What a wondrous gift of faith, hope and love Donald Spoto has given us in his biography of St. Francis,  Reluctant Saint.

Makes us happy, doesn’t he? Not only as children of God, at ease in the world’s creation, but as fellow travelers with the saint who knew great highs and great lows in his life, a life that must in some ways, however minor, mirror ours, for humanity suffers no barriers of time or place, social position, holiness, or lack thereof. The man, who considered himself the brother to the wolf and the fox, is also our brother.

A contemporary of Francis, Thomas of Celano, has described him as “slender of face, with clear, black eyes, dark hair and a sparse, dark beard; a narrow nose, fine and pale skin, thin lips and good teeth, long and expressive fingers; and an appealing musical voice.”

Celano also said he “was lighthearted, but undisciplined; he was courteous to everyone... and unfailingly generous to everyone.” We want to remind ourselves that Francis’ generosity was by way of his father’s labor and money.

Shortly before his death, Francis dictated to a fellow Franciscan that in his youth, he was “in sin.” His friend, Cardinal Ugolino, later Pope Gregory IX, stated in a document of canonization that Francis had passed almost a decade in “the seduction of the world.”

And not long after the saint’s death, his fellow monks were singing in the church: “He was raised shamefully amid all sorts of folly, and as he grew up, he surpassed those who raised him in even worse folly.”

But by 1260, the Franciscan leaders changed the words to: “He was raised shamefully amid all sorts of folly, but by God’s grace, he mercifully kept himself free of contamination.” (Italics, mine)

Really? Francis was the ring leader of Assisi’s youthful gangs, who devoted themselves to hedonistic revelry, and with unflinching discipline the future saint kept himself above and apart from those he led? By what form of mental, moral and emotional gymnastics, we might ask.

Part of the saint’s popularity is due to his having turned his life around with a love that astonishes us to this day, God’s way of reminding us that holiness doesn’t spring full-blown in ordinary lives, nor even in extraordinary lives, for that matter.

It takes time and waiting, standing up and falling down, faith and doubt, hope and near-despair, love and attempts at loving. And through it all, now and then, surfaces Francis Thompson’s fear, expressed in his Hound of Heaven,

(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside);

While working in his father’s shop, an incident occurred that gave a hopeful sign to a future love of the poor in Francis’ heart. He was alone when a beggar came in and asked for an alms, but Francis dismissed him hastily. Later, he was to say in a moment of remorse: “If this poor man had asked something from you for a great count or baron, you would certainly have granted his request. How much more should you have done for the love of God?” With the prodding of grace, his conscience was beginning to prick at the outer edges of his lifestyle.

Yet, the honor of possible knighthood, won in battle, enveloped his soul, and kept at bay any serious intentions of making room for God in his busy days and busier nights.

In 1203, against the exiled nobility in Perugia, a company of Assisians took a Perugian stronghold three miles outside Assisi, and were convinced of an early victory. But the Perugians advanced quickly and Assisi’s finest were left dead or wounded on the battlefield, or were taken prisoner, as was Francis.

For a year, he languished in a subterranean vault of almost complete darkness, where his food subsisted of a meager diet of stale leftovers and tainted water. There was no latrine or facilities for washing. Francis suffered from the brutal cold and the airless heat of summer. He contracted malaria, which, along with tuberculosis, and other viral diseases, claimed the lives of countless prisoners. This was not the kind of experience for which the saint’s life of indulgence had prepared him.

After a year of negotiations, Peter’s ransom was accepted by the Perugians, and Francis returned home, so weak he could scarcely walk or speak, and often shook from the fever of malaria. Peter and Pica cared for their bed-ridden son for a year.

Upon recovery, the young man found that his commune offered little to satisfy his longing for a purposeful life. Murder was common at night, and gangs attacked freely during the day. The barbaric penalties for crimes should have dissuaded anyone from stepping from the straight and narrow: Liars had their tongues pulled out; forgers lost their hands to an ax, and looters lost their feet. A minor thief had his eyes gouged out.

Yet, if Francis had turned to the local clergy and religious for counsel and edification, he would have been disappointed in most. Pope Innocent III was determined to initiate a reform, a reform he would have been better advised to begin with himself.

As Francis began to regain his strength, he rejoined his friends, but didn’t find his old enthusiasm for parties and festivals, and began to regard himself as worthless.

Not yet, though, had he abandoned his old ambition for knighthood, and decided to accompany a nobleman going to join the papal forces in Apulia’s port of Brindisi, where Crusaders could depart for Constantinople and Jerusalem.

Twenty-two miles south of Assisi, Francis’ group stopped for the night at Spoleto. There, the fever attacked again, and Francis became so ill, he returned to Assisi, a man in his 20's, an aimless wanderer.

That summer, he was elected the official master of the festivities in his commune, which meant the future saint was in the familiar role of planning parties and financing them, though with not as light a heart as in former years.

The young man continued to work in his father’s shop, knowing his dreams for knighthood or nobility were gone forever.

One afternoon, while walking in the heat of the sun, Francis stopped in at the church of San Damiano, about a mile from Assisi. Above the doorway, was the faded wording, Domus Mea (My House).

He sat in the crumbling church with its cracked walls and rotting beams, and contemplated the crucifix over the altar, which was painted on linen stretched over a walnut frame, with the eyes of Christ appearing to look directly at any pilgrim who came by.

There, Francis seemed to hear someone speak to him in a tender voice, “Francis, don’t you see that my house is being destroyed? Go, then, and rebuild it for me.”

Thus, began the work of a man who looked upon himself as an abject failure, but in whose life, millions would find hope and a way home to the same Lord, whom he had served with such unstinting generosity, loyalty, and unwavering love. (To be concluded)

Home

Archives