Ruth's Book I
St. Francis' Early Life
REFLECTIONS
My object in having this series of talks about St. Francis, is not only to take the shadowy figure of 800 years ago and SEE the flash and fire in his eyes; but also, to HEAR and grasp the whole message of his good news, so that we can bring that message into our present century and make it our way of life.
In these episodes, I am giving you the facts, but they are my interpretation and reflections of those facts. This is true also of anyone who has ever written anything about St. Francis. It’s the only way to bring the facts to life and breathe the breath of life into them. Without that they are worthless. We need to walk right into the middle of his thoughts; into his heart and into his inner most feelings. We need to intrude into his privacy; to stick our noses into what he is doing at any given moment in the 13th Century when he was alive; and also, if we may use an exaggerated modern expression, drag him kicking and screaming into the presence of our hectic present day existence.
This is not far-fetched, because exaggerated expressions fit St. Francis to a “T” (Tau Cross). He was a master craftsman of exaggeration, both in truth and in deeds.
This story will take you from the gay troubadour that he was in his early years to the gathering of his first followers and the final decision to preach and follow the gospel as Christ wanted him to do.
Again, these things I am going to tell you about him will be colored by my own style and my own thoughts of what his life was all about. I will try to be factually accurate; but, he will look different to you than he does to me. You will be interpreting him with your own mind as I have with mine.
The questions I’m going to try to answer are: What was the most important thing in Francis’ life? And why was he not lost in the obscurity of time, as most people are? The answer is: because of his conversion process.
I purposely said conversion process, because it didn’t happen all of a sudden. He didn’t kiss the leper and BANG, the light of conversion suffused him and he was a full-fledged saint.
No. It had its beginnings before that and it went on and on after that, agonizingly for him, more often than not.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
I think it can be said to have begun when he was in prison for a year and he had much time to think.
But, before we go into that, let’s take a look at what he was like BC — Before Conversion.
Picture this scene in Assisi in the early 13th Century — a narrow street at midnight — old houses, possibly in baroque architecture, and down the street comes a shouting, laughing, singing gang of youths. Their leader, though more slightly built than the rest, was the loudest of all. He was dressed in the showy costume of a minstrel or troubadour. His shoes were pointed, his socks a splash of many colors, his hooded tunic richly woven and also brightly colored, and his lute was slung carelessly in front of him.
This was Francis of Assisi, lover of a bulging purse and showy clothes; a first class show-off; a lover of braggadocio and a reckless spendthrift, who gloried in paying all the inflated tabs in the swanky taverns he and his friends frequented to wine and dine. His rich tenor voice often rose clear and beautiful, above the laughter and shouts of his companions, as he poured forth his gay troubadour ditties. He was inordinately gratified by the kudos of his parasitic companions who clung to his financial coattails and praised him for his wit.
This is the Francis that everyone knew before Christ entered his life — a life that would literally change the life of the Church.
REFLECTIONS
In this series we are going to try to discover not just factual details about the life of St. Francis, but much more his message and his spirit, so that we can bring that message and that spirit right into our lives as we seek to form ourselves as Franciscans.
First of all, we must not lose sight of the fact that, like Francis, we are a part of the material world, as well as the spiritual, and we must, every day, use things of the material world to sustain our existence. But, although we have this need for worldly things, we should always keep in mind that we must maintain a detached attitude towards them, not owning them or being owned by them, but recognizing and acknowledging that they are gifts from God for our use.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
We said before that Francis' conversion process began early in his life and was encouraged by his year of imprisonment. So, let’s talk about his imprisonment. How did it come about?
There was an age-old enmity between the citizens of Assisi, of which Francis was a native son, and the citizens of Perguia. In fact, to this day, animosity still exists between them.
Francis was a fiery, restless youth, always ready to fly off in behalf of some cause or another. Thus, when those of Assisi prepared to march into what they considered a just cause against the Perugians; Francis, like a tail-wagging puppy, was right at their heels, panting and barking excitedly, gleefully happy to be allowed to go with them.
Well, that didn’t last very long, because very soon he and his fellow Perugians were ignominiously defeated at Ponte Giovanni and taken prisoner. Our eager little puppy now had his tail between his legs as he was marched off with the rest of them, over the old bridge and up into the walled city of Perugia.
His spirits soon revived however, and because of his gay, audacious manner, and his fine clothes, the jailers thought he was highborn like the nobles and knights, and they threw him into prison with them.
All during this year of imprisonment he was his usual gay, carefree self. But at the same time he had much time on his hands, and he did a great deal of thinking about himself, about his life, and where he was going and what he was going to do.
He was a good morale builder for the others because he was so jolly and lighthearted. He sang a great deal, and as we said, he loved to sing, and sing he did for his own and his companion’s amusement.
REFLECTIONS
Take a minute and picture him in that dank, dark prison, sometimes sitting alone and lost in thought. Other times, an impish grin on his face, he deliberately intruded into the awareness of his fellow prisoners with his swaggering antics. Annoyed at first, they watched him and they saw his slim, slight figure pirouette before them in an exaggerated dance. If the twist had been in vogue at that time I’m sure he would have been doing the twist, and often, in pantomime. He would accompany himself by playing an imaginary fiddle, pretended to hold under his chin with one hand while with another he sawed away with an imaginary bow.
If you look you might see, reluctant at first, then with all-out delight, the smiles break over the faces of at least some of his companions. This sort of entertainment they liked. It was a joy and a breath of the freedom they had lost. They welcomed it and encouraged him, although he didn’t need much encouragement. He was a born show-off and actor; an artist; a poet; a mystic and a lover — above all else, a lover. The true lover in him was dormant at this time, waiting …
No one ever loved the way Francis loved — his love for Jesus was all out, toe to head, inside and out — all the way. And, the great love that was to flame up and consume him later was Jesus Christ crucified — it was to possess him, shake him and tear him from his roots and foundation. It would wrap him up and lock him in, never to be freed again. Such was his love for his Lord and Master, Jesus the Incarnate God. But wait, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
During his year's imprisonment his joyful manner both cheered and annoyed his companions. “How in the world,” they complained, “can you be so cheerful in this dismal place?” His answer was a shrug and with a sudden twinge and a little frown, he became silent. He was realizing that he, himself, didn’t know the answer to that question.
