In Honour – For Those Who Follow

A Tribute to a Personality – Not to an Institution.

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Written by: Werner Francis Schultze, @Novus Tempus

Introduction

With the passing of Pope Francis, democracy does not lose an institution – but rather one of its rare remaining pillars. His voice was never that of authority for its own sake, but that of a conscience standing upright in the winds of the age. He spoke not for the few, but for the many – not for order, but for peace – not for dominion, but for dignity. 

With his crossing, into the realm beyond — on Easter Monday in the year 2025, at the age of 88 — Pope Francis left behind not merely his role as the spiritual leader of the Roman Catholic Church, but a legacy of steadfast humility, unwavering humanity, and a profound commitment to peace – inscribed into the collective memory of our time. Throughout his active pontificate, he built bridges across confessions – driven by a yearning to overcome the spirit of division, which burdens this world.

Life and Calling

Born in 1936 in Buenos Aires, Argentina, under the civil name Jorge Mario Bergoglio, he was elected Pope of the Roman Catholic Church in 2013 – the first Jesuit and the first Cardinal from Latin America ever to be entrusted with the sacred office of the papacy. Choosing the name Francis – as a conscious homage to Francis of Assisi – was a sign of humility, simplicity, and peace.

 

Between Silence and Conscience

Pope Francis, as well, harboured within his biography that quiet conflict which has accompanied many sincere individuals who, in retrospect, recognised where they had not spoken out loudly enough. During his tenure as Provincial of the Jesuit Order in Argentina (1973–1979), Jorge Mario Bergoglio increasingly found himself, from 1976 onward, caught in a tension between inner-church responsibility and the dangers posed by the military dictatorship, which ruled at that time.

Because two of his fellow brothers came under the grasp of military power – and, although Francis was demonstrably free of guilt, the accusation of not having sufficiently stood up for them, lingered like a heavy shadow. He himself remained silent for a long time, and as it seems, this early silence, when viewed in that light, came later to shape his speech. Not as an act of self-justification – but rather as an inner transformation. Mayhap courage begins exactly where one does not deny one's own failure, but rather transforms it.

Not everyone, who was silent, was cowardly.

But everyone, who speaks later, may have first grasped the essence of silence.

Institutional Significance – The End of an Implicitness

With the election of Jorge Mario Bergoglio as Pope, a long-unquestioned certainty came to an end: for over 1,500 years, the papacy had emerged from Europe – out of the cultural centre of the old world order, from which spiritual, political, and economic forces of intellectual dominance emanated.

This order was shaped by the self-conception of the “Christian Occident”, whose religious institutions wielded influence not only within the Church itself but were also deeply intertwined with the colonial, political, and economic interests of their time. For the first time, a Pope stepped onto the world stage from the colonial periphery – not from the historic centre of Christendom, but from Latin America. A region marked not only by colonial history, poverty, and social inequality, but also standing symbolically for other historical landscapes – landscapes that suffered under geo-economic colonial ambitions, and whose cultural spaces remain marked by their consequences to this day.

This election was mirrored in the geopolitical transformation of our time: the gradual end of a unipolar world order, the erosion of the West’s moral authority, and the breaking open of global power structures – giving way to a multipolar world society shaped by new voices.

Francis was elected Pope, not to preserve the old – but to forge new bridges!

With the election of Francis, the conclave (the assembly of the voting cardinals) sent a clear signal for a change of course within the Church – moving away from a Eurocentric self-perception, opening towards a universal perspective. It was also a sign: a step beyond the shadow of its own history, and an impulse for a Church no longer defined solely by European categories. Not as a break with tradition, but as a healing of centuries of imbalance. And as an admission that the centre of the Church must be located not geographically, but spiritually.

Tradition of Restraint – Separation of Church and Politics

Since the early modern period – especially in the course of the Enlightenment – the Roman Catholic Church has increasingly been expected to exercise political restraint. With the growing influence of secular constitutional states, the separation of Church and politics came into force not merely as a legal principle, but also gradually became internalised within the Church itself.

This development coincided with the rise of the modern nation-state, which sought to separate religious and political power. It reached a decisive turning point with the loss of the Papal States in 1870 – whereby the Church formally lost its worldly sovereignty. From that point onwards, its effectiveness no longer resided in institutional power – but in moral authority.

