Today, a shepherd has fallen.
The world awoke to the news that Pope Francis has died, and with that, something in the air feels different. Quieter, somehow. Heavier. Even if you’re not Catholic—even if you’ve never once crossed yourself or whispered a prayer to a saint—this matters. Because when someone who has spent their life trying to carry faith into the world breathes their last, it echoes far beyond the sanctuary.
I’m not Catholic. But today, I’m mourning with those who are.
I’m thinking of the millions of brothers and sisters around the world who revered this man—not because he was perfect, but because he pointed them to something greater. Someone greater. For many, he was a spiritual father, a symbol of stability in a world spinning with chaos. And whether you agreed with him or not, whether you even believed in his authority or office or theology—that kind of loss deserves space to breathe.
Because grief is not reserved for those who align perfectly. And honor is not only for those we agree with.
We live in a world that’s quick to categorize and slow to care. We draw hard lines, build taller fences, and talk louder just to prove our point. But death has this strange, sobering way of leveling us all. It reminds us that underneath the titles and traditions, we’re human. Dust and breath. Fragile and beloved.
And so today, maybe we pause.
Maybe we let the news linger a little longer before scrolling on. Maybe we hold our Catholic friends a little closer, asking how their hearts are doing instead of what their doctrines believe. Maybe we choose to honor what was good—what was noble, what was generous, what was humble—instead of fixating on where we differ.
Because if we only grieve with those who look like us, believe like us, or vote like us… then we’ve misunderstood grief altogether.
Mourning isn’t about perfect agreement—it’s about shared humanity. It’s about seeing the image of God in one another, even when the mirror’s a little cracked. It’s about knowing that love can live in different languages and still be true.
I don’t have to be Catholic to recognize that Pope Francis stood for dignity. For justice. For mercy. I don’t have to have knelt beside him to be moved by the way he bent down for the poor. I don’t have to understand every doctrine to honor a life that tried—imperfectly, earnestly—to reflect Christ.
And maybe that’s what we’re all trying to do, in our own way.
So let’s mourn together. Let’s bless those who are grieving. Let’s build a longer table instead of a higher wall. Let’s speak well of the dead when it’s true, and be quiet when it’s not. Let’s be people who lead with love, even when the lines get blurry.
Because one day, someone will grieve for us. And may they say of us what we now say of him: He did what he could. He tried to love. He tried to lead. And we are better because of it.
May the Pope rest in peace.
And may we, the living, rise in compassion.