A Pilgrimage of the Heart: Mourning Pope Francis at St. Mary Maggiore

TheIndonesia.co - In the heart of the Eternal City, where the cobbled streets of Rome wind past ancient stones and sacred sites, a new spiritual path is forming—one not of grandeur, but of humility. For centuries, pilgrims from across the world have made their way to the Vatican, longing to stand before the imposing majesty of St. Peter’s Basilica and the tombs of the popes buried beneath it. But now, many find themselves turning instead toward a quieter, more intimate place of prayer: the Basilica of St. Mary Major or St. Mary Maggiore.

There, in one of Rome’s most beloved and ancient churches, lies the final resting place of Pope Francis—a man whose life and death continue to echo the Gospel values he so fiercely embodied. In a surprising departure from long-held tradition, Francis requested to be buried not in the crypts of St. Peter’s, alongside his predecessors, but in this Marian sanctuary that held deep personal significance throughout his papacy.

His tomb, unveiled to the public shortly after his passing, is a study in humility. Made from white Ligurian marble, it bears no grandiose epitaph, no ornamental tribute. Instead, it is inscribed with just one word: Franciscus—his Latin name. A single white rose rests beside it, a quiet symbol of purity and devotion. The effect is striking, even profound. In a place where the saints are remembered in gold and frescoes, Pope Francis chose simplicity as his final message to the faithful.

Visitors who once queued for hours to glimpse the catacombs of popes at the Vatican are now lining the marble aisles of St. Mary Major. They come bearing flowers, prayers, and memories. They kneel before the tomb, some in silence, some weeping. Many pause before the beloved icon of Salus Populi Romani, the “Protectress of the Roman People,” before which Pope Francis so often prayed—especially before and after his apostolic journeys.

This choice of burial site was no afterthought. Throughout his papacy, Pope Francis made it a point to stop at St. Mary Major before and after each trip abroad. His bond with the basilica and with the Virgin Mary was both public and deeply personal. It is said that in his final months, he made the quiet request to be buried here—not for grandeur or visibility, but to rest in the embrace of the Mother he so often invoked.

His death on April 21th, 2025, ushered the Vatican into Novemdiales, the traditional nine days of mourning observed after the death of a pope. The period began with a solemn funeral Mass in St. Peter’s Square on April 26th, attended by more than 400,000 mourners. Clergy and laypeople alike filled the square, carrying banners and candles, their faces illuminated by both grief and gratitude. Over the next nine days, Masses were held daily by various cardinals, each offering prayers for the repose of Pope Francis’ soul and thanksgiving for his ministry.

The Novemdiales are more than liturgical tradition—they are a communal farewell, a spiritual bridge between the living and the dead. In each Mass, the themes Pope Francis championed—mercy, justice, compassion for the poor—were invoked in his memory. The basilicas of Rome rang with sacred music as the Church universal mourned a shepherd who never ceased to remind the world that the Church is “a field hospital,” meant to heal, not to judge.

Yet even as the Vatican observed its formal rites, something even more moving was happening at St. Mary Major. Hundreds of mourners began gathering at the basilica, some lining up overnight, waiting patiently to enter the chapel that now holds Pope Francis’ tomb. There is no ticket, no formal tour—only silence, reverence, and prayer.

Inside, the chapel glows softly under centuries-old mosaics, but all eyes are drawn to the tomb. The white marble reflects light gently. There is no gold, no crown, no coat of arms—only Franciscus, and a rose. The austerity is as powerful as any sermon. It says: here lies a man who believed the papacy should serve, not rule. A man who chose a guesthouse over a palace, who paid his hotel bill after his election, who washed the feet of prisoners and migrants, who carried his own bag, and who never stopped asking the world to remember the poor.

“He was one of us,” a pilgrim from Buenos Aires whispered through tears, kneeling before the tomb. “He never stopped being Jorge.”

That sentiment is echoed by thousands making the journey to Rome in these early days after his death. For many, this is more than a visit—it is a pilgrimage of the heart. In the silence of St. Mary Major, they find not the echo of triumph, but the tender sound of service. Pope Francis’ resting place invites reflection, not spectacle. It is as if he is still teaching, still leading, even in death.

And perhaps that is his greatest legacy.

Pope Francis changed how the world sees the papacy—not as a throne to be occupied, but as a basin and towel with which to wash the feet of the weary. He broke barriers with compassion, visited the forgotten, opened doors for interfaith dialogue, and tirelessly advocated for the environment and the marginalized. He was the pope who asked, “Who am I to judge?” and called upon the Church to be more pastoral, more inclusive, and more merciful.

His final resting place is a mirror of that vision. There is no need to whisper in reverence; his tomb encourages conversation with God, with the self, with the world he loved so deeply.

In the coming months and years, more pilgrims will arrive at St. Mary Major. Some will come out of devotion, others out of curiosity. Many will bring stories—of how his words touched their lives, of how his actions inspired them to care more deeply, live more simply, love more fully. And when they stand before the humble tomb marked only Franciscus, they will understand that in the end, Pope Francis left us not with monuments, but with meaning.

As the nine days of mourning conclude, the Church looks ahead—not with finality, but with continuity. Pope Francis may have left this world, but his legacy walks beside the millions who were shaped by his witness. His simplicity, his gentleness, his insistence that the Church be close to the people—all of this lives on.

And so, as bells toll across the Vatican, and prayers rise like incense from chapels great and small, a new kind of pilgrimage begins. Not just to Rome, but to the deeper place in the soul where God whispers: be humble, be merciful, be love.

Because now, in a quiet chapel at St. Mary Major, lies a man who lived those words—and whose tomb, as simple as his message, is now a beacon for all who seek the same path.