Nearly a year has passed since Leo XIV assumed the papacy, and the evidence no longer allows for nuance: he is not Francis. The comparison, inevitable from day one, has now ceased to be a speculative exercise and has become a political and moral reality within the Catholic Church.
For months, many wanted to see in him a natural continuity, an heir to the reformist momentum that defined an era. However, over time, a distinct profile has clearly taken shape—more restrained, more cautious, and, at key moments, decidedly conservative.
This is not about denying his gestures or his discourse in favor of peace, or his stance on international conflicts. Leo XIV has demonstrated a firm voice against war, even when that led to open tensions with global heavyweights such as Donald Trump, particularly over Iran and the role of the United States in the Middle East.
But one thing is international politics, and quite another—far more complex and revealing—is the terrain of the Church’s internal transformations. And that is where the fundamental differences begin to emerge.
After All, Pope Leo XIV Is No Francis!
Leo XIV has sought to build an image as a dialoguing pontiff, committed to major global issues and sensitive to social injustices. On that level, his discourse has maintained a line that could be considered progressive within the traditional margins of the Vatican.
However, that narrative has reached its limit on one of the most symbolic issues of the previous pontificate: openness toward same-sex couples.
This week, the Pope explicitly closed the possibility of advancing their recognition within the Church. He did so with an argument that is less theological than deeply political: the risk of provoking a schism in the Catholic world.
With that statement, not only is a debate that once seemed irreversible brought to a halt, but a clear message is also sent about the priorities of the current pontificate. Institutional unity prevails over inclusion.
The contrast with Francis is inevitable. It was he who opened the door to a historic discussion, not without internal resistance, in a gesture that redefined the relationship between the Church and millions of people who for centuries had been excluded. “Who am I to judge,” the phrase uttered in 2013 by a singular pope, shortly after being elected, when asked about same-sex couples who wish to participate in the Catholic faith.
That phrase—or foundational decision—did not resolve everything, but it marked a paradigm shift after two thousand years of a homophobia that was less concealed than internally shared. Leo XIV, by contrast, has chosen to close that door before it could consolidate into a structural transformation.
The weight of internal forces
The Pope’s justification reveals something deeper than a simple difference of criteria. It speaks to the balance of power within the Vatican. Acknowledging the risk of schism is, in practice, admitting the strength of the Church’s most conservative—indeed reactionary—sectors, those that have viewed with discomfort, if not outright hostility, any attempt at reform regarding sexual diversity.
Leo XIV appears to have chosen not to confront that bloc. His decision suggests a strategy of containment, of avoiding tensions that could fracture the institution. But that caution comes at an evident cost: it limits the scope of any reformist agenda and places his pontificate closer to the management of the status quo than to transformation.
In this sense, his progressivism reveals itself as conditioned. It is not an expansive vision that challenges structures, but rather a stance that operates within very defined limits. And those limits, for now, are set by internal resistance and fear of rupture.
It is, without a doubt, a step backward that brings Leo much closer to traditional reactionary positions—defended by John Paul II and Benedict XVI—and disregards a courageous and unprecedented gesture: the step taken by Francis within an institution that continues to show it is not prepared to enter the 21st century, despite already having completed a quarter of it.
Francis’s legacy in an institution marked by exclusion
Francis left behind more than symbolic gestures. His pontificate introduced a different logic—more human, less dogmatic in certain key aspects. His open criticism of the far right—and of its message of hatred and its targeting of the vulnerable—was equally unprecedented and courageous.
He did not change doctrine in its essentials, but he did change the tone, the approach, and above all the scope of what was possible in the immediate future—one that many expected would continue along the same path but that, despite a 2025 election considered progressive, has revealed clear complexities and limitations. Politics over people.
Francis’s opening generated expectations and brought an archaic institution, distant from the real world, closer to millions of people who have historically been excluded. For many believers and non-believers alike, it represented the possibility of a more inclusive Church, capable of reconciling with realities it had rejected for centuries.
Leo XIV inherited that momentum but has chosen to manage it cautiously, if not reverse it on sensitive issues. The result is a sense of regression, even if no doctrine has formally been changed. Because in the Church, as in politics, gestures matter as much as rules. And closing a door that had previously been left ajar carries a clear meaning.
To understand the scope of this debate, it is essential to look beyond the present. The Catholic Church carries a long history of rejection toward sexual diversity. For centuries, its doctrine has helped legitimize discrimination, stigma, and, in many cases, violence against homosexual people.
Today, millions around the world lament what they see as Leo XIV’s false prudence. The Vatican’s influence has been decisive in shaping social norms across much of the Western world. Its discourse has permeated cultures, legislation, and mindsets, consolidating a vision that has placed millions of people on the margins—not because of their actions, but because of their identity.
That legacy still has consequences. Social homophobia cannot be explained without that historical background. And although progress has been made in recent decades, both within and outside the Church, the weight of that tradition remains enormous.
In this context, any gesture of openness carries value beyond the symbolic. It represents an opportunity for reparation, recognition, and change. That is why Leo XIV’s decision is not a minor detail. It is a stance that reaffirms the limits of his pontificate and, in some way, redefines the direction of the Church at a crucial moment.