I was sitting in the corner of the President’s House in Philadelphia, right alongside a replica of George Washington’s fireplace. It was the sixth hour in the park for me. Sitting on the ground, walking around the park and listening to the presentations had filled the time, sort of, along with a brief nap alongside that fireplace.

I, along with thousands of people massed around me, was waiting for Pope Francis to arrive for his speech in front of Independence Hall this weekend. Immigration reform activists had been sharing their stories, along with musical performances with roots around the world. Nobody was in the crowd for them, though.

At exactly 4:15 in the afternoon, motorcycles roared down the street, carrying with them Papal flags and crosses held high. The waiting had ended. The Pope was coming.

Francis stood in the famous open-top Fiat, hanging onto a rail with one hand, and waving to the crowds with another. The car crawled down the road. Intimidating men in suits surrounded the car while scanning the crowd behind dark sunglasses, contrasting the beaming smile on Francis’s face, surrounded it.

He brought noise with him. Every foot the Popemobile covered brought the shouting closer to where I was standing. He was on the other side of the intersection, and then he was right in front of me, waving and smiling as he rode down the street.

I was standing on my tiptoes, trying to see over the crowds to get a picture as he drove by. Once I snapped a few, I handed the camera off, and ran for the nearest video screen. It wasn’t until I turned around that I realized the full impact this 78-year-old priest from Argentina would have on the thousands gathered to hear him speak.

Grown men were standing in awe, tears streaming down their faces. Latino women were making the sign of the cross on themselves, heads bowed in reverence. I made it into the grassy area in front of a screen just before the “Fran-cis-co” chants began. They were emphatic and powerful and reminded me that the Church isn’t bricks and wood but the people that fill the buildings, the people that flocked to Philadelphia and stood in a park for hours. It’s the woman who hands her baby off for Francis to kiss. It’s the man reading the English subtitles of his Spanish speech to his wife who couldn’t see over the crowds. It’s the family of four with a sign reading, “Your wall is tall, our freedom is higher.”

I felt the inexplicable tears in my eyes while Francis stood in front of Independence Hall, waiting for the orchestra to finish playing “Fanfare for the Common Man.” The piece is triumphant; it sounds like the background music during a medieval coronation, or the victory song after a battle won. It didn’t quite fit with Francis’s emphasis on humility and simplicity, but neither did 10,000 people packed into a park to hear a speech, or 1 million people strewn across the streets of Philadelphia for mass.

He spoke in Spanish, a language I gave up on learning after my senior year of high school. His speech was subtitled in English, with a decent lag to allow for translation. I was the foreigner, surrounded my Spanish speakers who clapped and cheered fifteen or twenty seconds before I even knew what was said.

He spoke about religious liberty, about keeping faith in the public sphere. He spoke to the immigrants in the crowd, and called for them to stand true to their heritage.

He spoke from the same podium Abraham Lincoln used to deliver the Gettysburg Address, imploring the nation to stay true to its founding principles, which reflect and defend human dignity.

America is big. Incomprehensibly big, at times, to the point where I find it difficult to focus on what is occurring outside this country at times. The Popes visit, though, reminded me that there are things on Earth much bigger than America.

He reminded me that the plight of an immigrant, or of someone persecuted for their religious beliefs, is real and local and has tangible consequences for the Church, for our country, and for the families that stood next to me in that park.

He reminded me how great our country is, yet how deeply flawed we are in that greatness. He reminded me how far America can drift when we don’t check how well we are living up to those principles, but how much we can do when we live up to them.

Pope Francis is the first Pope from the Americas, but he is not an American. He challenges us in ways that we find uncomfortable. He questions our consumption, our approach to economics, and the racism that still exists here.

But he speaks still of hope, hope for the world, hope for the country and hope for each of us. And that is the thing I will remember most about spending that weekend in Philadelphia. The hope he gave to the 10,000 people packed in the park to see him, the hope for the Church around the world, and the hope the world expresses in the good that he can do.

Christ calls us to be like him, something most of us try to do im humility and service. But Christ amassed a following. He drew crowds everywhere he went. And in that way, and in so many others, Francis exemplifies Christ. And I am proud to have been there for his first visit to America.