes
1 In Italian, the name is the Pontificio Collegio Urbano “de Propaganda Fide.”
2 The repository’s full name is the Historical Archives of the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. In Italian, it is called the Archivio Storico della Congregazione per l’Evangelizzazione dei Popoli or the Archivio Storico “de Propaganda Fide.”
3 Francis, Spes Non Confundit, Bull of Indiction of the Ordinary Jubilee of the Year 2025, May 9, 2024.
4 The 2025 Holy Year’s motto is peregrinantes in spem, pilgrims of hope.
5 “Regulation,” The Propaganda Fide Historical Archives: The Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples, Archivio Storico Propaganda Fide, 2013, https://www.archiviostoricopropaganda.va/content/archiviostoricopropagandafide/en/archivio-storico/regolamento.html.
7 The full names of their orders are the Sisters of Charity of Montréal and the Missionary Oblates of
Mary Immaculate.
8 James E. Murphy, 7 December 1961, Notre Dame Printed and Reference Material PR 61/71, “Notre Dame acquires Microfilm copies of Vatican documents,” University of Notre Dame Archives.