A Life Pure And Simple

Beauty hurts, especially for those who have once seen how beautiful it really is. Ugliness irritates, but only for those who have never seen. When the great seers arise, their lives always confuse the rest of us. They seem to change all the rules, look in different directions for joy, and find love in the most unsuspected places.

Those who have seen the full extent of beauty set our minds awhirl; we take centuries to refind our bearings, and meanwhile, chase blinking-eyed after them. Such a seer was Francesco Bernardone (1182-1226), and such a people is the 800 years of admiring and unsettled humanity that cannot forget what he saw and what he did with his one little life. His beauty and his seeing still hurt us.

More than any other follower of Christ, Francis of Assisi has been called a "second Christ." More lives have been written of him than of any other person except Jesus himself. He has been the most painted non-biblical character in history, and the usually cautious church declared him a saint only four years after his death. G.K. Chesterton called him "the world's one quite sincere democrat," and the "first hero of humanism." Lenin spoke envyingly of him shortly before he died, and Sir Kenneth Clark called him Europe's greatest religious genius. Even in his own lifetime he exerted a strange attractiveness. Perhaps it was the undeniable magnetism that occurs when truth and folly stand together:

One day when St. Francis was coming back from the woods, where he had been praying, and was at the edge of the forest, Brother Masseo went to meet him, and said to St. Francis, half-jokingly, "Why after you? Why after you? Why after you? Why does all the world seem to be running after you, and everyone seems to want to see you and hear you and obey you ? You are not a handsome man. You do not have great learning or wisdom. You are not a nobleman. So why is all the world running after you?"

Then with great fervor of spirit he turned to Brother Masseo and said: "You want to know why after me? You really want to know why everyone is running after me? I have this from the all-holy eyes of God that see the good and the evil everywhere. For those blessed and all-holy eyes have not seen among sinners anyone more vile or insufficient than I am. And so in order to do that wonderful work which he intends to do, he did not find on earth a more ordinary creature, and therefore he chose me. For God has chosen the foolish things of this world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the base things of this world and the despised, to bring to naught the noble, the great and the strong.' (The Little Flowers of St. Francis, trans. Raphael Brown)

Francis' starting place was utter truth. His prayer for nights on end was simply: "Who are you, O God? And who am I?" He repeated it without ceasing, and the above response seems to be his answer. He knew that he was radically unfinished and that he always would be. As he charted his own conversion to the moment when he could embrace an ugly and smelly leper, so his journey in truth began when he could accept the leper part of himself. He spent much of the rest of his life not hiding or disguising that truth, but actually seeming to advertise it. This deep acceptance of his own limitations and capacity for evil had none of the destructiveness and self-loathing that we often find in ourselves. He only rejoiced in the possibility and promise of their redemption.

Francis' reading of the gospel is of utmost relevance today. His focus and emphasis is the same as Jesus'. His life was an enacted parable, an audio-visual aid to gospel freedom; it gives us the perspective by which to see as Jesus did: the view from the bottom. He insists by every facet of his life that we can only see rightly from a dis-established position. He wanted to be poor first of all simply because Jesus was poor. But he also knew that the biblical promises were made to the poor, that the gospel could be preached only to the poor because they alone had the freedom to hear it without distorting it for their own purposes. He wanted to have nothing to protect except the love which made all else useless. "Love is not loved! Love is not loved!" he used to sigh.

Contrary to the rest of the human race, therefore, he raced in the other direction, certain that he was following the path of Christ. Like Paul, all he wanted was "to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and to share his sufferings by reproducing the pattern of his death" (Philippians 3:11). He knew there was no life in the secure life at the top. He himself had begun there as the son of a rich cloth merchant, and he saw that much of the church had been seduced and entrapped into a kind of spiritual materialism, all the more illusory because it appeared to be for the sake of God and the work of the kingdom. He often referred to himself as an "idiota," but he was not so stupid as to be unable to recognize simple freedom and the lack of it.