Why was he happy, when the others were so gloomy? He really didn’t know. It was something inside him that had to come out.
“You must be out of your head,” they told him. But he only answered gaily, and mysteriously, “Why shouldn’t I be jolly? One day the whole world will bow down to me.”
REFLECTIONS
He was right, of course, but not the way he was thinking right then in his carefree head. He was taking the wrong meaning as he did so often then and later. He was a starry-eyed boy in love with himself and he was thinking in terms of being a great hero, a crusader, a brave soldier glorious in battle.
All the while there was stirring inside him a smoldering mystery that was kindling a fire that later was to spill out like an erupting volcano — the fire of God’s love and compassion.
Now he was unaware of what was at work inside him because he had not yet made the journey into himself where the real Francis was.
What significance does this have for us today?
It is what we, too, now need to do. We need to make this journey into ourselves, right down into our roots, to find the real “me” hidden inside, to fire it up and make it spill its compassion and understanding and brotherly love; to send it, not like destructive lava; but, like a softly illuminating candle flame into the market places of the world. This is the spirit of St. Francis moving in “me” that I am discovering in this metanoia, which I am working on and which is making me reach outside myself to embrace my brothers and sisters wherever I may find them.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
One final thought about his year in prison. There was a young nobleman who was very shy, a wallflower type of person, who was lonely and who was looked down upon and ridiculed by the others. Francis took him under his protective wing. Francis was ever a champion of the lowly and oppressed, the weak ones of the world. He related to this shy person and drew him out of himself so that before too long the others, though perhaps grudgingly, began to accept him.
REFLECTIONS
Francis’ compassion was as big as the whole wide world because he embraced the whole wide world and everybody and everything. This world was to him straight from God, created by God, who was and who is and who ever will be — LOVE.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
Now we see Francis just emerging from his year of imprisonment. He is sickly, some think from malaria, others tuberculosis. He is quieter. He is, and always will be seen as a strange combination of gaiety and austerity — a man of childlike simplicity with a passion for perfection.
His whole conversion process carried him closer and closer to being a reflection of Jesus Christ, and in the last phase of his life it locked him hand and hand with the Suffering Servant, Jesus on the Cross.
Francis, too, was a man of sorrows and full of contrasts. He praised the sun and the moon and the stars, yet he often went away from these brothers and sisters of light into the gloom and mold of a darkened cave.
After his year of imprisonment, things didn’t seem the same to him and was often and strangely depressed. He would return to the company of his old carefree friends, but they bored him. He found their actions not to his liking. His old way of living had gone flat — the champagne had lost its fizz.
Once, during this time of depression, he met a very poorly clad knight, and Francis impulsively exchanged his rich garments for the poor garment of the knight, while all the time thinking with longing, of becoming a great knight. The idea became an obsession with him, so much so that he had a dream about it one night. He saw a great palace; the walls were covered with glittering shields and bucklers and spears and helmets and many trophies of battle. Francis’ dreaming eyes widened greedily. His arms reached out, wanting to gather them all in at one time. Oh, the wonder of them, he thought. Whose were they?
But even as the question flashed into his head an answer came, spoken out loud, in a very distinct voice. “They are yours, Francis.”
“Glory be to God,” he cried and in a rush of joy he was wide-awake and out of bed. Joy! Joy! This was for him! He would be a knight. Didn’t this dream prove it?
Off he rushed with coat tails flying, riding off down the road toward Apulia. He would join the army of Walter of Brienne, who was a great knight leading his army in a crusade for Pope Innocent III.
He hadn’t gone very far before he felt ill. He was annoyed. What was the matter with him? He was light-headed. He pulled up at an inn at Spoleto and headed straight for bed, and lay there wondering, fearful and dizzy.
Towards morning, half asleep, he suddenly heard that voice again and it sounded reproachful. “Francis, is it better to serve the master or the servant?” Francis sat up with a jerk. He could see no one; yet, there was the voice. “Oh Lord,” he groaned, “What do you want of me?” “Return home,” the voice urged him, “and wait there. I will tell you what I want you to do.”
Instantly his spirits sank like a ball of lead. His elation of the day before flew right out the window. With dragging steps he left the inn. Reluctantly he turned his horse’s head back towards Assisi.
His freeloading friends gathered around him. But he couldn’t abide them any more. They were shallow, irresponsible and silly.
REFLECTIONS
Francis was restless. He withdrew and turned more and more to solitude. He prayed in secret; but didn’t know it at the time he was beginning his journey into himself, his own personal metanoia, his root conversion.
FRANCIS' LIFE
Francis would spend his time in a cave in a mountain retreat and when he came down from his retreat, he would seek not his old friends, but the poor and became more kindly towards them. He was still dressing in the rich clothing his father gave him; but now, he would insist on having sewn in with the rich cloth some cloth of very poor quality. At that time it was a pattern in his life — reaching for his highest goal while wallowing in the depths.
He began to take an interest in old churches and their poor priests. He helped them financially with his father’s money, much to the disappointment of his father.
In his restlessness, he went on a pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Peter. He saw many beggars standing outside the great church, and on an impulse he approached one of the most ragged beggars and struck up a conversation with him.
“Will you exchange your clothes for mine?” he asked.
The beggar's eyes popped. He stared at Francis’ fine clothes, then down at his own rags.
“You've got to be kidding!” he said.
But Francis wasn’t kidding. It took some persuasion to convince the poor man; but, before long, there was Francis standing outside of St. Peter’s amidst the beggars — he, the most ragged of them all. He fingered the coarse, ragged garment he was wearing.
“Me,” he marveled. “This is me in these rags!” Suddenly he grinned. He was enjoying himself immensely.
Back home he kept so aloof from his old friends that they were puzzled.
“You must be in love,” they taunted him. That comment lit up his face with a smile.
