The Pope of Mercy, the Pope of Hope

By Fr. Casmir Odundo

We were in first year of theology, an ordinary afternoon in class. Latin lesson with Fr. Anselm Kamuyu. The kind of day you barely notice until something unforgettable slips into it. We were just stepping out of class when the news came—Pope Benedict XVI had resigned. It was 11 February 2013, a Monday. The first pope to resign in nearly 600 years. The last one had been Gregory XII in 1415, stepping down to heal the schism in the Church. And now, Benedict—this humble Bavarian theologian—had done the same, citing lack of strength of mind and body.

The world held its breath.

Then came the conclave. That word—conclave—from Latin cum clave, meaning "with a key," evokes the ancient custom: the cardinals locked away, key turned, until they chose a pope. It is a tradition from the 13th century, formalised after delays in electing a new pontiff. The electors are cardinals, each one a titular pastor of a Roman church, still preserving the link with the clergy and people of Rome, for the Pope is also the Bishop of Rome and thus is chosen not just for the world, but for the urbs too.

After each unsuccessful vote, black smoke rises. A signal to the world: not yet. But then—on 13 March 2013—white smoke curled into the grey Roman skies. We gathered in front of televisions, radios, websites. Cardinal Jean-Louis Tauran emerged on the central balcony and announced in sonorous Latin: Habemus Papam. We have a pope.

He named Jorge Mario Bergoglio. Some paused—who? An Argentinian Jesuit, Archbishop of Buenos Aires. He had been preparing for retirement. But God was not finished with him yet. He took the name Francis—the first pope ever to do so—saying he did not want to forget the poor. He wanted a Church that is poor and for the poor, inspired by Francis of Assisi.

I followed his Messa d'inizio del Pontificato—the Mass inaugurating his Petrine ministry. It was 19 March, the Solemnity of Saint Joseph, guardian of the Redeemer. A fitting day. Pope Francis, like his predecessors, held a deep devotion to Joseph. He later added his name to the second, third and fourth Eucharistic Prayers, following Saint John XXIII who had already included him in the Roman Canon during the Second Vatican Council.

Francis—orthodox yet flexible. Faithful to the tradition of the Church, yet with a new tone. As traditional as Saint John Paul II, and up-to date pastorally like Saint John XXIII, both of whom he cannonised in a joint celebration that felt like a bridge across generations.

One of my strongest memories was his visit to Kenya. That was in 2015, a year I often call the most Catholic in Kenya's history. It was the year we celebrated the beatification of Blessed Sr. Irene Stefani "Nyaatha" in Nyeri. Pope Francis came just months after the Garissa University terrorist attack. He wanted to be with us. Kenya was the first country he visited in Africa.

I remember the Papal Mass at the University of Nairobi grounds. The rain poured as if the heavens themselves were weeping and rejoicing at once. It was just a month before my diaconate ordination. For me, it became a sort of spiritual retreat. But the most moving moment was his meeting with priests, religious, and seminarians at Msongari. It was hard to get in as seminarians—even with tickets, security held us at bay. Typical for seminarians, we were used to such. 

Eventually we were inside. The Pope spoke. But what touched me deeply was what happened after. As the crowd began to leave, he suddenly returned, took the microphone again, and said, “I forgot one group—the seminarians. I have not forgotten you. What I said to the priests and religious applies to you as well.” That moment erased all the chaos of the morning. He remembered us.

My diaconate ordination came on 12 December 2015, the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Every 12th December, the Holy Father has kept the tradition of celebrating Mass  in Rome with Latin American and Filipino communities. Back then, I followed it online from Kenya. Later, when I moved to Rome, I made it a point to be there physically—to concelebrate with him if I could.

All this happened during the Jubilee of Mercy, the Extraordinary Jubilee he proclaimed to mark 50 years since the close of Vatican II. He called it a Kairos, a special time of grace. And indeed, he became known as the Pope of Mercy.

Then came my priestly ordination—17 December 2016—his birthday. He was turning 80 that day. For me, it felt like a special grace. Soon came mission. As many young priest do, I faced some moments of discouragement. And at just such a time, Pope Francis wrote a letter to priests for the 160th anniversary of the death of the Curé of Ars. That letter lifted me.

Then 2020: COVID. The world shut down. The Pope began celebrating daily Masses at Santa Marta, streamed across the world. And then that haunting Urbi et Orbi—to the City and the World—on 27 March 2020. Empty square. Cold rain. Silence. And the Pope alone before the Blessed Sacrament, blessing the world in the darkness. That image, I believe, will live for centuries.

In August 2021, I arrived in Rome. My then bishop advised me: “the first place you must go is St Peter’s”. So after quarantine, on a Sunday during the Angelus, we finally went. I stood there, among pilgrims and Romans, and when he came out, the crowd erupted. Since then, as often as I could, I’d return for the Angelus. Communion with Peter. Ad Iesum per Mariam cum Petro.

During my time in Rome, I have had quite a number of encounters with him. Concelebrated Masses. Audiences. I was there when he spoke to young clergy, to seminarians, students of Pontifical Universities in Rome. Then he spoke to the clergy of Rome, and I attended as one of the priests working in the Diocese of Rome. That  meeting—during the turbulence surrounding Fiducia Supplicans—was held behind closed doors. The Pope sat among us and said, "Speak freely." And we did. And so did he. From the heart.

And then came that unforgettable day, late last year, when I met him personally and we spoke. Thanks to Fr John Kivosyo, I had a special ticket for the Wednesday audience. After over an hour of greeting couples and groups, he came our way.

“Santo Padre,” I called out, “on 17 December I will celebrate 8 years as a priest.” I said in Italian.
He stopped. Pointed at me. Looked me in the eyes. Held my hand.
“Quanti?”
“Otto anni.”
“Solo 8? Mancano 42!” he said and smiled.
Everyone interprets that line differently. I just treasure it.

Later I received another invitation to see him even closer—but that week, he fell ill. The visit was postponed.

Still, I can say: in these eight years of priesthood, Pope Francis has walked with me—through his words, his gestures, his warmth. His hands are warm. His grip is strong. His humour sparkles. He was brilliant and holy. Devoted to Our Lady—always visiting Santa Maria Maggiore before and after every trip. He requested to be buried there. He had great devotion too to Saint Pius X. Pastoral, deeply convicted, a man who lived what he believed.

His legacy will be studied. When the archives open, when the private diaries and the struggles of the papacy come to light—perhaps even a cause for canonisation. But to me, he is already summed up in two names: the Pope of Mercy, and the Pope of Hope. He died in the Jubilee of Hope, a theme he carried from beginning to end: a hope that does not disappoint.

He died today, Easter Monday. I remember yesterday, after Mass, we watched on T.V what would later be his final Urbi et Orbi. He appeared, weak, but smiling. He blessed us. I turned to my brother priests and said, “Let us kneel.”

It was the last blessing we received from Pope Francis.