By: Isuru Parakrama
April 21, World (LNW): This morning, the heart of the Catholic world grew still. On Easter Monday, Pope Francis passed away peacefully at his residence, Casa Santa Marta, in the Vatican. He was 88 years old at the time of his demise.
Cardinal Kevin Farrell announced the Pope’s death just over two hours later, his voice echoing through a grieving Church.
Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Buenos Aires, Argentina, he was a son of Italian immigrants—humble, bright, and quietly spiritual. In 1957, at just 21, he survived a grave lung infection that would shadow him for life. But even with one lung removed, his spirit never faltered.
He loved soccer. He danced the tango. He worked as a janitor. He once served as a nightclub bouncer. And somewhere along that winding path, he found his calling.
On March 13, 2013, history was made. Jorge Bergoglio became Pope Francis—the first Jesuit, the first from the Americas, and the first non-European pontiff in over 1,200 years.
He took the name of Saint Francis of Assisi. And like his namesake, he chose humility over grandeur, simplicity over spectacle, and compassion over command.
From the start, he reimagined the papacy—not as a throne to sit upon, but as a path to walk alongside the broken and the voiceless.
He visited war zones. He embraced prisoners. He washed the feet of migrants. And he constantly challenged the Church to look outward—to the margins, to the wounded, to the forgotten.
“If someone is gay and is searching for the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?”
With those seven words, Pope Francis opened the doors of the Vatican wider than they had ever been.
He met with LGBTQIA+ individuals and their families, expressed support for same-sex civil unions, and welcomed those long pushed to the edges of the Church back into its embrace—not as outsiders, but as fellow children of God.
His stance stirred debate. It broke centuries-old silences. But for millions, it offered something far more powerful: dignity, recognition, and hope.
At a time when even the most progressive of countries were rooting for the anti-queer rhetoric, quite notably in Sri Lanka in the recent times, the Pope himself had given the clear message that criminalising the marginalised is the crime in itself!
It was not about rewriting doctrine. It was about restoring humanity.
His words were often few, but they were fearless. He spoke of mercy, of dialogue, of unity—values that resonated across faiths and borders.
In the last years of his life, the ailments returned—this time stronger. Recurrent bronchitis. Weakening lungs. A cancelled trip to Dubai. And, finally, a 38-day stay at Rome’s Gemelli Hospital earlier this year.
Yet, even as his voice faded, his message did not.
On Easter Sunday, just a day before his passing, his final words were read aloud by an aide—pleading for peace in Ukraine and Gaza, reminding the world of suffering, and calling again for compassion.
In 2024, knowing the time was near, Pope Francis revised the Church’s liturgical guide for papal funerals—stripping away excess, focusing on faith. No public display. No grand procession. Just a shepherd laid to rest in simplicity.
Archbishop Diego Ravelli said it best: “The burial of the Roman Pontiff is that of a follower of Christ, not a worldly dignitary.”
From the streets of Buenos Aires to the basilicas of Rome, from Gaza to the Amazon, the world now mourns a man who never stopped reaching out—who insisted that the Church walk with the poor, sit with the suffering, and speak with love.
He did not change every doctrine. But he changed hearts. And he reminded us, always, that the Gospel begins not in the halls of power, but on the road to the periphery.
Pope Francis is gone.
But his example—his witness—remains.
A voice for the voiceless.
A servant of peace.
A shepherd to the end.