“Yes,” he agreed eagerly. “I am in love.” I am going to marry the most beautiful lady anyone has ever seen.”
They hooted with laughter. They didn’t know he was referring to his Lady Poverty.
One friend often accompanied him when he withdrew into one of his mountain caves. This was a young man about his own age, whose name is not known. His friend would wait outside the cave while he went in alone to pray. His friend must have been a remarkably patient and understanding person to wait long hours outside for Francis.
These excursions took them to Mt. Subasio. Here Francis was beginning to find a priceless treasure, a growing and living awareness of Jesus.
But these were difficult times, this journey into himself. It was rugged, mysterious, fearful, arduous and agonizing. He regretted deeply his wasted life up to then and was uncertain of his future.
“God,” he agonized. “You got me into this. You dragged me back from Walter of Brienne’s crusade. Why? What do you want of me? You told me you would let me know what you wanted. Why aren’t you telling me?”
He prayed in a sweat — his own private Gethsemane. He had a downright fear of the future and what was in store for him. Where was he headed? He was at loose ends, going nowhere. “God, you’ve got to help me,” he cried.
God did, of course, in His own good time. God, he found out, would not be stampeded into action. He would find out that God goes at His own pace.
One day in the cave he was deep in prayer when something caught his eye, and he looked up in sheer astonishment. There, before him, life sized and alive, was Christ hanging in agony on the cross! Christ’s eyes seemed to burn right into Francis. Christ’s lips were drawn back from His teeth in terrible pain. His whole body was a picture of excruciating agony. Francis suddenly felt like a candle too close to a fire; his muscles, he was sure, were melting. Then the vision was gone.
For a long time Francis remained rooted to the spot; then he fell on his knees, rocking back and forth, his head hidden in his hands, moaning and weeping.
“I now know,” he gasped, “I know what you want me to do. You are telling me I must deny myself, take up my cross and follow you.”
In a daze he went forth from the cave and was never again the same. Christ crucified had branded Himself on his heart.
One day he was riding, deep in thought, through the countryside and not paying too much attention to where he was going. Suddenly he found himself near the forbidden area of the lepers. He saw a leper not far away and he shrank back. He was so close to the frightful figure he began to tremble with dread and abhorrence. He wanted to turn his horse and gallop away, but something was holding him there, and all at once there leaped into his mind again those words: “Take up your cross and follow me.” Was this what that meant — this leper?
With a bound he was off his horse and striding towards the shrinking figure. He held out a handful of coins to the leper. Greedily a misshapen hand darted out and took the money. But Francis didn’t stop at that. He put both arms around the loathsome figure and embraced him. He pressed his cheek against his and saw tears spring from the leper’s sunken eyes.
Then he turned away, leaped back on his horse, and started off. He wasn’t trembling any more and felt very odd. He looked back over his shoulder and gasped with incredulity. Where was the leper? Where he had stood there was no one. Francis was completely alone.
“Oh my God,” he thought.
He felt such a rush of emotion that he reeled in his saddle. “God,” he prayed. “Oh my good God.”
He sat quite still for a while. Then a feeling of elation swept over him. He laughed. He felt lighthearted as a bird in flight. He felt he, himself, had wings. He could fly. He could fly. He could fly!
He burst into song and urged his horse into a gallop and down the road he sped. “O glory be to God,” he sang. (Ruth has a slightly different version of this story in her article, “Franciscan Commitment,” page 30).
In the spirit and awe of God he went on to his cave to pray, and then, in a high movement of spiritual closeness to God, a most disturbing thing happened to him.
Into the solitude of his cave came the devil himself. Francis saw him, stared at him and then shrank from him. He shivered and felt like screaming. The devil spoke to him. “Remember that hideous hunchbacked derelict in town?” The devil’s voice was raspy and disjointed. It grated on Francis’ ears and made his blood run cold. The devil said to him, “I will make you just like him if you don’t stop this stupid way you are going.” But quickly and urgently another voice inside Francis said, “Don’t pay any attention to him. Believe in Me. BELIEVE IN ME!”
He knelt and prayed. He felt great sorrow for his past life and his wasted time. He thought of Jesus hanging on the cross and how Jesus came alive in his life — the love of Jesus, greater than anything he had ever imagined.
And thus was his conversion process solidifying, embedding its roots in the deepest recesses of his being. His metanoia was moving along in high gear.
REFLECTIONS
We have reached the point in Francis' conversion where Jesus has become the real person in his life — Jesus crucified.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
About this time in his life we have the San Damiano incident. Francis was on his way somewhere when he passed a dilapidated church. He was so deep in thought that he almost walked by it before he noticed it was a church (he never passed by a church without popping in). He backtracked to the front door and entered. He looked around and saw that the interior of the church was in sad shape. The roof was so badly caved in, in some places, that he could see the sky through it. Stones and rubble were scattered on the floor beneath the crumbling walls.
He shook his head and saddened him profoundly. He fell on his knees and started to pray. He stared at a large crucifix that was over the altar. It was different from any crucifix he had seen before; actually, it was a Byzantine crucifix (see page 89). The Christ figure was surrounded by other figures of saints.
Francis raised his eyes to those of Christ. Going through his head was the starkly and realistic vision of the living Christ on the cross. His eyes seem to be fixed on those on the crucifix and tears sprang into his eyes. Half blinded with tears he stared dumbfounded at the crucifix. He blinked away the tears and did a double take. Yes! He did see the lips of Christ moving. They were uttering words and the words were coming out quite audibly.
“Francis, repair my church which, as you see, is falling into ruin.”
Francis was stunned. He got to his feet and walked distractedly about the church, stopping to look at the worst places of disrepair. It certainly was falling into ruin, he thought to himself.
He went back to the crucifix and stood gazing at it. It was lifeless now, just an inanimate cross with an inanimate figure on it. He was puzzled. Had he been mistaken? Had he imagined he heard it speak? No! He was sure he had seen the lips move and heard the words.
