Pope Francis has died at 88, leaving behind a legacy of humility and reform, and in a final act of defiance against centuries of tradition, he chose a simple open coffin and burial outside the Vatican to reflect his lifelong commitment to a more compassionate and modest Church.

In a world often defined by rituals and rigid formality, Pope Francis consistently stood as a symbol of disruption. Even in death, the Argentine-born pontiff chose to challenge centuries of Vatican convention, leaving the Catholic world in awe.

On April 21, 2025, the 88-year-old pope passed away peacefully in his modest Vatican residence at Casa Santa Marta, surrounded by close aides and members of his inner circle.

But what followed—the quiet confirmation of his death, the open wooden coffin, and the plans for a humble burial—was nothing short of revolutionary for the Holy See.

As the sun rose over Rome on that Easter Monday, bells tolled solemnly while faithful around the globe reacted to the Vatican’s brief but historic announcement: Pope Francis had died.

The news was not unexpected—he had faced a string of serious health issues in recent years, including colon surgery in 2021, a knee problem that left him reliant on a wheelchair, and a bout with bronchitis in 2023 that required hospitalization.

Despite these challenges, Francis never ceased to serve, continuing his papal duties with remarkable resilience and unshakable devotion.

Known for his preference for simplicity over splendor, Francis had long hinted at his desire for an understated end. That wish was unmistakably clear as his body was placed in a simple, open wooden coffin—no gold, no velvet, and certainly no triple-nested sarcophagus that popes before him had used.

The Vatican confirmed he had specifically requested to forgo such pomp in his funeral arrangements. Visitors entering St. Peter’s Basilica to pay their respects were met with a quiet, almost jarring sight: the frail body of the pontiff lying unadorned, his white papal garments slightly faded, his crucifix gently resting on his chest.

It was a final message from a pope who spent over a decade preaching humility, inclusion, and the necessity of a “poor Church for the poor.” Elected in 2013 after the shocking resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, Francis immediately set a different tone for the papacy.

He declined the lavish Apostolic Palace in favor of a small guest house room. He carried his own bags. He washed the feet of prisoners, migrants, and Muslims.

He traveled to the world’s forgotten places—from Myanmar to the Central African Republic—spreading messages of peace and human dignity. He spoke openly on climate change, LGBTQ inclusion, and economic inequality, often ruffling feathers within the Church’s more conservative wings.

Now, with his passing, the Church faces a profound moment of reflection. For the first time in history, two former popes—Benedict XVI and Francis—have died in the 21st century after voluntarily shaping their papacies and departures in markedly different ways.

Francis had already signaled, more than once, that he would be open to resignation if his health rendered him unable to serve, just as Benedict had done in 2013. But fate made the decision for him.

The funeral will be held in the coming days, stripped of many traditional formalities. In another break from precedent, Francis will not be buried in the grotto beneath St. Peter’s Basilica where his immediate predecessors now rest.

Instead, he will be laid to rest at the Basilica of St. Mary Major, a church he often visited before and after trips abroad, and where he would famously pray to the icon of the Virgin Mary, Salus Populi Romani. That choice carries deep personal meaning—it’s a return to the people, to simplicity, and to the image of a shepherd who walked with his flock.

Global reactions have poured in from every corner. Leaders, both secular and religious, have praised Francis as a moral compass in uncertain times.

Many noted how he used his platform not to wield power, but to share it, to lift others, and to constantly refocus attention on those most often forgotten by society. From the slums of Buenos Aires to the halls of the Vatican, his journey was marked by humility and fearless advocacy.

As the cardinals prepare to gather in conclave to elect the next pontiff, questions abound. Will the next pope follow the path Francis laid—one of reform, social justice, and doctrinal openness? Or will the Church take a more conservative turn?

Francis had appointed the majority of the cardinals who will vote, many of whom share his vision, but the future remains uncertain. What is clear, however, is that the Church will never be the same after him.

Even in his last moments, Francis chose to preach without words. His final acts—no grand coffin, no burial in imperial splendor, no crown—reflected everything he had spent his life teaching. That the Church is not a palace, but a home. That power must serve, not dominate. And that death, like life, should speak of truth, humility, and hope.

In choosing to die as he lived, Francis has perhaps delivered his most powerful homily yet. One that will echo not just in basilicas and cathedrals, but in the hearts of millions around the world who saw in him not a monarch in white robes, but a man who walked among them—one last time, in silence.