On the morning of Monday, April 21, 2025, Cardinal Kevin Farrell announced from the Vatican that Pope Francis had passed away. “At 7:35 this morning, the Bishop of Rome, Francis, returned to the house of the Father,” Cardinal Farrell said. The 88-year-old pontiff, who had faced a series of recent health struggles including bronchitis, made his last public appearance in St. Peter’s Square just a day earlier on Easter Sunday.

A transformative and visionary leader by any standard, Francis was not only the first Jesuit and Latin American pope—born in Buenos Aires in 1936—but also a champion for migrants’ rights, greater diversity within the Church, and urgent action against climate change and excessive consumerism.

In 2018, five years into his papacy, Jason Horowitz and Annie Leibovitz visited the Vatican to witness his work and its impact firsthand. Below is an excerpt from their story, “The Children’s Hour,” published in Vogue’s August 2018 issue:

It’s a June morning at the Vatican, and Pope Francis wears his usual thoughtful expression—watchful eyes, gentle smile. It’s the same look he gives world leaders, whether standing beside strongmen in Myanmar or Donald Trump, or chastising the Vatican’s insular bureaucracy. But today, we’re in the marble lobby of the Paul VI audience hall, where schoolchildren are about to perform songs. I wonder what they’ll make of him.

Yet when the children begin asking questions, Francis lights up. His warmth and playfulness shine through. As a journalist who has followed his papacy for years, I’ve seen this shift before—when he pauses mid-sermon to share simple wisdom, embraces a Muslim refugee in a camp, or drifts back to the press section on the papal plane to sign books, bless family photos, and accept small gifts. I’ve interviewed presidents and prime ministers, watched masters of media charm crowds. But when Francis laughed at my weak joke, I knew I was dealing with a true natural.

Perched on the edge of his armchair, he answers their questions: about his first teacher (“Estela—I had her in first and third grade”), his hometown (“the most beautiful city in the world, Buenos Aires”), and his favorite childhood game (“We flew kites a lot”). Then one boy stands and asks what it felt like when he was elected pope.

“That’s not an original question!” Francis chuckles. He grows serious. “I felt peace. That’s the truth. From that day until now, I’ve felt peace.”

Francis may be at peace, but in the five years since the 81-year-old became the first Jesuit pope, the world has grown more turbulent. The nationalist populism he warned against has surged. He’s watched Europe’s migrant crisis unfold, condemned the Trump administration’s family separation policy, and seen environmental and economic protections weaken globally. As the spiritual leader of over a billion Catholics, he continues advocating for an inclusive, internationalist vision that now feels out of step with the times.

“If he doesn’t speak up, who will? No one else,” Archbishop Claudio Maria Celli, a top Vatican diplomat, tells me. “Will they listen? Maybe not. But he can’t stay silent.”

Inside the Church, Francis has quietly revolutionized its focus—shifting away from divisive culture-war issues like abortion and homosexuality, and toward pastoral care for the poor. His allies say he’s returning the gospel to its radical roots. His modest cars, simple Vatican quarters, and plain white robes all send a deliberate message.

The Vatican’s de facto culture minister, Car…Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi remains amazed by Pope Francis’s ability to connect with diverse audiences—from world leaders and clergy to business executives and children. (Just this morning, Francis addressed a group of oil-company executives, urging them that “there is no time to lose” in combating climate change.) When I asked whether the pope’s message of tolerance is truly being heard—even in his own backyard, given Italy’s new populist government, which recently turned away a ship carrying over 600 migrants—Ravasi replied, “Francis has the courage to steer a different course, even when political tides are moving in one direction. He isn’t interested in riding the wave, seeking comfort, or hiding from political realities.”

In his first year as pope, Francis made waves with The Joy of the Gospel, an apostolic exhortation calling for a more inclusive, decentralized Church and elevating environmentalism as a core mission of the faith. Then, in 2016, he angered conservatives with On Love in the Family, which included a footnote suggesting a path for divorced and remarried Catholics to receive Communion—a footnote that sent shockwaves through the Catholic world.

