Letter to Pope Francis

I was in first grade when Pope Paul VI and Pope John Paul I died; I was already a college professor when Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict passed away. Their passing brought me a great deal of sadness. For some reason, though, your passing has been different, heavier, and the loss felt more intensely. I don't remember shedding tears when any of these previous holy popes left this world. I knew and trusted in the Lord's promise to all who serve him.

With your dying, though, it's been different. Hard.

You see, it was you who, when I was, just a few years ago, living the life I had worked so hard to build for many years—a fulfilling academic career, a busy and fruitful administrative job, even a truly life-giving ministry—inspired me to leave the amazingly comfortable life I was living, in a place that gave my heart and mind much tranquility, peace, and a sense of belonging, success, and fulfillment, and to instead take a leap and a tremendous risk by uprooting my life and immersing myself, my ministry, and my vocation in a place that too often no longer felt like home.

That's understandable, having been away for so long, serving the Lord's future priests on the other side of the planet.

"You will feel so out of place," a good friend cautioned me when I told him I wanted to return to the land of my birth. "You're making a big mistake," a number of them told me. "Make sure you think the issue through," still others counseled.

But, you see, that existential periphery you asked us to go to, I discovered in deep prayer, wasn’t just out there but in here, in our innermost self, where an insistent voice refused to be silenced. "Follow," it urged; it was most compelling.

And so, I took that leap, eyes closed, anxious, trepidation-filled, and yes, even a bit fearful. However, I continued to trust. Indeed, you motivated me to abandon everything and heed the inner guidance we must fervently believe belongs to the Lord. And you asked us to follow. You asked us to go, to not be afraid, to head out into the unknown, carrying nothing in our hearts but the Lord and His love for His people, which should be ours as well.

I wasn't alone either.

I remember having deep conversations with one of my students, a bright, hardworking, kind, and generous young man who had been slated for further studies in Rome, who was beloved by his bishop and his friends, and who, many said, had a tremendous future in the Church. He chose instead to follow a life dedicated to poverty and service to the poor as a Franciscan. To say that his superiors weren't too happy that I failed to convince him to take the previous path laid out for him would be an understatement.

You see, Holy Father, you inspired many; in your simple way, you spoke to the hearts, minds, souls, and bodies of many of us.

"Follow," that voice says. How could any of us refuse, after your encouragement, after your example? It just isn't possible to say no.

Little did I know, of course, that fire and storm were to accompany me on the path you inspired me to take. It's been one amazing yet storm-tossed ride ever since.

A couple of weeks ago, as a needle sank deep into my flesh and I writhed in pain (I can't tell you how many such needles have been jabbed into me since coming home), the nurse asked, "Are you ok? Are you still able to handle i?"it?" eyes began to water from pain. "I can do this," I told myself. "Sure, I'm ok," I told her. I needed to recuperate; the edges beckon, and the weakest among our brethren await. I have to be there. I had to get there, these pesky ailments notwithstanding. That is why I came home, inspired by your words and example.

One of my spiritual fathers in seminary used to always tell me, “Remember, you must die standing up, die with your boots on!. You certainly did, Holy Father. How could any of us have known that that Easter morning at the balcony and on the square was your one last goodbye, your one final way of showing you loved us— your “dying with your boots on”?

I grew up with the Franciscan Capuchins in school regaling us with stories of Francis, your namesake, giving up everything (including becoming a priest, as he believed himself unworthy) to live a life tethered solely on the Lord's promise of love for all of us, most especially the poorest of the poor. Their stories fascinated me at a very tender age, and I wanted nothing more than to live that kind of life. I decided not to pursue medical school, law school, or any other possible profession or career. How could they compete with that ever-insistent voice that asked that one "follow"?

That path hasn't been easy, but it has been truly great, tremendously graced, amazingly blessed, and a wonderful adventure of faith and trust that gives away everything it can give away, "no sandals, no extra shirt, no staff," and that says 'no' to every attraction of power, wealth, authority, and acclaim.

Upon seeing you on the balcony of St. Peter's after your selection, a sudden clarity dawned upon me; everything began to make sense. Many of us were hooked like sheep gathered by a shepherd's crook.

And now you're gone.

I didn't weep when my mom passed away; it was excruciatingly painful, but I knew she was with the Lord. The moment I heard her confession, gave her absolution, and finished praying the rosary with her in the ICU, I knew in my heart that she would be with the Lord. I think that was the reason the tears that had been welling in my heart never streamed down my face. I trusted, and that was enough.

But this time, with your passing, it was different. When I received that text message from a friend saying you had died, and when my initial disbelief gave way to a headache, the result no doubt of shock, a profound sorrow felt like it was ripping my insides to shreds—not because I didn't trust that you too would be in heaven, but because I felt like an orphan here on earth.

Losing not only the people we love but also the ideas, visions, and ideals that have ignited, inspired, directed, and guided us can be extremely painful. Feeling orphaned by them, I have come to understand, can sometimes be just as heavy, if not heavier, to bear.

I've encountered many church leaders: genuinely good, caring, loving, wonderful, kind, and generous shepherds. But something in your heart spoke to mine—and I am sure, to countless others like myself. I think it's going to take a while to regain one's footing after the captain whose directions you've followed, whose every word you seriously clung to, whose inspiration kept you going, and whose vision truly set your heart and soul on fire to seek to do the toughest things for God and His people is gone.

We will undoubtedly receive a new shepherd. The Lord has promised to remain with his Church "till the end of time." And so I guess all I'm saying is that I, and many others like myself, will miss your inspiration, but most of all, your concrete witness. That is hard to come by in the world, especially today.

I will miss you, Holy Father.

I will miss following you daily, wondering what new and amazing (and yes, sometimes even "jarring") thing you are going to say. I will miss that feeling of being "thrown off guard," of having "the rug swept from under my feet," of being critiqued, challenged, and admonished, all out of genuine love and authentic care, and being reminded that—as your predecessor Pope Benedict once kept reminding us who wanted to follow in the Lord's footsteps—

"We haven't been called to a life of ease, but to one of greatness."

Pray for all of us, but especially us priests. Would that all our hearts were like yours? Pray that our sincere love and service to those "nearest and dearest to the Lord's heart," our sisters and brothers who are materially and spiritually poor, may be your lasting legacy in each of us.

May our brief encounter with you in this life—as you shepherded God's people—remain with us for the rest of our lives and bring us finally to the promise you now enjoy, with the Lord, with the Blessed Mother, and with all the holy ones who, I am certain, are all rejoicing at your homecoming.

Goodbye, Holy Father. Thank you for everything.

Fr. Ferdinand Santos, April 26, 2025, on the day of your funeral