By Father Joseba Kamiruaga Mieza, CMF
It began with a prayer. Not from him, but from us.
Standing humbly on the Loggia of Blessings at St. Peter’s Basilica on the evening of 13 March 2013, Pope Francis began his papacy not with grandiosity, but with an astonishing request: “Before the bishop blesses the people, I ask you to pray to the Lord to bless me.” That moment crystallised what would become the hallmark of his papacy—radical humility, deep fraternity, and an unwavering desire to walk with, not ahead of, the People of God.
Now, in the wake of his passing, the Church mourns not only a leader but a shepherd who embraced vulnerability, broke conventions, and reminded us that mercy is not just a message but a movement.
Pope Francis lived and died as he led: with courageous tenderness. Despite recurring health crises—including 37 days in hospital and coming close to death twice—he never retreated behind protocols or fears. He returned to St. Peter’s Square on Easter morning to bless the world one final time. Maskless, breathless, and yet full of hope, he clung to his mission to remain close to the people. It was a final act of defiance against indifference and a poignant testament to his theology of presence.
As the media swirled with speculation about his successor, as ecclesiastical gossip hummed in sacristies and social feeds alike, Pope Francis offered no spectacle. Instead, he offered himself.
And now, the question remains: what do we do with his legacy?
Francis never sought to occupy all the spaces of power—he explicitly warned against that in Evangelii Gaudium, stating, “Let us not obsess over occupying all the spaces of power and self-affirmation, but rather initiate processes.” And that he did.
He reopened the synodal path, not merely as a structure but as a spirit—listening deeply to the world, engaging the margins, dismantling the idolatry of clericalism, and encouraging a Church less concerned with appearing perfect than with being present. He desacralised the papacy—not to diminish it—but to reclaim its roots in service and love.
His papacy was marked by acts of startling simplicity and bold reform: appointing cardinals who shared his gospel-centred vision, re-centering the poor as sacraments of God’s presence, confronting the sins of the Church with honesty, and calling the world out of its moral slumber—whether in Gaza, Ukraine, or in our very hearts.
For some, he moved too slowly. For others, far too fast. But for those with eyes to see, he was neither liberal nor conservative; he was evangelical in the truest sense—centred on Christ and his Good News.
Francis continually reminded us: popes come and go, but Jesus remains. The Church is not merely the hierarchy—it is the ecclesia, the gathered people of God. He echoed Vatican II’s deepest intuition: that holiness is not confined to the sanctuary but belongs in the streets, in the hospitals, in the prisons, in the laughter of children and the groaning of the poor.
In this, Francis became a “controversial standard-bearer”—a sign of contradiction much like his Lord. His very style became a dividing line: between a Church turned inward and one turned toward the world. Between a religion of rituals and a spirituality of encounter.
That he died at Easter was no coincidence—it was providence. Just days before, he had condemned the “piecemeal World War” consuming humanity, lamenting the madness of rearmament and the slaughter of innocents. Then, quietly, like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, he disappeared from the world’s stage. But in that absence, his message only grew louder: if you want to set the world right, look to the Easter of Christ.
It was the Holy Spirit’s perfect conspiracy. Not dramatic. Not thunderous. Just deeply consistent with everything Francis stood for: a papacy that made room for Christ to be the centre.
What, then, is the true revolution of Pope Francis?
It is not structural reform, though he courageously attempted it. It is not doctrinal innovation, for he never broke communion with the deposit of faith. His revolution was incarnational: making God’s mercy tangible, believable, and embodied.
In his own human vulnerability, he showed that holiness is not about spotless robes but about scarred hands. In his laughter, his weeping, his trembling voice, and his simple gestures—washing feet, embracing refugees, visiting the sick—he made God’s mercy transparent. Not abstract. Not theoretical. Real.
This is a faith not more religious but more spiritual and more human at once. A faith less obsessed with moral fortresses and more focused on spiritual pilgrimage. A faith that starts not with doctrine but with encounter. A faith that invites a new culture—one built not on power, but on love.
Some fear that his vision will fade, that a different path may now be taken. But Francis did not sow in vain. By appointing cardinals aligned with his gospel vision, he helped ensure that the Spirit’s wind would not easily be reversed. And yet, we must remember: the Spirit blows where it wills. Our task is not to control it but to follow it.
The seeds Francis planted may take years to bear fruit, but bear fruit they will. For the Church cannot go backward when the compass has been reset toward compassion, synodality, and mission.
I have lived through five pontificates. Yet something about Francis felt deeply personal. I often found myself finishing his thoughts, intuiting his next word. Now that he has gone, I feel more alone—but not abandoned. His voice still echoes, calling us to go forth, to walk together, to begin again.
Francis, your testimony—imperfect but passionate—taught us to dare in the name of Jesus: to welcome, to share, to build a different humanity. In you, we glimpsed the “perfect joy” of those who see God at work and follow him.
Thank you, Pope Francis. In your brokenness, you made grace visible. In your humanity, you made holiness believable. This is your revolution.
You walked with us, Francis. Now walk ahead of us again—this time as a saint, still whispering: pray for me.
