Sometimes, life invites us to pause and just witness something bigger than ourselves. That’s what Kelvin Nyamache captures so beautifully in his reflection below — a quiet, personal moment as he watches the funeral of Pope Francis unfold.
Pope Francis, born Jorge Mario Bergoglio on December 17, 1936, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, was the first Latin American and Jesuit pope, serving as the 266th pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church from 2013 until his death in 2025. He was known for his humility, compassion, and commitment to social justice. He passed away on April 21, 2025, at the age of 88, leaving behind a legacy of compassion and a redefined vision of the papacy.
Here are the words, shared by Kelvin Nyamache with regards to watching the Pope’s burial ceremony:
I am sitting this afternoon at my writing table, the pale light falling sideways through the open window, having intended, before the day had begun, to employ the quiet hours in the continued steady work of writing the account of my life. The small conveniences of habit have been arranged: the papers stacked upon the corner, the pen lying ready to hand, the room closed against unnecessary sound. Yet it is a rule with me, learned by long familiarity with the temper of days, to submit sometimes to the greater claims which events place upon the mind. The funeral of Pope Francis is unfolding at this very hour, and I am turning my chair toward the small television placed discreetly by the window, willing to give myself to the occasion.
The funeral is being held at St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City. It seems to me right to bear witness in stillness, even though I am no Roman Catholic myself, but a member of the Seventh-day Adventist Church by conviction and upbringing. Respect for faithful labour transcends the boundaries which men build between themselves.
The camera shows the sweep of the Square. I know something of this place from books and from diligent documentaries. The original Basilica was constructed in the fourth century by the Emperor Constantine, the first to embrace Christianity in the seat of Roman power. That first church, built over the tomb believed to contain the body of Saint Peter the Apostle, crumbled with time. The present Basilica was begun in 1506 under Pope Julius II, fashioned by hands of Bramante, Michelangelo, Maderno, and Bernini, and completed a full century later in 1626. It is now the greatest church in the world by volume, a destination for pilgrims and seekers drawn from all nations.
The Basilica’s grand front stands solemn, the ancient obelisk in the centre of the square rising in silent memory of older empires now dust. I observe the vast congregation, divided neatly by colour and rank — masses of black garments in one quarter, surging seas of crimson and white in another. The cardinals, wearing vestments of deep red, are assembled in ranks as tightly ordered as any regiment. The Swiss Guards, clad in their bright striped uniforms of blue, yellow, and red, stand motionless, their halberds upright, their black helmets topped with stiff red plumes. Tradition, when worn steadily and without boastfulness, always seems to me to carry a dignity that newness cannot achieve.
At the heart of the square, upon a richly woven carpet placed carefully upon a low dais, lies the coffin. It is of plain timber, its light grain left bare to the eye, without polish or ornament save for a single cross inlaid upon the lid. A white cloth, folded neatly, rests upon one end. I can see the marks of the carpenter’s work, the simple joints bound by brass nails. There is no splendour here. Only the honest work of hands prepared to serve death as plainly as they served life. I think it a good thing. A man, when he has served, deserves no greater boast than to be remembered by the weight of his deeds, and not by the cost of his tomb.
The Mass is beginning now. The Latin prayers rise into the air, slow and solemn: “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.” I read the translation scrolling at the bottom of the screen: “Grant him eternal rest, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.” I think that the oldest prayers, like the oldest stones, have little need for explanation. They carry their own authority in their survival.
Among the seated dignitaries, I notice President Donald Trump, seated toward the front. It is remarked by the commentators that he was originally assigned a seat several rows behind, following protocol which would have placed Argentina, the pope’s homeland, and Italy, which embraces the Vatican, foremost, with monarchs preceding heads of state, and then others arranged alphabetically. But changes were made. Trump, representing “les États-Unis” in the French alphabetical order, is placed between the leaders of Finland and Estonia, just along from President Emmanuel Macron of France.