Recently, I attended a conference of conservative cardinals in a Rome hotel basement, where some accused Francis of flirting with heresy, while far-right supporters cheered them on. I’ve read conservative blogs slamming the pope for his silence after Ireland voted to legalize abortion. Over drinks on Roman rooftops, I’ve listened to traditionalists argue against Muslim migration into Europe—and even trade gossip about the pope’s health, speculating about his life expectancy due to having only one functioning lung (the other was removed when he was a teenager).

“They cling to a Catholicism tied to nostalgia, to old traditions,” Archbishop Celli told me. For them, he added, Catholicism is like a museum. “Pope Francis is nothing like a museum.”

I first became aware of Jorge Mario Bergoglio—now Pope Francis—back in 2005. After years of a frail pope leading a rigid Church, Bergoglio’s humble demeanor and South American roots made him seem like the ideal choice for a Church eager to embrace its future. I predicted he would emerge from the conclave as pope.

I was wrong. The Vatican cardinals chose Joseph Ratzinger instead, seen by supporters as a last stand against Europe’s secularization. But the Church’s self-inflicted wounds, particularly the sex-abuse scandal that erupted under Ratzinger’s watch, became an overwhelming burden. In 2013, Benedict XVI (Ratzinger’s papal name) became the first pope in 500 years to resign.

I flew to Rome to cover the unexpected conclave. In the Vatican press office, a poster displayed the faces of potential papal candidates. Reporters picked their favorites, and as we waited for white smoke from the Sistine Chapel, most had dismissed Bergoglio as too old—a spent force whose moment had passed.

Francis proved us wrong that night, and he’s been doing so ever since. His famous 2013 remark, “Who am I to judge?” about gay Catholics of “good will” set the tone. His first papal trip to Brazil signaled that Catholicism’s future lay in the global South. In Myanmar and Bangladesh, I watched him navigate a political minefield before boldly naming the persecuted Rohingya Muslims—”the presence of God today is also called Rohingya”—despite pressure from his own Church to stay silent.

Perhaps most importantly, he has proven himself a shrewd leader—though critics call him ruthless—in reshaping the Church’s direction.Pope Francis, a skilled political operator, has outmaneuvered his opponents by appointing allies to lead the Roman Curia, the administrative body of the Church. Though the Curia remains strong and has recently reinforced Rome’s central authority—countering Francis’s more collaborative vision—the pope continues to shape the Church’s future. Each year, he appoints new cardinals who will eventually choose his successor, influencing the Church’s direction for decades.

Not everyone is satisfied with his leadership. On women’s rights, he has fallen short of many expectations. He maintains that women cannot become priests and often praises them in traditional, domestic terms. Yet in a June sermon, he appeared to broaden his stance, advocating for equality for women as “working companions,” not just mothers, and condemning a society where women are “trampled underfoot simply for being women.”

Another contentious issue is clerical sexual abuse. Earlier this year, Francis initially dismissed abuse survivors’ claims in Chile, accusing them of “slander” and defending a bishop accused of covering up abuse. These actions baffled even his staunchest supporters and risked damaging his legacy. But when it seemed he had lost his way, he made a striking turnaround—issuing a heartfelt apology, meeting with survivors, and removing bishops implicated in the scandal. Juan Carlos Cruz, one of the survivors, now says the pope has become a “friend,” restoring his hope.

This reflects Francis’s deep humanity. Another touching moment came in April when he visited a Rome housing project and comforted a boy, Emanuele, who froze while speaking. As they embraced, the pope listened while the child wept. Emanuele had lost his father, a non-believer, and wanted to know if he was in Heaven. “How beautiful to hear a son say of his father, ‘He was good,'” Francis remarked, reassuring the boy that God does not abandon good people.

Now, at the Vatican, he stands among children in red hats, many clutching balloons, spending an hour with them. “The pope loves this,” says Laurent Mazas, a priest overseeing Vatican outreach. Francis asks the crowd, “Do we have roots?” He answers himself: “Spiritual roots. The home. The family. The school.” Then he asks, “Can a child without roots bear fruit in life?”

“No,” the children reply. Francis smiles—it’s the right answer—and they plead with him to stay just a little longer.