Fond farewell to Pope of the People
Opinion
The homily for the Memorial Mass for Pope Francis which was held at St Francis Xavier's Cathedral on April 27.
Your Excellency, Honourable Members of Government, fellow leaders in the Christian faith, and my dear beloved sisters and brothers in Christ, thank you for joining us.
With deep emotion, I extend respectful greetings and heartfelt thanks to you who have come to express your affection and esteem for our late Holy Father.
We gather today in St Francis Xavier’s Cathedral to mark a moment of profound sorrow and solemn gratitude. We gather to mourn the death of Pope Francis – Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, Servant of the Servants of God – and to give thanks for his extraordinary witness in our time.
It is fitting that this remembrance falls on the Second Sunday of Easter, which we also call Divine Mercy Sunday. For if there was ever a pope who made the mercy of God the very heartbeat of his ministry, it was Pope Francis.
He often said that “the name of God is Mercy”, and he lived out that name with astonishing grace. Today’s Gospel recounts the Risen Lord appearing to His disciples, offering them peace, and breathing the Holy Spirit upon them.
In that upper room, Jesus says words that Pope Francis lived by: “Peace be with you”. How many times during his pontificate did he echo this peace to the world – not as a vague sentiment, but as a task and a mission? He called us to be artisans of peace. He reached out to the margins of society, the peripheries, and taught us that true power is found in service.
Whether addressing the halls of the United Nations or embracing a child on the streets of Manila, his message remained the same: every person is dignified, every life is sacred, and mercy must be the heart of our engagement with the world.
In his first Angelus as pope, he said: “The Lord never tires of forgiving. It is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.” That sentence, so simple and yet so deeply theological, became the bedrock of his ministry. He reminded a weary world, fractured by violence, inequality, and indifference, that God’s mercy is not an abstract idea but a lived reality, and that the Church must be, in his words, “a field hospital after battle”.
I had the privilege of meeting Pope Francis on four occasions. And each time, what struck me was not grandeur, but simplicity. Not authority, but authenticity. His eyes held the weight of the world’s sorrows, but also the spark of joy that comes from knowing one is deeply loved by God.
In our final meeting, at the conclusion of the Synod on Synodality in October 2024, a photo was being taken of all the representatives from Oceania. I was on the edge of the group and he looked over and called me closer to him. He laughed softly – a man at peace with the burdens he carried, and one whose joy was born of trust in the Resurrection.
Francis was not a man of half-measures. Whether embracing a disfigured pilgrim in St Peter’s Square, washing the feet of prisoners on Holy Thursday – some of them other than Christian believers – or warning the world of the ecological crisis in Laudato Si’, he called us again and again to rediscover the Gospel not as a doctrine alone, but as a way of love.
And love, for Francis, was always inclusive. “Todos, todos, todos” (everyone, everyone, everyone), he proclaimed in his three-word homily to the Church. No one was outside the reach of God’s mercy. Not the poor. Not the divorced. Not the LGBTQ person. Not even the hardened criminal or the weary refugee. All were welcome. All were beloved. All had a place.
To speak of Pope Francis is to speak of a man whose papacy echoed the heart of Christ – a shepherd who knew the smell of his sheep, a father to the poor, a voice for the voiceless, and a bridge builder across cultures, religions, and ideologies. He did not seek the centre of power, but the periphery. He didn’t thunder from balconies; he walked the dusty roads of the world’s pain and hope.
We must not sentimentalise him. He was not naïve. He knew the Church was broken. He confronted the failures of leadership in the clergy sex abuse crisis, though not always quickly or perfectly. Yet he persisted in holding the Church – and himself – accountable. He called clericalism a cancer. He demanded transparency. He summoned bishops to Rome and dismissed those who failed the flock.
In his own papal household, he lived modestly, rejecting opulence for the simple guesthouse of Santa Marta, where he could dine with staff and laugh with gardeners. And yet, he was criticised – from left and right. Some said he was too vague, others that he was too bold. Some wanted more doctrine, others more reform. But he was never trying to win popularity. He was trying to be faithful.
He reminded us that we are in this together, Fratelli Tutti! Pope Francis showed us how to be ‘missionary disciples’. He embodied the title of his encyclical, Evangelii Gaudium, the joy of the Gospel.
Today, under the gaze of both government and gospel, we honour a man who dared to lead not with fear, but with hope. A man who trusted that in every human heart – even the most lost – there burns a spark of divine dignity.
To our ecumenical brothers and sisters, we thank you for walking with us in mourning. Pope Francis cherished dialogue. He met with Orthodox leaders, with Evangelicals, with Anglicans, with Jews, with Muslims.
He taught us that unity is not uniformity, and that we can disagree without condemning. He believed, deeply, that what unites us is infinitely more important than what divides us.
To our public servants and elected officials, know that Pope Francis respected you deeply. He often reminded politicians that theirs is a noble vocation, “one of the highest forms of charity”, because it seeks the common good. He challenged leaders to protect the planet, to welcome the stranger, and to defend the dignity of the unborn and the elderly, the imprisoned and the ignored. His was not a partisan voice. It was a moral compass. And to us, the Church – to clergy and laity, to the young and the old – Francis leaves behind not just a legacy, but a question: ‘Will we walk the path he lit for us?’
Will we, too, choose mercy over judgement, encounter over exclusion, accompaniment over arrogance? Will we welcome the wounded and feed the hungry, care for creation and speak boldly?
If I could make one observation. I found Pope Francis slightly frustrating at times, because he wrote too much, gave us too much upon which to chew. Pope Francis reminded us that the Church is not a museum for saints, but a field hospital for the wounded. He urged us to go out – into the streets, into the margins, into the mess. He told us to get our hands dirty. And he did.
Even in his final days, we are told that he thanked his nurse for bringing him back to the square – his beloved St Peter’s – one last time. “Thank you,” he said, “for bringing me back.” These, we are told, were his last words.
What a fitting farewell. Gratitude. Simplicity. A longing to be with the people.
And now, as the Church prepares for the election of a new pope, we remember what Francis himself once said: “We are not choosing a successor to Francis, but to Peter”. Let us pray for wisdom, for courage, and above all, for holiness in the days ahead.
But today, let us also grieve. Let us remember. Let us give thanks. We thank you, Pope Francis. Thank you for reminding us that the Gospel is good news. Thank you for being a pope who kissed the leper, who washed the feet of prisoners, who embraced the migrant, who loved the Church even when she failed.
Thank you for showing us that the Resurrection is not only something we await after death – it is something we live now, in every act of love, every cry for justice, every step toward peace.
Requiescat in pace, Papa Francesco. May the God of all mercies welcome you into the eternal embrace you longed for.
And may we, the people you served and loved, walk forward – not in fear, but in faith. Not in despair, but in hope.
Christ is risen. He is truly risen. And so shall we.
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