Dear Pope Francis,
It was just a week ago that we awoke to the devastating news of your passing.
I stumbled out of bed at 5:30 AM to get my daughter off to crew practice and my son to school. Knowing how gutted I would be to read the many alerts about you, my husband intercepted me between the bathroom and my phone.
Despite your age and recent illness, it didn’t seem possible that you were just…gone. On the heels of your surprise appearance and beautiful words on Easter Sunday, hours after meeting with the Vice President, and a month or so after your triumphant release from the Gemelli hospital and return to the Vatican. I had to check multiple sources to ensure that this was, in fact, legitimate.
Much like the rest of your Papacy, you hoodwinked us these last weeks with your characteristic work ethic, sense of humor, and indefatigable faith. Despite a month-long health crisis, you wasted no time recovering and returned to work almost immediately. You promptly appointed new Bishops and Cardinals. You continued to speak out on behalf of migrants and refugees. Sporting casual clothes, you occasionally “popped up” in and around the Vatican. On Holy Thursday, you visited a prison, extending a gentle wave and kiss to the incarcerated.
The People’s Pope was back! Your faithful breathed a collective sigh of relief, taking for granted that “business as usual” had resumed.
My husband was right. I was (am) devastated by your death, and I join countless millions across the globe who mourn this loss. People from every corner of the earth. People of all faith traditions, and no faith tradition. People from all walks of life and the margins of society. Your influence knew no bounds.
It’s been a little strange for me to receive notes from friends extending me condolences. My longtime friend and colleague (a devout Jew) sent me a note with a photo, fondly remembering our time together at Mass during your visit to Philadelphia in 2015. Another close friend (best described as agnostic) said that she didn’t really understand “what the Pope was” but she wanted to express how sorry she was for me.
Sorry for me. Why me? Why do I need or deserve consolation at this moment? Who am I in relation to you?
The technical answer, of course, is very little. I’m an unremarkable sheep in a flock of millions, one minister in a vast and diverse vineyard.
But the truth is this loss does feel deeply personal, not unlike that of a close friend or loved one. As much as you were the People’s Pope, you were my Pope. And, as much as you had risen to the highest rank in our Church, you always stayed grounded as a pastor. My pastor.
Throughout your Papacy, your words have provided consistent insight and comfort in the many moments when the homilies in my home parish felt lacking. At times when the weight of the world has felt impossible to bear, you have inspired me to go where Jesus would have gone – to the margins. When I have been frustrated by the Church’s inability to evolve, your candor has kept me anchored and offered clarity. And your boundless joy has reminded me to stay grounded in what’s important: mercy, compassion, and hope.
These past days, I’ve been thinking a lot about a conversation I had with a priest friend back in 2012, months before your papal election. I was lamenting that the Church no longer felt like home to me and others like me – those whose faith compelled them to a lifestyle of service. Those who felt called to right injustice in the world. Those who wanted to proclaim the Gospel not by how we preached but how we lived our lives.
I didn’t just want to receive the Eucharist–I wanted to be the Eucharist. And, increasingly, the Church in which I found myself felt dissonant from the stirring of the Holy Spirit within my soul.
If I’m being honest, I was very much on the brink of shedding the Catholic faith of my childhood. By then, most of my Gen X peers had already abandoned ship; the fact that I was still practicing was an anomaly. I had lingering doubts about bringing up my children in this flawed institution.
By coincidence, I was with the same priest again the day the white smoke emerged and they announced your name, “Jorge Mario Bergoglio.” You had chosen to be called Francis in honor of a humble saint from Assisi – an entirely unexpected surprise. You asked us to pray for you – a disarming if confusing request. I cast a skeptical glance at my friend and shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “let’s see what this guy has in store for us.”
What you “had in store for us” these last 12 years far surpassed expectations.
- You traversed the globe to encounter the poor and marginalized – and challenged us to do the same.
- You ignored the naysayers and escalated the cause of climate change – and called upon us to take action.
- You prioritized the plight of migrants and refugees – and implored us (and even world leaders!) to follow suit.
- You cleaned house, reforming the Roman Curia and demoting clergy who had stepped out of bounds – and invited us to a posture of co-responsibility and accountability.
- You elevated women to roles that had been previously unavailable within the Vatican and beyond – and paved the way for us to be leaders in our own contexts.
- You welcomed, embraced, and listened to members of the LGBTQ community – and encouraged us to withhold judgement, as well.
- You accompanied young people and created spaces for their voices to be heard and centered – and put forth a vision for us to do likewise.
You upended many institutional church paradigms. Instead of shutting people out, you kicked the doors wide open. Rather than clinging to long-held norms, you advocated for a living, breathing, ever-changing Church. Despite much cynicism and a lot of criticism, you stubbornly persevered with the Synod on Synodality.
Today, we have embraced the notion that this Church, our Church, belongs to and should incorporate the gifts of everyone. Todos, todos, todos!
You weren’t perfect, but none of us are. And, in your words and your actions, you constantly reminded us of your humanity.
Perhaps it was this – your humility – that made you so approachable. You felt like one of us. You were one of us. I think this is what many of us will grieve the most about this farewell.
As my pastor, the highest compliment I can extend is that I am still here, working for and on behalf of our Church. My husband is still here. My children are still here and, thanks in no small part to your leadership, know that they are infinitely loved by God and our Church. Our family has a rich faith rooted in the challenge put forth in Christus Vivit (2019) to realize our vocation as “courageous protagonists of change.”
This weekend, you were laid to rest in a celebration that (in my opinion) might have been too fancy for your taste. But, in one last act of resistance, you chose to be buried in a pair of old, beat-up, scuffed shoes – emblematic of your efforts to lead “a Church which is bruised, hurting, and dirty because it has been out on the streets.”
In those very same shoes, you kicked off the dust and took our Church to the streets; for that, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for carrying the remnants of this broken and beautiful world with you to your final resting place. Lay our woundedness at the feet of the Father with the knowledge that you did everything humanly possible to accompany us in building the Kingdom of God.
I hope you know that your people have been emboldened by your authentic, brave, and imaginative vision. We are restored and ready to continue the journey we started together.
With your intercession, we won’t turn back.
Que descanse en paz, querido Papa. El trabajo nuestro sigue. Ruega por nosotros.
Con mucho cariño,
Stephanie
