Reflections on St. Francis of Assisi
When we moved into our semi-furnished rental last year, one of the first things I did was set a 12-inch concrete statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary at the front door. This statue was among the few belongings I salvaged from our previous home, which had burned down in the Palisades.
I felt the place needed a distinctly Catholic vibe to balance the chic Westside L.A. spirituality surrounding it. You know, with the kitschy Native American decor, the Henry Miller quote in the powder room, and a reclining Buddha right by the entrance.
Interestingly, the owner had already placed a well-known saint nearby: a tonsured St. Francis of Assisi, holding a dove with rabbits gathered near a birdbath at his feet. This seemed to align with my perception of Francis as a somewhat generic Christian Zen master, honestly—a glorified garden gnome, in a way.
I hadn’t realized I had fallen for the modern tendency to tame one of the most radical followers of Christ who ever existed.
Sainthood without Sanctity
Over a hundred years ago, G.K. Chesterton pointed out this issue. He argued that contemporary admirers had learned to appreciate the saint without fully grasping the sanctity behind his life.
Francis wasn’t born into poverty. In fact, he came into the world as the son of a wealthy cloth merchant in Assisi around 1181. He enjoyed a lavish lifestyle, donned fine garments, and at one point, dreamt of military glory rather than feeding sparrows.
When he was about 20, he went to war against Perugia, was captured, and spent months in prison. Following his release, illness followed him. An attempt to resume a military career ended unsatisfactorily, leaving Francis feeling unfulfilled.
His transformation happened slowly, shaped by humiliation, failure, illness, and persistent prayer.
When I look at those garden statues of Francis with birds and rabbits around him, it’s easy to feel a touch of saintliness myself. I mean, I love animals and generally treat birds kindly.
Yet, Francis’ journey to truly loving God’s creation began with recognizing the harsh realities of life—like the suffering caused by leprosy.
Sweetness of Soul and Body
This disease disfigured many, pushing its victims to the fringes of society. Initially, like everyone else, Francis found them repulsive.
According to Thomas of Celano, his earliest biographer, Francis could hardly bear the sight of leper houses. If he spotted one from afar, he would cover his nose, a typical reaction of that time.
However, he eventually encountered a leper and did the unthinkable—he approached him and kissed him. That moment changed him profoundly. In his own later reflections, he described it as being led by God among the lepers, discovering something beautiful where there had once been bitterness.
Celano wrote about the mercy Francis displayed, choosing to live among these marginalized people, washing their wounds and cleaning their sores.
Repairing the Church
According to Franciscan tradition, while praying in a dilapidated church of San Damiano, Francis was tasked by Christ to “repair His church.” Taking it literally, he started rebuilding San Damiano and worked on other crumbling churches around Assisi. This call would evolve into a bigger mission as he dedicated his life to reforming the Church.
This shift in lifestyle drove a wedge between him and his father. Pietro Bernardone had built a successful business, enjoying the fruits of his labor with a son who, suddenly, had taken a vow of poverty. The tension culminated in a dramatic moment when Francis renounced his inheritance publicly before the bishop of Assisi, stripping off the clothes his father had given him. The bishop then covered him with his cloak.
The movement surrounding him eventually became the Order of Friars Minor, focused on work, prayer, preaching, and caring for the sick—all while living in poverty. Francis himself emphasized the importance of manual labor, recalling in his later years, “I worked with my hands, and I still desire to work.”
Chesterton characterized Francis’ intense asceticism vividly: “He devoured fasting as a man devours food.”
The Peace of Christ
None of this diminishes the familiar imagery of Francis surrounded by nature. He did have an exceptional love for creation, as depicted in his “Canticle of the Creatures,” which honors God through various elements like Brother Sun, Sister Moon, and “our Sister Mother Earth.” Interestingly, this poem inspired the title of Pope Francis’ 2015 encyclical.
But let’s be clear—those elegant themes didn’t come from idyllic afternoons in the beautiful Umbrian countryside. In fact, Francis penned the first part of the “Canticle” during his later years, grappling with illness and suffering at San Damiano.
When Jorge Mario Bergoglio became pope in 2013, he was reminded of St. Francis—this figure of poverty, peace, and reverence for all creation—when his friend Cardinal Claudio Hummes urged him not to forget the poor. Thus, he chose the name Francis.
Visiting Assisi shortly thereafter, he addressed the complex nature of Franciscan peace. He stressed it wasn’t something sugary or a mere harmony with nature.