Francis never wanted to write a rule, or code of behavior, for his friars, despite the insistence of Rome. He was always quite satisfied with Jesus' Sermon on the Mount and his instructions to the disciples. When they finally convinced him that he must write a rule, he simply connected a series of gospel quotes together with his own admonitions. This remains the rule of the Friars Minor to this day, and was somewhat grudgingly approved by Pope Honorius III in the year 1223.

When Francis read the inaugural discourse of Jesus, he saw that the call to be poor stood right at the beginning: "How happy are the poor!" Henceforward, Francis' reading of the gospel considered poverty to be "the foundation of all other virtues and their guardian." The other virtues receive the kingdom only in promise; poverty, however, is invested with it already now and without delay. "Theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 5:3).

As a result, Franciscan spirituality has never been an abstraction. It is grounded in Jesus' specific instructions to his disciples and not in theology. It is not easily able to move into ideology or to hide behind denominational screens onto which we have projected our own metaphysics. Francis' living of the gospel was just that: It was lifestyle pure and simple. It was the incarnation continuing in space and time. It was the presence of the Spirit taken absolutely seriously. It was being Jesus more than simply worshiping him. At its best, Franciscanism is not words or even ethics. It is flesh--naked flesh--unable to deny its limitations, unable to cover its wounds. He called it poverty.

This pure vision of gospel life attracted thousands to a new freedom in the church and in ministry. Religious communities had become more and more entangled with stipends, benefices, and rich land holdings. Members lived individually simple lives but were corporately secure and even comfortable. The begging, or mendicant, orders were born to break that dangerous marriage between ministry and money. Francis did not want his friars to preach salvation (although they did that too) as much as he wanted them to be salvation. He wanted them to model and image the life of Jesus in the world, with all of the trusting and insecurity that that would entail. Today we would be arrested as vagrants or bums, but he believed that Jesus meant what he said when he told the disciples to "eat whatever is set before you, for the laborer deserves his wages" (Luke 10:7). When Francis first heard Jesus' sermon in which he told his followers to "take nothing for your journey," he left Mass overjoyed, and committed the whole passage to memory, saying: "This is what I want. This is what I long for. This is what I desire to do with all my heart."

When I think of the life of Francis, I am reminded of a poor Lutheran pastor and his wife whom I met in a small village in Germany. When he left the room, she spoke of her husband with great love and respect even though his radical commitment to the gospel had brought her great pain and privation. Before he re-entered, she whispered to me solemnly and proudly, "He makes being poor look brilliant! And like brilliance, he lights up everything." So also Francis was no dark ascetic, but a passionate and sensuous Italian, who did not equate poverty with gracelessness or slovenliness. One need only visit his prayer spots throughout central Italy to discover that he chose the most scenic and lovely settings in which to disclose the darkness of his own soul. He knew that he had to surround himself with God's delighting in order to risk such painful truths.

Francis could not just be poor; he had to have a love affair and even a marriage with his beloved, "Lady Poverty." His celibacy had to be a passion, not a lack of it. In the 12th-century tradition of courtly love, the sublimated love of a knight for his idealized lady, Francis insisted that he would marry only "the noblest, the richest, the most beautiful woman ever seen." She turned out to be Lady Poverty:

The blessed father considered the common wealth of the sons of men as trifles, and ambitious for higher things, he longed for Lady Poverty with all his heart. Looking upon poverty as especially dear to the Son of God, though it was spurned throughout the whole world, he sought to espouse it in perpetual charity. Therefore, after he had become a lover of her beauty, he not only left his father and mother, but even put aside all things that he might cling to her more closely as his spouse and that they might be two in one spirit...There was no one desirous of gold as he was desirous of poverty, and no one so solicitous in guarding his treasure as he was solicitous in guarding this pearl of the gospel. (Second Life, Thomas of Celano)

Francis was enough of a realist to know that this view from the bottom would never become fashionable. Yet his commitment to littleness led him to name his brothers "minors" so that they would never fall back again into the worldview of the "majors" (the great, the nobility). He knew that there was power in being a somebody, but that there was truth in being a nobody. He always opted for the truth, and from the example of Jesus crucified knew that the Lord would create power out of that. He was astonishingly unimpressed by numbers, success, degrees, status symbols, and even clerical ordination, which he refused. He was not about to be co-opted by any kingdoms less than that of the "Great King." He never railed against the show and trappings of medieval Catholicism; he simply moved outside the walls of Assisi and did it in a new way. He knew that frontal attacks never work anyway, and he loved the church too much to presume to judge the others. Again, it was his lifestyle which shouted judgment, not his words. He was a gentle prophet. His witness, therefore, has been able to call and challenge believers for eight centuries.

