Pope Francis Final Journey: A Humble Farewell to a Shepherd of Mercy

TheIndonesia.co - In the morning of April 26th, 2025, the bells of Rome tolled not just in mourning, but in reverent celebration of a life lived with unwavering grace. Pope Francis, the 266th Bishop of Rome, the first pontiff from the Americas, and the shepherd of a Church in need of healing, was laid to rest in the quiet dignity he had so often exemplified.

His funeral was not a grand affair of spectacle and stately fanfare, but a moving tribute to a man who redefined papal leadership through humility, compassion, and an unyielding focus on those forgotten by the world.

From the very beginning of his papacy, Jorge Mario Bergoglio—known to the world as Pope Francis or Papa Francesco—refused the trappings of power. He chose the name of a poor saint. He rode in a modest car. He lived not in the Apostolic Palace, but in a guesthouse, Domus Sanctae Marthae. So it was only fitting that, in death, he continued to reject grandeur.

His casket was simple: unadorned wood, placed gently atop a plain rug in the heart of St. Peter’s Square. There were no lavish ornaments, no gilded layers—just the silence of thousands and the weight of a world’s grief.

The image struck a chord: a wooden box, a woven mat, and a clear Roman sky. This was not the end of a monarch’s reign, but the farewell of a servant—one who always reminded the world, “The true power is service.”

Following his wishes, Pope Francis’ final journey was aboard the SCV1—the humble popemobile that had once carried him through jubilant crowds in the Philippines, Brazil, the Central African Republic, and countless other nations. Now, it bore him through the streets of Rome one last time. This time, the glass windows framed a different kind of procession. There were no waving hands or children lifted for papal blessings. But there were tears, silence, and then—spontaneously—applause.

Thousands clapped their hands, not in joy, but in reverent thanks. In the faces of the mourners, there was grief, yes, but also gratitude. Gratitude for a pontiff who made mercy a central doctrine, who spoke not just to the faithful in pews, but to the wounded on the margins. A pope who asked again and again: “Who am I to judge?”

As the SCV1 made its way to the Basilica of St. Mary Maggiore, where Pope Francis had requested to be buried, the streets bore silent witness to history. He had often visited this ancient church—before every journey abroad, and upon his return—to pray before the image of the Virgin Salus Populi Romani. His devotion to Mary was quiet and constant, and so it was to her sanctuary he wished to return. Not to the crypts beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, but to a simple tomb marked only with his papal name: Franciscus.

There, among the mosaics of a mother holding her child, he would rest—close to the people, in keeping with his wish to be "a pastor with the smell of the sheep."

In his final months, Pope Francis' health had visibly declined. Yet even as his body weakened, his spirit burned bright. Every evening, as part of a routine few knew about, he would make a brief but powerful phone call—to Father Yusuf Azad, a priest stationed on the front lines of the Gaza Strip.

Their nightly conversations, often around 07.00 PM Vatican time, became a small but potent act of resistance against apathy. Through these calls, Pope Francis stayed connected to those suffering in silence. Gaza was bleeding, but he made sure it was not forgotten.

“He never left us alone,” Father Yusuf later shared, voice trembling. “Even in pain, he listened. He cried with us.”

This single, nightly act reminded the world what kind of leader he was. He did not merely speak for the voiceless—he heard them.

Pope Francis leaves behind no palace, no wealth, no heirs. What he leaves instead is a spiritual inheritance—a legacy of mercy. He asked the Church to be a "field hospital" for the wounded. He challenged the powerful to protect the earth and the poor. He insisted, again and again, on forgiveness, on love, on the revolutionary tenderness of God.

As his casket was lowered to rest, the applause did not fade—it only swelled. From every corner of the world came stories of personal redemption, of lives changed by the Pope who reminded us that no one is beyond God’s reach. He touched not just Catholics, but Muslims, Jews, atheists, refugees, prisoners, transgender people, climate activists, children, and skeptics. He walked with them all. He saw their dignity.

In the silence that followed, the Church was not left empty. It was filled with the echo of his words—his insistence on mercy over judgment, compassion over doctrine, and encounter over exclusion. He was not a pope for history books. He was a pope for hearts.

And so, under the Roman sun, on a modest rug with a wooden casket and no gold in sight, Pope Francis made his final act of witness. He showed us that a Church rooted in humility can still command the attention of the world.

He once said: “The Lord never tires of forgiving. It is we who tire of asking for forgiveness.”

Perhaps the final applause that filled the Roman air was not just gratitude. Perhaps it was also a promise—that we, too, would not tire of seeking mercy, or of extending it.

Rest now, Holy Father, mio Santo Padre. You have led your flock with a merciful heart. And in that mercy, you have shown us the face of God.