As a Muslim who admired Pope Francis, I join millions in mourning a towering moral voice whose leadership transcended faith boundaries. He was the first pontiff I ever quoted extensively in my speeches and writings. And for good reason. In an era of performative politics and moral ambiguity, Francis dared to speak clearly—and compassionately—about injustice, war, poverty, and dignity.

Now, as the cardinals prepare for a conclave like no other, the world is waiting to see not just who will wear the white cassock next—but what kind of moral compass he will carry.

In his final Easter message, Pope Francis called for an immediate ceasefire in Gaza, condemned the “deplorable humanitarian situation” there, and pleaded for humanitarian aid and the release of hostages. These were not empty gestures. Throughout Israel’s war on Gaza, he consistently denounced the killing of civilians, stating that the bombing of children was “cruelty, not war.” He even acknowledged that “experts” had described the assault on Gaza as bearing “the characteristics of genocide” and stood firm with the Vatican’s position of calling for a rigorous international investigation.

Even while hospitalized, Pope Francis made daily phone calls to the only Catholic church in Gaza, checking in on displaced civilians and urging them not to lose hope. Some began calling him “the saint of Gaza.” For Palestinians—and for many Muslims around the world—this pope was not just a spiritual ally. He felt like family.

One of his final symbolic acts encapsulated this solidarity. Just days before his death, Pope Francis gifted his iconic white Popemobile to Caritas Jerusalem, a Catholic humanitarian organization, asking that it be converted into a mobile clinic. It was a gesture full of meaning: a vehicle typically reserved for the powerful, now handed over to serve a war-torn, besieged population. It became not just a mode of transport, but a message—that the suffering in Gaza mattered at the highest levels of faith and leadership. The Popemobile will reach “children in the most isolated corners of Gaza once humanitarian access to the strip is restored.”

This legacy of moral courage and cross-faith protection has deep historical resonance. When the earliest Muslims faced persecution in Mecca, the Prophet Muhammad advised a group of his followers to seek refuge in Abyssinia (modern-day Ethiopia). There, the Christian king—known as the Negus—listened to their testimony and heard a recitation from Chapter 19 of the Qur’an, titled Mary. He recognized the kinship between Muslim beliefs and the teachings of Jesus, including the reverence shown to both Jesus and Mary in the Qur’an, and offered them asylum. The Meccan delegation, arriving with gifts and pressure, was turned away by the king, who refused to extradite the Muslims, declaring that justice and conscience demanded otherwise.

To be sure, the historical relationship between Catholics and Muslims has not always been marked by mutual respect. From the brutal campaigns of the Crusades to the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition, there have been chapters of religious violence and persecution that still cast long shadows. But history is not monolithic. Alongside the conflict lies a rich tapestry of cooperation, learning, and sanctuary—moments when Christian leaders, like the Negus of Abyssinia and now Pope Francis, stood up for Muslims in times of need. Francis’ papacy served as a reminder that the better angels of our shared history can still guide us.

From day one, Pope Francis disrupted expectations with humble, radical gestures—washing the feet of a Muslim woman prisoner in 2013, shortly after becoming pope. He rejected Islamophobic narratives and condemned Qur’an burnings as “disgusting,” insisting that all sacred texts must be treated with dignity.

Like the king of Abyssinia, Pope Francis didn’t just tolerate difference—he protected it. He embodied a leadership that was not about doctrinal supremacy, but about shared humanity.

Pope Francis was not interested in symbolic interfaith diplomacy. He was interested in building real bridges. In his 2013 Apostolic Exhortation The Joy of the Gospel, he affirmed that Muslims “adore the one, merciful God,” and acknowledged the shared reverence for Jesus and Mary. His collaboration with Grand Imam Ahmed al-Tayyeb of Al-Azhar led to the Document on Human Fraternity, which declared that God “has created all human beings equal in rights, duties and dignity.”

The pope also revitalized Muslim-Christian dialogue by supporting efforts like A Common Word Between Us and You—a 2007 initiative from Muslim scholars emphasizing love of God and neighbor as shared ethical ground. Unlike many in his position, Pope Francis didn’t just support this vision. He embodied it.

This message of universal human dignity resonated deeply across continents and faiths. In Indonesia—the world’s largest Muslim-majority country—Francis’ death sparked an outpouring of grief. Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah, two of the world’s largest Islamic organizations, praised his tireless advocacy for peace. “Pope Francis was tireless in his efforts to turn the Catholic church into the caretaker and defender of humanity,” said Nahdlatul Ulama Chairman Yahya Staquf.

At a time when so many spiritual leaders shrink from taking moral risks, Pope Francis reminded the world that real faith demands it.

Cardinals from across the globe are gathering in Rome to select the next pope at a moment of great symbolic weight. Days before the conclave, Donald Trump posted an AI-generated image of himself dressed as the pope—an irreverent stunt that trivialized a solemn moment for millions of Catholics. It was a reminder, if any were needed, that our world is desperate for leaders of sincerity and substance.

The next pope cannot merely preserve theological doctrine. He must preserve the moral imagination that Francis so vividly embodied. He must continue the work of reminding us that leadership is not about grandeur, but about grace.

Pope Francis did not chase headlines. But his example generated hope. He reminded Catholics, Muslims, and people of all faiths that true leadership is about walking with the marginalized, listening to the silenced, and challenging injustice—even when it carries a cost.

His passing leaves a void—but also a path forward.

In the Muslim tradition, what endures beyond this life is not status or power, but one’s moral courage and compassion. Pope Francis leaves behind a legacy not of doctrine alone, but of deep human connection, prophetic conscience, and unshakable solidarity with the oppressed.

As Muslims, we honor that legacy. And as members of a wounded world in search of moral clarity, we hope that Francis’ successor will not only wear the white robes of the papacy—but also carry the weight of its moral responsibility.

May the next pope walk the path Francis helped illuminate—with humility, courage, and the conviction that faith must always serve justice.

Faisal Kutty is a Toronto-based lawyer, law professor, and frequent contributor to The Toronto Star.

The views expressed in this article are the writer’s own.