Fr Nicholas (Collin) Nunis, a Melbourne priest with the Melkite Catholic Church, had just landed in Rome for a brief visit when the Vatican announced the passing of Pope Francis. His travel plans quickly changed and suddenly he found himself among the thousands of pilgrims lining up to say their final goodbyes to the Holy Father. Having concelebrated at Pope Francis’ Requiem Mass over the weekend, Collin shares how, to the end, the ‘People’s Pope’ kept his mission simple: to draw people to the mercy of God.
It is no secret that Rome is my favourite city. As a history enthusiast, it is the complete package—a place where one can trace the Church from its infancy right up to the present day. It is a city built, quite literally, upon the blood of the martyrs. The churches of Rome are magnificent and unique in their own ways—but so too is its Bishop: the Pope.
Although I was a cradle Catholic, my deeper interest in the papacy began later, specifically during the funeral of Pope John Paul II in Eastertide 2005. (Coincidentally, Pope Francis’ death and funeral have also taken place during Eastertide, some 20 years later.)
My fascination grew even more when my then-fiancée (now wife of 10 years), Agnieszka, told me that Pope John Paul II had blessed her while she was still in her mother’s womb in Poland, and that in 2013 she had personally met Pope Francis during World Youth Day in Brazil. We married on 2 May 2015, and for our honeymoon, we signed up to attend a general audience with the Holy Father (which happened to be on the eve of the 34th anniversary of the assassination attempt on St John Paul II—a poignant moment).
Again and again, Pope Francis reminded us to see God not as a distant judge but as a merciful Father.
Like his predecessors, Pope Francis continued the beautiful tradition of meeting newly married couples and imparting his blessing upon them.
Now, don’t misunderstand me when I say this—I know what the critics might suggest—but when we met the Holy Father and shook his hand, my first impression was of how ordinary he seemed. It may sound disappointing—surely, I should have been glowing with light!—but it was true. Here stood a man, burdened with the immense responsibility to teach, sanctify and govern the People of God, yet he spent a solid minute with each couple, including us, pleading, almost in a tone of begging, ‘Pray for me.’
It was only much later, as I prepared for my own ordination to the diaconate and priesthood, that I began to realise how deeply my ministry would be shaped by Francis’ pastoral wisdom. Perhaps it was my exposure to the Jesuits and the French missionaries during my teenage years in Malaysia that made me more receptive to this style of leadership.
As a priest, my principal sources of inspiration for preaching remain the Greek Fathers, whose writings—preserved in the great collections of patristic literature and the liturgical prayers of the Eastern churches—speak so poignantly of human frailty and the boundless mercy of a just and loving God. Francis may not have written with their rhetorical grandeur, but his aim was no different: he spoke and acted as a true pastor, one who understood that to lead souls to God, one must choose battles carefully, always keeping mercy at the forefront. Again and again, he reminded us to see God not as a distant judge but as a merciful Father, and to never cease asking for forgiveness. In this, Francis echoed the very heart of the Gospel.
The music stirred memories of my own father’s funeral, and in that grief, I rediscovered hope—the hope rooted in Christ’s resurrection.
During my recent stay in Rome—a holiday that became a pilgrimage—I had the privilege of being present from the announcement of the Pope’s death through to his funeral. I didn’t know what to make of those days at first, but one thing was certain: there was no shortage of pilgrims, and each mourned the death of the Holy Father in their own way. It’s worth noting that many of the locals who came to say goodbye to Pope Francis didn’t describe themselves as very religious but came to see him regardless because he made them feel included. He did not leave anyone out from the bosom of the Church.
There was also a profound sense of hope—especially fitting during this Jubilee of Hope. The faith of the pilgrims did not falter; if anything, it shone more brightly.
I managed to enter St Peter’s Basilica to pay my respects, offering a prayer of commendation for his soul—the same prayer later said by the Melkite Patriarch at the funeral (in Greek and Arabic)—and to thank God for the impact Pope Francis had on my life as a husband, a father and a priest.
