Life of St. Francis of Assisi
the pains of humanity. It is not to Assisi in its marvellous basilica
that one must go to divine and comprehend St. Francis; he must turn his
steps to Santa Maria degli Angeli at the hours when the stated prayers
cease, at the moment when the evening shadows lengthen, when all the
fripperies of worship disappear in the obscurity, when all the nation
seems to collect itself to listen to the chime of the distant church
bells. Doubtless it was Francis's plan to settle there as a hermit. He
dreamed of passing his life there in meditation and silence, keeping up
the little church and from time to time inviting a priest there to say
mass. Nothing as yet suggested to him that he was in the end to become a
religious founder. One of the most interesting aspects of his life is in
fact the continual development revealing itself in him; he is of the
small number to whom to live is to be active, and to be active to make
progress. There is hardly anyone, except St. Paul, in whom is found to
the same degree the devouring need of being always something more,
always something better, and it is so beautiful in both of them only
because it is absolutely instinctive.
When he began to restore the Portiuncula his projects hardly went beyond
a very narrow horizon; he was preparing himself for a life of penitence
rather than a life of activity. But these works once finished it was
impossible that this somewhat selfish and passive manner of achieving
his own salvation should satisfy him long. At the memory of the
appearance of the Crucified One his heart would swell with overpowering
emotions, and he would melt into tears without knowing whether they were
of admiration, pity, or desire.[28]
When the repairs were finished meditation occupied the greater part of
his days. A Benedictine of the Abbey of Mont Subasio[29] came from time
to time to say mass at Santa Maria; these were the bright hours of St.
Francis's life. One can imagine with what pious care he prepared himself
and with what faith he listened to the divine teachings.
One day, it was probably February 24, 1209, the festival of St.
Matthias, mass was being celebrated at the Portiuncula.[30] When the
priest turned toward him to read the words of Jesus, Francis felt
himself overpowered with a profound agitation. He no longer saw the
priest; it was Jesus, the Crucified One of St. Damian, who was speaking:
"Wherever ye go, preach, saying, 'The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal
the sick, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils. Freely ye have received,
freely give. Provide neither silver nor gold nor brass in your purses,
neither scrip nor two coats, nor shoes nor staff, for the laborer is
worthy of his meat.'"
These words burst upon him like a revelation, like the answer of Heaven
to his sighs and anxieties.
"This is what I want," he cried, "this is what I was seeking; from this
day forth I shall set myself with all my strength to put it in
practice." Immediately throwing aside his stick, his scrip, his purse,
his shoes, he determined immediately to obey, observing to the letter
the precepts of the apostolic life.
It is quite possible that some allegorizing tendencies have had some
influence upon this narrative.[31] The long struggle through which
Francis passed before becoming the apostle of the new times assuredly
came to a crisis in the scene at Portiuncula; but we have already seen
how slow was the interior travail which prepared for it.
The revelation of Francis was in his heart; the sacred fire which he was
to communicate to the souls of others came from within his own, but the
best causes need a standard. Before the shabby altar of the Portiuncula
he had perceived the banner of poverty, sacrifice, and love, he would
carry it to the assault of every fortress of sin; under its shadow, a
true knight of Christ, he would marshal all the valiant warriors of a
spiritual strife.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] 3 Soc., 26.
[2] 3 Soc., 10.
[3] This crucifix is preserved in the sacristy of Santa Chiara,
whither the sisters carried it when they left St. Damian.
[4] _Opuscula B. Francisci, Oratio I._
[5] 3 Soc., 13; 2 Cel., 1, 6; Bon., 12; 15; 16.
[6] 3 Soc., 14.
[7] This incident is found in the narrative of 1 Cel., 8: _Ibi
ex more venditis_.
[8] 1 Cel., 8; 3 Soc., 16; Bon. 16. Foligno is a three hours'
walk from Assisi.
[9] 1 Cel., 9; 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 6. Cf. A. SS., p. 567.
[10] 1 Cel., 10; 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 17, A. SS.; p. 568.
[11] 1 Cel., 11.
[12] 1 Cel., 12; 3 Soc., 17; Bon., 18.
[13] 1 Cel., 13; 3 Soc., 18.
[14] 1 Cel., 13. It is possible that at this epoch he had
received the lesser order, and that thus he might be subject to
the jurisdiction of the Church.
[15] 3 Soc., 18 and 19; 1 Cel., 14; Bon., 19.
[16] From 1204 until after the death of St. Francis the
episcopal throne of Assisi was occupied by Guido II. Vide
Cristofano, 1, 169 ff.
[17] _Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore o del vescovado._
Everything has remained pretty nearly in the same state as in
the thirteenth century.
[18] 1 Cel., 15; 3 Soc., 20; Bon., 20.
[19] 3 Soc., 16; Bon., 21.
[20] 1 Cel., 16; Bon., 21. The curious will read with interest
an article by M. Mezzatinti upon the journey to Gubbio entitled
_S. Francesco e Frederico Spadalunga da Gubbio_. [Miscellanea,
t. v., pp. 76-78.] This Spadalunga da Gubbio was well able to
give a garment to Francis, but it is very possible that the gift
was made much later and that this solemn date in the saint's
life has been fixed by an optical illusion, almost inevitable
because of the identity of the fact with the name of the
locality.
