June 22, 1986. Mexico City. The quarterfinal of the World Cup between Argentina and England. Diego Maradona leaps into the penalty area, raises his left hand, and sends the ball into the net with a punch. The referee does not notice the foul. A moment later, Maradona will call this incident “The Hand of God.” Decades pass, and the same gesture — a hand raised to the sky — becomes a symbol not only of football audacity but also of an entire nation where football has long been intertwined with religion. And on the papal throne in Vatican City sat an Argentine, Jorge Bergoglio, Pope Francis, who in his youth played football on the streets of Buenos Aires and cheered for “San Lorenzo” with the same passion as for his flock. So what is it — divine providence, a funny coincidence, or just an Argentine way of seeing the world through the lens of football magic?
Let’s start with the fact itself. Maradona never concealed: he hit the ball with his hand deliberately, but he immediately came up with a legend that immortalized the moment. “It was the hand of God, not mine,” he said after the match. The Argentines, a deeply Catholic nation, embraced this phrase with enthusiasm. In their understanding, God could indeed intervene to punish the English for the Falklands War, which happened four years earlier. The sacralization of football hooliganism is a purely Argentine phenomenon. In no other country would a goal scored with a hand have become a national myth of such magnitude.
But if you think about it, “The Hand of God” became not just a football episode but a religious gesture. Maradona raised his fist as a priest raises the gifts. The English still call it cheating, the Argentines — providence. And years later, on the papal throne, there is a man who grew up with this myth and who himself bears the name Francis — in honor of the saint known for his simplicity and love for the poor. Is it just a coincidence that the homeland of “The Hand of God” gave the world a pope who has often called football “the most important secondary thing in life”?
Jorge Mario Bergoglio was born in Buenos Aires in 1936. In his youth, he not only studied at the seminary but also played football at an amateur level. His position was midfielder, not the fastest but tenacious and smart. He supported the club “San Lorenzo de Almagro,” one of the five giants of Argentine football. It is said that in his youth, Bergoglio even stood in goal in seminary matches but later switched to the center of the field due to a knee injury.
Unlike many church hierarchs, Francis maintained his passion for the game into old age. He received football delegations in Vatican City, met with Messi, Maradona, and other stars, always emphasizing that football is a school of solidarity, brotherhood, and humility. His famous phrase “football is poetry” has become the motto for many Catholic sports organizations. But the most amazing thing is that Francis never shied away from talking about “The Hand of God” as a metaphor — he believes that in football, as in life, there is room for a miracle, but not in a literal violation of the rules, but in the unexpected joy that brings to the game.
Once, during an audience, he was asked if he considered Maradona’s goal divine intervention. The Pope smiled and replied: “I think God helps those who help themselves, but sometimes he closes his eyes to small mischief if it brings joy to millions.” This was a diplomatic evasion of the answer, but the fact that the pontiff of Argentine origin did not condemn that episode speaks volumes. In Argentina, football and faith are intertwined so closely that even the Pope would not dare to criticize them sharply.
There is a saying in Argentina: “God rules the heavens, and football — the earth.” Stadiums here are called “temples,” and fans come to matches as if to a mass. There are even their own football “saints” — for example, “Curra” (priest) Jorge Brown, who created the first clubs in the 19th century. But the main miracle of Argentine football is its constant ability to rise from the ashes. The national team loses finals for decades, and each time it seems that the end has come. But suddenly, at the very last moment, something inexplicable happens: a controversial goal, a fantastic save by the goalkeeper, a penalty that the referee awards under the roar of the crowd.
Take, for example, the 2022 World Cup final with France, the score 3:3, and in the penalty shootout, Emiliano Martínez deflects the shot, and then encourages the opponent — is this not a psychological miracle? Or Angel Di Maria’s goal in the 2021 Copa America final, when he finished a seemingly impossible pass? The Argentines see this not just as skill but as a sign from above. And Pope Francis, who watched those matches on television, called the players and said that “heaven rejoiced with you.”
A special place in this story belongs to “San Lorenzo” — the club to which Francis has been loyal since childhood. Interestingly, the club has its own legend: it was founded in 1908 by the priest Lorenzo Massa, hence the name. That is, the team was originally “ecclesiastical.” In 2013, already as Pope, Francis asked the club’s management to send him a jersey with his name on the back, and he wore it during a meeting with sick children. This gesture was seen as a blessing for all Argentine football.
But there were also amusing coincidences: when Francis was elected Pope, some fans of “San Lorenzo” joked that now they had a “heavenly defender” who could influence referee decisions. And although this is just a joke, it reflects the Argentine mentality — not to draw a clear line between the sacred and the game. For them, the Pope is not just the head of the church but also their guy who knows what an offside is and how important a good cross is.
It is impossible to forget that Pope Francis ascended to the throne in 2013, when Argentina was experiencing another economic crisis. For many, his election became a sign of hope, and football played the role of a national comforter. A nation that had almost not won major tournaments since 1993 suddenly found a moral leader who shared their passion. Symbolically, it was under his pontificate that the Argentine national team broke the streak of failures, winning the Copa America and then the World Cup. Many believing Argentines sincerely believe that the Pope’s prayers helped the team. Coincidence? Perhaps, but in a country with such a religious and football fervor, this is taken for granted.
