Francis, the pope who led with his heart and not with power
Monday, March 2, 2026
*Deacon Edgardo Farias
Two elderly Italians, Adriana and Antonino —people of deep daily wisdom— often repeated, with affection and conviction, two short phrases that, unintentionally, summed up the essence of Pope Francis’ pontificate.
She would say, “Non c’è nessuno come il Papa Ciccio” —“There’s no one like Pope Francis.”
He would respond, “Non si governa con il ginocchio” —“You don’t govern with the knee.”
These expressions, born of the simple language of the people, reveal the profound spiritual insight with which many believers perceived Francis: a pope profoundly human, humble, close to the people, yet firm, prophetic, and full of hope.
“There’s no one like Pope Ciccio”: the Pope who restored a human face to the Church
When Adriana said, “There’s no one like Pope Ciccio,” she was not making a sentimental comparison, she was making a theological statement born of lived faith. She recognized that Francis had returned a human, compassionate, and merciful face to the Church.
The affectionate nickname “Ciccio”—an Italian diminutive of Francesco—was not irreverent; it was intimate. It expressed how close the pope felt to ordinary people and how familiar his presence was.
From the very first moment of his pontificate—when he asked the people gathered in St. Peter’s Square to pray for him before giving his blessing—Francis made it clear that he would not rule from above, but from within the people of God.
His words were plain yet powerful and his tone was direct yet gentle. To those who heard him, he sounded not like a distant authority but like a shepherd who spoke from experience. He didn’t impose dogma as punishment; he offered the Gospel as healing. In an age of distance and distrust, he made the Church feel once again like an open home, a place of welcome.
Thus, when people said, “There’s no one like Pope Ciccio,” they expressed gratitude. They recognized in him a pastor who “smelled like his sheep,” a man who made the merciful face of God visible in history.
The closeness that transformed the papacy
The faithful understood that Francis’ pontificate was about more than institutional reform; it was about changing the tone of the Church’s heart. His closeness was not a communication strategy—it was theology in action.
Through his greetings, embraces, smiles and pauses to listen to a sick person or a migrant, he taught—without words—that God does not communicate from a throne but through compassion.
This is why people felt that he belonged to them. His way of speaking, simple yet profound, allowed even those far from the Church to hear the Gospel anew.
Francis was the pope who dared to speak to the world as a friend without losing the depth of faith, who showed that holiness is not rigidity but mercy.
Elderly believers like Adriana, and millions around the world perceived in him a fresh breeze of the Spirit blowing through a weary Church. They saw in him the shepherd who left the safety of the Vatican walls to seek the lost sheep.
“You don’t govern with the knee”: The power of weakness
When Antonino said, “You don’t govern with the knee,” he referred to the moments when the pope, clearly struggling with pain, continued to lead with serenity. In those few words lies the wisdom of the old: the body may hurt, but the soul remains strong.
This phrase became a parable of Francis’ pontificate: his authority did not come from physical strength but from spiritual clarity. He governed not with the knee, but with conscience and prayer.
In a culture that idolizes youth and power, Francis’ aging figure—sometimes tired, yet radiant—was a living testament to Saint Paul’s paradox: “When I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:10)
Francis taught the world that weakness does not disqualify leadership—it purifies it. His cane, his wheelchair, his slow steps, became symbols of a Church unafraid to show its wounds. When the shepherd walks with pain, he becomes closer to the pain of his flock.
Antonino’s phrase rings true: you don’t govern with the knee; you govern with the soul. And Francis embodied that truth—a strength that springs from faith, not from power.
The authority of witness
Pope Francis’s pontificate was a living lesson in the authority of evangelical leadership. He ruled not through control, but through example; not with decrees, but with gestures. He visited prisons, embraced migrants, apologized to victims, defended the dignity of women, and called the world to care for our common home.
His words carried weight because they were coherent with his life. People knew that he did not speak about the poor from an office, but with the poor from the heart. He did not speak of ecology as a trend, but as a moral duty. He did not advocate for mercy as leniency, but as the very name of God.
For this reason, to many, he was an irreplaceable pope—not because he was flawless, but because he was authentic. His leadership was a form of testimony, proving that the Gospel still has power to transform the world when lived with humility and truth.
The theology of limitation and the greatness of mercy
These two phrases—one of tenderness, the other of strength—summarize the spiritual pillars of his pontificate. In a world that fears weakness, Francis showed that human limitations can become a school of faith.
His illness, his age, and his pain became theological language. They taught that love is stronger than fatigue, that the mission continues even in suffering, and that pastoral leadership depends not on perfection but on fidelity.
In him, mercy ceased to be an abstract idea and became a way of seeing. “God never tires of forgiving,” he often said. “We are the ones who tire of asking for forgiveness.”
This phrase, repeated across languages and continents, defined his spirituality and his governance: a mercy that embraces, understands, and renews.
Francis was not a strategist or an ecclesial politician; he was a pastor who preferred to err through love rather than to be correct through fear.
A unique Pope in his time
Saying, “There’s no one like Pope Ciccio,” acknowledged his singularity. He was the first Jesuit pope, the first from Latin America and the first to take the name Francis—but his true uniqueness lay in the way he lived the Gospel.
In a time of walls and polarization, he built bridges. In a culture of waste, he restored dignity to the forgotten. In a wounded Church, he opened the windows of mercy. In a weary humanity, he reminded the world that weakness can be the most credible form of strength.
His life became an icon of faith in action, a testament that holiness is not separation from the world, but immersion in its suffering with love.
The soul of the shepherd
The words of Adriana and Antonino, two elderly Italians of deep daily wisdom, captured what millions of believers perceived in Francis: a pastor unlike any other.
“There’s no one like Pope Ciccio” proclaimed the tenderness of a pontiff who loved without measure.
“You don’t govern with the knee” recalled the inner strength of one who led with his soul.
In those two phrases lives the legacy of a pope who needed no power to be great and no perfect health to be fruitful. He led with compassion, preached with simplicity, and showed that weakness, when lived in faith, becomes the purest form of authority.
And so, when time passes and history looks back with distance, one truth will remain, born from the wisdom of the people:
There was no one like Pope Francis—because he did not govern with his knee, but with his heart.
