The light inside Saint Peter’s Basilica was thin and muted the morning Jorge Mario Bergoglio stepped into its vastness for the last time as Pope Francis. Rain had swept across the cobbled square outside, leaving the stone slick and silent. He had aged visibly in recent years. The steps were slower, the posture more bent, and the public appearances carefully paced to conserve his strength. Still, when he took his seat for Easter Mass in April of 2025, just hours before his death, he did so with the same stillness and solemnity that had marked his papacy from its beginning.
He was born in Buenos Aires in December 1936, the son of Italian immigrants. His father had worked for the railway and his mother stayed at home, raising five children in a working-class neighborhood filled with the noise of passing trains and the smell of baking bread from corner stores. He lost part of a lung during a serious illness in his early twenties. It left him winded but not weakened. After earning a degree in chemistry, he felt pulled toward a different kind of discipline and entered the Society of Jesus, eventually taking his final vows as a Jesuit priest in 1973.
His rise in the church hierarchy was not rapid. He spent much of his early career as a teacher and spiritual director, then as a provincial leader of the Jesuits in Argentina during the country’s military dictatorship. It was a time of brutal disappearances, political repression, and fear. His role during those years remains a matter of debate. What is known is that he navigated the perils of that era quietly, neither a collaborator nor a clear resistor. He lived simply, took public transportation, and remained close to the poor even as he was appointed auxiliary bishop of Buenos Aires in 1992. A decade later, he became archbishop, then cardinal.
The man who emerged from the balcony overlooking Saint Peter’s Square on March 13, 2013, was unfamiliar to many. He chose the name Francis, the first pope to do so, invoking the saint who renounced wealth and embraced humility. His first act was a request for prayer, and his first journey as pope took him to the island of Lampedusa, where migrants had drowned trying to reach Europe. He stood at the edge of the sea and called it a disgrace. That moment set the tone for much of what would follow.
He refused to live in the Apostolic Palace, choosing instead a modest guesthouse. He carried his own briefcase. He wore simple shoes. These gestures, though symbolic, unsettled some and inspired others. He spoke often of mercy. His first major publication as pope was titled “The Joy of the Gospel,” a reflection on spiritual renewal and the need to care for those on the margins. He invited the homeless into the Vatican for meals and showers. He opened a clinic. He walked into prisons and washed the feet of inmates.
He also faced resistance. His efforts to reform the Vatican’s financial practices met internal opposition. His call for greater pastoral care of divorced Catholics and LGBTQ individuals drew sharp criticism from more conservative clergy. When he suggested that priests could forgive women who had abortions if they were truly repentant, it was taken by some as a betrayal and by others as a long overdue gesture of compassion. He was accused by critics of sowing confusion and of weakening church doctrine. He answered with silence or prayer or a carefully chosen word. He rarely explained himself.
The scandals of clerical abuse were among the heaviest burdens he carried. He met with survivors. He apologized again and again. In Chile, he first defended a bishop accused of covering up abuse, only to later reverse his position and accept the man’s resignation. That episode left a mark. It forced a deeper reckoning. He ordered investigations. He removed cardinals and bishops. He spoke of the church’s shame in blunt terms and begged forgiveness, but the pain lingered.
In 2015, he stood before the United Nations and spoke of climate change as a moral issue. He had published an encyclical, “Laudato Si’,” that called the planet a shared home and warned of irreversible damage. It was the first such document focused entirely on environmental justice. It received praise from scientists and political leaders, though many inside the church struggled with its tone. He did not care. He had long spoken of the poor and the vulnerable. Now he added the earth to that list.
The years passed and his health declined. He had sciatica and knee trouble. In 2021, he underwent colon surgery. In 2023, he was hospitalized for bronchitis. In 2024, he spent more than a month in the hospital for double pneumonia. His public schedule thinned, but he insisted on continuing. He traveled to South Sudan, to Iraq, to the Democratic Republic of Congo. These were not easy trips. Security was tight. His body was fragile. But he went anyway, lifting children in his arms, sitting in silence with war victims, praying in places where blood had been spilled.
His final months were marked by quiet preparation. He had named most of the cardinals who would elect his successor. He hinted, more than once, at the possibility of resignation, though he never followed through. In interviews, he spoke of his mortality plainly. He said he had lived long enough. He said he was at peace. On Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025, he made an unannounced appearance in Saint Peter’s Square. He looked thinner than before. The next morning, he suffered a massive stroke and never regained consciousness.
He died at 7:35 a.m. on April 21, surrounded by members of his household. His body lay in state for days, drawing tens of thousands of mourners. World leaders offered tributes. Many remembered him as a bridge builder, a reformer, a man of simplicity. Others noted his limits, his missed opportunities, the contradictions in his message. He was buried not beneath Saint Peter’s but in the Basilica of Saint Mary Major, where he had prayed the day after his election twelve years earlier.
He leaves behind a church still torn between tradition and change. He did not resolve its deepest tensions, but he named them. He held open a space for dialogue. He showed what it meant to lead not through fear or grandeur, but through closeness. His legacy is not only in what he changed but in how he chose to be present. On buses, in prisons, at the edges of grief and conflict. His papacy was not defined by triumphs but by gestures. A kiss on a child’s head. A hand on a prisoner’s shoulder. A prayer whispered where the cameras could not reach.
