Francis, the Pope who looked like Jesus

He said he came from the end of the world. But in reality, he reached the heart of the Gospel and the hearts of the world's inhabitants. On March 13, 2013, he appeared on the Vatican balcony and didn't give a grand blessing or a solemn speech. He simply bowed his head and said, "Pray for me." That humble gesture already revealed an entire pontificate. A style. A way of being Church. A way of living the Gospel.

He took the name Francis. Like that "Povello of Assisi" who one day felt Christ asking him: "Repair my Church." And he did so, stone by stone, out of poverty, fraternity, and peace. This same Pope understood his mission: to raise up a Church in ruins, restore its evangelical soul, strip it of its pomp, and restore the face of Jesus.

From the first minute he said that bishops could not be princes, that they could not live in palaces, that the shepherd had to smell like sheep. And he was the first witnessHe rejected the gold breastplate, he didn't wear red shoes, he didn't want limousines or thunderstorms. He went to live in Santa Marta, in the house where he could meet people, and from there he managed his schedule with freedom and closeness. It wasn't just a symbolic gesture. It was a declaration of principles.

Francis placed the Gospel at the center. He denounced the self-referentiality of the Church, clericalism, careerism, luxury. He wanted a Church "on the move," with open doors, not a sacristy. And like Jesus, he chose collaborators knowing that among them there could also be a Judas. Like Cardinal Piel, who was key to the Vatican's economic reform, but later, amid accusations of abuse, betrayal, and criticism, became one of its greatest detractors. Francis removed him. Not out of calculation, but out of fidelity to the victims. Out of fidelity to the Gospel.

"Let the weapons be silent, let love speak"

He was a pope of gestures. Yes. But above all, of commitment. He listened with his heart: to the migrants, to the discarded, to the victims of abuse, to the persecuted, to the poor, to the people wounded by war, to Mother Earth.He wept with them, walked with them, spoke for them. And when there were no words, he knelt and prayed in silence.

He loved peace. He was burned by war. He carried in his soul a cry that he never tired of repeating.: "Let the weapons fall silent, let love speak!" He urged us, awakened us, and pushed us to move. He was a prophet of condemnation, but at the same time he had a great sense of humor and a captivating tenderness. A pope who laughed, who joked, who broke protocol to hug a child or stop by a homeless person. A free man.

We have been left orphaned. But not empty. He leaves us the path, the seed, the clear direction. He has launched us toward the periphery, where Jesus continues to be born. He has taught us that the powerful do not come to the center, but the little ones. He has reminded us that the Gospel is not meant to defend structures, but to broaden the heart of the world. A pope with a heart the dimensions of Jesus's heart: infinite.

Francis has begun a reform with no turning back. A more universal, more open, poorer, more prophetic Church. He has decentralized power, expanded the College of Cardinals and internationalized it, and put the soul of synodality into play. But beyond the structures, he has left us the essential: a Church that more closely resembles Jesus.

He had no salary. He had dignity. He didn't seek applause. He sought justice. He didn't live in comfort. He lived in love. He didn't need uniforms or honors. Just a poncho and a wheelchair to show us, even in his fragility, that the shepherd does not abandon the flock.

Francis has been the true Christian pope. He believed in the Gospel. He lived as he believed. He made us dream of a Church that wasn't a museum but a house with open doors, a tent in the midst of the world's pain.

Thank you, Francis. You launched us into our mission. You opened our eyes. You lit our hearts. We will always remember you as the pope who looked like Jesus.