ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

October 4 is the feast day of St. Francis – not his birthday, but the date of his death; for the faithful, it is the end of life, its consummation, and reaching its final destination, that matters. I am unsure what to say in such short space about Francis. For me, Francis has been a deeply personal journey, from my first visit to Assisi, through times I have taken family and groups there, to daily thought and prayer, icons of him hanging in my home and office… I wrote a book about Francis and my interactions with him… and when people ask me What is your favorite among the books you’ve written? I’m inclined to pick this one.

Recently I received a handwritten note from Murray Bodo, a priest and wonderful author who has shaped my thinking about Francis. In one of his lovely books, he pinpointed why Francis matters to me: “Francis dares to live the Gospel the way I would like to live it, and he loves Jesus the way anyone would like to be loved… It is easier to rationalize and dismiss Jesus than Francis, because Jesus, after all, is divine and so far above us. But Francis is only human like us. What he is, we can become… What is so unique about Francis is that he does what we would like to do, and he does it in such a simple, ingenuous way that we know we could do the same if only we would.”

Francis wasn’t an ordained minister! and he could just barely read and write. We do not need to be Francis; but we do need to be the person God calls us to be. Another intriguing writer about Francis is Gerard Straub, a former soap opera producer! He thought about the saint’s last words: “Francis said, ‘I have done what was mine to do; may Christ teach you what you are to do.’ Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; seek what they sought.”

Francis sought God, with an intensity and constancy that might be instructive. After being seriously wounded as a soldier, he was trying to piece his life back together; every day, at length, he knelt before a crucifix in a little broken down church and prayed these words, over and over: O most high, glorious God, Enlighten the darkness of my heart, and give me a correct faith, certain hope, and perfect charity, wisdom and perception, that I may do, O Lord, Your most true and holy will. I made this the centerpiece of my book on The Will of God.

For Francis, knowing the will of God became almost embarrassingly obvious, and simple: he listened to the Bible being read, carried a copy of the Gospels around with him, and thought he was supposed to do whatever it said. Jesus said “Give all you have to the poor,” and instead of rationalizing or being puzzled, Francis just went out and gave what he had to the poor. Francis “took the Bible literally,” not in the sense of arguing about historical accuracy, but taking its words as his to-do list for the day.

He wanted to do the things of which the Bible spoke – but at the heart of it all was his desire to be like Jesus. Whatever Jesus did, Francis wanted to imitate. Jesus was poor, so Francis became poor. Jesus touched lepers, so Francis bought a building and opened a hospital for lepers. His first biographer summed up his life: He was always with Jesus: Jesus in his heart, Jesus in his mouth, Jesus in his ears, Jesus in his eyes, Jesus in his hands; he bore Jesus always in his whole body.

Not surprisingly, Francis’s father, Pietro Bernardone, who had huge ambitions for his son, was chagrined, and infuriated. Francis was squandering a career in the cloth merchant business, and giving away precious family possessions! So, in a famous scene, Pietro sued his son Francis, who returned even the very clothes off his back, with the courageous, tragic yet faithful words, “No longer do I call Pietro ‘my father,’ but from now on I will only speak of ‘our Father in heaven.” Jesus had said his presence would divide families, and Francis knew that pain – as did his father. I think my best thoughts in Conversations with St. Francis are my guesses about how this felt to father and son.

Francis had been sent on a mission by the God he’d prayed to repeatedly. After seeking God’s will, Jesus spoke to Francis and said “Go, rebuild my church, for as you can see, it is falling into ruin.” Francis thought Jesus meant the very building in which he was kneeling; so he used masonry skills he’d learned as an aspiring knight and repaired it! But it was the Church, all of it, which had become listless, pompous, and frankly too rich, that Francis was to rebuild.

But he was never a critic of the Church: Francis loved the Church, and would not act with the approval of the bishop, and the pope. He visited Rome, and at first the pope refused to see such a poor, dirty little man. But he had a dream that the great Lateran basilica was falling to the ground, propped up only by a poor, dirty little man. So he summoned Francis back to the basilica and blessed his work.

Statues of Francis are often placed in gardens. He was a lover of nature – but for the same reason he was a great lover of people: whatever God made, he treasured. One of the witty quotes from G.K. Chesterton’s eloquent book on Francis is this: “Francis seemed to have liked everybody, but especially those other people disliked him for liking. Francis had all his life a great liking for people who had been put hopelessly in the wrong.” Indeed, Francis saw the creative work of God in every person, and in flowers, birds, fish, trees, and rocks; he slept out of doors, even on hard stones, partly to experience the discomforts Jesus must have known, and partly to be as close as possible to what God had made.