Since then, the Church has no longer exercised direct influence over the order of the state. Rather, it acts upon the conscience – and not upon those socially established normative systems which are designated as laws. Thus, it acts not institutionally, but culturally – not as a power, but as an ethical interpretive authority.

What we call laws today, are not universal truths –

but temporary frameworks of order, given by the peoples to themselves.

In them lies not the truth – but the endeavour, to come to terms with it.

And with the gradual breaking open of global power relations, in favour of an emerging multipolar world society, the self-evidence of a Eurocentric Church leadership was no longer given.

The tradition of restraint was upheld by most popes of the 20th century. They addressed moral questions – but rarely took a clear stance on political orders, global inequalities, or economic systems. The Church kept its distance in order not to lose its independence – not as an expression of inner clarity, but as a manifestation of institutional speechlessness, nourished by a clerical mode of detachment which was idealised as a virtue for decades.

Pope Francis did not merely abandon this course – he questioned it with vehemence. Not in order to politicise the Church, but to remind her of her origin: the prophetic word that does not remain silent when human dignity is violated.

He did not speak in pastoral tones, but in an ethical-political voice. He did not remain silent on the climate crisis, global poverty, or the plight of refugees – nor on the exploitation brought about by unleashed capitalism as it manifests in today’s global economic system: shaped by deregulation, profit maximisation, and the erosion of ethical responsibility.

He named those things for what they were – and in doing so, he broke through the decades-long restraint regarding economic and social structural questions of systemic order, a restraint that all too often masqueraded as neutrality, yet in truth concealed systemic irresponsibility and enabled structural exclusion through silence.

“This economy kills.”

(Evangelii Gaudium, no. 53 – Apostolic Exhortation by Pope Francis, 2013)

A radical statement – directed against that unbounded form of liberal market economy which places profit above people, and thus criticised a world order that elevates economic interests above the common good and ecological responsibility. A sentence with more explosive force than many political programmes – because it emerged from the spirit of public ethics, not from institutional calculation.

In doing so, Francis did not assert a claim to power – but affirmed a new form of ecclesial responsibility, one that extends beyond the sacred. He brought the public word back to the centre of ecclesial action – not in the service of an ideology, but as a response to the questions posed by global dehumanisation – and in doing so, he tore at that firewall of convenience, behind which, many spiritual voices had taken refuge.

Francis did not act against the institution, but opened it from within. He gave the Church back its voice in the global discourse – not through institutional power, but through courage and humanity. Thus, a Church that had often remained silent, became a voice to be heard – not by lifting the boundaries between religion and politics, but by refusing to tolerate them any longer as an excuse for inactivity.

Personal Stance – Conscience Before System

Pope Francis was not a representative of the ecclesiastical apparatus, but a seeker among people. He embodied an attitude shaped less by the insignia of office, than by an awareness of responsibility – one that is bound to the human being before it is bound to the structure.

His statements on topics such as migration, social inequality, ecological destruction, and the logic of capital behind invisible power structures – structures that subordinate the human being to a market no longer seen as a means to prosperity, but as an end in itself – were not political programmes, but expressions of a spiritual standard that placed conscience above convention, and the human being above any institution.

His language was no longer merely pastoral – it was ethically and politically inspired, almost Old Testament–prophetic in its force. He did not call for order, but for reversal. And his words were not sermons, but warnings – carried by a spirit more bound to conscience than to any rule-based convention.

He did not speak as a politician, but as a conscience directed at politics – and through this posture, Pope Francis established a new type of ecclesial responsibility: one that refused to be confined either by the narrowness of party politics or by the silence of ritualised liturgy.

Francis was not a man of grand strategic gestures, but a Pope who, through his language and his symbolism, shaped a different image of authority – one that was closer, more transparent, vulnerable. In a world where systems are so often placed above people, his voice was a call for reversal: not through volume, but through clarity and resistance to moral indifference.

That Francis came from the Jesuit Order – an order shaped not by a claim to power, but by intellectual formation, discipline, and a sense of responsibility for the world – lent his pontificate a depth of its own. He was not the Pope of dogmas, but the Pope of discernment. Not the guardian of boundaries – but the companion at the margins. His Jesuit formation was not a theoretical framework, but a spiritual compass – one centred on a trained conscience: prepared for self-criticism, for engagement, but never for indifference.

