The travesty of our saints is that we strip them of their
humanity, hide their faults under pious shrouds, enshrine their bones in gold, and
duplicate their images in plaster or plastic to adorn garden plots or bury them
upside down as an offering for a speedy and profitable real estate contract.
Poor Saint Francis of Assisi .
I've known your name all my life. But who are you?
Cities throughout the world adopt your name. Schools and
churches claim the same. Hearing the name Saint Francis evokes a gentle, dreamy
portrait of a young man in a brown robe surrounded by birds, a nature boy
wandering hills and forest, singing songs of praise to God's creatures. On your
feast day we remember you by blessing our pets and livestock. But I don't know
you.
You were once flesh and blood, walking in a moment of
history not so different than our own. Yes, in God's radiant light shadows
fade, but are not forgotten. You never forgot the drunken nights prowling
narrow streets with your band of revelers, your entourage, your gang, lips
greasy with pork fat, tongue sweetened with marzipan, singing bawdy songs,
daggers at your waist, slipping in pools of blood and wine.
In your armor of knightly ambition, in a battle for honor
and prestige, did any die by your sword before you were captured and pitched in
a dark, damp prison? Bound in chains and sick with malaria, what turned your
gaze beyond this world, beyond your lust for flesh, food and admiration? What feverish dreams shattered the self glory
of knightly distinction and the luxury of a merchant's extravagant brocade?
I see you standing naked, unashamed, determined to leave
behind all you've known, all that gave you pleasure, to step into the unknown,
to take a path not yet created. No longer generous host of night-long banquets,
you must beg for food, the leftovers of another's table, the stale hard bread,
the food given to dogs. You, who once had servants to make your bed, to help
you dress, choose instead to clean the pus from leper's wounds, to be a slave
to those you once despised with disgust. Barefoot and clad in a torn peasant's
robe, you walked alone, abandoning friends, forsaking father and mother to
follow a whispering voice. What did you feel that first night, huddled in a
decaying church? Was it doubt or joy? Were you lonely or did the wooden
crucifix upon the wall offer solace?
You left the battlefield of gauntlets and broadsword to enter a personal crusade. Armed with
faith and love, you fought a personal crusade against the whims of the ego. Ice
and snow cooled your lust. Ashes defeated your gluttony. Begging conquered
pride. A broken body in tattered robes vanquished vanity. Brave knight of God,
armed with the shield of Job's faith, your banner the words of Christ, fought a
war few people understood and yet, you struggled on with laughter and song.
Did the sight of seraphim wings make you smile when people
threw mud and stones and called you a madman? What angelic music did you hear that made you
sing when people turned away? What gave you strength to continue walking in the
world, barefoot, hungry, often alone for the sake of your soul and the soul of
others?
And what did you see with eyes dim from disease that made
you call out to Brother Sun, the sisters Moon and Stars, to acclaim in a dying
voice the glory of the wind, fire, air and earth. What light in your heart made
you speak with adoration of the power of Queen Wisdom and Lady Love?
I ask these questions and feel you next to me, a silent
force still smiling, still singing, holding out your hand, beckoning. Though I
am tired, though I think myself too weak and images of your suffering make me
weep, I take your hand. Yes, show me. I have to know.
coming soon
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