The Enduring Legacy of Pope Francis

They’ll say millions mourned him. That’s true. But not because he ruled from a gilded throne or whispered decrees from behind Vatican walls. No, the grief comes from the streets—from Buenos Aires to Brooklyn, Nairobi to Naples. The ache is real because this was the Pope who walked where others waved, who listened when the world shouted. He didn’t need robes to prove he was a good man.

Pope Francis—Papa for some, Jorge for those who knew him long before the marble columns and papal rings—was the rare sort who saw the suffering and leaned in. Not out of pity, but proximity. He washed the feet of prisoners, broke bread with refugees, and knew the stench of poverty wasn’t something to sanitize. He understood that faith wasn’t about fear but about facing the brokenness of others and daring to say, “You matter.”

He didn’t rail against immigrants—he embraced them. He didn’t trade in damnation, but in hope. That’s why your grandmother, my late new arrival grandmother, Nellie, is every devout woman with rosary beads worn smooth from decades of prayers. Nellie knew a holy man when she saw one. Pops, God bless him, tried—Methodist, then Church of Christ—but he never quite stood a chance next to the iron devotion of Nellie’s Catholic heart. That’s the Italian thing. They’ll bake you a lasagna and read you the Beatitudes in the same breath.

There’s room in the pews for Maher’s cynicism and Hitchens’ fury. Their skepticism plays its part. This is a messy faith, not a tidy one. But let’s not confuse the institution with the man. Pope Francis didn’t need your tithes—he needed your attention. And now that he’s gone, we’re left with a quieter world. One less voice saying, “Love first.”

I don’t claim to know what waits beyond this moment. I’ve no map for the afterlife. Just a backpack filled with questions, a few stories, and a gratitude for mornings when the legs still work, the lungs still draw in the scent of lilac and coffee, and the hands—still strong enough to lift what needs lifting.

So today, we bow our heads—not to an idol, but to an idea made flesh—a shepherd who knew his flock. And as the bells toll, we’re not mourning just the Pope. We’re mourning a good man.

And in this rare silence, we find our shared humanity.

Let that be his legacy.