In an era marked by division, war, ecological crisis, and disinformation, Pope Francis continues to be a moral compass—not only for Catholics, but for all of humanity. His voice is steady in a world of clamor, reminding us that faith is not measured by how loud we speak, but by how deeply we care.

As a Catholic, I see in Pope Francis a shepherd who chooses to smell like his sheep, as he once urged priests to do. He walks with the poor, listens to the forgotten, and speaks to the heart of a generation torn between hope and exhaustion. His papacy is not about grandeur, but about presence. Not about power, but about service.

What makes Pope Francis extraordinary is not just his theology—it’s his authenticity. He dares to talk about the uncomfortable: the climate crisis, migrant suffering, LGBTQ persons, poverty, and corruption within the Church itself. And in doing so, he does not dilute doctrine but brings it closer to the Gospel’s core message: love one another.

When he released Laudato Si’, it was not simply an encyclical about the environment—it was a call to care for our common home. A plea for integral ecology rooted in justice. For many of us in the developing world, where the consequences of climate change are already devastating lives, this was not abstract theology. It was lived reality, finally recognized at the highest level of the Church.

In Fratelli Tutti, Pope Francis reminded us of our interconnectedness in a fragmented world. “No one is saved alone,” he wrote. This isn’t just a beautiful phrase—it’s a bold critique of hyper-individualism, nationalism, and the politics of exclusion. It’s a call to solidarity in an age of separation.

For the Philippines—a country where Catholicism is woven into the soul of our identity—his teachings resonate deeply. When he visited in 2015 and we braved the rain in Luneta just to catch a glimpse of him, it wasn’t out of celebrity worship. It was because we saw in him a father. One who cries with us. Who reminds us to pray not only with our lips but with our hands and feet, through action, through mercy.

In a world that often rewards ambition and forgets the vulnerable, Pope Francis is a quiet revolution. And perhaps that’s what makes him dangerous to those who cling to power without compassion. He reorients our gaze—toward the margins, toward creation, toward each other.

To care for Pope Francis is to care for the world he continues to fight for—a world where no one is disposable, where forgiveness is stronger than fear, and where love is the only true authority. And as we journey through Lent and look ahead with hope toward Easter, may we not just admire his words, but embody them.

Because the Church is not a museum of saints, but a hospital for sinners.

And our faith, like his, must not stay inside the walls of a cathedral—but go forth, to the peripheries of our time.