“Glory be to God,” he cried in a rapture. “This is what my Lord told me to wait for. This is what He wants me to do.” He experienced a great surge of joy. Without further ado, he rushedd out of the church and began to beg, borrow, or let us say it mildly, “steal,” some of the materials — the stones, mortar, and boards, he needed to repair the church. He worked until the sweat rolled off him. From time to time a few other youths, attracted by his enthusiasm, help him.
REFLECTIONS
He went into this new phase of his conversion on the run. He was always running, even in his latter years, running towards the outstretched arms of his Savior.
Now, in throwing himself headlong into repairing the church of San Damiano, he had something concrete to fasten onto; something the Christ on the crucifix had told him to do.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
He gave the poor priest who came to live there a handful of money and asked him to use it to buy oil to keep the lamp always burning before the crucifix.
Repairing the church, he knew would take some doing. What to do? He needed money. He hadn’t yet reached the phase in his conversion where he despised money.
He paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. Suddenly a thought came into his mind and he snapped his fingers. He had it! He was the indulged son of a rich father, wasn’t he? So he thought he would take a few bales of his father’s cloth and sell them.
He mounted one of his father’s finest horses and off he rode to the city of Foligno and there, without thinking of the consequences, he sold not only the cloth, but the horse as well.
Soon, back in San Damiano he eagerly held out the money to the poor priest. The priest was taken aback. “Oh no,” the priest protested. But Francis insisted that he take the money. “You need it,” he said, “for repairs. I will help you and work here myself. I thought,” he went on hopefully, “I could live here with you. Please let me live here.”
Aware that he knew how Francis got the money the priest sighed and said, “You may live here, but I cannot take the money. It belongs to your father. You should not have taken the cloth and the horse. It was wrong.”
He put the purse back in Francis’ hand and kindly, but firmly, closed the young man’s fingers about it.
Francis looked with distaste at the money. All of a sudden he hated it, what was it to him? He didn’t want any part of it and with a contemptuous gesture he hurled it onto a window sill.
His father, Pietro Bernardone, soon got wind of what Francis had done. In a rage he charged down upon the little church and the poor old priest.
“Where’s my son,” his father demanded.
But, that was the question, where was Francis?
Anticipating his father’s anger, Francis had turned chicken and was hiding in a little cave not far away.
His father stormed around for a while; but, unable to find him, he gave way to two emotions, alternately he was beside himself with rage, then overwhelmed with genuine grief. He was unable to understand how this son of his, on whom he had lavished his affection and his goods, could have done such a complete about face as to become this weirdo that the whole town of Assisi was laughing at. His father hung his head in shame.
Francis, in hiding, was praying intensely and beseeched God to help him. After a time, peace began to come over him and he began to reproach himself for being a coward.
With that thought, he rose up, out of his hiding place and strode with determination down the road towards Assisi.
The Assisians looked upon Francis at that time as a rich, pleasure-loving, playboy-jongleur, and impeccable dresser. Now, here he came, looking anything but impeccable. He was disheveled, wild in appearance, downright dirty and a perfect picture of a modern day hippie at his sloppiest worst.
The townsfolk thought he had gone bananas. They didn’t hesitate to ridicule him. They even threw stones and mud at him.
His father hastened to meet him. This was no Gospel father going out to meet his prodigal son. This was a red-hot parent, after his maddening, crazy, mixed-up son.
He seized Francis, dragged him into the house, and beat him, not sparing the rod, in true Old Testament fashion. Then he threw him, shaken and bruised into his dark cellar, in chains.
REFLECTIONS
You see how often Francis goes from light into darkness, from freedom into a dark cellar. It was like before when he went into that dark, dank prison. He often went from sunlight into musty caves and from open decisive action to the darkness and uncertainty of an unknown future. There are times when we experience the same things.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
Pietro beat him again and again, trying, to make him see reason, but it was to no avail.
About this time Pietro had to go out of town. Francis’ mother, through all this, was terribly grieved, the situation tormented her. She couldn’t stand having him chained in the dark cellar. After Pietro took off, she pleaded with him to change, but he would not. He could not, he told her. So, she set him free anyway. She was afraid to the point of trembling and of the consequences, but still set him free.
Actually, according to civil law of that time, Francis, for his rebellious actions, was subject to the punishment of being shunned by everyone; being banished altogether from the region, or of being imprisoned.
But when his father returned and confronted him with this, he coolly informed his father that he was no longer under civil authority because, at the time his father had seized him, he had been living with the poor priest at San Damiano. He, therefore, was subject to the clause in Pope Innocent III’s recent bull, which gave the bishop judiciary power over clerics and people on church property. So, Pietro promptly took him to the bishop.
On April 16, 1207. Bishop Guida, who later became a friend and spiritual advisor to Francis, had a hearing in the public square, which gathered quite a crowd.
“Francis,” the bishop said, “first of all you have to return your father’s money to him.”
“No problem,” Francis replied. “Not only will I give back the money, but also my clothes.”
He threw the money at his father’s feet; a rude act indeed, then stripped himself naked and hurled his clothing, too, at his father. He threw back his head and cried out to heaven, “I have nothing left belonging to Pietro Bernadone. From now on I shall say, ‘Our Father who art in Heaven.’ He, from now on, is my only Father.”
Actually, it has been said, he had one garment remaining on him, a hair shirt.
One account of the episode says: His father rose up, burning with grief and anger, and gathered up the garments and the money and carried them home. And with them, he carried inside himself a father’s broken heart. It wasn’t easy to be the father of Francis.
Shocked, no doubt, by this sudden stripping act, the bishop rushed to Francis and covered him with his own mantle. He sent a servant to fetch something for Francis to put on. The servant came back with an old, warn-out farmer’s tunic and Francis put it on. Later, on the front of the tunic, he drew in white chalk a crusader’s cross. He was now embarked on his own private crusade and thus was born the “habit” of the Franciscans and a new man of God, on his way to unbelievable spiritual heights and honor.
Now, Francis entered into a new life and became a different sort of knight than what he had dreamed of being.
One day he was going along minding his own business he was roughly beset on by robbers. It was obvious they could not have hoped to get anything of value from him, because he was in much worse shape than they were. He looked like something left out in the rain then brought in and dried out.
