The Relatable Pontiff

In an era of excess, Pope Francis’s simple lifestyle made him an unlikely star

Within hours of his death early Monday, a photo of Pope Francis began to recirculate on social media. Taken in 2008, it showed the man then known as Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, dressed in simple black clothes, riding a crowded Buenos Aires subway car shoulder to shoulder with everyday commuters (and looking uncannily like Jonathan Price, the actor who would portray him in The Two Popes).

On the popular Instagram account @historycoolkids, the photo was accompanied by a caption that listed the ordinary jobs he’d held before becoming pope: janitor, nightclub bouncer, high school teacher.

The image captured the modesty and relatability that made Pope Francis the most radical pontiff in decades and, paradoxically, also made him an unlikely global celebrity with influence and appeal well beyond the Catholic flock. Taking over the church at a moment of crisis, Francis eschewed the most extravagant, antiquated trappings of the office and lived as normally as possible. At the same time, he embraced more modern, accessible forms of communication like social media; happily posing for selfies with young Vatican visitors, further fueling his celebrity.

In an era defined by excess and conspicuous consumption, the late pontiff was admired by many because of his commitment to fighting for economic justice and leading by example through a simple lifestyle—a bit like the Bernie Sanders of Vatican City.

From the moment it began in 2013, Francis’s papacy felt unexpected, as if a Regular Joe suddenly found himself thrust into the role of global spiritual leader. At the time of Pope Benedict XVI’s shock resignation, Cardinal Bergoglio had been preparing for retirement. He was not on anyone’s shortlist to succeed Benedict. Yet after the two-day conclave, he emerged as the first Jesuit and first Latin American pope.

In another first for a pope, he named himself after St. Francis of Assisi, the friar known for his devotion to the poor and his reverence for animals and nature—a clear signal of the kind of pontiff he planned to be.

His predecessor was a traditionalist and a bit of a dandy who favored Baroque fashions: ermine-trimmed velvet hats and custom-made red loafers—ornate, throwback looks that reflected his old-school views on the Catholic faith. Benedict’s sartorial flair may have earned him a spot on Esquire’s best-dressed list in 2007 (he was named “accessorizer of the year”) but it did little to combat the impression that the church was increasingly out-of-touch with the modern world.

Francis, by contrast, wore plain black shoes and was known to get around in a Ford Focus. Bucking tradition, he declined to live in the capacious Apostolic Palace and opted instead for a simple 538-square foot suite in the Casa Santa Marta, a spartan guest house designed for visiting clergy. The living arrangements not only suited his modest taste, but also his desire for community rather than living in a rarefied bubble. “I need to live my life with others,” he said.

Francis combined this pared-down lifestyle with a new set of spiritual priorities, deemphasizing divisive culture war issues like abortion and gay rights to focus on matters like climate change, economic inequality, and migration. When it came to the LGBTQ+ community, he rejected the moralizing tone of his predecessors and struck a more inclusive note, even if he didn’t go as far as many would have liked. A few months into his papacy, he made headlines around the world when a reporter asked him about gay people in the church.

“If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?" he replied.

Instead of directing his ire outward, Francis instead took aim at profligacy and financial malfeasance within the church. He pushed out clergy members who failed to follow his frugal example, like Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Els, the man dubbed “The Bishop of Bling” because he spent $40 million renovating his residence (including a $20,000 bathtub).

In 2013, just months after he was elected, Francis was named Time’s person of the year, in part because of how he’d inspired Catholics disillusioned with the church because of its pervasive sexual abuse scandals and regressive views on women and LGBTQ+ issues. According to the magazine, “What makes this Pope so important is the speed with which he has captured the imaginations of millions who had given up on hoping for the church at all.”

Francis’ modesty didn’t mean he was boring—quite the contrary. He displayed a mischievous, frequently self-deprecating sense of humor, which only added to his appeal. In his first speech as pontiff in 2013, the former Cardinal joked that the College of Cardinals had “gone almost to the ends of the Earth” to find a new pope. After a hospital stay following intestinal surgery in 2021, he quipped that he was “still alive, even though some wanted me dead,” a reference to conservative critics within the church.

A huge part of his celebrity was his apparent normalcy. Like those tabloid magazine features that claim to show how Hollywood stars are just like us—look, it’s Ben Affleck at Dunkin Donuts!—countless articles over the last 12 years have chronicled Francis’ relatable quirks: He threw a pizza party for his birthday. He loved soccer. He kissed babies. Sometimes, he made them cry.

His humor, accessibility, humanity, and relatability all combined to make a new kind of spiritual celebrity.

In 2015, Francis paid a memorable visit to New York, where he received an ecstatic welcome from the city’s chronically jaded residents. Some 80,000 people—who’d obtained tickets through a lottery—lined up in Central Park to watch him wave from the popemobile. Francis also led mass at Madison Square Garden, a venue better known for hosting Knicks games and rock concerts. The following year, he joined Instagram with a post that said “Pray for me” in nine languages.

Francis’s strange charisma, combined with his groundbreaking papacy, made him an appealing subject for filmmakers, as Alissa Wilkinson noted in the New York Times this week. Conclave, the thoroughly entertaining Oscar-nominated adaptation of Robert Harris’ novel of the same name, featured an enlightened, Francis-like cardinal from Latin America.The Two Popes, released in 2019, imagines a conversation between Benedict and Francis, then Cardinal Bergoglio.

Fittingly, Francis’ death felt like something concocted by a Hollywood screenwriter. He died the day after Easter, the most sacred holiday in the Christian calendar. In his final hours, he appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica to deliver an Easter blessing, took a ride around the square in the popemobile, and met briefly with J.D. Vance, a Catholic convert and outspoken critic of the pope on issues such as immigration. (The pope sent him home with chocolate Easter eggs for his three kids.) Early the next morning, Francis died.

As Jimmy Kimmel joked on ABC, “Is there anything more Catholic than waiting until Monday so you don’t upstage Jesus Christ?... It’s the pope version of a mic drop.”

Fittingly, his death has prompted tributes from the usual dignitaries and world leaders—even Trump was unusually gracious in remembering Francis as “a very good man who loved the world and especially loved people who were having a hard time”—but also from not especially religious celebrities like Leonardo DiCaprio, Eva Longoria, and Jimmy Fallon.

Ultimately, what made Francis so beloved is also what makes the future feel so uncertain: on a world stage dominated by right-wing populism, he seemed like a lone voice for so many causes. His papacy overlapped with an era in which the wealth gap became even more yawning. When he was elected pope in 2013, the world’s richest person, Bill Gates, was worth about $73 billion; today, Elon Musk is worth roughly five times that already astronomical amount. His death follows a week dominated by headlines about celebrities joyriding in space on a billionaire’s rocket and the “gold guy” who gave the Oval Office a gilded Mar-a-Lago makeover.

No one knows who will succeed Francis, or whether he (unfortunately, one thing we know for certain is that it will be a he) will continue to push the church in a more progressive direction. Hopefully, he will do just that—while wearing sensible black loafers.

Meredith Blake is the Culture Columnist for The Contrarian