Given the multitudes, I hadn’t expected to gain entry but by providence I did, and I remain deeply grateful. Even amidst the crowds at the other basilicas—St John Lateran (the Cathedral of the Bishop of Rome) and St Mary Major where the Pope chose to be buried—the atmosphere remained strikingly prayerful. Amid countless tourists and photographers, prayer still pierced through. Someone even spontaneously chanted aloud, and the sheer acoustics of the ancient basilica stilled the crowd, drawing hearts silently toward prayer.
The funeral itself was historic. I had felt excitement beforehand at the thought of witnessing such a moment. To be metres away from a variety of religious and world leaders was truly epic, joyful to the point that it could bring me to tears. Yet what truly broke me was when the Mass began with the schola chanting the entrance antiphon. My heart was overwhelmed. Tears welled up, and I found myself unable to sing. The music stirred memories of my own father’s funeral in 2018, and in that grief, I rediscovered hope—the hope rooted in Christ’s resurrection.
His life itself was a catechesis: a living testimony to humility, mercy, hope and diakonia (service).
During the homily, Cardinal Giovanni Battista Re reminded us of a fundamental truth of our faith: human life does not end in the tomb but finds its true fulfilment in the Father’s house. This tenet was reinforced throughout the Mass, particularly when the Eastern Catholic patriarchs and major archbishops emerged to offer the final commendation. In a particularly moving moment, His Beatitude Joseph Absi, Patriarch of the Melkite Greek Catholic Church, sang the Paschal Troparion: ‘Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and granting life to those in the tombs.’
By then, I was able to sing with jubilance and gusto. In fact, I was the only one in my block singing, to the point that some Italian priests asked what it was. Later that evening, at a reception for Australians, many remarked how beautifully the Patriarch’s gesture had resonated across social media.
These words, and the overarching theology of the funeral liturgy, are not mere poetry; they proclaim the very heart of our faith: Jesus Christ, true God and true man, has conquered death. And if we live and die in faith, our destiny is clear: eternal life in God.
Francis would exhort us to keep our eyes fixed always on the crucified and risen Lord.
Reflecting on all this, I wonder what Pope Francis, even in death, sought to teach us. His life itself was a catechesis: a living testimony to humility, mercy, hope and diakonia (service). But if there is anything in his last Urbi et Orbi message that struck me, it is this:
The resurrection of Jesus is indeed the basis of our hope. For in the light of this event, hope is no longer an illusion. Thanks to Christ—crucified and risen from the dead—hope does not disappoint! Spes non confundit! (cf. Rom 5:5). That hope is not an evasion, but a challenge; it does not delude, but empowers us.
All those who put their hope in God place their feeble hands in his strong and mighty hand; they let themselves be raised up and set out on a journey. Together with the risen Jesus, they become pilgrims of hope, witnesses of the victory of love and of the disarmed power of Life.
Christ is risen! These words capture the whole meaning of our existence, for we were not made for death but for life. Easter is the celebration of life! God created us for life and wants the human family to rise again! In his eyes, every life is precious! The life of a child in the mother’s womb, as well as the lives of the elderly and the sick, who in more and more countries are looked upon as people to be discarded.
When Agnieszka and I first met him in 2015, his catechesis to newlyweds centred on three simple yet profound phrases: ‘Thank you’, ‘Excuse me’ and ‘May I?’ These everyday expressions reflect the kenosis—the self-emptying love of Christ—lived out in ordinary family life for the sake of the other.
Perhaps now, in these days after his passing, Pope Francis would echo the words of his great predecessor, St John Paul II: ‘We are an Easter people, and Alleluia is our song!’
In his own way, Francis would exhort us to keep our eyes fixed always on the crucified and risen Lord, remembering that true glory comes only through humility, mercy and faithful service.
Christ is risen! He is truly risen!
Χριστὸς ἀνέστη! Ἀληθῶς ἀνέστη!
!المسيح قام! حقا قام
Cristo è risorto! È veramente risorto!