[21] 1 Cel., 17; Bon., 11; 13; 21; 22; 3 Soc., 11; A. SS., p.
575.
[22] 1 Cel., 18; 3 Soc., 21; Bon., 23.
[23] 3 Soc., 22; 2 Cel., 1, 9.
[24] 3 Soc., 24; 2 Cel., 8; _Spec._, 24.
[25] 3 Soc., 23; 2 Cel., 7.
[26] 3 Soc., 24; _Testament de Claire_, Wadding, _ann. 1253_ v.
[27] Cel., 21; Bon., 24.
[28] 3 Soc., 14; 2 Cel., i., 6.
[29] Portiuncula was a dependence of this abbey.
[30] This is the date adopted by the Bollandists, because the
ancient missals mark the pericope, Matt. x., for the gospel of
this day. This entails no difficulty and in any case it cannot
be very far distant from the truth. A. SS., p. 574.
[31] See in particular Bon., 25 and 26. Cf. A. SS., p. 577d.
* * * * *
CHAPTER V
FIRST YEAR OF APOSTOLATE
Spring of 1209-Summer of 1210
The very next morning Francis went up to Assisi and began to preach. His
words were simple, but they came so straight from the heart that all who
heard him were touched.
It is not easy to hear and apply to one's self the exhortations of
preachers who, aloft in the pulpit, seem to be carrying out a mere
formality; it is just as difficult to escape from the appeals of a
layman who walks at our side. The amazing multitude of Protestant sects
is due in a great degree to this superiority of lay preaching over
clerical. The most brilliant orators of the Christian pulpit are bad
converters; their eloquent appeals may captivate the imagination and
lead a few men of the world to the foot of the altar, but these results
are not more brilliant than ephemeral. But let a peasant or a workingman
speak to those whom he meets a few simple words going directly to the
conscience, and the man is always impressed, often won.
Thus the words of Francis seemed to his hearers like a flaming sword
penetrating to the very depths of their conscience. His first attempts
were the simplest possible; in general they were merely a few words
addressed to men whom he knew well enough to recognize their weak points
and strike at them with the holy boldness of love. His person, his
example, were themselves a sermon, and he spoke only of that which he
had himself experienced, proclaiming repentance, the shortness of life,
a future retribution, the necessity of arriving at gospel
perfection.[1] It is not easy to realize how many waiting souls there
are in this world. The greater number of men pass through life with
souls asleep. They are like virgins of the sanctuary who sometimes feel
a vague agitation; their hearts throb with an infinitely sweet and
subtile thrill, but their eyelids droop; again they feel the damp cold
of the cloister creeping over them; the delicious but baneful dream
vanishes; and this is all they ever know of that love which is stronger
than death.
It is thus with many men for all that belongs to the higher life.
Sometimes, alone in the wide plain at the hour of twilight, they fix
their eyes on the fading lights of the horizon, and on the evening
breeze comes to them another breath, more distant, fainter, and almost
heavenly, awaking in them a nostalgia for the world beyond and for
holiness. But the darkness falls, they must go back to their homes; they
shake off their reverie; and it often happens that to the very end of
life this is their only glimpse of the Divine; a few sighs, a few
thrills, a few inarticulate murmurs--this sums up all our efforts to
attain to the sovereign good.
Yet the instinct for love and for the divine is only slumbering. At the
sight of beauty love always awakes; at the appeal of holiness the divine
witness within us at once responds; and so we see, streaming from all
points of the horizon to gather around those who preach in the name of
the inward voice, long processions of souls athirst for the ideal. The
human heart so naturally yearns to offer itself up, that we have only to
meet along our pathway some one who, doubting neither himself nor us,
demands it without reserve, and we yield it to him at once. Reason may
understand a partial gift, a transient devotion; the heart knows only
the entire sacrifice, and like the lover to his beloved, it says to its
vanquisher, "Thine alone and forever."
That which has caused the miserable failure of all the efforts of
natural religion is that its founders have not had the courage to lay
hold upon the hearts of men, consenting to no partition. They have not
understood the imperious desire for immolation which lies in the depths
of every soul, and souls have taken their revenge in not heeding these
too lukewarm lovers.
Francis had given himself up too completely not to claim from others an
absolute self-renunciation. In the two years and more since he had
quitted the world, the reality and depth of his conversion had shone out
in the sight of all; to the scoffings of the early days had gradually
succeeded in the minds of many a feeling closely akin to admiration.
This feeling inevitably provokes imitation. A man of Assisi, hardly
mentioned by the biographers, had attached himself to Francis. He was
one of those simple-hearted men who find life beautiful enough so long
as they can be with him who has kindled the divine spark[2] in their
hearts. His arrival at Portiuncula gave Francis a suggestion; from that
time he dreamed of the possibility of bringing together a few companions
with whom he could carry on his apostolic mission in the neighborhood.
At Assisi he had often enjoyed the hospitality of a rich and prominent
man named Bernardo di Quintavalle,[3] who took him to sleep in his own
chamber; it is easy to see how such an intimacy would favor confidential
outpourings. When in the silence of the early night an ardent and
enthusiastic soul pours out to you its disappointments, wounds, dreams,
hopes, faith, it is difficult indeed not to be carried along, especially
when the apostle has a secret ally in your soul, and unconsciously meets
your most secret aspirations.