Assessing a Pope—his life, his legacy—is fraught with risk, especially within days of his passing.
The obvious has already been said by those who were prepared well in advance. But some of us need time to assess him in the light of the void—the interregnum—that now confronts us. The Holy Spirit often works in silence, so this time before the conclave can offer a rich opportunity for reflection and discernment.
This raises a deeper question: Should we even assess? Rushing to evaluate, we risk getting caught in the swirl of instant analysis—in the currents of the day. But getting into those currents might not always be a bad thing. Pope Francis was often caught in them. And what’s the difference between being caught in a current and reading the signs of the times? G.K. Chesterton said that only a living thing can swim against a current. Francis often seemed to get into these cultural eddies, and then come out with something generated by the Holy Spirit. It was in those eddies that he was defined by many, by how he was perceived—by both his critics and his supporters.
Eddies form when the main flow hits resistance—rocks, riverbanks, sudden turns—and the water circles back on itself. They can look like traps, places where momentum is lost. But they can also be pockets of stillness in an otherwise relentless current. In many ways, Francis’s eddies were often just that—resting places where something deeper could form.
Name 10 things Francis is most known for, and I’d suggest many were produced in eddies, not currents: “Who am I to judge?”, the residential school genocide comments in Canada, and the Pachamama statues controversy. Each of these became opportunities for him to be assessed, while something was being forged in the struggle of eddies.
Francis pushed me out of my comfort zone more than once. As a communications director, it was a constant challenge trying to keep up with his latest unscripted moments and then explain what he was actually trying to say. More often than not, a quick source check revealed there was far less controversy than people assumed.
Over time, I had to surrender my Benedictine left brain and make room for the Francis right brain—drawn less to argument and more to listening. It’s still a work in progress. I even had to step back from engaging in social media, which has little room for listening. I began asking myself: “Would Pope Francis post this?” And more often than not, the answer was no—he would simply listen.
And maybe that’s the most honest assessment I can offer right now. He’s been called many things: the People’s Pope, the speak-off-the-cuff-and-let-the-world-sort-it-out Pope, the Messy Pope, the Field Hospital Pope.
But what theme ran through all those currents and eddies? He was the Listening Pope. Everything he did stemmed from listening—listening to journalists, to authors, to the marginalized, to the voiceless, to his advisers (sometimes too often), to the signs of the times, to the culture.
Was there anyone he didn’t listen to? I could suggest his communications advisers—but then I’d be ignoring his deeper calling to speak from the heart without fear of consequences or fallout.
That’s another hallmark of Francis: he didn’t care about optics. He had no fear—like John Paul II before him. He held firm to the truth, but also to saying what he believed he was called to say, no matter what storms—or eddies—it stirred up.
And that’s no small thing: the ability to speak from the heart while still listening. Did he do it perfectly? Not at all. But few have come as close since a Rabbi, 2,000 years ago, mastered it.
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