A Shepherd Who Smelled Like His Sheep: A Tribute to Pope Francis I

Pope Francis died yesterday morning in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the modest Vatican guesthouse he called home. He passed as he lived — simply, humbly, and surrounded by people rather than the trappings of power. As an Anglican, I do not look to Rome for authority. But I have often looked to Francis for example.

His papacy was not marked by dogma or pomp, but by the persistent heartbeat of mercy. He led not from a throne, but from beside the marginalised — and sometimes, from behind them, urging the Church forward.

Three moments in particular stay with me. But even before those, there was the name.

He chose the name Francis — the first pope to do so — not as ornament, but as signal. A clear declaration that his leadership would be different. Francis of Assisi, the saint of the margins, the lover of creation, the troubadour of peace. Franciscans have always walked the edges. They have seen creation as whole, not fragmented. They have refused to uphold the divisions that empire, wealth, and hierarchy so often demand. In choosing that name, Pope Francis aligned himself with a way of being church that was grounded, outward-looking, and deeply human.

"For me, he is the man of poverty, the man of peace, the man who loves and protects creation... the same creation that we are not cultivating, that we are not protecting."— Pope Francis, March 16, 2013

The first moment that has stayed with me was after his election as pope. While the world looked for white smoke and awaited grandeur, Francis quietly returned to his hotel to pay his bill — choosing to take the minibus back with the other cardinals. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about responsibility. About remembering who he was before donning the white cassock.

The second: Maundy Thursday. Where his predecessors washed the feet of twelve priests — a ritual long confined to male clergy — Francis broke the mould. He went to prisons. He knelt before inmates. He washed the feet of women, of Muslims, of the forgotten. In 2024, in what would be his final Maundy Thursday, he visited a women’s prison and washed the feet of twelve women. What a final statement — one that shouldn’t need to be made, but still does.

Not all were pleased. But he was not pleasing power. He was imitating Christ.

Pope Francis kissing the foot of an inmate in 2013 at Casal del Marmo youth prison.

And finally, his home. He declined the papal apartments — grand, formal, and distant — and chose instead a modest apartment in the Vatican guesthouse. He shared meals. Walked among staff. Lived simply. Not because he lacked options, but because he believed the Church should walk humbly with God.

Pope Francis reminded the world what spiritual leadership could look like: courageous in compassion, grounded in humility, and profoundly human.He smelt like the sheep. And for that, I give thanks.As the Church — all churches — move into a future marked by deep uncertainty, his legacy remains a compass. Not a blueprint, but a spirit: one that leans toward the margins, that listens more than it speaks, that chooses love over judgement. He showed us a glimpse of what it means to lead like Jesus — not by might, but by mercy.

We have lost a beacon. May we have the courage to pick it up.

May he rest in peace and rise in Glory.