Francis' choice of weakness instead of strength, vulnerability instead of righteousness, truth instead of practicality, honesty instead of influence stands in amazing contrast to the general Westernized version of the gospel, and to the success-oriented and electronic church so readily received today. He is forever the saint of "holy topsy-turveydom," as G.K. Chesterton said.

Francis seemed to have very little conscious awareness of what we would today call corporate or systemic evil. At least he did not consciously speak of his mission in that light. Yet if his interpretation of the gospel had been taken as foundational instead of merely admired and then marginalized, one can only imagine the different color and character of Western Christianity and civilization today. If greed and power and control had been recognized as the demons they are, if spiritual goods could have been fittingly valued, the Renaissance could have been for real, the Reformation might not have been necessary, the Enlightenment could have moved beyond the mind and the subjective, and the class warfare called for by Marxism would not have been necessary. Because most of the church has refused to take Jesus' teaching and Francis' example seriously, now much of the world refuses to take us seriously. "Your Christianity is all in the head," they say. "You Christians love to talk of a new life, but the record shows that you are afraid to live in a new way--a way that is responsible, caring, and making for peace."

Living in a feudal period of history, Francis had no knowledge of the monstrous proportions that our love of war would attain, but in his own limited world, he abandoned his early life as a knight and warrior, even though this career was very esteemed and culturally approved. He applied that same knightly chivalry and courage to the local battles for goodness. In their greeting the Friars Minor were to announce their purpose:

The Lord revealed to me that I should say as a greeting, "The Lord give you peace. "And one day when he was traveling with a friar who was one of the first twelve, he used to greet people along the road and in the fields with his greeting of peace. And because people had never heard such a greeting from any religious, they were very startled. Indeed, some said indignantly, "What do you mean by this greeting of yours ?"As a result the friar became embarrassed, and said to Francis, "Allow us to use some other greeting." But the holy father said,"Let them chatter, for they do not understand the ways of God. Don't feel ashamed because of this, for one day the nobles and princes of this world will respect you and the other friars for this greeting. For it is no marvel if the Lord should desire to have a new little flock, whose speech and way of life are unlike those of all its predecessors, and which is content to possess him alone." (The Mirror of Perfection, trans. Leo Sherley-Price)

And centuries later the church is still calling forth embarrassingly little flocks to speak the gospel of peace, while the nobles and princes of this world are still witholding their respect. The saints of every age must learn to trust in sometimes only eschatological victories.

Perhaps no one understood the vision and vocation of Francis better than a young, wealthy woman of Assisi named Clare Scifi (1194-1253). She took the call of gospel poverty to her heart like no other. Of Francis she said, "After God he is the charioteer of my soul." She received from Innocent III in 1216 and from Gregory IX in 1228 her famous "Privilege of Poverty." It took two papal pronouncements to protect and assure a religious community that they would be allowed to live in insecurity. Clare knew that wise and prudent people would try to take away what she saw as essential to gospel life.

It is generally agreed that the female branch of the Franciscan family has likely lived the poverty and contemplation of Francis much more faithfully than have the friars. Many reasons could probably be given for this, but the most obvious is that the men have been used for religious function and jurisdiction in the institutional church, which invariably takes away one's appreciation of lifestyle as an end in itself. The friars were inserted into the power structure where they could no longer view life from the edge or from below, but had to maintain the system. Unfortunately, the "Poor Clares" have had to remain in a cloister to retain their privileged vantage point. Maybe there is no other way. History has shown us how rare it is for people to be both in the world and yet not of the world, as Jesus has called us. Even though few seem to attain this balance, it will always remain the Franciscan ideal.

