VATICAN CITY — The world has bid farewell to a beloved spiritual father. Pope Francis, the first Latin American pontiff and a beacon of humility, compassion, and courage, passed away on Monday, April 21, at the age of 88.
His journey ended early in the morning at 7:35 a.m., as Cardinal Kevin Ferrell announced: “The Bishop of Rome, Francis, returned to the home of the Father. His entire life was dedicated to the service of the Lord and His Church.”
Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Argentina, Francis came into the papacy like a fresh wind after a storm. That rainy evening in March 2013, when he simply stepped onto the Vatican balcony and greeted the world with a gentle “Buonasera” — good evening — people instantly felt something different. He wasn’t just stepping into a role. He was stepping into hearts.
Pope Francis didn’t seek grandeur. He chose simple living, wore worn-out shoes, and rode in modest cars. He preferred the Vatican guesthouse over the lavish Apostolic Palace. His actions weren’t performative — they were real. He lived the Gospel by touching the untouchables, sitting with the rejected, and weeping with the broken.
Throughout his 12-year papacy, Francis stood firm on the side of the poor, the migrant, the sick, the forgotten. His first papal trip was to Lampedusa, an island crowded with desperate refugees. He called for a world with fewer walls and more bridges — once even saying of Donald Trump’s immigration stance, “A person who thinks only about building walls… is not Christian.”
He embraced the outcasts — blessing same-sex couples, inviting trash pickers to world stages, and kissing the tattooed hand of a Holocaust survivor. He reminded the Church and the world that mercy isn’t just a concept; it’s a lifestyle.
But not all applauded. His openness to LGBTQ+ Catholics, critiques of capitalism, and firm stance on climate change drew ire from traditionalists. His response? Silence, grace, and a continued focus on love.
Francis also bore pain — physically and emotionally. From chronic lung issues and multiple surgeries to navigating the sexual abuse crisis that scarred the Church, he confronted it all with human vulnerability. He made mistakes, as with the Chilean abuse scandal, but he owned them, invited victims to the Vatican, and worked for change.
He was a man of firsts: the first Jesuit pope, the first from the Americas, the first to be named after St. Francis of Assisi — a symbol of peace, humility, and care for creation. His legacy includes changing Church law on abuse transparency, challenging global powers to care for the Earth, and gently shifting how the Catholic Church engages with modern humanity.
And even though he didn’t ordain women, he brought them closer to the Church’s core, allowing them to vote in synods and take on leadership roles. For him, the Church wasn’t a fortress of rules but a “field hospital after battle” — a refuge for “todos, todos, todos” — everyone.
His papacy wasn’t without trials or critiques. Yet, those who encountered him — from street dwellers to world leaders — saw something undeniable: authenticity.
In the end, Francis leaves not just a reformed Vatican, but a reshaped heart in millions across the globe. He gave the papacy a human face, a tender voice, and open arms.
As one mourner put it outside St. Peter’s Basilica, eyes brimming with tears, “He made us feel seen, even when the world forgot us.”
Rest in peace, Papa Francesco. You reminded us what it means to love — simply, boldly, endlessly.
