To be honest, I felt relief when Pope Francis died. This had nothing much to do with his regular assertion, in contradiction of Catholic doctrine, that all war is unjust. Or his view that Ukraine should have ‘the courage to raise the white flag’ to stop more futile bloodshed which ironically is (more or less) Donald Trump’s view. Or his suggestion that Israel is guilty of genocide in Gaza. Or his more-the-merrier view on illegal immigrants.
No. The cause turned not on politics but on the heart. However absurdly, I had come to see the Holy Father as a love rival. My wife Carla, a devout Catholic, was besotted with him. ‘How I love him!’ she used to say. ‘You only have to listen to him speak and he enters your heart… He wanted to be in contact with his flock and not stuck on a golden throne. He said: “Like a good shepherd I want to be surrounded by the smell of my sheep” … Don’t you agree he’s the most fantastico man?!’ How could I not? ‘Yes,’ I hissed.
In 2017, when Pope Francis visited nearby Cesena, Carla was in the crowd with the youngest of our six children, Giuseppe, then two, in her arms. As the Popemobile passed, the Pope reached down and laid his left hand on Giuseppe’s head. Miraculously, a woman nearby took a photo that somehow captured the moment and she gave Carla a copy.
It is three weeks since Jorge Bergoglio died, and Carla is still bombarding me with WhatsApp messages containing links to examples of his immensity. They include a short video of him seated in his wheelchair, throwing a tennis ball at a black and white border collie.
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