Franciscans have usually been seen as "of the people." Our self-image is one of "blue-collar clergy" instead of white-collar or Roman-collar professionals. This has allowed the friars to be in closer touch with the concerns of ordinary folk, but sometimes out of touch with good and corrective thinking. As always, one's gift is one's liability. The friars have often reflected the common folks' prejudices and fears as much as they have reflected their concerns for justice and compassion. Francis saw himself as a reconciler and preacher of forgiveness. After a long-standing quarrel between the mayor and the bishop of Assisi, he decided to add another verse to his famous "Canticle of Brother Sun." Even here there was no room in his spacious heart for harsh epithets or cruel judgments. He had seen too much beauty. He hurt when others hurt. And even his reconciliations took the form of art and courtesy--in what is considered to be the first piece of Italian poetry.

"It is a great shame for us, the servants of God, that at a time when the mayor and the bishop so hate each other no one can be found to re-establish peace and concord between them," said Francis to his companions. And so he added a further strophe to his Canticle of Brother Sun:

All praise be yours, my Lord,
Through those who grant pardon for love of you;
Through those who endure trial and persecution.
Happy those who endure in peace;
By you, Most High, they will be crowned.

And the friars went to the Piazza Commune and sang the full canticle in the presence of the mayor and the bishop. And with much tenderness and affection they both locked arms and embraced each other. (The Legend of Perugia, trans. Paul Oligny)

In the times of Francis "not only had war and its orgies and disorders become a necessity and a habit, but they had become the preferred occupation, the ruling passion, and the whole life of the city, in which 'peace' no longer had any meaning" (Nova Vita). Undoubtedly the most famous of Francis' ventures into peacemaking was his personal visit with the sultan, Melek-el-Khamil (1217-1238) at Damietta in Egypt. He had made several previous trips to crusaders camps in Syria, and had been turned back by sickness and shipwreck. This time the crusaders had been fighting since May 9 of 1218 until the very day of August 29,1219, when Francis arrived in Egypt. He spent several days with the sultan trying to arrange a peace, but only gained his personal respect. He turned then to the Christian crusaders:

"If I tell them not to fight, I will be considered a fool; if I am silent I will not escape my conscience." And so the holy man arose and approached the Christians with salutary warnings, forbidding the war, denouncing the reason for it. But truth was turned to ridicule, and they hardened their heart and refused to be guided. They went, they joined battle, they fought and our (sic) army was pressed hard by the enemy. So great was the number of soldiers lost in the disaster that six thousand were among the dead and captured. Compassion pressed upon the holy man, even though they were not regretful over the deed. He mourned especially over the Spaniards, when he saw how their great impetuosity had left but a few of them remaining. Let the princes of this world know these things and let them know that it is not easy to fight against God, against the will of the Lord. Rashness generally ends in disaster, for it relies on its own power and does not deserve help from heaven. But if victory is to be hoped for from on high, battles must be entrusted to the Spirit of God. (Second Life)

Unfortunately, history tells us that fighting resumed on September 26, and Francis returned to Assisi a very discouraged man. Yet his warnings to his followers are apt for peacemakers and those working for justice in our day: "While you are proclaiming peace with your lips, be careful to have it even more fully in your heart. Nobody should be roused to wrath or insult on your account. Everyone should rather be moved to peace, goodwill, and mercy as a result of your self-restraint. For we have been called for the purpose of healing the wounded, binding up those who are bruised, and reclaiming the erring" (The Legend of the Three Companions, trans. James Meyer).

Many historians consider Francis' rule of life for lay people one of the major contributing factors to the death of feudalism. Feudalism was a system based on oppression and control. Feuds and vendettas were so common that few people went abroad unarmed. Yet Francis forbad his followers to fight, carry weapons, or even swear allegiance to any noble. Again this was based in Jesus' teaching from the Sermon on the Mount. So many thousands of people committed themselves to this "Third Order rule" that it was one of the world's few successful social revolutions, even if rather short-lived.

