Non Habemus Papam

A Reflection on the Passing of Pope Francis

Today, the bells toll not in joyous proclamation, but in solemn reverence. Non Habemus Papam—we have no Pope. With the passing of His Holiness Pope Francis, the Chair of Saint Peter stands empty once more, and the Church is draped in mourning.

There are moments in history that stretch beyond the bounds of time, when a man's soul seems to brush against the eternal and leave a lasting imprint. Jorge Mario Bergoglio was such a man.

Why Does the Pope Matter to a Witch?

To a witch, the Pope is not merely the head of the Catholic Church but a living vessel of sacred tradition, a guardian of ritual, and a symbol of the divine mystery that moves through all faiths.

While paths may differ—one drawing circles in the woods, another kneeling before altars of marble—there is a common reverence in the quiet weaving of incense, the power of spoken word, the honoring of seasons and symbols. A witch may see in the Pope’s liturgy the same magic found in her own spellwork: the transformative power of intention, the anchoring of spirit in gesture and prayer, the invocation of something greater.

All religions carry within them their own beauty, their own sacred language, and their own way of touching the veil. And so, even from a path that once stood condemned, the witch may bow—not in submission, but in shared awe—for the Pope, too, was a servant of the unseen, a voice calling humanity back to the holy.

A Shepherd from the Ends of the Earth

Born in Buenos Aires in 1936 to Italian immigrants, Pope Francis—then Father Jorge—was no stranger to the weight of human suffering. His early ministry was spent among the poor and forgotten, in the alleys of Argentina, in whispered confessions, in soup kitchens and slums, far from grandeur or gold. Long before he wore white, he wore dust and humility.

When he was elected in 2013, the world paused—first in surprise, then in quiet wonder. “They have come for us from the ends of the earth,” he said from the balcony, a nod to his Argentinian roots. Yet more than geography, it was his spiritual proximity to the margins of humanity that defined his papacy.

He was the Pope who chose Francis—after the saint of the poor, the radical lover of peace, the voice that once sang to birds and preached to wolves. And in doing so, Pope Francis set the tone for a pontificate not of power, but of presence.

A Papacy of Paradoxes

Pope Francis was a paradox in white: deeply traditional yet boldly progressive, humble yet commanding, joyful yet burdened. His papacy was one of encounter. He dined with the homeless, washed the feet of prisoners, embraced the disfigured without hesitation. He did not speak at the world, but with it—often in the language of tenderness.

His teachings reminded us that doctrine without mercy is just a cage of words. He challenged Catholics to be less like gatekeepers and more like field hospitals. Under his guidance, the Church was called to be less self-referential, more willing to dwell in the chaos of the human condition, to find Christ not just in tabernacles but on subway cars, in refugee camps, in tears.

He was criticized, misunderstood, even resisted—both from within the Church and outside it. But he remained, in word and deed, a bridge: between tradition and modernity, orthodoxy and compassion, doctrine and dialogue.

The Final Benediction

As news of his death spreads across a fractured world, the atmosphere feels strangely still. There is grief, yes—but also gratitude. Pope Francis gave us more than policies or encyclicals. He gave us a vision of what the Church could be when it chooses love above legalism, proximity over perfection, mercy over judgment.

In his final days, those close to him say he asked not for fanfare, but prayer. It seems fitting. His entire life was, in many ways, a prayer—lived in motion, spoken in actions, sometimes whispered in tears.

The Chair of Peter is now empty. The fisherman’s ring lies still. And yet, his legacy echoes in countless lives: in the mothers he comforted, the atheists he dialogued with, the children he blessed, the prisoners he embraced, the critics he forgave.

A World Without Francis

We are now a world without Francis. And yet, we are not without his voice.

We will still hear it—soft, insistent—in the quiet corners of our compassion. When we tend to the poor without condescension, when we embrace the stranger without fear, when we choose mercy over judgment, we echo his example. His was not a legacy confined to Rome or the pews of the faithful—it reached the streets, the slums, the headlines, and the human heart.

He reminded us that holiness is not reserved for saints in stained glass, but can be found in the small gestures of love, in the courage to forgive, in the humility to listen. His was not a papacy of fear, but of fratellanza—of brotherhood, kinship, and radical inclusion. It was never about the grandeur of the throne, but the Gospel made flesh in human hands and aching hearts.

Non Habemus Papam. But for a luminous and fragile while, we had Francis.
And that, my dears, was more than enough.