He was not afraid of the robbers, at least he pretended not to be. He looked them squarely in the eye and declared with an audacious swagger, his ragged tunic flapping about his bare legs, “I am the herald of a great King.” Well that got them! They laughed uproariously and clapped each other on the back.
“Now I’ve heard everything!” One of them yelled. He was a huge fellow, and towered over Francis. He was rough and bearded. He minced about mockingly and mimicked Francis. “I am the herald of a great king,” he said.
Then, with a sudden swoop, he seized Francis, held him high in the air, then dragged him like an empty sack squarely into a ditch filled with dirty, melting snow. He bent over Francis and pushed his face into the snow. Francis came up gasping. Down went his face again and then a third time. The snow was cold and he was half drowned.
Finally, after sneezing, coughing and spitting out dirty snow, he got to his feet. He shook himself off, looked up at his tormentors and smiled disarmingly, “Good morning good people,” he said graciously. His smile broadened. It was genuinely mirthful and friendly; they stared at him, baffled.
“I don’t believe this,” one of them muttered. “This guy can’t be for real.”
He turned away, shaking his head and the others followed him. Francis heard one of them mutter, “Cuckoo!”
Francis laughed aloud.
“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” he repeated like a clock measuring the hours. “Was my Lord Jesus cuckoo, too?”
Later he trudged on up Mt. Subasio and came to a place of cloistered monks and stopped at the front door. He reached out his hand, to knock, then drew it back. “Will they let me in?” he wondered. “Well here goes,” he thought, and he knocked on the door.
The door flew open and he found himself confronted by a big monk who was glaring at him like a bear reared up on his hind legs. Francis gulped.
“Well, what do you want,” the monk demanded.
“May I ... that is, I thought …”
Francis found himself stammering. “Don’t be a jerk,” he told himself. “Are you a man or a mouse?”
“May I come in” he said, stoutly. “I hoped you might let me stay here for awhile.” The monk’s eyes were boring holes in him. After what seemed to Francis an interminable time, the monk stepped back and motioned him to come in. He was still eyeing Francis with suspicion. “If you stay a while,” he said, “you will have to work.” Francis did work and oh, how he worked — hard menial jobs and cheerfully singing as he worked.
He emptied slop pails, scrubbed floors, washed dirty clothes and pots and pans, and all the while he sang.
From time to time he caught their questioning looks at him. “Cuckoo,” he said under his breath. “That’s me, a Cuckoo.” He laughed at his own joke. Humbly he accepted the thin broth they gave him to eat, but there came a time when his ragged tunic was no longer fit to hang on his skinny body. He asked them timidly, “Do you have some old thing I could have to replace this?” as he touched his ragged garment. They ignored his request.
They turned against him then, if it can be said they ever had turned towards him. As a matter of fact, some time later when his sanctity had become well known to all about the countryside, that same monk came to him, and, on his knees, begged his forgiveness. Still they turned him out.
The big door slammed behind him, and here he was again outside, alone and nowhere to go. He went to Gubbio and there he found an old friend who gave him a cast-off garment, which he accepted gladly. He took up residence in a leper colony and stayed there as their servant, like Jesus Christ. He tenderly washed their feet, washed their sores, and cleaned their ulcers. He looked compassionately at their rotting flesh and thought, with a rueful smile, of the times in Assisi when he had stood far off and held his nose and shuddered at the sight of their foul physical condition. Now, he rose his eyes heavenward and sighed, “How could I have been like that?” he wondered. It made him sad to think of it.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” he begged. “Help me to learn how to console, to understand, to forgive, and to love as you do. Make me an instrument of your blessed way.”
The leper colony was not far from San Damiano and he remembered Christ’s command to him to rebuild His church. Francis left the leper colony and it was then that he threw himself heart and soul into the task. He had no resources whatever now and had to work with his bare hands. His physical strength sometimes was unequal to the task; but, his determination was boundless.
When he needed to, he begged and exhorted those around him. And, of course, he prayed. The very seeming impossibility of accomplishment drew a few other youths to help him. Eventually, sweating and almost exhausted, with his eyes bright with triumph, he stood before that little church and saw it restored. “This is all for the love of God,” he cried.
REFLECTIONS
Francis, when he needed to, begged, and when he begged he also prayed. There is an important message here for us Secular Franciscans.
The message is not that we should go from door to door with an empty bowl and receive the scraps that people drop into it, but that we should take this as an example of how not to give alms. We should not give useless, worn out, spoiled things — things we want to get rid of in the name of charity.
It is also a lesson for us with regard to the things we buy for ourselves. We should be satisfied with less, we do not have to have the best of all things.
Francis’ piety was robust. He refused to be pampered like a spoiled child. And, that is another lesson for us Franciscans. Aren’t we like spoiled children much of the time? We don’t like this, and we don’t like that. Isn’t it time we started being adult Christians? Are we striving to form ourselves as Franciscans?
We should ask ourselves these questions often in our quest for forming our way of St. Francis. His way is the Gospel way — the way of Jesus.
“When I was a child I spoke like a child. But when I became a man I put off the things of a child and became a man.” All the things Francis had done up to now testify to this and his progressive conversion — his putting on the beggar’s garments in front of St. Peters; his exchanging his fine garments for those of a poor knight; his kissing the leper; his selling of his father’s cloth and horse to get money for the church (a wrong act but a right motive); his stripping himself naked; his tending the ulcerated flesh of a leper and now his begging from door to door, attest to this.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
Francis went about the city begging oil to keep the lamp before the crucifix burning in San Damiano’s. All this begging was very painful for him because he still had his pride and still could be embarrassed.
One day when he went begging for oil he hesitated at a house where men were gambling. He was ashamed to go in and started to walk past the house, then he stopped. “No,” he told himself, “I must not be ashamed to beg oil for God.” His whole being shrunk back, rebelling against appearing like a fool in front of those sophisticated men.
Once more he walked away; but, with a sudden resolution he whirled and strode into their presence.
