Arokiam John OFM
My time in Rome (2013-2021) as a student at the Pontifical University
Antonianums was marked by countless pilgrimages to St. Peter’s Square.
Despite the long lines, security checks, and logistical hurdles, I eagerly
seized every opportunity to attend papal audiences, canonizations, and
liturgies during Easter, Christmas, and other solemn occasions.
These
moments were not merely routine; they became lifelines of spiritual
renewal. Standing among pilgrims from every corner of the world, I felt a
profound connection to the universal Church—a connection embodied
most vividly in Pope Francis. His presence radiated hope, even during
Italy’s darkest days of the COVID-19 pandemic, when he celebrated Mass in
an empty square, his words streaming into our isolated homes like a balm
for weary souls. Through joy and despair, he stood as a shepherd who
refused to let his flock walk alone.
The Synod on the Family—A Light in Complexity: In 2015, Pope Francis’s
address at the Synod on the Family crystallized why he resonates so deeply
with my Christian journey. The synod, he emphasized, was not a tribunal to
“solve” every challenge facing families, nor a battleground for ideological
disputes. Instead, it was an invitation to view struggles—broken
relationships, societal pressures, moral confusion—through the lens of the
Gospel and the Church’s living tradition. Here, three aspects of his
leadership illuminated my faith:
Seeing with God’s Eyes: Francis urged the Church to confront realities
without fear or evasion. Rather than burying our heads in the sand or
wielding doctrine like a weapon, he called for a gaze of compassion.
Families, he acknowledged, are often “wounded,” navigating crises of
identity, economic instability, and loneliness. His vision was not to
condemn but to “kindle the flame of faith” by meeting people where they
are. This mirrored Christ’s own ministry: a light that illuminates darkness
without scorching the fragile.
Mercy Over Stones: The Pope’s critique of “closed hearts” hiding behind the
“chair of Moses” struck a chord. He challenged a mindset of superiority that
reduces faith to rigid legalism, instead urging pastors to walk with people,
not above them. His language shifted from archaic rigidity to the warmth of
mercy—a reminder that the Gospel is not a museum artifact but a living
fountain. By refusing to “demonize” or relativize, he embodied the delicate
balance of truth and tenderness, upholding doctrine while letting its spirit
breathe.
The Church as Field Hospital: Francis’s papacy has been a clarion call to
prioritize healing over condemnation. He reoriented the Church’s mission
toward proclaiming God’s mercy, echoing Jesus’s mandate to “bind up the
brokenhearted” (Isaiah 61:1). This was no innovation but a return to the
heart of the Gospel. His focus on “suffering people” rather than abstract
ideas made faith tangible. During the pandemic, this pastoral urgency
became visceral: his solitary prayers in the rain-soaked square reminded
us that even in emptiness, God’s presence endures.
A Humility That Transforms: When Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio stepped
onto the loggia in 2013 as Pope Francis, his first act was to bow and ask the
crowds, “Pray for me.” This humility—rooted in the spirit of St. Francis of
Assisi—has defined his pontificate. He leads not as a prince but as a
servant, recognizing that true authority flows from surrender to God’s
grace.
Years after leaving Rome, I carry his legacy with me: a Church that meets
the world not with anathemas but with open arms, that speaks the
language of love in a dialect all can understand. In Pope Francis, I see a
shepherd who reminds us that the road to heaven is paved not with perfect
answers, but with imperfect hearts seeking the Father’s mercy. And for
that, I will always pray for him—as he so often asked us to do.
naveenofm@gmail.com
