News of Pope Francis’s passing reached me via a flurry of WhatsApp pings from friends. My phone lit up with the briefest line—“Pope Francis dies aged 88”—yet the hush that followed felt anything but small. Francis—born Jorge Mario Bergoglio—was never just a headline; he stood out in an institution known for its formal tone.
He died on the evening of April 21, 2025, in the Domus Sanctae Marthae residence where he had chosen to live over the grand papal apartments. The Vatican confirmed that the cause of death was complications from respiratory failure brought on by pneumonia, a condition that had steadily worsened over recent weeks. For days, his breathing had become laboured, and though his doctors tried to keep the illness at bay, it proved stronger than his frail body could bear. In typical Francis fashion, he reportedly refused extraordinary life-sustaining interventions, instead asking to be kept comfortable and surrounded by prayer. In the final hours, aides say he received the sacraments and was attended by a few close confidantes, whispering words of blessing until the very end.
Born in the Buenos Aires barrio of Flores on 17 December 1936, the son of an Italian railway worker, Francis carried the scent of working-class kitchens into the Apostolic Palace—and kept it there. From the scuffed black shoes he refused to replace to the remote corners of the world he insisted on visiting, he believed shepherds belonged where their flock lived and struggled. His choice of name after the saint of radical simplicity was both a signal and a promise. When he was elected in 2013, he became the first Jesuit and the first Latin-American pontiff in more than a millennium—and, for many of us twenty-somethings, the first pope whose tweets appeared between football scores.
I never met Francis. Most people didn’t. But you didn’t need to, to understand the kind of leader he was. He turned down the grand papal apartments for a modest guest house. He ate in the staff canteen. He even paid his own hotel bill the night he became pope. These weren’t stunts—they were part of a pattern. He believed the small choices mattered, and they did.
Francis’s priorities were clear. On climate change, he wrote Laudato Si’, a blunt message that shook boardrooms more than parish halls. On migration, he flew Syrian children to safety. On economics, he criticised what he called the “idolatry of money” with the urgency of a street preacher and the discipline of a trained chemist. He spoke plainly about difficult issues. His cautious support for civil unions showed a leader willing to nudge the boundaries of doctrine—without breaking them.
That plain language came with a cost. Traditionalists were unsettled. Progressives criticised his stance on women’s ordination. Survivors of clerical abuse said he responded too slowly, then too cautiously, then—finally—more firmly. He seemed to frustrate anyone expecting neat alignment. But disappointment isn’t the worst thing a pope can inspire. Indifference is. And no one was indifferent to Francis.
His idea of diplomacy was less about statements and more about showing up. He helped open dialogue between Washington and Havana in 2014, brought South Sudan’s leaders together in prayer in 2019, and called Russia’s 2022 invasion of Ukraine a “macabre regression.” Some mistook this for softness. But anyone who’d heard him speak in sharp, street-level Spanish knew better. He led Argentina’s Jesuits during a dictatorship, worked through Vatican politics, and learnt to navigate difficult company without losing his footing.
Some debates haven’t settled. In Argentina, people still argue over whether Father Bergoglio protected dissidents or played it safe. Inside the Vatican, others question whether he really changed the system or simply rearranged it. What’s clear is that the Curia he leaves is leaner, its finances more transparent, and its corridors more likely to echo with Argentine Spanish than formal Italian.
He also leaves behind a Church—and a global audience—more familiar with a pope who posted on social media. Francis embraced the digital world, sharing Sunday reflections and photos that often showed him with people most institutions overlook. Some mocked him as the “Pope of optics”; others argued that if attention is currency, he spent it where it mattered.
As a young reporter who usually covers tech, I found Francis hard to ignore. He gave us lines that stuck: “Who am I to judge?”, “Throw-away culture,” “Build bridges, not walls.” His words made a good copy, but they also made sense. He reminded me of the Jesuit teachers who once said faith without humour often ends up looking like fear. Even as pneumonia wore him down, he stood at the window on Easter Sunday—rosary in one hand, microphone in the other—still moving, still present.
Even from far away, you could sense the shift. Parish groups talked more about climate justice than raffle tickets. Homilies began to include words like “inclusion” and “dignity” alongside scripture. A few bishops even started listening more than they spoke. Friends of mine in Kerala messaged to say they felt a new warmth from an institution once seen as distant and defensive. The ripple was real, even if the tide didn’t turn all at once.
Where should an obituary file him? Under “Reformer”, though not revolutionary. Under “Pastor”, certainly, though not without flaws. Under “Controversialist”, yes—because he refused to let the papacy become a museum piece. Perhaps what he offered most was a reminder that sainthood and sainthood-talk are not the same. Francis left journalists with plenty to write, but he also gave ordinary Catholics a simple guide: eat with strangers, settle your bills, speak kindly, travel light.
At the Vatican, preparations will now begin for what comes next. Conversations will quietly turn to succession, and familiar questions will return about the future of the papacy. Francis, meanwhile, will rest in the Basilica of Saint Mary Major—just as he asked—not beneath grand marble but close to the ground. He once said humility should outlast headlines.
So here’s to the pope who brought a touch of Argentina into the papacy, who made even non-believers pause and listen, and who reminded a young Catholic journalist that faith can still surprise you. May the next pope share his courage—and his way of shaking up the comfortable. Those of us who write about public life could learn something from that.
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🕊️#PopeFrancis died aged 88, following pneumonia complications.😔A reformer, pastor & plain speaker, he chose humility over grandeur.🙏His legacy incl climate action, migrant advocacy & Church transparency. A pope who made people listen.💬#TheIndianSunhttps://t.co/yWB0eKo5h6
— The Indian Sun (@The_Indian_Sun) April 23, 2025
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