Despite all of his legitimate reasons for discouragement, Francis was known as a man of deep and abiding joy. He knew that after all was done and undone, he was still "the herald of the Great King." No one should ever doubt that Francis was quintessentially a man in love, and a man in love with the greatest of lovers. There was simply no bottom to his grateful happiness. He told his friars that it was their vocation "to lift up peoples' hearts and give them reasons for spiritual joy." They needed no other justification for their life. They needed no other ministry in the church. They, like he, were to be troubadours and minstrels of the Lord. At times, eyewitnesses tell us that he was so filled with gladness that "he would pick up a stick from the ground and putting it over his left arm, would draw across it, as across a violin, a little bow bent by means of a string; and going through the motions of playing, he would sing about the Lord. This whole ecstasy of joy would often end in tears and would be dissolved in compassion" (Second Life). To communicate this wisdom of the heart to his community, he engaged Brother Leo in one of his most quoted stories, the dialogue of perfect joy:

One winter day when he and Brother Leo were walking along the road to Assisi from Perugia, Francis called out to Leo in the bitter cold five times, each time telling him what perfect joy was not: "Brother Leo, even if a Friar Minor gives sight to the blind, heals the paralyzed, drives out devils, gives hearing back to the deaf, makes the lame walk, and restores speech to the dumb, and what is more brings back to life a man who has been dead four days, write that perfect joy is not in that." And so he continued with different enumerations of success and even spiritual enjoyment. And when he had been talking this way for a distance of two miles, Brother Leo in great amazement asked him: "Father, I beg you in God's name to tell me where perfect joy is to be found?"

And Francis replied: "When we come to the Portiuncula, soaked by the rain and frozen by the cold, all soiled with mud and suffering from hunger, and we ring at the gate of our friary and the brother porter comes and says angrily: 'Who are you?' And we say: 'We are two of your brothers.' And he contradicts us, saying, 'You are not telling the truth. Go away!' And he does not open for us, but makes us stand outside in the snow and rain, cold and hungry until night falls--then if we endure all of those insults and cruel rebuffs patiently, without being troubled and without complaining, and if we reflect humbly and lovingly that the porter really knows us. Oh, Brother Leo, write that perfect joy is to be found there!

"And if we continue to knock and the porter comes out and drives us away with curses and hard blows--and if we bear it patiently and take the insults with joy and love in our hearts. Oh, Brother Leo, write down that that is perfect joy! And now hear the conclusion: Above all the graces and gifts of the Holy Spirit which Christ gives to his friends is that of conquering oneself and willingly enduring sufferings, insults, humiliations, and hardships for the love of Christ." (The Little Flowers of St. Francis)

This is not so much a description of perfect joy as it is a description of perfect freedom. Here at last we have a truly nonviolent and liberated man. Only such as these will ever liberate others. They are not part of the problem, but most assuredly the beginnings of the solution. They have moved beyond here and there, mine and yours, beyond all manner of divisions, to recognize the "dearest freshness, deep down things" (G.M. Hopkins). They seem to accept without despair that we are together in one another's sin, and they seem to honestly enjoy one another's glories. Every part really is trying to love every other part--but with great struggle and obstacles unlimited. Some few people become points where all the parts can meet. And these rare jigsaw pieces of persons hold the rest of the puzzled picture together. They give us both cause for sanity and excuses for outrageous adventure. But to do that for us they must become small enough so that none of us are threatened, so that we can think we are actually giving instead of receiving.

These free ones must be the rejoicing of God. These few tell us what is going on inside the heart of God. These few reassure us that whoever this Creator is, God is most assuredly not omnipotence but humility, not lordly (as God should be) but infinitely accessible, not witholding but relentlessly welcoming. And in their flesh they try to imitate him in an amazingly un-Utopian way, because they are ready to live it in any circumstances whatsoever.

For those like Francis of Assisi goodness has come to be expected, goodness is no surprise, goodness always finally happens, goodness seems to be willing to suffer in order to win, but win it does. For these few free ones, goodness is just there, everywhere, right beneath the surface and quite often breaking through. They cannot resist it nor totally possess it. So they adore. And because they have bowed down, the ugliness of life can attract them, and the beauty of it all is a strange and sacred hurt.

Richard Rohr, OFM, was a contributing editor for Sojourners when this article appeared.