When Pope Francis’ condition first began to worsen in February, I found myself suddenly feeling the kind of vertiginous paradigm shift usually reserved for the loss of close family or friends, that sense of a curtain being torn aside and a truth being revealed. The detail that really broke me was the news that as he had gotten sicker, Francis continued to text and call the people of Holy Family Parish in Gaza.
It was so far beyond what anyone would expect of a critically ill 88-year-old man. And yet it crystallized for me what has been so personally important about Pope Francis: his dedication to welcoming those on the margins.
In his 12 years as pope, Francis appointed cardinals in 72 different countries, 24 of which had never had a cardinal before. And where larger, older, wealthier, and more politically connected dioceses like Lisbon, Venice, Milan, Florence, Paris, Los Angeles, Sydney, and Philadelphia have all had cardinals in the recent past, Francis looked instead to “far-flung” places like Tehran, Belgrade, Kalookan, Wellington, and Tonga. These appointments have given a voice and place in the church to communities that have otherwise been ignored, excluded, or forgotten. Indeed, they’ve created a whole new way of thinking about the place and appointment of cardinals.
A few months into his papacy, Francis also used his first official trip as pope to shine a spotlight on some of the world’s most excluded and abused people: asylum seekers. In his visit to the tiny Italian island of Lampedusa, where thousands of refugees waited in camps, Francis celebrated a Mass to mourn the many others who have died trying to get there. "Let us ask the Lord for the grace to weep over our indifference, to weep over the cruelty of our world, of our own hearts," he prayed. "Has anyone wept? Today has anyone wept in our world?" His altar for the Mass sat in a painted refugee boat. His priorities and his care could not have been clearer, and remained so throughout his papacy.
Francis was the pope who spent his first Holy Thursday washing the feet of prisoners, including women and non-Christians, and continued his visits throughout his papacy. He is the pope who turned a Vatican palazzo into a homeless shelter, the pope who shared meals with sex workers, and did so as a matter of course. That’s what a pope — what a pastor — should do.
When Pope Francis was elected in 2013, I had been a Jesuit for almost 21 years, a priest for nearly 10. And for about 19 of those years, I had been learning how to accept and appreciate my sexual identity as a chaste gay man. I had been lucky in a lot of ways to come to a fuller sense of myself within the Society of Jesus. I was surrounded by others who, whether straight, gay, or bisexual, were welcoming of me. They helped me to see my identity as a gift, a part of me to celebrate, laugh about, and rejoice in.
At the same time, 10 years in the priesthood had brought with it the ongoing challenge of working in an environment where you were expected never to reveal or share about your experiences of God as a gay or bisexual man, a challenge made enormously difficult at times by the horrendous mistreatment of queer people — including gay and bisexual priests — by some Catholic clergy and prelates. At times it felt as though queer clergy were asked to stay silent so Catholic leaders could continue to scapegoat queer people without having to worry about their own clergy calling them out.
Still, I thought I was managing it pretty well. I had learned to appreciate my identity as a blessing that God had given me, something that helped me see and relate to the world in a different way, rather than something deviant or sinful, so I saw myself as someone who could be there for LGBTQ+ Catholics. I could offer care and understanding, as many other priests, sisters, and brothers do.
Then Francis held his first on-plane press conference and said, with regard to queer people, “Who am I to judge?” It was the first time that I ever heard a church official speak — not behind closed doors but publicly — of us in a kind or accepting way. And looking back, I think it was the first moment I considered the possibility that being gay in the priesthood or in life truly was okay. It turns out, no matter what you tell yourself or your friends tell you, when you live and work in an institution that tells you to keep your identity a secret and scapegoats you anytime it faces a scandal, there’s some part of you that just isn’t quite sure whether you are actually good. If I’m a gift, why does everyone in charge talk about me like I should be ashamed?
When Francis spoke as he did, not only as a priest or bishop in the church but as the pope, he gave those of us who are queer reason to believe that in fact no, we’re not crazy. We really are okay, we really are a blessing. With five words, he made room for us. Twelve years later the reverberations of that one simple question continue to change me.
To my astonishment, over the course of his papacy Francis continued to build on that simple statement of toleration. As with other groups who find themselves on the margins or outcast, like migrants and refugees, women, or communities in the developing world that Western media largely overlooks, Francis has reached out to LGBTQ+ people time and again, in texts, on the phone, in audiences abroad, and at the Vatican itself. While the United States government has launched its disgusting erasure of transgender people, Francis has repeatedly welcomed trans people. In fact, in 2023, he announced that trans people can be baptized and become godparents. A few weeks later he said that LGBTQ+ couples who have been married civilly can receive a blessing from clergy.
People have since parsed to death what exactly these announcements mean: Is the Catholic Church now able to bless gay marriages? Must parishes allow trans people to be baptized and become godparents? If a parish can refuse, under what circumstances? But the message that Francis has been sending is clearly one of greater inclusion for queer people in the church. And he’s offered the same message in the letters and gestures of support he’s sent to those who have advocated for LGBTQ+ Catholics and faced abuse, like Loretto Sister Jeannine Gramick or Father James Martin. Grammick and members of her team at New Ways Ministry have had audiences with Francis. Martin was invited by Francis to participate in the Synod on Synodality.
And while normally any new group of cardinals named by Francis will include at least a couple with truly horrifying positions on homosexuality, his last set of appointments included several new cardinals who are very publicly supportive of queer people.
For years now I’ve heard queer clergy speak of Francis’ passing with fear not simply of retrenchment but retaliation. I’ve feared it, too, a new pope who comes intent on stomping the life out of Francis’ contributions to the church. What could be more heartbreaking than to see the progress he’s made rolled back or condemned? And it doesn’t take more than a passing glance at the state of American politics to understand how easily such things can happen.
But I find myself less worried about the future of the Church. And it’s not because I feel confident that Francis appointed all the right people, or that his cardinals will elect the right person to take his place. No, it’s the fact that right from the beginning of his papacy to the very last days, he kept extending himself to the people on the margins like myself and telling them they belonged, inviting them in. Others may try to dismiss those actions, but for those of us on the margins to whom he spoke, there is no forgetting the love in his eyes, no denying his ever-reaching hand or the simple, life-changing truth that he shared that we really are a gift, that we really do belong.
Jim McDermott is a freelance screen and magazine writer in New York. He writes a Substack on pop culture and spirituality at Pop Culture Spirit Wow.
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