By the way, Francis has often said that he prays for the national team, but he always emphasizes: “I do not ask for victory, I ask for fair play and joy.” But when victory happens, he does not hide his joy, and this makes him closer to the people than any other Pope in history.
Why does Argentina so cling to this image? Perhaps because this country has always been on the periphery of world centers, and it needed its own miracle to assert itself. “The Hand of God” became a symbol that even the small can defeat the big in an unfair but effective way. And when the Pope, also an Argentine, talks about mercy and forgiveness, he seems to sanctify this national trait — the ability to get out of a tight spot, to use cunning for good, to believe in luck.
There is another interesting fact: in Argentine slang, the expression “mano de Dios” is used not only for a football goal but also for any unexpected luck. For example, if a person finds the right thing in time or avoids an accident, he says: “It was the hand of God.” That is, this is not just a historical event but a part of the living language. And the Pope, as a carrier of this language, cannot deny its significance.
Brazil has its own “miracle” — for example, Pele’s goal at Maracana, but there it is more about genius than divinity. In Italy, there is Totti’s “Divine Hand,” but it did not go beyond the club derby. In Argentina, however, the religious undertone permeates everything. This is because Catholicism here is more emotional, syncretic, mixed with folk cults. Football became part of the liturgy, not the other way around.
Pope Francis, with his simplicity and use of informal language, has strengthened this connection. He does not hesitate to talk about football from the pulpit, and this does not diminish his authority but rather enhances it. The world sees that the pontiff is a living person who can be as happy as a child with a scored goal. And this brings us back to the question: “The Hand of God” is always in Argentina because the Argentines know how to see God in everyday life, and football for them is the brightest example of this.
It is interesting that many Argentine footballers become priests or actively participate in charitable actions after the end of their careers. The national team often visits orphanages and churches before tournaments. This is not showiness, but a deep tradition that dates back to colonial times. And when Pope Francis receives the team at his residence, he does not just take a photo, he tells them: “You bring joy, and that is also service.”
In this sense, “The Hand of God” is not just about deceiving the referee but also about the fact that there is a higher meaning in every game, regardless of the result. Maradona, who later repented of his hooliganism and even asked for God’s forgiveness, still remained in history as an instrument of divine providence because his goal brought happiness to an entire nation. The Pope, more than anyone else, understands this duality — sin and redemption, cunning and purity.
As in any mythology, there are plenty of amusing rumors. One legend says that Pope Francis, still a cardinal, lit a candle every day for Argentina’s victory in the 1986 World Cup. Another legend claims that after that famous goal, Maradona gave Bergoglio his jersey, and it is stored in a secret room in the Vatican. There is no documentary evidence of this, but fans firmly believe in it.
Another joke: when Francis was elected Pope, a football mass was held in Buenos Aires, where instead of the usual prayers, hymns of clubs were read. This was seen as a joke, but a joke that very accurately reflects the mentality. In Argentina, even the most serious things are melted through football, and the Pope is no exception.
Advocates of a rational approach will say that the connection between the Pope and “The Hand of God” is purely chronological. The Pope became Pope in 2013, and the goal happened in 1986. There is no causal relationship. But sociologists note that in Argentina there is a persistent cultural pattern that they call “mythopoeic realism” — the ability to turn real events into sacred legends. And the Pope, as the head of the church, supports this pattern, whether he wants to or not.
Psychologists add that football for Argentines is a collective therapy, a way to cope with anxiety and uncertainty. And faith in “The Hand of God” is a defense mechanism that allows them to justify failures and attribute victories to higher powers. Pope Francis, with his emphasis on mercy, gives legitimacy to this mechanism.
But however hard scientists try to put everything in order, Argentines continue to believe in miracles. And every new goal scored in the last minute, every save, every victory after a penalty shootout makes them exclaim: “It’s the hand of God again!” And the Pope, from above, watching this, just smiles and crosses himself.
It is interesting that Francis has used football in inter-religious dialogue. He organized matches between Muslims and Christians, between priests and prisoners. And everywhere the Argentine accent was heard — he spoke about “the team” as a model of society. In this sense, “The Hand of God” transforms from a national myth into a universal metaphor: every time we help each other, we extend the hand of God.
So the answer to the question in the title may be this: “The Hand of God” is always in Argentina because the Argentines constantly create it — on the field, in life, in prayers. And Pope Francis, as their compatriot, has become its main earthly embodiment, not imposing his will but simply sharing their passion.
In conclusion, we cannot give a definitive scientific or theological answer. But we can state that Argentine football is an amazing blend of chance, talent, and deep faith. “The Hand of God” is not just a goal, but a symbol of the national character where cunning is next to sincerity, where defeat is perceived as a test, and victory — as a blessing. And Pope Francis, without wanting to, has become part of this mythology because he is its living embodiment — he also comes from the streets where football was the main school of life.
So the next time an Argentine scores a controversial goal or the national team wins in extra time, you will hear the same shout: “It’s the hand of God!” And perhaps somewhere in the heavenly realms, Pope Francis will quietly smile and cross himself, because he knew: a miracle is always there where it is believed. And in Argentina, they believe always.
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