“I’m a sinner,” he blurted, thumping his chest. “Take a look at me, I was too proud just now to come in here and beg alms for God’s church, but now I’m begging for the love of God.” They looked at the little beggar, half amused, half sympathetic and gave him some oil.
And, he got something else. He got a big “A” on his report card for Humility — big, beautiful, sincere, real, down deep, Christ-centered HUMILITY.
During this time when he was living at the little church of San Damiano, he repaired the little church of St. Mary of the Angels. It was said that angels often visited the little church. That is probably why it was known as St. Mary of the Angels or, maybe he just gave it that name. We know he loved the church very dearly, so much so that he made it the mother church of his three Orders.
He asked to be carried to it when he was near death. And it was at this beloved little portiuncula, this little portion of ground that he died, flat on his back, lying at his request, on the bare earth.
In rebuilding these churches he did not have in mind simply to restore the edifices, but much more, to provide a suitable reverential place for the celebration of the Sacrifice of the Mass and the Holy Eucharist.
Out of this restoration of churches came one of his well known prayers:
“We adore you, most holy Lord Jesus Christ,
Here and in all the churches throughout
the whole world, and we bless you,
because by your most holy cross
You have redeemed the world.”
It was in this little church, St. Mary of the Angels, that he received the final impetus in his conversion process. It set him on his Gospel way to draw followers, few at first, then an avalanche of them down through the centuries.
REFLECTIONS
In talking about St. Francis, we are going into his transition from his conversion process into the evolution of his three Orders.
What he was doing now in his preaching was the repair of Christ’s Church from within that Christ had advocated from the crucifix in the San Damiano Church. Francis now was all-afire to bring Christ strongly back into His Church.
In his preaching he was making Christ come alive in the mind and hearts of those who followed him. It was not just his eloquent preaching, though, that drew followers to him, albeit he was a forceful and inspiring speaker, it was his zeal for Christ electrifying those that heard him. But, even louder than his words was the message of his example. These two things together were an irresistible force that drew many souls to him along his Gospel way.
Francis’ three Orders mushroomed from then on.
He had had no idea at all at the outset of his conversion of starting any religious order. He was engaged simply in bringing about his own metanoia.
His reforming of himself snowballed into reformation of Christ’s Church from within, unlike the reformers who came after him, who left the church altogether and sought reformation by starting their own new religious movements. How did the later reformers think they could reform Christ’s Church by deserting it? Only by staying within the Church, as Francis did, could it be reformed.
We Franciscans need this reformation within ourselves — our own personal metanoia.
A happy result of our reforming ourselves is that in doing so, we too are making our church and the world a better place.
There was a story to illustrate this point: A man was trying to read his newspaper one evening, but his little boy kept interrupting him.
In exasperation, the father ripped a page from a geography book showing a map of the world and tore it into pieces. He gave the pieces to the boy and said, “There, put that together like a jig-saw puzzle.” He thought this would keep the boy busy for a good long time. But soon the boy was back with it all together.
“How in the world did you do it so fast?” the father asked in astonishment.
“It was easy,” the boy stated matter-of-factly. “There was the picture of a man on the other side. I knew if I got the man right I would get the world right.”
That is what Francis did. He got the man right first.
Now, back to our story about Francis.
FRANCIS’ LIFE
His first follower was a man of Assisi, simple and good of which nothing is told; the second was Bernard of Quintavalle and the third was Dr. Peter of Catanii.
Peter was a learned man, a lay canon at the Cathedral, a doctor of laws. He and Bernard were well acquainted and he, too, had been watching Francis for some time. Now, when he saw Bernard dispossessing himself of his worldly goods to join Francis, he was eager to do likewise. “This is for me, too,” he told himself, and lost no time in joining them. Peter sold his possessions, although quite well-to-do, but not in the category of Bernard, who had been ranked among Assisi's highest born and wealthiest citizens. Both these men put on the habit Francis had designed.
The three of them now took up residence at Rivo Torto (as far as I know, where Rivo Torto is, is unknown). What is known is that these early brothers lived in an abandoned hovel at a place called by that name, Rivo Torto, or Twisted Stream, somewhere on the plain near Assisi.
There is a big church on the high road to Foligno that some claim covers the hovel, but many writers say it is almost 2 miles farther up the road, where there are two ancient chapels.
One author, Ernest Raymond, when he was in that area in the 1930’s said an old woman got a key for him and unlocked the door of one of these ancient chapels, the one known as San Rufino Chapel.
This author says the yard about the chapel was occupied by a mother hen who was fussily clucking and ruffling her feathers amid her brood of chicks, and when he stepped through the now open door, mama hen, still fussily talking, herded her chicks right alongside him into the chapel. They, the author and the chickens, all looked about with lively interest. What they saw was a dusty, oblong room with a stone altar. Dried remnants of potatoes and tomatoes; barrels of flour, and casks of wine were scattered all over the floor, with onions on the altar step.
Somewhere in the area of this little chapel was that tiny hovel where Francis lived with his first brothers (he never referred to them as his followers, they were his brothers).
This little hut was so small they were crowded like peas in a pod, so Francis marked off, with white chalk, little spaces, one for each brother and that was where each brother had to live.
This was one of the most joyful and peaceful periods of their lives. Together, this little band of brothers grew to love one another with a true Christ-like love.
The fourth one to follow Francis was Giles. Giles was a sturdy youth who came popping out of the woods one day and sought to join them. He was a farmer’s son — a plough boy.
They made room for him and was with them several days and still in his lay clothes when a poor man happened in and asked for alms. Francis looked at the poor man, then at Giles. “Brother Giles,” he said, “give this poor man your cloak.” Francis watched him narrowly. Since Giles had just wandered in, Francis had no idea what his reaction would be to this suggestion. But he didn’t need to wonder long because the words were no sooner out of his mouth than Giles stripped off his cloak and with a bow and a broad smile, handed it to the beggar. Francis clapped his hands together, delighted. “Brother Giles, you’re one of us!” he exclaimed.
And forthwith he clothed the happy young man with the crude habit and cord of the other friars.