Because of this, Francis was history’s greatest peacemaker, and may have a few things to teach us about the tensions in our world. Francis lived during the violent decades of the Crusades, when Christian armies battled Muslim armies. Francis wanted to meet the sultan, so he marched off with the Crusading armies, and trudged out, unarmed, to the camp of the Muslims – who started to kill him, but as he was unarmed and so different from other Christians they had ever seen, they took him to the sultan. For several days they conversed, and became friends; one version of the story says the sultan was prepared to convert! He gave Francis a horn made from an elephant tusk, used to call warriors to battle; Francis brought it home and used it to call his friends to prayer. A new book I just finished reading explores this whole episode, and what it might mean for how we could conceivably rethink political hostility in today’s world. Other stories from Francis’s life, such as the charming “wolf of Gubbio” incident, boggle our minds, and show us a better way.

Francis’s health was never good after his war injuries. Nearly blind, and having endured brutal surgeries, suffering malaria and other maladies, in the thick of misery, Francis wrote some of the most beautiful poetry praising God ever conceived. He also became even more determined, late in life, to be like Christ. Devoted all his life to crucifixes and the beauty of Christ’s love for us on the cross, Francis began to pray,

My Lord Jesus Christ, two graces I ask of you before I die: the first is that in my life I may feel, in my soul and body, as far as possible, that sorrow which you, tender Jesus, underwent in the hour of your most bitter passion; the second is that I may feel in my heart, as far as possible, the abundance of love with which you, son of God, were inflamed, so as willingly to undergo such a great passion for us sinners.

On a mountain northwest of Assisi, Francis experienced a painful but wonderful encounter with God, and came away with wounds in his hands, feet and side – which bled intermittently, and which he hid out of humility. Since Francis, history has witnessed many “stigmatics,” people who have had such wounds appear spontaneously on their bodies out of their devotion to Christ.

Ironically, and sadly in a way, Francis was buried in a splendid basilica he would not have wanted built. The beautiful basilica houses his body and those of his closest friends, and features stunning frescoes depicting dramatic moments in the saint’s life. Henri Nouwen once reflected on the many challenges facing Christians in today’s world, and asked “Who will be the St. Francis of our day?”

GANDHI

Why have so many Christians pointed to Gandhi – a lifelong Hindu! – as the most Christlike figure they have ever known? Gandhi obviously had a decisive impact on the history of India; but if we consider has influence on America’s Civil Rights movement, Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s campaign against Hitler, Nelson Mandela’s toppling of Apartheid in South Africa, and the way Christian missionaries in Asia do what they do, we realize his life bears much reflection – especially as we move toward World Communion Sunday.

The outline of his life is familiar enough, and Hollywood even bequeathed to us a superb film on his life (starring Ben Kingsley), winning the 1982 Oscar for best picture. Born in 1869, Gandhi grew up in a fine family with stellar political connections, and studied law with distinction in London. His work as a barrister took him to South Africa, where he first got involved in the early combat against racial prejudice. With that experience under his belt, he returned to India in 1915, and organized mass protests against excessive taxation and discrimination, most famously with the Salt march of 1930. He was a pioneer in nonviolent political protest (or an imitator of Jesus!): donning a loincloth and armed with a bamboo walking stick, Gandhi waged peaceful war against the greatest world empire in history.

But he had the advantage of an idea: he could match his capacity to suffer against others’ capacity to inflict suffering; he refused to hate, but he refused to obey unjust laws. As the famous Christian missionary E. Stanley Jones put it, “He marched into the soul of humanity in the most triumphal march that any man ever made since the death and resurrection of the Son of God.”

Jones could not help seeing parallels between Gandhi and Christ: when Gandhi was assassinated in 1948, Stanley, who had become a close friend of Gandhi, sadly wrote, “Never did a death more fittingly crown a life, save only one – that of the Son of God. On the human level this was the greatest and most befitting climax: a man on the way to a prayer meeting where he would pray for himself and his people, and where he would give his daily counsel, dies a martyr for an Indian for all.”

Our interest in Gandhi is from this kind of Christian perspective. This lifelong Hindu studied Christianity in considerable depth, although never considered conversion: “I like your Christ, but I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” Gandhi believed the Christians have “inoculated the world with a mild form of Christianity, so that it is now proof against the real thing.”

Missionaries sought his counsel – and his advice to foreign missionaries might be taken to heart by those of us back home: “First, I would suggest that all of you Christians, missionaries and all, must begin to live more like Jesus Christ. Second, practice your religion without adulterating it or toning it down. Third, emphasize love and make it your working force, for live is central in Christianity. Fourth, study the non-Christian religions more sympathetically to find the good.”
Jones reflected on the wisdom of this, and saw everything with new eyes: “Too often our evangelism has been verbal instead of vital – an evangelism of the lips instead of evangelism of the life. The whole life has not spoken the message… In penance for this we might very well impose silence upon our lips until our lives have caught up with their testimony.”

Gandhi’s most powerful message was, curiously his silence. He was no spellbinding orator; he was childlike in a way, humble, soft-spoken, more likely to be caught at his spinning wheel than behind a microphone rallying the forces. As we think about our world, Gandhi reminds us we could use more love and less talk.

