In a time of global inequality, institutional fatigue, and spiritual disillusionment, the papacy of Pope Francis stood as a breath of fresh, humble air. Elected in 2013, Jorge Mario Bergoglio—the first Jesuit pope and the first from the Global South—chose the name Francis in honour of the saint of Assisi, signalling a shift in tone and substance that would define his tenure.

He inherited a Church burdened with scandal, bureaucracy, and a growing detachment from its objectives. Francis, known for using public transport and living in a modest apartment in Buenos Aires, brought that same ethos to Rome. He declined the Apostolic Palace for simpler lodgings in the Vatican guesthouse. He chose pastoral closeness over papal protocol.

His papacy was marked not only by what he said but also by what he did. He washed the feet of prisoners, embraced the disabled, dined with the homeless, and consistently placed the poor at the centre of his message. For him, simplicity was not an aesthetic but a declaration of values.

With deep conviction, he reminded the clergy that their calling was to serve, not be served. He wanted his words to pierce complacency and call ministers back to the heart of their vocation.

Francis' leadership redefined what it means to be a pope in the modern era. He took on entrenched bureaucracy within the Vatican with quiet determination, initiating financial reforms and enhancing transparency. He elevated women to key leadership roles and brought the peripheries of the Church into the centre of its decision-making processes.

Equally impactful were his encyclicals. Laudato Si' (2015), a groundbreaking reflection on ecology, issued a prophetic warning on environmental degradation and its disproportionate impact on the poor. Fratelli Tutti (2020) called for a universal fraternity transcending borders, ideologies, and religious divides. In a fractured world, Francis offered a vision of healing rooted in dialogue, dignity, and mercy.

On the most painful issues, Francis did not retreat. He addressed the clerical sexual abuse crisis with unflinching language, calling it a "monstrosity" and meeting with survivors around the world. His "Penitential Pilgrimage" to apologise for the Church's role in the abuse of Indigenous children at residential schools was an act of institutional contrition seldom seen at such levels.

Even as age and illness took their toll—he suffered from multiple health complications in his final years—Francis remained committed to his mission. His last public blessings, delivered with visible struggle, were quiet yet resolute.

Pope Francis passed away at 88, leaving behind a Church transformed not by force but by witness. In him, the world saw a leader who led by lowering himself, spoke less of judgment and more of mercy, and reminded the Church of its original calling—to walk with the wounded, shelter the stranger, and be, above all, a servant.

The question now is not how Pope Francis lived but what will happen to his legacy. Will the Church build on the edifice laid down by Francis or choose to bury it?