So now there were four of them crowded into the little hovel that really wasn’t much better than a chicken coop. So Francis got out his chalk again and marked off another small section for Giles.
Giles was a simple and upright young man, God-loving and a perfect example of obedience. He was strong and a good worker, not shunning hard manual labor at which he went at cheerfully. He also was a man who, like Francis, liked solitary times when he became rapt in deep and holy contemplation. It was said he lived to a very old age.
There is an interesting story told about Brother Giles.
King Louis of France was on a pilgrimage, traveling incognito. He had heard a lot about the saintliness of brother Giles and the King had set his heart on meeting him.
He had heard that Giles was in Perugia, so the King, disguised as an ordinary pilgrim, went to the “little place” in Perugia where Giles and a number of the friars, were staying. The brothers called the small huts where they lived a “little place.”
The porter, not knowing who the king was, brought him to Giles. Giles was given a spiritual insight, which enabled him, instantly, to see through the king’s disguise.
Happily and marveling at the sight of the king, Giles ran to meet the king and they literally ran into each other’s arms, each embracing the other as though they were friends of long standing. They remained clasped together like that for a long time, wordlessly locked heart to heart. Then, still without a word, they parted and the king and his companions rode off.
After he had gone, Giles excitedly told the others who the visitor was. They looked at him dumbfounded. They reproached him. “Why didn’t you speak to him, show him more respect.” Giles shook his head, smiling, his eyes bright with joy. “We didn’t need to speak,” he assured them. “In that embrace the light of divine wisdom revealed his heart to me and mine to him. And so, by God’s grace, we looked into each other’s heart and our thoughts to each other WE HEARD without sound, better than if we had spoken out loud.”
He was quiet for a moment, happily reliving the encounter, then went on. “The defect of human language cannot clearly express the secret mysteries of God and could not have consoled us. But you should know that the King departed greatly consoled.”
The king, as we know, is the Patron of our Third Order and has long been listed among its canonized saints.
Soon they were no longer four followers, because they were joined by, Sabbatino, Morico, John of Capella and “Philip the Long,” so called because he was very tall. It was said of Philip that he was touched on the lips by an angel with a burning coal, like Isaiah. He was well versed in Holy Scripture and understood it so well he was looked to for interpretations even though he had not studied. He was an eloquent speaker.
Then they were joined in uncertain order by another John, this one of Costanzo; Bernardo Vigilanta; Barbaro; and Angelo Tancredi, who rounded out the first known twelve brothers, according to some authors. Other authors vary in some of the names of the first twelve.
Not much is known about some of these men. One of them, John of Capella, later strayed into evil ways and ended by hanging himself like Judas, one of Christ’s twelve apostles. Angelo Tancredi of Rieti was renowned for his courtesy and loyalty. More is known about him than some of the others. Angelo was a knight of position and wealth in the Vale of Rieti. He was young and full of youthful exuberance. His house was in a secluded spot, hidden behind a windowless building. It is still in use, so it is said, by a contemplative order of Franciscan nuns, probably Poor Clares.
Angelo became one of a group of four brothers who stayed very close to Francis all his life; almost, it has been said, like a body guard. After their deaths, Angelo, Masseo, Rufino, and Leo were buried in the same church with Francis in the middle and one on each side of him at the four corners, as though guarding him still. Leo, Rufino and Angelo were the authors of “The Legend of the Three Companions.”
Another of the early friars was a priest named Sylvester. This priest had been approached a good while before Francis went begging stones to rebuild the little churches. Francis asked Sylvester for stones and Sylvester gave him some for a small fee.
When Bernard of Quintavalle and Francis were distributing Bernard’s wealth to the poor, Sylvester got wind of it and went to them with his hand out.
“Ahem!” he began and touched Francis on the sleeve. Francis looked around at him. He saw Sylvester lick his lips with a greedy light in his eyes. Francis’ own eyes narrowed and he waited for Sylvester to say something.
Sylvester cleared his throat again. He had the grace to be a bit embarrassed, but his greed held sway.
“I … that is, you will remember that I gave you some stones to help rebuild the church? You didn’t pay me very much for them you know!”
A little flush touched Francis’ cheeks and he looked at Sylvester long and hard.
“We were giving this money to those we feel need it more than we do,” Francis pointed out. “But since you feel you are one of them — here!” And he thrust a handful of coins into the priest’s outstretched hand. Sylvester clutched it. Then with a tight-lipped smile, that was partly triumph, but also tinged with an inner uneasiness, he turned and strode away.
By the time he reached his home there was a stricken look in his eyes. He was remembering the look of hurt and sadness that had come over Francis’ face as he took the money.
He didn’t know that Francis had had an odd conviction, even as he looked at Sylvester's receding back, that, not only had he not seen the last of Sylvester, but that the time would come when he would see a halo about the priest’s head.
And of course that is what happened. Sylvester is also listed among the canonized saints of the Franciscan Order.
It is said that, “when Sylvester went to bed that night he was already deeply repenting what he had done. That night, and for two more nights thereafter, he had a vision from God of Francis. From Francis’ mouth came a gold cross. The top of the cross reached to Heaven while its arms seemed to extend from east to west to the ends of the earth.”
As a result of the vision he was touched by the Lord and he disposed of all his property and gave it to the poor. He became a Friar Minor and he was often rapt in contemplation.
Sylvester was perhaps the first ordained priest to become a Friar Minor.
As an example of the high degree of sanctity, with which Francis later regarded him, there was the time when Francis was in mental turmoil because of his in-decision as to whether he should lead a strictly contemplative life, which he yearned for or like Christ’s disciples, go out and preach. Something kept nagging at him to do the latter even though he so very much preferred the former. That something, of course, was God.
So, Francis sent one of the brothers with a message to Sylvester. “Tell him to pray intensely to God until he gets an answer to the question as to whether I am to live the life of a hermit, or go forth and preach the Gospel to the people.” At the same time Francis sent another brother to St. Clare with the same urgent request.
