The Living Word: John, Francis, and the Church That Narrates Itself - Pope Francis

Spes non confundit! Pope Francis leaves us with Hope.

Spes non confundit! Pope Francis leaves us with Hope.

The Living Pulse of the Church

Some view the Catholic Church as an immobile monument — a theological edifice whose columns were planted two millennia ago and have since merely accumulated doctrinal dust. But its internal history suggests another image: that of an organism in constant pulsation, sometimes contracted in rigor, sometimes expanded in mercy. The very succession of its popes, far from being a straight line or a mechanical cycle, seems to follow a kind of spiritual systole and diastole, where each pontiff, in his own way, balances the tension between permanence and renewal.

The alternation between Benedict XVI and Francis made this movement more visible — and, perhaps, more disconcerting. On one side, the doctrinal elegance of containment; on the other, the pastoral grammar of openness. What seems contradictory on the surface, however, can be read as complementary expressions of the same ecclesial heartbeat. Both acted within the same body, with fidelity to the same structure — just in distinct phases of institutional breathing.

The death of Pope Francis, shortly after the Church's celebration of the Resurrection, invites us to think not only about him but about the very breath of this structure. What sustains its coherence throughout the centuries? What allows the Church to resist time without losing form — and, more than that, without losing the plot?

This article proposes a key for this reading: the Gospel of John as the living core of Catholic identity, and love — as formulated in it — as the hermeneutical criterion of all theology. John, Francis, and the very logic of apostolic succession are not scattered pieces: they are episodes of a continuous, tense, and luminous narrative, still being written in Latin, silence, and flesh.

The Commandment of Love: John 13-15 as the Core of Faith

Among all biblical texts, the Gospel of John occupies a peculiar place — almost out of step, like a heart beating with another frequency. While the Synoptic Gospels narrate the life of Jesus in historical sequence, John offers a kind of first-person theology, a language impregnated with silence, intimacy, and abyss.

It is in this gospel — and, especially, in chapters 13 to 15 — that the Church recognizes the irreducible core of Christian faith. "Love one another as I have loved you." This formula, repeated almost obsessively by Jesus at the Last Supper, is not just moral advice. For the Catholic tradition, it constitutes the ultimate criterion of theological truth. The experience of love thus becomes the condition of possibility for any orthodoxy.

In this sense, John is not just one source among others, but an axis: it is there that the Church finds the interpretive key to all Scripture. The Catholic reading does not start from the dead letter nor from rigid moral codes — but from a living principle: charity as the measure of all understanding and all action.

This emphasis has profound consequences. Morality, within this logic, is not an absolute code, but a human attempt to respond to the revelation of love. And dogmas, far from functioning as walls, are understood as symbolic forms to protect a relational content, which needs to be continuously interpreted in light of the Johannine commandment.

This is why so many councils — even the most severe ones — end with formulas of reconciliation. And why doctrine can evolve, correct itself, adapt, as long as it preserves what John formulates unmistakably: "No one has greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."

The Catholic tradition does not merely affirm that love is a Christian value. It affirms that God is love — and that to love is a way of knowing God. In this gesture, John not only narrates Christ: he offers the Church a lens to read itself.

Structural Dynamism and Apostolic Coherence: The Church is Narrative

The Roman Church is not an institutional structure charged with archiving aged doctrines: it is the living body of the narrative of faith itself — eternal and vibrant; transcendent and immanent. Throughout the centuries, rather than merely repeating dogmatic truths, the Church has taken upon itself the function of interpreting and updating the meaning of the Word, remaining faithful to the original content while rereading, reformulating, and re-presenting it.

The death of a Pope in this context — and Bergoglio's death on the day after Easter — is not just a moment of mourning: it is a narrative milestone. The question that resonates — who will come next? — is less about personal profiles and more about which chapter will now open. The structure remains; the plot continues. The Church continues to tell — and to tell itself — in its own language, made of silences, dogmas, reformulations, and tensions. And it is precisely this ability to narrate itself with fidelity and invention that keeps it alive.

Francis's death on the day after the Resurrection is not an irrelevant coincidence. For those who observe the Church as narrative, the liturgical time of the end carries profound echoes. There is no "final gesture" that is not read. And perhaps this gesture, silent and paschal, is the beginning of a new paragraph in this long and complex history.

The Church that Errs, Loves, and Welcomes - Pope Francis

If love is the criterion, failure also enters the equation. Not as an excuse, but as an ontological given. The condition of erring is not an anomaly — it is part of human nature, as understood by Catholic theology itself. And perhaps this is precisely where the Church most distinguishes itself: not by promising perfection, but by recognizing that redemption starts from the imperfect.

Catholic morality, so often perceived as a rigid set of norms, is born — or intends to be born — from an effort to live up to an absolute love. But like everything human, this effort is partial. Rules do not replace grace; disciplinary limits do not nullify the dignity of God's children.

This tension is clearly expressed in the discipline of the sacraments. The Church distinguishes between access to the sacraments and full communion with the community. It does not automatically extend the visible signs of grace to everyone, but also does not deny that God absolutely loves everyone. Restriction, in this sense, is not exclusion, but an attempt at coherence — and, even so, it does not always manage to be just. Even so, the Church insists: God's love is greater.

