He Was Human. That Was His Power
Pope Francis couldn’t give us what we needed. But he gave us what he had
HE’S GONE. THE ONE WHO SMILED GENTLY and asked us to pray for him instead of offering a blessing.
The one who never claimed to be holy, only hopeful.
The one who reminded us that leadership doesn’t need to shout. It can whisper, kneel, listen.
Pope Francis has passed away.
And I know what some will say. I know what some are already feeling.
Yes, he disappointed us. Yes, he hurt many of us in Ukraine. What do you do when the man who preached peace doesn’t raise his voice when your country is bleeding?
There were moments, terrible moments, when it seemed like he was defending the aggressor instead of the victims.
Moments of silence and softening. Moments of words that avoided naming the aggressor. Moments when we needed clarity and got ambiguity instead.
He spoke of “imperial interests.” He questioned NATO. He suggested the war might have been provoked. And in doing so, he let the lines blur, when we needed them sharp.
And yet… This is not a moment for rage. It’s a moment for memory.
Because I will remember him for all that he was. Especially, as a human he always reminded us so much that he was.
Entirely human.
I will remember a man who carried the best values humanity still has left. A man who spoke gently and lived simply.
And in Ukraine, where we were at times confused with his words, we felt those values reaching for us.
He was a man who washed the feet of refugees. Who opened his arms to immigrants.
Who dared to bless same-sex couples, when so many still cursed them.
A man who told the world that wealth is not a virtue. That the value of the human beings is not attached to their net worth. That nature is our sister. That we are all brothers.
That we share a single home. A breathing, fragile, living planet.
He reminded us, again and again, that love has no borders.
And that simplicity is not weakness. It is strength, made quiet.
He was called “the pope in sandals.” And maybe that’s how we should remember him: close to the ground. Close to the people. Never unreachable. Never pretending to be more than human.
Because he never did pretend.
He reminded us often that he was a sinner. Someone who makes mistakes. Who was like anyone else.
When world leaders expected pomp, he gave them presence. When tradition demanded distance, he chose closeness.
He said: “I want to be with you. And I want you to be with me.”
And somehow, we were.
Even now, as we grieve, I feel him near.
Maybe you loved him. Maybe you were angry with him. Maybe you felt both. But if you were in my place, what would you have wanted him to say?
I write this from Ukraine, so it will be quite hard to forget.
To forget the silences that should have been cries. The neutrality that hurt more than it helped. The language that felt soft when we needed thunder.
And yet, he prayed for us. He mourned our dead. He welcomed our wounded. He lit candles for peace, even if he failed to scream louder at the invader.
And maybe that was his failure. But it was a human failure. The kind that comes not from cruelty, but from conviction.
From a belief that peace is not something you scream, but something you build. Even if the bricks fall short. Even if the walls don’t hold.
He knew how to ease suffering through prayer. To give hope with only his presence.
And while I am not anyone, not even a bishop, not a priest, not someone holy enough to bless or forgive, I still feel the need to say this:
You were not everything we needed, Pope Francis. But you were good. You were kind. You tried.
And in a world that has made kindness feel like weakness, that matters more than we know.
You reminded us that even power can be gentle. That even a Church can have a heart.
That even a pope can say, “I’m sorry.”
We grieve now with everyone who looked to you for spiritual shelter. We grieve with the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten, because you remembered them when the world didn’t.
And here, we grieve as a people still fighting for peace. We carry your prayers.
And we pray.
For one another. For peace. For mercy. For the kind of world you dreamed of, even when it seemed impossible.
Eternal memory, Francis.
You tried to carry peace in your hands.
And for that, we will never forget you.
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Beautifully and graciously said.
What a gracious memorial.