The Life and Legacy of Pope Francis.
It feels almost poetic, doesn’t it? That Pope Francis, born Jorge Mario Bergoglio, a man who devoted his life to the resurrection of faith, died the day after Easter—when the world was still basking in the symbolic glow of hope and renewal.
At 88, the death of Pope Francis marks the end of a papacy that was anything but ordinary. A pope of firsts, a shepherd of the poor, a Jesuit with a poet’s soul, he leaves behind a Church changed—sometimes gently, sometimes uncomfortably—but changed nonetheless.
Born in Buenos Aires in 1936 to Italian immigrants, young Jorge grew up in a modest home in a working-class neighbourhood. His father was a railway accountant, his mother a homemaker. He was the eldest of five children, an intelligent boy who loved tango, science, and God in almost equal measure. He trained briefly as a chemical technician, but at 21, he answered a deeper call and entered the seminary. It was the start of a spiritual journey that would, in time, make him the most influential religious figure of the 21st century.
His priesthood began not with ceremony, but with humility. He cooked his own meals, took public transportation, and lived simply—even after he became Archbishop of Buenos Aires in 1998. Long before the world knew him as Francis, his reputation in Argentina was that of a man who walked among the people, not above them. He was there during Argentina’s devastating 2001 financial collapse, not just offering prayers, but food, shelter, and fierce criticism of economic injustice. His was a theology not just of words, but of action.
And then came the call from Rome.
When he emerged onto the Vatican balcony on March 13, 2013, the world was introduced to a different kind of pope. The first from Latin America. The first Jesuit. The first to take the name, Francis, in honour of Saint Francis of Assisi, the humble friar who loved the poor and the earth. True to his namesake, Pope Francis immediately set a tone of humility, opting out of the traditional papal vestments for simple white robes and declining the Apostolic Palace in favour of a guesthouse apartment.
He once reportedly told an aide who brought him ornate garb for his first public appearance as pope, “The carnival is over.” That one line would go on to define much of his papacy.
In a Church often accused of being out of touch, Francis spoke plainly. “My people are poor, and I am one of them,” he said. He insisted that the clergy be shepherds who “smell like their sheep.” He championed social justice, migrants, the environment, and the disenfranchised. He washed the feet of prisoners, visited refugees, and declared that protecting the planet was a moral obligation. His Laudato Si’, an encyclical on climate change, called for an “integral ecology,” and became a rallying cry for faith-based environmentalism across the globe.
His compassion also extended into controversial terrain. In 2013, when asked about gay priests, he responded with a now-famous phrase: “Who am I to judge?” It was a small sentence that felt like a seismic shift. Over the years, he would go on to endorse informal blessings for same-sex couples and speak against the criminalisation of homosexuality—stances that sparked hope among progressives and fury among conservatives. He never endorsed doctrinal change, but he cracked open the door. He made space.
But for all his tenderness, Francis was not naïve. He confronted some of the Church’s darkest shadows with the kind of gravity the moment demanded. In 2014, he openly acknowledged the “moral damage” caused by clergy sex abuse and asked for forgiveness. He implemented procedures aimed at protecting victims and holding perpetrators accountable. Still, the road to justice was uneven, and critics pointed to continued cover-ups and leniency in some dioceses. Francis knew reforming a centuries-old institution would be a long, uphill journey—and one that might outlast his time.
He was a man of contradictions. Reserved in personality, yet globally adored. Progressive in tone, but traditional in theology. He criticised consumerism yet appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone. He remained fiercely loyal to Catholic teachings but insisted on dialogue, not dogma. He rarely smiled in photographs, but his warmth was unmistakable in person.
He was also unmistakably human.
In his final years, his health waned. Hospitalised in early 2025 for respiratory complications, the pontiff remained firm in his decision not to resign, despite repeated calls from within the Church to follow in the footsteps of his predecessor, Benedict XVI. “I govern with my head, not my knees,” he once said. His final months were quieter, marked by a deepening physical frailty but also an intensified spiritual urgency. He spoke of Gaza, of Ukraine, of the forgotten wars and frozen hearts. He continued to call for peace even when he could barely stand.
And then, on Easter Monday, he died.
It is hard to ignore the symbolism. A man who spoke so often about resurrection, about beginning again, left the world just as the Church marked its most hopeful day. It’s as though his work was done. The timing feels divinely choreographed, the last act in a life that often read like scripture.
In his 12 years as pope, Francis never tried to be a rock star. He was not a reformer in the traditional sense—he didn’t rewrite doctrine or overhaul the hierarchy. But he redefined tone. He reminded Catholics that the Gospel was not a set of rules but a call to mercy. That love, real love, must come with dignity, humility, and action.
He gave voice to the voiceless. He opened windows in places that had long been shut. He danced the tango as a young boy in Buenos Aires and later turned that grace into spiritual rhythm—stepping carefully but confidently through a papacy that will be remembered as one of the most consequential in modern history.
Now, his apartment is empty. His white cassock has been folded and set aside. But in chapels and refugee camps, in confessionals and climate marches, in places of pain and corners of hope, his presence lingers.
Pope Francis did not leave a legacy of grand buildings or sweeping decrees. He left something harder to measure but more enduring: a Church reminded of its purpose. A faith made tender. A world invited to look again at the heart of what it means to believe.
