The People’s Pope

By: Elián Zidán

The first Latin American pope has passed away. The Jesuit who set out to revolutionize the Catholic Church. The one who extended his hand to the marginalized. The one who always asked, “Pray for me.” The one who opened the doors of the Church to everyone. And the one who waited for Easter Sunday to pass before returning to the arms of his Creator.

Pope Francis’ death caught us by surprise. After days of uncertainty at the Gemelli Hospital, his apparent recovery and final public appearances made it seem like, though frail and unable to walk, he still had a little more to give. But in the early hours of Monday morning, in the quiet of his apartment at Casa Santa Marta—not in a palace, not surrounded by luxury—he closed his eyes for the last time. And he left the way he lived: humbly.

Francis wasn’t just another pope. From his early days as a priest in Buenos Aires, Jorge Mario Bergoglio made it clear—he wasn’t about grandeur; he was about the people. He preferred a Church on the streets over one locked behind gilded doors.

When he was elected in 2013, no one—perhaps not even he—could have foreseen the changes to come. He gave up luxury, chose simple vestments, a modest car, and a life stripped down to the essentials. He chose to live according to the Gospel—and that choice unsettled many, inside and outside the Church.

This week, I heard countless testimonies—stories from people who met him, hugged him, and, for the first time, felt that the Church was truly theirs too. I saw it in their tears, in their broken voices. I saw it in those who, thanks to him, dared to believe they belonged.

Now, as the world wonders who will follow him, it’s crucial not to forget what Francis left behind. He opened doors. He tore down walls. He touched on issues once considered off-limits—not out of rebellion, but out of fidelity to the Gospel. Because he believed that a Church that is coherent with its mission is a Church that is alive.

Even in death, he challenged convention. In 2024, Francis reformed the Vatican’s funeral protocols, ensuring his farewell would not be a spectacle. No grand catafalque, no triple coffin, no elaborate symbols of power. He requested a simple wooden coffin, lined with zinc. And he chose to be buried at the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore—not in the Vatican grottoes.

There, he was mourned not just by cardinals, kings, and presidents, but by ordinary believers—by those who, perhaps because of him, dared to come back to a Church they once thought had no place for them.

Because for Francis, no one was meant to be left outside. The Gospel was meant for all, not just for those who had always been included.

Francis wasn’t perfect. But he was profoundly human. And in that humanity, he found a way to be a shepherd—with his feet firmly on the ground and his heart always lifted toward heaven.

The People’s Pope has gone. And the people—the same ones he never let go of—said goodbye to him as one of their own.

Because in the end, that’s exactly who he was: a shepherd who lived as he believed, and who died as he lived—with faith, humility, and with everyone.