Farewell letter to Pope Francis: A tribute to the shepherd who inspired us all
I was in first grade when Pope Paul VI and Pope John Paul I died. I was already a college professor when Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict passed away. Their passing brought me a great deal of sadness. For some reason though, your passing has been different. The loss felt more intensely.
It was you who, when I was, just a few years ago, living the life I had worked so hard to build for many years—a fulfilling academic career, a busy and fruitful administrative job, even a truly life-giving ministry—inspired me to leave the amazingly comfortable life I was living and take a leap and a tremendous risk by uprooting my life and immersing myself, my ministry, and my vocation, in a place that too often no longer felt like home.
You inspired me to leave everything behind and follow that inner voice, which you once said, we must believe with all our heart, is the Lord’s. And you asked us to follow. You asked us to go, to not be afraid, to head out into the unknown, carrying nothing in our hearts but the Lord and His love for His people, which should be ours as well. I wasn’t alone either.
You inspired many; in your simple way, you spoke to the hearts, minds, souls, and bodies—of many of us.
A couple of weeks ago, as a needle was being sunk deep into my flesh and I writhed in pain (I can’t tell you how many such needles have been jabbed into me since coming home), the nurse asked, “Are you okay? Still able to handle it?” my eyes began to water from pain. “I can do this,” I told myself. “Sure, I’m okay,” I told her. I needed to get well, to get better; the peripheries await and the least of our brothers and sisters await. I have to be there. I had to get there, these pesky ailments notwithstanding. That is why I came home, inspired by your words and example.
That path hasn’t been easy, but it has been truly great, tremendously graced, amazingly blessed, a wonderful adventure of faith and trust, that gives away everything it can give away, “no sandals, no extra shirt, no staff,” that says “no” to every attraction of power, wealth, authority, and acclaim.
When I saw you on that balcony of St. Peter’s after you were chosen, everything suddenly clicked, everything made sense. Many of us were hooked like sheep being gathered by a shepherd’s crook. And now you’re gone.
I didn’t weep when my mom passed away; it was excruciatingly painful, but I knew, she was with the Lord. The moment I heard her confession, gave her absolution, and finished praying the rosary with her in the ICU, I knew in my heart that she would be with the Lord. I think that was the reason the tears that had been welling in my heart never streamed down my face. I trusted, and that was enough.
But this time, with your passing, it was different. When I received that text message from a friend saying you had died, and when my initial disbelief gave way to a headache, the result no doubt of shock, a profound sorrow felt like it was ripping my insides to shreds—not because I didn’t trust that you too would be in heaven, but because I felt like an orphan here on earth.
Some of the most painful losses aren’t just of the people we love, but of the ideas, the visions, the ideals that have set us on fire, inspired, directed, and guided us. Feeling orphaned by them, I have come to understand, can sometimes be just as heavy, if not heavier, to bear.
I will miss you, Holy Father. Pray for all of us, but especially us priests.
May our brief encounter with you in this life—as you shepherded God’s people—remain with us for the rest of our lives, and bring us finally to the promise you now enjoy, with the Lord, with the Blessed Mother, and with all the holy ones who I am certain, are all rejoicing at your homecoming.
FR. FERDINAND SANTOS, MBA, PH.D.,
fatherferdisantos@gmail.com
