This installment of a regular column, “Anchors Away” by Felipe Perez, originated from Sol del Valle and has been translated for English readers.
In 2013, after the traditional Habemus Papam announcement from the Vatican balcony, the newly-elected Pope Francis greeted the world with unexpected humility: “It seems my brother cardinals went all the way to the end of the world to find me.”
With those words, Jorge Mario Bergoglio, an Argentinian Jesuit from Buenos Aires, offered the first glimpse of a papacy shaped by simplicity, humor and powerful symbolism. Referring to the cardinals as “brothers” signaled a new tone in Church leadership, one more fraternal, less hierarchical. And by invoking his homeland, the land at “the end of the world,” he began outlining a pastoral vision centered on the forgotten, the distant and the marginalized.
Francis quickly became known as “the Pope of the Peripheries.” Before Rome, he was a priest who celebrated Mass in the dusty streets of Buenos Aires’ villas miseria: urban slums where poverty and resilience live side-by-side. His ministry was forged on the outskirts, where he confronted the deep wounds left by inequality and disillusionment in Latin America.
He would later say,“If we dare to step outside ourselves and go to the peripheries, that’s where we’ll find Jesus. Reality is better understood from the margins than from the center.”
His choice of papal name — Francis — was itself unprecedented. Inspired by Saint Francis of Assisi, the Pope embraced a model of compassion, detachment from material wealth and kinship with creation. His 2015 encyclical Laudato si’ remains one of the most urgent calls to care for our “common home,”
the Earth.
Like his namesake, Pope Francis preached not with pomp, but through gestures. He invited to kiss the wounds of today’s lepers, call for economic humility and treat all of creation as sacred. He often echoed the words attributed to Saint Francis: “Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary,
use words.”
A passionate supporter of San Lorenzo, his local soccer team, Francis spoke like a parish priest. His messages were filled with everyday wisdom: “Argue all you want,” he told couples, “but make peace before going to bed.”
With his accessible language, he sidestepped cold academic theology and pharisaical legalism. He once warned: “Those who exclude others in the Church aren’t religious. They’re impostors.” And he was blunt on human flaws too, “Gossip destroys community, sickens the heart and leads nowhere.”
One of his deepest concerns was the role of the family — the “domestic church.” He also championed an often forgotten population, the elderly, speaking out against what he called “cultural euthanasia,” where older generations are neglected or pushed aside. “Talk to the elderly,” he urged. “Learn from them. Don’t cast them off.”
Though once accused of complicity with authoritarian regimes during Argentina’s dictatorship, Francis was later cleared and has since become a staunch advocate for compassionate democracies. For some, he was a thorn in the side. For others, a moral compass.
His papacy centered on defending migrants, especially those forced to flee poverty and violence. He repeatedly called for a Good Samaritan attitude toward immigrants and expressed particular solidarity with Mexico and other Latin American nations.
His outreach extended to those long marginalized by the Church — LGBTQ+ people, divorced couples, atheists urging dialogue and mutual respect. His theology wasn’t one of exclusion, but of encounter.
In this spirit, he earned admiration not only from devout Catholics but from secular and interfaith communities alike. Videos of his heartfelt interactions with young people, survivors of abuse and historically silenced groups circulate widely on social media. His willingness to acknowledge the Church’s failures — like the abuse of Indigenous children in Canadian residential schools — speaks volumes in a time when accountability matters more than ever.
Francis reminds us that true change doesn’t begin in grand palaces but in everyday places: our families, our jobs, our neighborhoods. He invites us to start revolutions not with banners, but with daily acts of justice, tenderness and awareness — to live the Gospel in ordinary life, to walk together, no matter our faith or background, toward a future grounded in dignity and solidarity.
I had the chance to see him in person several times in 2013, specifically during a vigil at World Youth Day in Brazil. I was young then, but something changed in me as I watched him pass by, doing good as he moved through history. His words still echo: “Make a mess. Shake things up. Never stop dreaming.”