Just weeks before he died, Pope Francis was doing what he does best: infuriating conservatives.
In an extraordinary intervention in mid-February, the pope initiated a head-on clash with the new U.S. administration, slamming President Donald Trump’s plans to deport millions of undocumented migrants as a “violation of dignity,” and accusing Vice President JD Vance of misusing an obscure theological term. Washington responded with predictable fury, but the Holy See was undeterred.
It was a vintage Francis move: impulsive, instinctively protective of the poor and defenseless, and — mercifully — light on theological jargon. But it was also illustrative of the pope’s willingness to abandon diplomatic niceties and take a divisive, outspoken approach at a time of increasing fragmentation.
Francis, who died on Easter Monday at the age of 88, leaves behind a complex legacy. He was elected in 2013 on a mandate to clean up the Church, after his predecessor Benedict XVI abruptly resigned following the so-called Vatileaks scandal. The first Latin American and Jesuit pontiff, he was also first to use the name Francis, in reference to Francis of Assisi, the 13th century champion of the poor. But he departs an institution that, while outwardly committed to advocacy for the dispossessed and marginalized, has made inadequate efforts to address its own failings, from priestly abuse to the misuse of Vatican finances.
Jorge Mario Bergoglio was born in 1936 in Buenos Aires to Italian migrants Mario, a railway worker, and Regina, a homemaker. Reportedly clever, mischievous and fond of football, he worked stints as a nightclub bouncer and janitor, before studying chemistry and then working as a lab technician in a food laboratory. A serious bout of pneumonia led to the removal of part of one of his lungs in 1957. Soon after, he joined the Jesuits, following an apparently inspired visit with a local priest.
Bergoglio initially struggled to reconcile his vocation with more civilian instincts, later confessing he was “dazzled” by a young woman he met while at seminary. Nevertheless, he rapidly climbed the ranks of the Argentine Church, gaining a reputation for magnanimity and earning the sobriquet “slum bishop” for doubling the number of priests in Buenos Aires’ poor neighborhoods.
But he was already a divisive figure: During the bloody “dirty war” of the junta against its adversaries in the 1970s, Bergoglio — then the leader of Argentina’s powerful Jesuits — was accused of complicit silence when the military abducted dissident clerics who were under his authority. Others, however, claimed he attempted to protect his subordinates.
In the Eternal City
Francis slipped into his now familiar persona of humility and simplicity when he was made cardinal by Pope John Paul II in 2001, cultivating a name for eschewing priestly extravagance, living modestly and using public transport. After Benedict XVI quit, he seemed to embody reformists’ ideals in a Church desperate for change, becoming the first pope from outside Europe since the eighth century’s Syrian Pope Gregory III.
His papacy marked a break with Benedict’s distant, academic style. He headed a drive for the Church to resemble more of a “field hospital,” prioritizing the needy and downplaying the importance of sexuality. ”Who am I to judge,” he famously told reporters in 2013 when asked if a gay person could become a priest.
That message, delivered with characteristic cheek, marked the start of Francis’ yearslong bid to realize the progressive ambitions of the Second Vatican Council — the 1960s-era global consultation that sought to align the Church with the liberal revolutions of that era. From the outset, he projected a message of tolerance, defended migrants and harshly criticized capitalist excess, while striving to balance that agenda with the conservatism of the fast-growing Catholic cohorts in Africa, Asia and Latin America.
To an extent, Francis was able to chip away at the Church’s millennia-old structure, opening up high-level Vatican offices to women and lay people.
But for the most part, these chaotic efforts only annoyed conservatives and disappointed liberals. For instance, he maintained barriers to female priests, and was forced to dilute a landmark declaration of same-sex blessings under pressure from outraged African bishops.
Francis was also divisive on the international stage. He won the admiration of followers in the global south and received blowback from supporters in the West with his urgent calls for peace in Ukraine, silence on China’s oppression of religious minorities and harsh condemnations of Israel’s invasion of Gaza — reflecting a complex worldview forged in leftist Peronist Argentina. His leadership style could also be unpredictable, as he would cancel plans after leaks by journalists and abandon promises.
All of this helped nurture an increasingly radical conservative faction — particularly in the U.S.
The de facto leader of the opposition to Francis was arch-conservative Cardinal Raymond Burke, renowned for wearing ludicrously ostentatious cosplay bishops’ vestments, while lamenting that the Catholic Church is “too feminized” and pinning the priest shortage on the introduction of altar girls. Burke repeatedly clashed with Francis over his supposed woke agenda, with one particularly bizarre feud unfolding over the alleged supply of condoms to Myanmar by the Order of the Knights of Malta. Burke’s broadsides continued without cease for years. He challenged the pontiff’s push to end the church’s ban on communion for remarried divorcees, and fulminated over his crackdown on the Latin mass. The pope responded by quietly marginalizing Burke, eventually removing his right to a subsidized Vatican apartment.
Indeed, Francis was no shrinking violet, and his avuncular image belied a talent for playing adversaries off one another, ensnaring them when they least expected. More prosaically, he liked to insult them — even saying his pompous conservative critics are mentally unstable.
His conservative foes, meanwhile, used Benedict as a totem for their values while he still lived. They claimed the throne of Peter was vacant under Francis’ rule, with some even dubbing him the “antichrist.”
They were helped by Francis’ own blunders, including his patchy efforts to clean up the Vatican’s finances. In 2017, a top auditor was mysteriously ousted, leading to a botched investment in London real estate, as well as the conviction and imprisonment of former cardinal Angelo Becciu. Francis met Becciu privately as the trial was underway, raising questions about his judgment.
His handling of abuse allegations against top lieutenants raised similar issues. The pontiff was seen as protecting and even elevating close friends accused of serious sexual misconduct. This included Jesuit priest and mosaic artist Marko Rupnik, whose garish artworks were recommissioned by the Vatican even after rape accusations emerged.
Inconsistency might have been the defining feature of the pope’s reign. Rather than reforming the Church, he has largely left behind chaos — and a theological quagmire — for whoever succeeds him.
As conservatives now sharpen their knives, that battle looks to be fraught.
On the one hand, Francis dramatically reshaped the geographic breakdown of the clerical elite over the years, appointing 110 of the 138 cardinals who will be eligible to elect his successor, many of them from outside of Europe. But Rome insiders warn that’s no guarantee of their support for his vision after he’s gone; Vatican alliances rarely survive the shift to a new pontiff.
All the same, much of the drama around his papacy has been an elite one: At his death, he enjoyed approval ratings among the world’s 1.4 billion faithful that would be the envy of most politicians.