Two thousand years of history have produced no shortage of metaphors and images for the Catholic Church, some more resonant than others. For liberal Catholics like me, brought up and catechized according to the Second Vatican Council’s conception of the Church as the pilgrim People of God and wary of conservative nostalgia for the medieval ecclesia militans or post-Reformation societas perfecta, Francis’s understanding of the Church as a “field hospital” struck a deep chord. That image, first presented by Francis in a 2013 interview, brought new energy and urgency to the work that ordinary Catholics do in soup kitchens, prison ministries, and refugee resettlement. Out went the old emphasis on doctrinal orthodoxy; in came a refreshing call for Catholics to roll up their sleeves and go to where the suffering was, to show mercy and promote justice by serving the poor and marginalized.
Of course, Francis knew that things were not so simple, and decried the shopworn divisions of left and right, liberal and conservative—the categories, more appropriate to politics, that so many pundits continue to fall back on when assessing his pontificate and its effect on the Church. Francis reminded us that the Church is not only an ancient institution and a theological tradition, but also a living, breathing community of believers, animated here and now by the unpredictable, vivifying wind of the Holy Spirit. Was he a revolutionary reformer, or a failure? Did he make outsiders feel welcome, or did he sow confusion? What of his mixed record on abuse, on women, on sexuality? Would his project of a more synodal Church move forward after his death? Who would succeed him in the Chair of Peter?
Francis left such questions for others to answer. The hierarchical aspect of the Church never seemed to interest him much, even when he rose to the top of that hierarchy. Starting early in his pontificate and continuing right up to the end, he liked to describe the Church not as a pyramid, or a sphere—in which every point is equidistant from the center and cannot be distinguished from the others—but as a polyhedron, a complex geometric figure, like a soccer ball or quartz crystals or twenty-sided die, comprising many faces that meet each other along sharp lines yet always maintain their individuality and distinctiveness.
The ecclesial metaphor extended to secular society, too: “Pastoral and political activity alike seek to gather in this polyhedron the best of each,” Francis wrote in his 2013 apostolic exhortation Evangelii gaudium. “It is the convergence of peoples who, within the universal order, maintain their own individuality; it is the sum total of persons within a society which pursues the common good, which truly has a place for everyone.” Francis never tired of talking about the polyhedron: “Pastoral ministry... must resemble the polyhedron. In this way, the Gospel becomes incarnate and finds harmonious expression in different ways in different people’s lives, like a single melody that recurs in various tonalities,” he told a group of university chaplains in 2023.
That Francis, a former teacher of literature and a lifelong lover of Dante, Borges, and Manzoni, should often speak so colorfully and poetically, often using multiple languages to convey his points, is not surprising. Jesus spoke that way, too, angering his critics, who demanded univocal precision. But as the mystics and apophatic theologians know, honest human speech about God is always provisional, always aware of its own inadequacy: “O quanto è corto il dire e fioco al mio concetto!” Dante lamented at the end of Paradiso's Canto 33. “O how scant is speech, too weak to frame my thoughts!”
Francis’s pontificate—and his whole life, really—was open about its inadequacies, and for me that is the whole point of his ministry, his gift to us. It is why I will miss him dearly, no matter how liberal or progressive or pastoral or synodal his successor. “I am a sinner,” he repeated, receiving the sacrament of reconciliation and regularly asking the faithful—all of us—to pray for him.
We are all sinners, and that is why we all need what the Church offers: grace. We need it not as a perfect reflection of ourselves and our own desires, our resentments, and our lust for power and dominance and control. The Church is and should be our home, yes, but it is also the place that takes us away from ourselves, that thrusts us into encounter with each other and with God.
“The origin of the marvelous polyhedra of the mineral world,” Francis continues telling the chaplains, “is the result of a very long history, marked by complex geological processes taking place over hundreds of millions of years. This patient, hospitable, and creative process makes us think of God’s way of doing things.” It also reminds me of a famous 1979 prayer, written by Bishop Ken Untener of Saginaw, Michigan, but often attributed to Archbishop Óscar Romero of El Salvador.
Francis quoted it in a Christmas homily in 2015, and it’s worth quoting again, especially in light of the late pope’s invitation to adopt a “polyhedric vision,” which involves training our eye to “grasp and appreciate” the many faces of divine grace present in our lives. “Every now and then it helps us to take a step back and to see things from a distance. The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is also beyond our visions. In our lives, we manage to achieve only a small part of the marvelous plan that is God’s work.” The part Francis achieved was surely greater than most, but the Kingdom was beyond his effort and vision too, his papacy was just one face of a polyhedron that also includes the face of every other member of the Church.
