After I returned from pilgrimage to Italy, I asked a friar how St. Francis would feel about such a grand basilica built in his honor. He said, without skipping a beat: “He’d hate it. He’d want the money to go to the poor.” That conversation has never left me. Not that Francis is undeserving of a basilica; nor is his worldwide admiration unwarranted—far from it. He and St. Clare created a religious experience that thrives today. But do we focus on the messenger at the expense of the message?
First, my respects: Francis continues to show me how material goods cannot lift me up; they can only weigh me down. When he stripped himself naked in the town square of Assisi, it was both a celebration of freedom from the material world and a wedding vow to Lady Poverty. In any era, that is impressive.
Francis also teaches me that my faith isn’t relegated to a location. I never considered a dense wood or an expanse of pristine ocean as “church,” but Francis did. God, he tells us, is everywhere. He shows me that “church” can be a dwelling and an indwelling—that sitting in a field of wildflowers is tantamount to kneeling in prayer before a crucifix.
But I am often lulled into a stupor when I read his words (below). Being called an “Alter Christus” (Another Christ) would have scandalized him, though it was not an unfair label. Perhaps no saint in the canon modeled his life on Christ like him.
And as Jesus did, Francis left behind wisdom that can apply to our daily lives.
“We must hate our lower nature with its vices and sins; by living a worldly life, it would deprive us of the love of our Lord Jesus Christ and of eternal life.” Who isn’t troubled, cajoled, or even consoled by the “lower nature” Francis writes about? In a few carefully chosen words, he reminds us that by having less, we gain more. By focusing only on this life, we ignore the one to come. Francis names what keeps us from grace and offers a road map for eternal life.
“When I was in sin, the sight of lepers nauseated me beyond measure; but then God himself led me into their company, and I had pity on them.” Who are the lepers in our day? They’re not hard to find: They are the immigrant (irrespective of how they got here), the sick, the powerless. How would Francis treat them? For that matter, how would Jesus? Would they round them up like animals and house them in a grotesque detention center? Is this pleasing to God?
“They are truly peacemakers who are able to preserve their peace of mind . . . despite all that they suffer in this world.” Turn on the news—if you dare. Read the headline, and you may find your peace of mind beginning to erode. It’s easy to despair. It might even feel good in the moment to wallow. But Francis reminds us that peace begins in our hearts and then travels outward. In the face of suffering in the world today, told or untold, having a measure of peace of mind and spirit has become almost revolutionary.
Followers of Francis Are Houses of God
If we are made in God’s spirit, then our first “church” were the bodies given to us. Francis wrote, “Where there is the fear of God to guard the dwelling, there no enemy can enter.” If we know God dwells within us, no enemy can cross the threshold.
Perhaps that is the singular lesson Francis left behind: God is within us; therefore, we are not only capable, but called to be holy. All that we need to say in response is “Amen.”
