Legends Honors Pope Francis

A Tribute to Pope Francis.

 He was born Jorge Mario Bergoglio, the son of a railway worker in Buenos Aires. A boy who once swept floors and manned the register at a bar with his brother. By all accounts, an ordinary lad from a country stitched together by tango, politics, and prayer. But destiny, you see... destiny doesn’t always wear robes when it knocks. He was a chemical technician. A literature teacher. A janitor. And once, almost, a husband. For there was a girl, young and beautiful, to whom he wrote love letters. But his heart—his true heart—had already been spoken for by Someone Else.

He joined the Jesuits, where vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience weren’t just ideals... they were marching orders. He walked the alleys of the forgotten, knelt beside the sick, and baptized the unwashed with the tenderness of a shepherd who knew every sheep by name. In March of 2013, white smoke spiraled above St. Peter’s Square, and a humble man stepped onto the world’s stage. Habemus Papam. And for the first time in 1,200 years, the Vicar of Christ bore a name never before taken—Francis.

Not in gold, but in linen. Not in a limousine, but in a Ford Focus. Not behind palace gates, but among the poor. He refused to live in the Vatican’s ornate apostolic apartments. Instead, he chose a guest house with a single bed, a small desk, and a crucifix. The Pope, yes... but never far from the priest. He kissed the feet of Muslim refugees. He washed the hands of AIDS patients. He dared speak the words “Who am I to judge?” He turned doctrine into dialogue. Orthodoxy into empathy. And whether you agreed or not, you knew you were in the presence of someone utterly sincere.

 His critics said he was too soft, too political. But he simply said, “Mercy is the name of God.” He saw climate change as a moral issue. Inequality as a theological concern. He believed the Church should smell like the sheep—dusty, tired, and real. And then, as all men must, he reached his final days. No procession of marble horses. No velvet banners. Just the legacy of a man who tried, earnestly, to be more than a Pontiff. A bridge, truly. Between tradition and transformation. Between dogma and love. They say he died with a rosary in hand, a smile on his lips, and peace in his heart. And whether saint or sinner, Catholic or not, the world paused—just long enough—to say thank you. Thank you for showing us that greatness isn’t about standing above... but kneeling beside

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:09):
And good morning. I'm rick to'kenny for Truly Significant, a
series brought to you by Success Made to Last. It's
April twenty first, twenty twenty five, and we want to
talk to you today about a man who was born
George Mario Borgoglio, the son of a railway worker in

(00:31):
Buenos Aires, Argentina. He was a boy who swept floors
and man the register at a bar with his brother.
By all accounts, an ordinary lad from a country sits
together by tango, politics and prayer. But destiny, you see,

(00:52):
destiny doesn't always wear robes when it knocks. He was
a chemical technician, a literature teacher, janitor, and once almost
a husband. For there was a girl, young and beautiful
to whom he wrote love letters. But his heart, his
true heart, had already been spoken for by someone else,

(01:14):
someone with a capital S and else with a capital E.
He joined the Jesuits, where vows of poverty, chastity, and
obedience weren't just ideals, they were marching orders. He walked
the alleys of the forgotten, knelt beside the sick, and
baptized the unwashed with the tenderness of a shepherd who

(01:37):
knew every sheep by name. In March of twenty thirteen,
white smoke spiraled above Saint Peter's Square and a humble
man stepped into the world stage Habbamus Popham, And for
the first time in twelve hundred years, the Vicar of
Christ bore a name never before taken. Francis. Not in

(02:02):
gold but in Lenin, not in a limousine but in
a ford focus, not behind palace gates, but among the poor.
He refused to live in the Vatican's ornate apostolic apartments. Instead,
he chose a guest house with a single bed, a
small desk, and a crucifix. The pope, yes, but never

(02:27):
far from the priest. He kissed the feet of Muslim refugees,
He washed the hands of AIDS patients. He dared speak
the words who am I to judge? He once asked
a grieving six year old boy to whisper in his
ear what troubled him. The boy wanted to know if

(02:49):
his atheist dad, who just died, was in heaven. He
turned doctrine into dialog, orthodoxy into empathy, and whether you
agreed or not with him, you knew that you were
in the presence of someone utterly sincere, utterly significant. His

(03:10):
critic said he was too soft, too political, but he
simply said, mercy is the name of God. He saw
climate change as a moral issue, inequality as a theological concern.
He believed the church should smell like the sheep, dusty,

(03:31):
tired and real. And then, as all men must, he
reached his final days. He died today, no possession of
marble horses, no velvet banners, just the legacy of a
man who tried earnestly to be more than a pontiff.
He was a bridge truly between tradition and transformation, between

(03:56):
dogma and love. And he died with perhaps rosary in
his hand, a smile on his lips, and we beat
peace in his heart. And whether saint or sinner, Catholic
or not, we pause today just long enough to say,
thank you, Pope Francis, thank you for showing us that

(04:18):
significance isn't about standing above, but kneeling beside. I'm rick
Tolkeinny for truly significant. Rest in peace, Pope Frances