Soon, the messengers came back to him and each gave him the reply received from God by Sylvester and Clare. The answers were identical. Both Clare and Father Sylvester said: “God has revealed to me that you, Francis, are not for yourself alone. You are for the entire world. You must go forth and spread the Gospel message among all the people.”
Brother Leo
I think we might look upon the relationship between St. Francis and Brother Leo in somewhat the same way as John, the Beloved Apostle, was to Christ.
Leo, of all the brothers, was the closest to Francis. He was an unimposing shy little priest, who was chosen by Francis as his confessor and spiritual counselor. He also served Francis as secretary. He was a skilled penman, artistically so. He was the chief of the authors who knew St. Francis intimately. He was one of the three companions who wrote the “Legend of the Three Companions.” Francis called him his “Pecorello di Dio,” the “Little Sheep of God.” His writings, it has been said, were instrumental in preserving for posterity the message of St. Francis.
Leo, unlike his namesake, the four-legged brother lion, was gentle and mild; yet, he could on occasion, assume a fierce attitude in defense of St. Francis. He was, if we may make the comparison, Francis’ faithful watchdog, happy just to be able to follow at his heels.
One day he and Francis were going from Perugia to Assisi, Leo walking ahead and Francis a few paces behind. It was snowing heavily and they were cold and poorly clad for such a long and rugged walk in a blizzard.
Francis called out to Leo, “O Brother Leo …” Leo turned his head a bit to indicate he was listening; then began the famous teasing and challenging litany of what did “not” constitute perfect joy.
“The friars,” Francis sang out, “could give great example of sanctity to all, but that would not be perfect joy.”
Leo’s breath was frosting the air as he listened expectantly for Francis to tell him what was perfect joy. But Francis was not ready yet.
“O Brother Leo, if the friars were great healers and even could raise the dead to life …” This was It, Leo thought. But no, there was a silence.
“O brother Leo, if they had the knowledge of prophets, Francis called in his lilting voice.
Now, Leo thought. But, again Leo sighed, for that was not the answer.
“O Brother Leo,” came Francis’ voice again, “if they were great preachers.”
And only silence followed this.
Leo clenched his fists. He was slowly going out of his mind waiting for the rest of the answer, as only silence lay between them.
Leo threw up his arms and whirled on Francis. “For God’s sake, brother Francis,” he cried, “tell me what IS perfect joy?
Francis’ eyes were merry as he answered, “Why brother Leo, if we came to the Portiuncula, and the porter opened the door to our knock, and bellowed that he did not know us, and then came out and threw us face down in the snow and kicked us three or four times, then went back inside and slammed the door and locked it, leaving us outside, wet and shivering and not knowing what to do next; THAT would be perfect joy.”
REFLECTIONS
In our formation process, from these tales of Francis and his early followers, we as his followers should ask ourselves, “What does this tell me?”
It tells me a few things about St. Francis: It shows his own patience in suffering … his humility and his physical endurance. And, that there was a little imp of merriment inside him, a great sense of humor underlying his seriousness and sanctity and his great affection for Brother Leo, his pecorello, his “Little Sheep of God.”
And it should tell all of us, not just that this is an interesting little anecdote about St. Francis, but inside of that, just as it was inside the parables of Jesus, there is a message.
What is the message? Ask yourself.
This is what we should think about when we read these things. This is what helps us in our ongoing formation as Franciscans.
I toss this out to you to take home with you. In the light of this message from Francis, what is perfect joy for you in your life? Think about it and meditate on it. Take a hand in your own formation as a Franciscan and a Catholic.
LEO’S LIFE
Leo was with Francis at La Verna at the time of Francis’ Stigmata, and for a period preceding that event.
Francis had a great need for solitude at that time. He was in very poor health and had periods of despondency as well as anyone else. Some of the brothers were giving him a hard time.
So, he went to the quiet majesty of La Verna Mountain. He took with him a few of his “disciples” as did Jesus at Gethsemane. Leo, of course, was one of them.
Francis had a little cell apart from the rest where he could be alone. Only Leo was allowed to come near, to bring him a little bread and water now and then.
This went on for a few days; but even that was not the complete solitude Francis craved, so he called Leo to him.
“Leo,” he said, “stand in this doorway while I go up yonder and when I call to you, come to me.
He climbed up the mountain, turned and called, “Leo! Leo!”
Leo hurried to him.
“Go back, and I will call to you again,” Francis said.
He climbed higher. This time when he called, “Leo, Leo,” there was no answer. He was satisfied; he was truly alone.
He had the brothers build a bridge of logs across a narrow chasm and on the other side they built him a rough cell.
No one was to come near him again except Leo, who could come as far as the bridge only once during the day and once at night.
Francis forbade Leo to come at any other time and never beyond the bridge.
But one day when Leo came to the bridge and called to Francis, there was no answer. Puzzled, Leo hesitated, then crossed the bridge and looked into Francis’ cell. It was empty. No doubt wondering if Francis was all right, since he was in poor health, he began quietly to search the woods. He came upon Francis kneeling, his face uplifted. A great shaft of fire was resting on his head. Leo heard Francis say, “Who art thou, O my most sweet God, and what am I, but a most vile worm and worthless servant …”
Very quietly Leo withdrew and was stealing away when Francis heard the rustling of leaves.
Francis called to him to stop him in his tracks. Leo stopped, trembling with dread that Francis would be angry with him and wouldn’t want him for his companion any longer.
“Why have you done this, little sheep?” Francis asked him.
Leo hung his head. He was overwhelmed with remorse, but Francis was kind to him and said, “Know, brother Little Sheep, that when I said those words you heard, there was shown to me in my soul two lights, one of the understanding of myself and the other of the knowledge of the Creator. Now go, and don’t watch me any more.”
This took place a few days before the imposition of the stigmata on his hands and feet and side.
Leo was with Francis when he died as he was with St. Clare when she died. When Leo died, an old man in 1271, his eyes were closed by Francis’ very good friend, the Lady Giacoma Settisoli, whom Francis called Brother Jacopa. She died shortly after him and was buried beneath St. Francis’ tomb in the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi. Leo is one of the four who are buried at the four corners of St. Francis tomb in that Basilica.