This distinction — so difficult to communicate in the contemporary world — is part of the Church's effort to keep alive a tension that is resolved neither by easy liberalism nor by sterile rigorism. By affirming that Heaven remains open to those who do not reject love, even after a life of falls, Catholic theology proposes something almost scandalous: that salvation is a gratuitous gesture of welcome — and not of conquest. And that no one is outside, except by their own will.

Once again, it is the Gospel of John that provides the foundation for this vision. "If God so loved us, we also ought to love one another." From this logic, error ceases to be a full stop — and becomes an invitation to possible communion, even if the path is tortuous.

Spes non confundit! Francisco nos deixa com Esperança.

The Incarnate Word Does Not Dwell in Stone

The Church is not a museum of truths. Even though it carries on its shoulders the longest history in the West, it does not understand itself as a guardian of sacred ruins, but as a living interpreter of a Word that is never exhausted.

For this very reason, its relationship with tradition is not archaeological, but dynamic. It rereads, revisits, reaffirms, and sometimes reformulates. Not out of infidelity, but out of fidelity to what is at the center: the Word that became flesh and continues to dwell among us, not as a statue of dogma, but as language that touches, that listens, that allows itself to be wounded.

The Gospel of John is, perhaps, the greatest testimony to this understanding. Not because it says more than the other gospels, but because it says it in another way. It approaches not the chronology of facts, but the ontology of meaning. Its Christ does not merely walk — he is. He does not merely teach — he reveals himself. And this Christ, for the Catholic Church, is not past: he is present and promise.

Pope Francis understood this. More than a reformer, he was an attentive reader of the narrative. He preferred gesture to judgment, listening to sentencing. And, in doing so, he rekindled in many — even among the distant — the idea that faith can also be a space for breathing, where dogma does not oppress, but sustains; where doctrine does not exclude, but protects a center made of love.

His death, shortly after the Resurrection, will resonate for a long time as a liturgical sign in itself. Perhaps he departed when the stone of the sepulcher was removed to remind us — without fanfare, without discourse — that faith, when it is alive, does not dwell in stone. It dwells in time. And it continues.

Leandro Waldvogel is a specialist in storytelling, artificial intelligence, and creativity. Trained in Law, with time at the Rio Branco Institute and UCLA, he worked for almost two decades in Disney's creative area, and was a diplomat for Itamaraty. Today he is a consultant and creator of the Story-Intelligence project, where he investigates the intersections between human narratives and algorithmic systems. A speaker and author, he researches how AIs are transforming the way we think, create, and relate to the world. https://www.story-intelligence.com

A Palavra Encarnada Não Mora em Pedra

A Igreja não é um museu de verdades. Ainda que carregue sobre os ombros a história mais longa do Ocidente, ela não se compreende como guardiã de ruínas sagradas, mas como intérprete viva de um Verbo que nunca se esgota.

Por isso mesmo, sua relação com a tradição não é arqueológica, mas dinâmica. Ela relê, revisita, reafirma e, às vezes, reformula. Não por infidelidade, mas por fidelidade àquilo que está no centro: a Palavra que se fez carne e que continua a habitar entre nós, não como estátua de dogma, mas como linguagem que toca, que escuta, que se deixa ferir.

O Evangelho de João é, talvez, o maior testemunho dessa compreensão. Não porque diga mais do que os outros evangelhos, mas porque diz de outro modo. Ele se aproxima não da cronologia dos fatos, mas da ontologia do sentido. Seu Cristo não apenas caminha — ele é. Ele não apenas ensina — ele se revela. E esse Cristo, para a Igreja Católica, não é passado: é presente e promessa.

O Papa Francisco compreendeu isso. Mais do que um reformador, foi um leitor atento da narrativa. Preferiu o gesto ao julgamento, a escuta à sentença. E, ao fazê-lo, reacendeu em muitos — mesmo entre os distantes — a ideia de que a fé pode ser também um espaço de respiro, onde o dogma não oprime, mas sustenta; onde a doutrina não exclui, mas protege um centro feito de amor.

Sua morte, logo após a Ressurreição, ressoará por muito tempo como um sinal litúrgico em si mesmo. Talvez ele tenha partido quando a pedra do sepulcro foi retirada para nos lembrar — sem alarde, sem discurso — que a fé, quando é viva, não mora em pedra. Mora no tempo. E continua.

Leandro Waldvogel é especialista em storytelling, inteligência artificial e criatividade. Formado em Direito, com passagem pelo Instituto Rio Branco e pela UCLA, atuou por quase duas décadas na área criativa da Disney, e foi diplomata do Itamaraty. Hoje é consultor e criador do projeto Story-Intelligence, onde investiga as interseções entre narrativas humanas e sistemas algorítmicos. Palestrante e autor, pesquisa como as IAs estão transformando a maneira como pensamos, criamos e nos relacionamos com o mundo. https://www.story-intelligence.com