Trump stands out plainly among the mourners. While most of the attendees wear deep black, he is clad in a dark blue suit and a lighter blue tie, a choice noted by many. It is recalled that he had worn more sober attire when meeting the pope years earlier. Still, clothing, in my view, holds little weight compared to the matters which the hour brings to mind.
A few seats away sits President Volodymyr Zelenskyy of Ukraine, who arrives to a brief murmur of applause from the congregation. It is later reported that he and Trump exchange short courtesies before the ceremony. Elsewhere in the ranks, former President Joe Biden, himself a practicing Catholic, sits several rows behind, accompanied by his wife Jill. I think, as I watch, that pride and rank, though they may carry a man through the noise of life, find little purchase here before the steady approach of death.
I notice among the gathering my own president, William Ruto. I did not expect to see him, and, mindful of the sobriety which the day demands, I shall leave his presence at that, without comment.
The coffin is resting unclaimed by any grand trappings. Inside, I learn, have been placed according to custom two things: a small pouch containing the coins and medals minted during the pontificate of Pope Francis, and a metal tube, sealed, holding the Rogito — the formal document recording the major events of his life and reign. I find it a good tradition. History, preserved thus by simple things, teaches more surely than monuments of marble. Should the grave ever be opened two thousand years hence, the record will still speak clearly: the deeds of the man, his words, his works, preserved against forgetfulness.
The service continues. Latin phrases weave through the air — “In paradisum deducant te angeli” — “May the angels lead you into paradise.” The words fall without strain into the silence. It seems to me that language, when employed without pretence, carries the heart of men more easily than any pomp.
The bishop raises his hand in blessing. The pallbearers approach the coffin. Their suits are black, their gloves white. They lift the simple box with care, each step measured. The camera lingers on their slow ascent of the Basilica steps. They pass beneath the massive bronze doors. The saints carved there, robed in red and aged with the weight of years, seem to lean forward, welcoming the passing of another servant into their timeless company. I think to myself that every saint depicted there is old. None are bright with youth. Perhaps it is because sanctity, like wisdom, ripens only with long labour.
The bell of St. Peter’s swings in its tower, heavy and deliberate. The sound it makes is not loud but fills the space entirely. It rolls across the square, across the rooftops, out into the hills beyond Rome. I think, hearing it, that such a note speaks better of life’s brevity and hope than any speech could manage.
The camera shows the long lines dispersing. Some cross themselves. Others simply turn away. The funeral, by Pope Francis’s own request, is simple. He will not lie in the crypt beneath the Basilica as so many of his predecessors have done, but instead will be taken to the Basilica of St. Mary Major, a short journey of five and a half kilometres from St. Peter’s Square. It is a choice full of humility. I believe it is fitting.
The sun is lowering behind the colonnades. The last of the red robes pass from view. The great Square empties slowly, like a tide receding over long-worn stones. I am still seated at my desk. The pages before me remain blank. Yet I feel that the day has not been wasted. I have learned again, if I needed reminding, that the truest lives are not those shouted by trumpets or weighed down by grand processions, but those lived plainly, and ended without artifice. In the stillness of the fading afternoon, I gather the strength to continue the quieter work appointed to me, thankful that in my own small way, I too may serve.
Through these moving and detailed observations, Nyamache reminds us that death is the great equalizer — it strips away all titles, power, and pride, leaving behind only the true weight of a person’s deeds. Even though he watches from a distance and comes from a different faith, his deep respect for Pope Francis’s life of service shines through. He shows us that humility, simple faith, and steady devotion speak louder than gold tombs or lavish ceremonies.
Pope Francis emphasized simplicity and inclusivity, often advocating for the marginalized, including migrants and the LGBTQ+ community. He modernized the Vatican’s financial practices, promoted environmental stewardship through his encyclical “Laudato Si’,” and called for reforms within the Church to address contemporary issues. His papacy was marked by efforts to bridge gaps between different faiths and to bring the Church closer to the people.