Francis was keenly aware that deep transformation cannot be imposed from the outside. He lived what 'Ignatius of Loyola' once recognised:

“The Church can only be destroyed from within.”

(A teaching passed down within the Jesuit tradition – echoing the spirit of Ignatius of Loyola.)

But Francis did not seek to destroy – he sought to cleanse. He did not aim to disempower – but to uplift. Not to fight – but to unburden.

Francis faced this realisation – not as an adversary of the Church, but as its inner admonisher. He did not call for dissent, but for a change of course. And yet, his words carried an explosive force – because they named the abuse of power, the instrumentalisation of faith, and the hardening silence of the institution, unambiguously.

He was not a reformer in a tactical sense, but a pope, who sought, to bring the spiritual office back into the nearness of life – to the poor, the excluded, the homeless, the wounded – and to those, who no longer found a home in the language of theology.

His critique of transnational capital power – which he described not only as a system of inequality, but as “terrorism against the poor” – his concern for creation, his empathy for migrants, and his commitment to interreligious dialogue, were not expressions of political ambition – but signs of a pope who saw the world not from above, but from the bottom up.

He was not the pope of dogmas, but the pope of encounter. Not the guardian of order, but the advocate of conscience. And perhaps that – precisely that – was his deepest provocation: in a world that demands control, but thirsts for truth.

United in Spirit

Like my ancestral forefather Martin Luther, Pope Francis too raised his voice against the abuse of power – not in anger, but in spiritual clarity. His words were not directed against the human being, but against those systems which diminish humanity – whether through greed, through control, or through silence in the face of injustice.

Both Luther and Francis stood within the tension between tradition and conscience, between office and truth, between the fear of the institution and the freedom of the individual. Both of them knew the depth of language – and both understood:

Words, which arise from the conscience, carry a force within,

that no wall can withstand forever.

Pope Francis did not speak from a position of superiority, but with a voice from the depth of conscience. And what he said was not solely theological discourse, but a pastoral call to awakening. He reminded us that the Gospel is not a formula – but a way of being.

And so, it may seem as though two voices meet – across the centuries:

Martin Luther, who once said: ‘Here I stand, I can do no other.’

And Francis – he stood: not above the world, but within it.

An Unspoken Tribute – Francis in Lund

In the year 2016, Pope Francis visited Lund in Sweden – a place rich in spiritual tradition, and bearing the scars of confessional division. Together with the Lutheran World Federation, he commemorated the 500th anniversary of the Reformation – not under the sign of contradiction, but in the spirit of reconciliation. Of all places, the city of Lund – once a focal point of religious division and marked by the wounds of the Thirty Years’ War – became the site of a historic bridge-building gesture: a symbolic act of rapprochement, without formal reconciliation. This was no mere act of reconciliation – it was a gesture whose meaning went deeper than words:

– Here I stand, before the face of history. –

Francis might well have imagined honouring Luther as a ‘holy disturber’ of the Church – not for his dogmatic writings, but for his moral courage. Yet Francis knew: the Church was not ready for that. And perhaps – he did not want to divide what he was trying to heal.

Francis did not canonise Luther, but he acknowledged the concern that had been brought before the Church in anticipation of the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. He spoke of the Reformation as a “path towards renewal” – and emphasised the importance of recognising its positive aspects. And in a Church that had treated Luther as a heretic for centuries – that may have been the strongest gesture possible without endangering the still-fragile dialogue.

Sometimes, an unspoken tribute is more powerful

than a dogmatically declared sainthood.

And perhaps – as I held that commemorative coin in my hands, inscribed with the words “Life of a Rebel,” I did not think only of Luther. I thought of Francis as well. One who did not shout – but contradicted. Who did not turn away – but watched with different eyes. One who did not leave the Church, but transformed it from within. Not as an enemy – but as her courageous conscience.

And because Francis, in his humility, never spoke loudly – but with luminous clarity – he let fall words that remain:

“True dialogue begins

where I do not impose my truth on the other,

but where we seek a greater truth together –

one that transforms us both.”

(Pope Francis – paraphrased, on interreligious dialogue)

A sentence not directed against any confession, but against the self-righteousness of power – against that Western certainty which seeks to organise religions and ideologies rather than to understand them.

