Tribute to Pope Francis: A Shepherd Like The Risen Lord

A Shepherd Like the Risen Lord: A Tribute to Pope Francis from Normandy - Lope Lesigues, Good Catechesis

The Easter Vigil at St. Mary’s Cathedral in San Francisco was quietly powerful.

Led by Archbishop Cordileone, the celebration began in deep darkness—at the dead of night. We stood as the new fire was blessed, the Easter candle lit, and one by one, lights spread across the cathedral like hope finding its way into the shadows. Catechumens were baptized. We renewed our promises. The chrism left its soft trace on foreheads.

At last came the Alleluia—rising not in thunderous fanfare, but announced and sung with trembling joy and firm conviction. And then came the Pater Noster—whispered, steady, like a heartbeat in the dark.

The quiet shock of believing again—after all this time, and despite all odds.

I don’t know the reason for the teardrops, but I saw them—on the faces of congregants throughout the Vigil, mine among them. Was it the living miracles of conversion unfolding before our eyes? The smell of incense, curling upward like prayers from the weary? The echo of ancient hymns that felt like home? The flicker of candles dancing in the darkness, refusing to be overcome? The ache of missed and missing loved ones with whom we once shared this sacred rite? The pangs of war and the death of the ‘little ones’ in our little corridors and around the globe? The lingering grief for lost teens who drift away and who have stopped walking through church doors? The quiet shock of believing again—after all this time, and despite all odds? Or were those silent tears the markers of a deep-down joy that comes when you realize…love has outlived the grave— once again?

By the time Mass ended, it was well past midnight—closer to 1:30 a.m. The night had turned, quietly, into morning. The darkness had already begun to give way. It struck me then how fitting it all was. Easter doesn’t arrive with noise—it comes like mercy. Not with fireworks, but in footsteps. Not to judge, but to walk with the weary.

In the season when death has already lost its sting, dying is just a euphemism for the long-awaited homecoming.

And just as the Church proclaimed the Risen One, the news came about the death of a beloved one: Pope Francis—our Santo Padre, our Father—had gone home, cradled in the solemn hymn of the Pater Noster.

It never struck me before how closely rising and dying can live together—until the passing of Bergoglio. And how paradoxical to say: Pope Francis died in Easter. For how does one die during Easter? And yet—perhaps that’s the point. In the season when death has already lost its sting, dying is just a euphemism for the long-awaited homecoming. Home at last! He lived the Gospel the way it was meant to be lived: simply, radically, and upside down. True, we may have lost a good soul, and yet, we also gained a saint—one more pillar among the communio sanctorum, both living and dead.

Like the Risen Christ who first appeared not to kings or soldiers but to a grieving woman, Pope Francis always chose the ones on the margins. He didn't ride in limos; he rode the bus. He didn’t live in the palace; he stayed in a small apartment.

He walked the Gospel in worn shoes, close to the dust of real life, always remembering that beneath the leather trappings is a pair of wounded, nail-scarred feet. He didn’t rule with gold and robes; he led with a towel, kneeling to wash the feet of prisoners, the poor, the forgotten.

Even in storm and suffering, he showed up. When Typhoon Yolanda struck the Philippines, he flew into battered Leyte to comfort the grieving. When war broke hearts in Ukraine and Gaza, he raised his voice for peace. He sat with the powerful but stood with the powerless. He listened to the stories of the LGBTQ community, of refugees, of victims, people living in the weathered cracks of villas miserias. He felt the joys and pains of single parents, cohabiting couples and divorcees and told everyone not to judge. He forgave, always. But he never stayed silent when life and dignity were at stake. After all, the core message of Easter is LIFE—indeed, life to the fullest. (John 10:10)

He was never afraid to bend low to lift others up. He was a people’s Pope because he was a servant first. Before he wore white and miter, he swept floors and guarded nightclub doors. He once lost a lung, but he never lost his breath for justice. He studied hard, rose through the Church, but never let pride rise in his heart. He became Pope when the world least expected a leader to rise from South America.

He walked the Gospel in worn shoes, close to the dust of real life...

And when the world looked to him for a blessing on the balcony, he surprised us all—instead of giving the traditional blessing, he asked the people to bless him first. From there on, that lofty balcony—once a symbol of grand declarations and distant authority—became something entirely new.

It became a homey porch, where a shepherd spoke heart-toheart with his flock. It was no longer just a place high above the square—it became a bridge, reaching down to the everyday struggles of ordinary people. From that height, he did not look down—he looked with us, wept with us, and prayed with us. That brand of humility—that deep, true humility—was his crown.

Like Jesus, he chose the narrow road. Like Jesus, he walked among us. And now, like Jesus, he leaves behind not just memories, but a path. A way. A reminder that holiness is not in power, but in compassion. That resurrection is not just an event, but a daily rising—to serve, to love, to hope. Pope Francis followed the footsteps of St. Francis. But really, he followed the footsteps of Christ. And today, as we celebrate the victory of Easter, we celebrate the life of a man who carried that light to our world.

He is risen with the Risen One. And the world is softer, kinder, and holier because he walked through it…on his worn shoes and with a pair of nail-scarred feet.

Thank you, Papa Francesco, Santo Padre, closest to our heart. Thank you for showing us what it means to live, and to die, with love. You taught us, in the Pater Noster, that calling God our Father means never forgetting each other—as brothers and sisters.