On February 25, I stood before a conference hall full of bright, idealistic minds—students and young scholars gathered at the Mindanao International Studies Society Convention (MISSCON) 2025.
I was present to discuss a topic deeply ingrained in our hearts and history—the exclusion of Sulu from the Bangsamoro Autonomous Region, southern Philippines.
But before diving into legal provisions and historical grievances, I paused. I asked everyone in the room to join me in a moment of prayer—for Pope Francis.
Now, let me say this upfront: I’m a Muslim. And yet, on that day, I felt a deep responsibility—no, an inner moral urge—to ask for prayers for this Catholic pontiff. Why? Pope Francis served as more than just the spiritual leader of over a billion Catholics. He was, in many ways, a moral compass for the world.
At that time, he was recovering from a 38-day hospital stay for bronchitis and pneumonia. Doctors had urged him to reduce his schedule so he could rest. But if you knew anything about Pope Francis, he never let the frailty of the body restrain the strength of the spirit.
And that’s what I told the young people that day: Pray for the pope—not only because he was unwell, but because he dared to speak uncomfortable truths in a world increasingly numb to injustice. Pope Francis never sugarcoated his words, whether speaking from his modest window at the Vatican or making late-night calls to a besieged church in Gaza. He didn’t just talk about peace in polite diplomatic terms. He called out cruelty, naming the unspeakable horrors inflicted upon the people of Occupied Palestine with words the world often dared not use: “cruelty, not war,” “terrorism,” “shameful,” and “disproportionate and immoral.”
And in November 2024, when the bloodshed in Gaza reached unbearable proportions, he went further calling for an international investigation into whether the actions of the Zionist Entity constituted genocide. That, to me, was not just moral clarity; it was moral courage.
And yet, just as the world was still holding its breath, he surprised us all once more by showing signs of recovery.
On Easter Sunday, April 20, the frail Pope appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica—his voice softer but firm—for the delivery of the Urbi et Orbi blessing. His Easter message was unwavering: peace, peace, peace. A few hours later, he met with U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance, reiterating the same appeal: peace in a world torn by conflict, greed, and indifference.
The very next morning, April 21, 2025, the world awoke to heartbreaking news: Pope Francis had passed away. He was 88. A stroke and heart failure had silenced the man who had never been afraid to speak when silence was complicity.
As a Muslim, I reflect on his legacy, not through a theological lens but a deeply human one.
Firstly, we should acknowledge his humility. He chose simplicity over grandeur, Casa Santa Marta over the Apostolic Palace. He lived like the people he served.
Secondly, he demonstrated exceptional environmental leadership. His encyclical Laudato Si' served as more than just a document; it served as a call to action. And here’s a story that brings that home for me: My wife’s officemate once sent her eldest daughter to Ateneo de Davao University. After just one semester, that young girl came home profoundly changed—aware of her environmental responsibilities and committed to solid waste management, all thanks to the lessons she absorbed there. Her parents were so inspired that they enrolled their two younger children in the same school. That’s Laudato Si’ in action—not just in parishes, but in households.
Thirdly, he was committed to pursuing dialogue. He pursued not only interfaith dialogue, where he shook hands with Sheikh al-Azhar in Cairo and walked side by side with Ayatollah Sistani in Najaf, but also intra-faith dialogue. He met and prayed with leaders of the Eastern Orthodox Church, reached out to Protestant and Evangelical communities, and emphasized healing the wounds of division within Christendom. His 2016 meeting with Patriarch Kirill of the Russian Orthodox Church was historic, marking the first encounter in nearly 1,000 years between leaders of those two churches. His encounters with Anglican Archbishop Justin Welby and his shared prayers with Lutheran and Pentecostal communities signaled a shift from mere tolerance to genuine fraternity.
Finally, we hear his prophetic voice advocating for peace. Not just the absence of conflict, but the kind of peace rooted in justice, in truth, in human dignity. He stood with the Rohingya. He wept for Syria. He pleaded for Ukraine. And he condemned, without flinching, the ongoing siege of Gaza.
For me, Pope Francis embodied a timeless verse from the Qur’an:
“And nearest among them in love to the believers wilt thou find those who say, 'We are Christians,' because among these are men devoted to learning and men who have renounced the world, and they are not arrogant” (Surah al-Ma’idah 5:82).
He renounced the trappings of worldly power. He walked humbly. And he spoke loudly—for those who had no voice.
In a world growing numb to injustice, he reminded us that caring is acting, and believing is speaking—even when it's inconvenient or dangerous.
A month ago, I asked for prayers. Today, as a Muslim, I offer a tribute.
May the legacy of Pope Francis be not just remembered, but more importantly, lived and followed.
[Mansoor Limba is an Associate Professor of political science and international and Islamic studies at Jesuit-run Ateneo de Davao University in Davao City, Philippines]
