Pope Francis and The Vine

His favorite wine was Malbec. It wasn’t a surprise; Pope Francis grew up in Buenos Aires, where a simple glass of red — usually poured without ceremony at the family table — was part of daily life. Wine for Pope Francis was never about prestige or rarity; it was about memory, tradition, and gratitude. Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in 1936 to Italian immigrant parents, Francis grew up with an understanding that wine belonged to ordinary life — not locked away for special occasions, but shared, as naturally as bread or conversation.

His father's family came from Piedmont, where vines and meals have long been inseparable. His mother's family, the Sívori, also traced their roots to Piedmont, carrying with them the deep traditions of Italian country life. Wine, in that world, wasn’t something you analyzed or collected; it was part of the rhythms of daily life. Growing up in Argentina, and seeing the vineyards of Mendoza flourish, Francis absorbed that same approach — wine as a gift of the land, meant for the table, not for display. Malbec, the grape that became a symbol of Argentine pride, was a part of the world he carried with him into everything, even into Rome.

Pope Francis often used wine to point toward deeper realities — joy, community, and the celebration of life. At a General Audience, he said simply, "It is sad when there is no wine — and our life ends without joy." Reiterating the sentiment, when speaking to young people in Turin, he told them, "Where there is no wine, there is no joy." During an Angelus from Saint Peter’s Square, he reminded the faithful that "wine is a sign of celebration, a sign of abundance, a sign of the feast that God prepares for us." For Francis, wine wasn’t about indulgence; it was about recognizing joy where it springs up — in families, in friendships, in the goodness of everyday life — a joy meant to be shared.

In 2017, Francis sent a message to Vinitaly — Italy’s largest international wine fair — praising wine as "a creation of God to be shared among all people," and reminding winemakers that it should never be reduced to a luxury symbol. Later, on January 22, 2024, he welcomed a delegation from Vinitaly and Veronafiere to the Vatican. It wasn’t a grand ceremony; it was quiet audience with him where the visitors presented him with a special bottle of wine — a symbolic gift connecting his love of wine to the papacy. The wine was from Castel Gandolfo, the historic papal summer residence overlooking Lake Albano. In 2016, Francis had opened the palace and its gardens to the public for the first time, turning what had long been a private retreat into a place of shared beauty. Today, small quantities of wine, olive oil, and produce from Castel Gandolfo are sold inside Vatican City, quietly continuing the tradition of working the land with care and gratitude. In accepting the gift, he called wine "a sign of God's generosity and the patient work of human hands."

The Catholic Church he led had long ties to wine. In the 14th century, the popes of Avignon helped establish Châteauneuf-du-Pape — the “New Castle of the Pope” — in southern France, where vineyards flourished under papal protection (and enjoyment).  Wine became not just an economic force, but a cultural one too. Yet where history often tied wine to prestige and power, Francis brought it back to something simpler: stewardship, patience, humility, and joy.

For Pope Francis, a glass of wine was about celebration; about memory; about gratitude. It wasn’t something to hoard or boast about — it was something to lift in thanksgiving. Whether it was a humble Malbec poured at a kitchen table, or a chalice raised at Mass, wine remained, for him, what it had always been at its best — a blessing, a bridge between earth and heaven. In my own family, there are ties to the Catholic faith — my great aunt served as a Mother Superior and once had the honor of an audience with Pope John Paul II.  She always spoke of wine as a symbol of celebration and gratitude. It’s a reminder that these stories — of faith, of wine, of celebration — are not distant histories, but living ones, carried forward in the lives and gatherings of people today. So next time you pour a glass, maybe think of it the way Pope Francis would have — not as something to collect or compare, but as something to give thanks for.