Behind Enemy Lines
Pope Francis claimed that “the peace of Saint Francis is the peace of Christ,” which illuminates one of the most remarkable moments in Francis’ life. In 1219, amidst the Fifth Crusade, Francis ventured into enemy territory to speak with the Muslim Sultan al-Malik al-Kamil. This was remarkable, considering he was unarmed and literally walking into a battlefield.
An eyewitness, Jacques de Vitry, noted that Francis preached to the sultan and his followers for several days before being safely returned to the Christian camp. The details of their conversations are murky, with later accounts embellishing the narrative, but it is clear that Francis expected friars to coexist with non-Christians peacefully and also to share the Christian faith when appropriate.
Closing the Gap
Francis’ quieter contributions to the faith have had lasting significance. In 1223, he set up a manger scene in Greccio as a means for worshipers to connect with the conditions surrounding Christ’s birth. Even though there were no figures representing Mary, Joseph, or baby Jesus, this event is considered a precursor to the modern Christmas crèche.
This event reflects Francis’ mystical intensity. His desire was to eliminate the distance between himself and the physical reality of Christ’s life, making the experience of Bethlehem tangible—complete with hay, animals, and the raw poverty of the Nativity.
Then, a year later at La Verna, his connection to Christ took on a mysterious dimension. During a retreat, he reportedly received the stigmata—wounds emblematic of Christ’s crucifixion. This account wasn’t a posthumous exaggeration, as it was recorded shortly after his death by Brother Elias and later by Celano.
However, Francis himself never documented this personal experience.
Brother Fire
By that point, his physical health was deteriorating rapidly. He was progressively losing his sight due to an eye disease. Despite various treatments, his condition worsened until a physician suggested a drastic measure—burning the flesh surrounding his troubled eye.
As the doctor heated the instrument, Francis addressed it as “My Brother Fire,” asking it to show him kindness during this painful moment.
The fiery iron was applied to his face but was ineffective. As death approached, he requested to be laid on the ground naked, greeting yet another part of his created family: “our Sister Bodily Death.” On October 3, 1226, she came for him. Francis was likely around 44 or 45 years old, and two years later, Pope Gregory IX formally canonized him as a saint.
Incidentally, October 3 marks 800 years since Francis’ death. Notably, few Catholic saints have transcended religious boundaries like Francis has. Environmentalists embrace his love for creation, peace activists celebrate his encounter with the sultan, and even Protestants admire aspects of his life—some even refer to him affectionately as “our Francis.”
And yet, his likeness continues to appear among Buddhas in garden displays across Los Angeles.
Catholic to the Core
Despite this eclectic reception, the Church is commemorating his 800th anniversary in a distinctly Catholic manner. Under the direction of Pope Leo XIV, a special Jubilee Year of St. Francis commenced on January 10, continuing until January 10, 2027. During this time, Catholics can receive a plenary indulgence by visiting designated Franciscan churches and participating in prescribed prayers and observances.
A plenary indulgence may not be the first thought that comes to mind when viewing a simple statue of the friar with a bird, but perhaps it’s fitting considering Francis’ testimony.
In his “Testament,” dictated near the end of his life, Francis aimed to ensure the movement he started remained recognizably Catholic. He expressed a deep reverence for priests and stated his belief in the Eucharist as the ultimate representation of Christ in the world. He also mentioned that the manner of life he wrote down for his followers was confirmed by the Pope.
The “Testament” concludes with instructions for his friars to keep it alongside their Rule, reading them together so they might observe their commitment “in a more Catholic manner.”
You don’t need a strict doctrine to admire Francis, or even to follow his example to a degree. But, if you delve deeper into his life, you’ll find yourself approaching the core of the Church: the Eucharist, the role of priests, the significance of confession, obedience, and the pope.
Furthermore, his life compels us to strip away centuries of divisive arguments, inviting a clearer view of the Church. Here was a man who appeared comically unsuitable for the notions of Christianity as merely about clericalism or institutional authority. He had nothing, wasn’t a priest, worked with his hands, rebuilt broken churches, and led a movement that stressed the humility of its members.
The closer he got to Christ, ironically, the more intensely he embodied Catholicism.
Chesterton saw a profound mystery in this relationship—a human institution that opens pathways to the divine. “The casket that was locked in Palestine can be unlocked in Umbria,” he mused, observing that the Church serves as the keeper of the keys.
