This morning, standing atop the colonnades of St. Peter’s Basilica, I gazed out at the sea of hundreds of thousands gathered below and was struck by a profound realization. I was standing on the same hill where Peter himself was crucified upside down by Nero Caesar nearly 2,000 years ago.
Today, the empire of Caesar has long vanished into history, but Peter’s Church remains strong. We were assembled to honor and celebrate the extraordinary life of his 265th successor.
To me, and to countless other Catholics who have journeyed through the complicated path from early adulthood to middle age, Francis was more than just the Bishop of Rome. He was the shepherd who taught us how to maintain a grown-up faith, how to continue following Jesus even when life became tangled, and how to accept our doubts instead of being afraid of them.
I can still recall vividly what he said during the very first Sunday of his papacy in 2013: “God never tires of forgiving us.”
That message stayed with me and resurfaced during times of personal failure, confusion, and when I felt distant from God. In a world where mercy often feels in short supply, Francis made it clear that God’s well of forgiveness is endless.
He made every effort to ensure that we remained within the fold of faith. He emphasized repeatedly that even bad Catholics were welcome. Those who struggled were welcome. Sinners were welcome too.
Francis taught that the Eucharist was not a reward for the perfect but rather “medicine for the sick.” For a generation raised on the belief that holiness equated to flawlessness, Francis presented a radically different and liberating perspective: a Christianity deeply anchored in the grace of mercy.
Through every action and gesture, Francis lived out the essence of the Gospel. His well-known pectoral cross, depicting the Good Shepherd carrying a lost sheep, was not merely a personal emblem. It stood as his mission statement. He was the pope who left the ninety-nine to search for the one.
For those among us who have ever identified as the one—the doubting, the sinful, the disillusioned—Francis was unmistakably our pope.
The funeral was surprisingly simple, almost startlingly so for a figure of such global prominence. Yet it felt perfectly appropriate. Francis lived his life guided by the belief that true greatness lies in humility, not spectacle. His wooden casket was marked only by the symbols of faith, hope, and love. His legacy was never about grandeur but about the small, persistent acts of love and compassion he urged us all to practice.
From the very beginning, Francis the Troublemaker challenged both the world and the Church—not by seeking out controversy but by daring to live as though the Gospel were truly real. He rejected the trappings of his office. He carried his own bags. He personally paid his hotel bill. These simple acts were never publicity stunts; they were constant reminders of who we are called to be: servants, not princes.
Throughout the years, through seasons marked by both virtue and vice, Francis reminded me that the Christian journey is rarely a straight and easy path. It is a walk taken by sinners who continue on, believing that they are loved despite their flaws.
He demonstrated that hope is active. It moves, however haltingly and imperfectly. “One inch forward,” he said, “is more pleasing to God than standing still.” Francis taught that stumbling forward in hope is itself a profound act of faith.
He was clear that the Church is not meant to be a museum of saints but a field hospital for the wounded. In an era often marked by division and cruelty, that vision has been both shocking and redemptive.
As I watched his casket being carried into the Basilica, I observed something deeply telling. The customary chants of “santo subito,” meaning “sainthood immediately,” never rang out.
It felt fitting. Francis never sought canonization. He did not desire a pedestal. He wanted to lead us closer to Jesus.
There is a quiet providence in the fact that Francis belonged to the only major Catholic religious order not named after its founder, but after Christ himself. Like his Jesuit brothers, Francis was never interested in building a movement centered on his own personality. His goal was always to bring us back to the very heart of our faith.
In a Church that can sometimes become overly absorbed with itself, it is striking how often Francis simply spoke the name of Jesus. It reminds me of what he said during his short “Gettysburg Address” before the 2013 conclave: that the Church had grown “too self-referential,” too wrapped up in its own concerns, and needed to rediscover its true mission—spreading the joy of the Gospel.
Beneath the marble floors of St. Peter’s Basilica, the remains of Peter still lie. His spirit continues to animate the Church he founded. Francis, the 265th successor to Peter, tended to that spirit with fierce and unwavering hope.
On this ancient hill, where once a brutal empire sought to crush the burgeoning faith, we did not gather to mourn a failed experiment. We came together to celebrate a victory that continues to reverberate across the centuries.
If the revolution of Francis has begun, it is not marked by monuments. It is a revolution of memory, mercy, and movement—and it is now entrusted to us to carry forward.