He came on a rainy, dark night. And that wasn’t just meteorological. It was spiritual. It was political. It was ecclesiastical. The church had been battered by tempests, from sex scandals and corruption to a growing disconnect between an ancient institution and the modern world. Lightning struck St. Peter’s Basilica the day Pope Benedict resigned. As if heaven itself was sighing.

And then came the man who smiled, waved, and called out, “Buona sera.” Good evening. No regal “Urbi et Orbi,” no papal flourish, no divine thunderbolt — just an ordinary greeting from an ordinary man who would become an extraordinary Pope.

Francis. Jorge Mario Bergoglio. From the end of the earth he came, he said. From Latin America, land of the poor and the angry — Argentina, the land of desaparecidos and favelas, the land of priests who knew that prayer was not enough.

He took the name of a saint who had renounced wealth and power. He took the shoes of a fisherman and walked barefoot through the corridors of a palace built on gold.

But no, he did not stay in the palace. He chose the Domus Santa Marta, a guesthouse. Because guests don’t own the world, they merely pass through it.

We remember when he came to the Philippines in January 2015. He stepped into the typhoon-ravaged city of Tacloban wearing a transparent raincoat, the same one worn by volunteers and the public.

He said Mass in the storm. The wind howled, the rain fell, and there he stood. A shepherd among his flock, not above them. No air of infallibility. Just a man with a message: God walks with those who mourn.

In a country where Catholicism is both solace and spectacle, Francis was different. He reminded Filipinos that mercy is mightier than doctrine. That the Church must not merely condemn sin, but also console the sinner.

But of course, not everyone rejoiced. He irked the conservatives. He questioned capitalism. He dared to suggest that the Earth — the only one we’ve got — was more important than quarterly profits. He said being gay was not a crime. He said who was he to judge. He said we’re all in the same boat.

That was during Covid-19. St. Peter’s Square was empty. And yet he stood there, like a lighthouse keeper in a world gone dark, saying: We must row together.

He alienated the rich. He embraced the poor. He opened the Church doors to the marginalized and the broken and the tired. Not because he wanted to change the rules, but because he wanted to change the tone. Less fear, more love. Less guilt, more grace. Less judgment, more mercy.

Yes, he stumbled. Yes, he failed at times. Chile. The clergy abuse crisis. He did not always listen fast enough. He did not always act decisively enough. But he tried. In a Vatican that had long forgotten the scent of sheep, he figuratively smelled like one.

And now he’s gone. Pope Francis is gone, a day after conducting his last service for his flock, showing up in flesh and blood — for the last time — for the Easter Sunday celebration.

The bells have tolled in Rome. And the world feels just a bit quieter. Not out of mourning alone, but of memory. We will remember Francis not because he was perfect, but because he made the papacy human. Because he laughed. Because he wept. Because he walked in the rain.

He leaves behind no golden crown, no infallible dogma. Only a legacy of tenderness. A reminder that faith without humility is hollow, and that leadership without love is tyranny.

He did not part the Red Sea; he merely asked us to cross it, together. He was not a pope for the ages; he was a pope for this age. And maybe — just maybe — that was THE miracle.