A good man has not died, but an uncomfortable man, redundant as it may sound. That is to say, a Christian has died. We all accumulate so many opinions about the oldest living institution that we easily forget (starting with the institution itself) its original purpose: to bring to the world, like its founder, not peace but war through turning the other cheek. By putting love where hatred reigns by default. The program is so demanding for the human condition that Oscar Wilde - another scandalous Christian - concluded that it remained largely unpublished in Western history, with the exception of eccentrics like precisely St. Francis.
Therefore, Bergoglio, the first Jesuit pope and the first American, adopted the name of the revolutionary from Assisi to fully take on the foolish task that has ended up crushing his lungs. But that is how one must die: only after having emptied life in the service of an idea more powerful than ourselves. In this case, the incredibly uncomfortable, always pioneering idea of charity.
Was he then a good Pope? Certainly, he managed to cause scandal among our two main groups of Pharisees. Some would use his preferential option for the poor or immigrants as a political bargaining chip, although they would end up lamenting that he did not bless abortion or agree to ordain trans bishops. Others would contemplate the traumatic images of his audience with Ada Colau or with Yolanda Díaz and miss the good old days of selling indulgences or trafficking noble titles.
Those on the left who saw Bergoglio as a progressive politician were materially blinded to legitimizing his moral authority as the successor of St. Peter, let alone as the vicar of Christ. Those on the right who longed for greater doctrinal rigor intimately overlooked the evangelical primacy of the dispossessed. Neither side fully embraces the program because it is a program humanly impossible to assume. And therein lies the grace.
Everyone has an opinion on the legacy of the Argentine Pope and has an equally strong opinion on the direction the Catholic Church should now take, whether they belong to it or not. Bishops should not be bothered by the professional intrusion of any TV pundit incapable of finding a prayer in a Bible because that willingness to intervene implies recognition of the real influence that the Vatican still holds. The visible emotion on the face of a contrite Milei during his personal meeting with the compatriot he had insulted seemed significant enough of that power to me. And I dare to predict - and forgive me if I am not risking too much - that if Spanish Catholicism survived Azaña (who learned the old lesson of peace, piety, and forgiveness late), it will certainly survive Pedro Sánchez. And it will likely emerge stronger.
Now the speculations of the sudden Vatican experts will proliferate. The amusing hunt for ideological papal sexers is declared open. It is about projecting the political taxonomies of the typical columnist onto the conclave and distributing the labels of conservative or progressive, which, upon the death of Francis, must be read in reverse: the rupture would come from a return to the European-rooted orthodoxy, while continuity would be represented by the heirs of Bergoglio's peripheral sensitivity. Understanding the periphery not only as a physical place, equivalent to the geography of the pain of the slums, but also as a social and existential sphere. The flickering response to the mystery posed by Camus: "Men die, and they are not happy."
Jorge Mario Bergoglio, with his successes and mistakes, has meant for the Church a doorbell from the outskirts in the very heart of Rome. That is, in the heart of this Europe that is confusingly turning in on itself, stirred by dark nostalgias and awaiting plausible leadership, preparing to relive yesterday's challenges without yesterday's values.
It will be a relief that amidst such confusion, a clear voice will soon be heard again, one that measures days by the calm yardstick of millennia and that recalls the promised blessedness to men of goodwill.