Legacy – A Voice Against Forgetting

Pope Francis’ words were not addressed solely to his own Church, but to a humanity in transition. He spoke with a moral force that transcended confessional boundaries – reaching across the dividing lines of religion, politics, and nation. For his message was not ideological – it was human.

Francis was no political revolutionary – and yet, his pontificate marked a new beginning. Not because he echoed political slogans, but because he spoke what others scarcely dared to think. Francis was no enemy of order – but a disturber of indifference.

His words were not directed against progress itself – but against those forms of estrangement in which the human being is reduced to consumption and productivity: whether through unbridled materialism, unbounded globalism, or technocratic neoliberalism. Francis saw in these not merely an economic distortion – but an assault on the very essence of being human.

His legacy is not a blueprint – but a call. A call to humanity, to those in positions of responsibility in politics, economics, and the Church – not to lose themselves in the comfort of institutional habit, but to withstand the question of conscience. It was a wake-up call – to that mirror of delusion under which the world has long been suffering. With clear language, he pointed to what is being repressed:

“Today, more than ever, the human being is reduced to what they produce and consume.”

(Paraphrased from Pope Francis,

cf. Address to the European Parliament, Strasbourg 2014, original Italian version)

• A penetrating critique of technocratic rationality and the reduction of the human being to their economic exploitability.

“The cry of the earth and the cry of the poor is one and the same.”

(Encyclical Laudato si’, 2015)

• A poignant appeal to no longer separate social and ecological questions.

“A Christian should not build walls.”

(Paraphrased from Pope Francis,

press conference on the flight from Mexico, 17 February 2016, original English transcript)

• A rejection of exclusionary ideologies and an ethical commitment to openness and compassion.

„Ideologies that subjugate the human being have no future.

They kill both freedom and the heart. “

• (Paraphrased from various addresses by Pope Francis,

  especially in the context of his critique of religious fanaticism, nationalism, and radical individualism.)

These words were not aimed at individuals – but at the mindset of an era that places what is measurable above humanity. Pope Francis set against this mindset a different measure: not power, but service; not technology, but responsibility; not the logic of systems, but the quiet suffering of the forgotten. He spoke not for an ideology, but in opposition to those ideologies that reduce human beings to a commodity of human capital. And that was – profoundly – political. But also, evangelical – in its original sense.

In a moment of global unrest, Pope Francis spoke aloud what few dare to say:

„The world is at war.

This is not a war of religions. There is a war of interests.

There is a war over money. There is a war over natural resources.

There is a war for dominance over peoples. That is the war.

All religions seek peace. Others seek war.

Have you understood? “

(Pope Francis, press conference on the flight to Krakow, 27 July 2016,

paraphrased from the original Italian version; cf. Vatican.va)

• An unsparing analysis of global mechanisms of power – beyond religious interpretations.

Pope Francis did not only speak about the state of the world – he also named the structures that give rise to it: the logics of isolation, exploitation, and the arms race. For him, armament was not an expression of strength, but a confession of collective fear. And war was no fateful destiny – but the result of injustice, of greed, and of the refusal to learn from history.

By naming armament a “confession of collective fear”, Francis unmasks a weakness that tries to disguise itself as strength. He is not speaking of all people, but of societal forces – of collaborative patterns of thought: patterns that prevail within certain groups and institutions. His gaze is directed against a system that conceives of security in military terms, rather than acting through civil society.

What remains is not merely the memory of a pope. What remains is the echo of a voice that did not fall silent because silence was easier – but spoke, because it could not do otherwise. What remains is a lasting message – in the name of those who have no stage.

Francis, with the resolve of a messenger of peace, remains a legacy for all who are willing to see – what is – and who can no longer remain silent. He did not lay down his Papal Ferula – he passed it on: to his spiritual heirs – whether within institutions, in spirit, or to the growing community of those who are awakening. In an age in which a new chapter is opening through the electronic network – a Gutenberg 2.0 – responsibility no longer rests solely with those entrusted with office, but with each one of us: to preserve this legacy, to embody it – and to carry it forward into the future.

For it is not the size of an institution that determines change – but the sincerity of those who dare to enact it.

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Dedicated to those, who understand,

that borders are drawn in the sand and established within the minds of people –

but never into the heart of the human family.

Werner Francis Schultze

Novus Tempus