If the anniversary of St. Francis of Assisi’s death on Oct. 3, 1226, or his feast day on Oct. 4 slipped by your attention (as they did mine), not to worry. No less than Pope Leo has declared all October as his dedicatory month. Even more, on this 800th anniversary of Francis’ Transitus (death), the entire year beginning Jan. 10 is devoted to his memory.
That Francis was a mere 44 when he breathed his last is a fitting numerical fluke of the eight centuries from that moment.
But of course, to remember can be ambiguous in and of itself. The personage of St. Francis of Assisi is easy to venerate and nigh impossible to emulate.
Ken Sehested
As James Martin wrote, we often summarize Francis’ life as little more than this: “He renounced his father’s wealth, founded the Franciscans, loved nature, sang songs, wrote some poems” and surely “died a happy death.” The common site of a lawn statue of a man in simple tunic, bending low as if speaking to a bird (or cradling one), is part of the sentimentality that has surrounded his memory ever since. The nostalgia of simplicity belies the actual experience of “Lady Poverty” of life without shoes, panhandling for one’s daily bread, severe ascetic practices.
The most common remembrance of the modern church to Francis’ legacy is limited to an annual “blessing of the animals” ritual event — a delightful practice, as long as the dogs don’t chase the cats. But hardly sufficient to report his testimony.
A brief sketch of Francis’ life — he was baptized as Giovanni, but called Francesco by his father — begins with youthful frivolity, supported by his father’s wealth. His sobering experience of being taken prisoner during a war between Assisi and nearby Perugia led, upon his release, to resolving to be a knight. Soon, however, an encounter with a nobleman reduced to penury prompted him to give the man his expensive cloak. A consequential corner was turned.
Later, during a ride in the countryside, Francesco encountered a man with leprosy. Although revolted by the sight, he nevertheless found himself dismounting and embracing the man.
Statue of St. Francis outside the Cathedral of St. Francis in Santa Fe, N.M. (BNG photo by Mark Wingfield)
Soon would unfold the dramatic account of his infamous undressing scene, in the town square, having been brought up on charges by his father demanding he repay all the money Francesco had syphoned. In literal assent, he completely disrobed, handing over all his garments, standing naked before the crowd.
Shortly thereafter, he had a dramatic vision in which he heard Christ telling him, “Go and repair my house,” which Francesco assumed was a local church that had fallen into disrepair. As Martin notes, he did not realize the directive was not repair of a church but the church.
Subsequently, in a Mass in Assisi, hearing the Gospel story of Jesus instructing his missionaries to “take nothing with them for the journey,” Francesco gave away his shoes, tunic and staff, and chose the plain garment of a shepherd. He already had drawn to his side 12 followers. Within a few years, Francesco formally petitioned Pope Innocent III to found a religious order, which was granted. Thereafter his Franciscan flock scattered through central Italy, preaching, mendicant, performing works of mercy.
His latter years brought crippling illness, to the point where he relinquished the order’s oversight, which caused it to flounder a bit with the withdrawal of its founder. Lamentably, even the most treasured of our institutions have a habit of devolving into rivalry, confusion and misappropriation.
Upon his death, one of his closest brothers secretly buried his remains, knowing that sacred relics often were stolen by one cathedral from another, because such relics meant more visitors which meant more donations.
Despite history’s sullied misuse, Francis’ legacy is still potent. Audacious, bold and provocative. He did not write the popular “Prayer of St. Francis.” Or (my favorite), “Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.”
But his papal namesake, Pope Francis, troublesomely reminded us all of the rapacious nature of modern predatory capitalism: “It is increasingly intolerable that financial markets are shaping the destiny of peoples rather than serving their needs or that few derive immense wealth from financial speculation while the many are deeply burdened by the consequences.”
Statue of St. Francis in Cagliari, Sardinia, Italy/ (Shutterstock)
In his 2015 Laudato Si (“Praise be to you,” from the St. Francis “Canticle of the Creatures”), the pope composed a letter to the world confronting the looming calamity of human impact on Earth and ourselves.
Crucially, particularly to those who believe the modern church itself needs evangelizing, Pope Francis lifted up the axial moment in his namesake’s conversion, in our need for direct engagement with the least, the last, and the left-behind in order to faithfully comprehend and proclaim the gospel vision: “Openness to God makes us open toward the marginalized of this world and gives us the courage to leave the confines of our own security and comfort to become bruised, hurting and dirty as we joyfully approach the suffering other in a spirit of solidarity.”
Francis personified his desire to be rid of self-possession as his wooing of Lady Poverty. This, too, is highly relevant for those of us living amid a consumer-obsessed society. We have become recklessly obese in our security demands and our sheer wealth performs like kudzu covering a stand of trees: It looks beautiful to the eye, but that vine is killing all it covers.
To be sure: Romanticizing poverty is a travesty. Indigence is neither virtuous nor admiral. It maims, pains, shames and kills. But the poverty to which Franciscans testify is not destitution but simplicity.
God is not a sadist, and we are not masochists. But as Jesus warned over and again, wealth reduces our capacity to sense the movement of the Spirit — and thereby blinds and deafens our capacity to see and hear those who are being crushed by mammon’s devotees.
Post Creation, the first mobilization of God’s attention — the first time God self identifies (“I am who I am”) — was prompted by the cries of Hebrew slaves.
Ours is a transcendent presence — unavailable to flattery, manipulation or intimidation — that tracks, cries and frees us, from fear’s consuming threat, to follow, come what may.
The Way of Jesus has no precise response to the question of “How much is enough?” The Bethlehem Star to which I orient myself is Proverbs 30:8-9 — “Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that I need, or I shall be full, and deny you, and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’ or I shall be poor, and steal, and profane the name of my God.”
Ken Sehested is the author and editor of prayerandpolitiks.org, an online journal at the intersection of spiritual formation and prophetic action.