In a way, we might grasp the subtle truth that he gave the loveliest conceivable expression of Hinduism, and perhaps as he did so, Christians noticed in him an illustration of what Christ was about; this coincidence can draw people together from differing religions and viewpoints and can help them make peace with each other. His dual life mission was 1. freedom, and 2. unity. He was killed because he wanted India to be a safe home not only for Hindus and Christians but also Muslims – and there is something about the nonviolent protester who won’t play by the might makes right rules that elicits the rage of killers, like James Earl Ray, the assassins of Anwar Sadat and Yitzhak Rabin, Oscar Romero, those medical missionaries in Afghanistan… and Pontius Pilate.

JULIAN OF NORWICH

Julian of Norwich was one of the greatest spiritual mystics of the Middle Ages. Born in 1342 in Norwich, which was the second largest city in England in those days, she grew up during the most daunting, challenging times in all of history. When she was just six, the great plague broke out all over Europe. Three-fourths of Norwich’s population perished! So her earliest days were haunted by the specter of constant, inexplicable suffering and sorrow.

Politically, England was in turmoil, as was the Church, as two rival popes battled for supremacy. John Wyclif campaigned to reform Church and society, but faced violent opposition. Then, during a fierce galestorm, the towering steeple of the cathedral in Julian's hometown of Norwich toppled to the ground – and citizens regarded this catastrophe as an ominous sign of God’s judgment.

Julian’s own health was poor, and as a young woman she was lingering near death – when she began to have startling visions. She gazed on a crucifix, and it came to life; she found herself in open conversation with Jesus, listening, talking, questions, answers, reflections. After contemplating the content and meaning of these “showings” for many years, even though she felt inadequate as a person and as a writer, she felt she had to share what had been given her by God.

The result is the first book written by a woman in the English language. English, oddly enough, was suspect as a language in the Church; the Catholics tried to stamp out its usage, and if you were found with an English Bible (John Wyclif was the one laboring to get it translated!), you could be executed.

In such intimidating, treacherous, grief-filled and fearful times, Julian wrote of the great joy and peace that Christ gives. With steeple stones still piled on the ground, the city a shell of its former self, recent graves outnumbering the living by three to one, the economy in shambles, where did Julian look for security? “Thus will I love, and thus do I love, and thus I am safe” – for her conversations with Christ were all about love, his for her, hers for him, his for the city, and all of God’s people.
Julian wrote, “The Soul must perform two duties. One is that we reverently marvel. The other is that we humbly endure, and take pleasure in God.” To recover our ability to “marvel,” to be awed by the greatness of God, the sheer mercy in Christ’s grace! and then to endure, to be patient, to find joy in God no matter the circumstance. This was Julian’s secret in her own life: “God wants us to know that he keeps us equally safe, in woe as in well-being.”

Having been granted peculiar, wonderful visions of Christ, Julian lived the rest of her life in a small stone room with three windows – which matched her threefold desire: for contrition (grief over her sin), compassion (for Christ and for the hurting), and longing for God. Think of this: Julian longed to long for God! For her, “seeking is better than seeing.” Like many great spiritual writers through history, she understood that, theologically speaking, questions are better than answers; if we get a glimpse of God or learn some truth, more questions are provoked; we never figure God out, but take immense delight in the never-ending quest to learn more, to draw closer.

The Christ she loved was the Christ who suffered. It was a crucifix that came alive, and much like St. Francis of Assisi, Julian wanted to feel what Christ felt in the hour of his suffering for us. In her visions, Jesus showed her the wound in his side – and she saw in it “the entire kingdom of heaven.” She suffered much, but she did not see God as the cause of her suffering: “All that is good our Lord does; all that is evil our Lord suffers.” Her suffering brought her closer to the Lord, who suffers what we suffer. But the peace and joy of the Lord’s presence transform everything: Julian’s most famous words were, “All shall be well, and all shall be well; all manner of things shall be well.” This is no sunny optimism about tomorrow being a more chipper day; this is hope, the vested confidence that when all is said and done, the love of God will triumph over plagues, storms, illness, a crumbled Church, political machinations, and even death itself.

People from the town and surrounding villages came to her stone room, bringing her food and other essentials – and gave her these in return for her prayers and counsel. Imagine a world where there is a woman so holy, so close to God, that we would travel to her, simply to hear her speak of God, and to ask how to live. Julian taught them to offer their desires to God, as she had. She wanted what was not of God to be purged from her soul: “Lord, you know what I want. If it is your will for me to have it, let me have it. If not, do not be displeased, for I only want what you will.”

* Recommended book - Amy Frykholm, Julian of Norwich: A Contemplative Biography

* Julian's classic book: Showings

* a great book on Wyclif and the battle to translate the Bible into English? Benson Bobrick, Wide as the Waters