I've seen the place of the man who started a revolution in the
Church without even knowing it.
Francis, who continually misunderstood God’s calling of what
he was actually asking him to do. Who appeared to be crazy when he threw off
his clothing in the center of town and said that he would only refer to God as
his Father from then on. Naked before God in order to become fully clothed in
Christ.
Who truly loved his fratelli, of which everyone is included
in that brotherhood.
Who was called to rebuild God’s church: San
Damiano, the children of God, and their encounter with the gospel.
Who was not too proud or embarrassed to come face to face
with bunny rabbits preach to the birds.
Who was a marvel, but for all the right reasons. Who took
the path just as Christ did towards weakness instead of towards the extraordinary and exalted---who imitated Christ in everthing down to the Stigmata found on
his hands and feet and side.
"He saw everything as dramatic, distinct from its setting, not all of a piece like a picture but in action like a play. A bird went by him like an arrow; something with a story and purpose, though it was a purpose of life and not a purpose of death. St. Francis was a man who did not want to see the wood for the trees. He wanted to see each tree as a separate and almost sacred thing, being a child of God and therefore a brother or sister of man. . . It is even more true that he deliberately did not see the mob for the men. He only saw the image of God multiplied but never monotonous. He honoured all men; that is, he not only loved but respected them all. What gave him this extraordinary personal power was this; that from the Pope to the beggar, from the sultan of Syria in his pavilian to the ragged robbers crawling out of the wood, there was never a man who looked into those brown burning eyes without being certain that Francis Bernardone was really interested in him" (G. K. Chesterton).
We “found Mimo” at San Damiano in the form of a kind man in
a brown tunic who gave us a blessing.
Fixing my eyes upon the rare crucifix of a divine and awake
Christ ---not the normal withering and dark---that St. Francis also looked upon and heard
the voice of God.
Meditating in a forest of peace and prayer (olive and
cyprus) looking out onto the Cittá della Pace. The sounds of Alessandro's voice and guitar, the smells of Sister Mint and the warmth of Brother Sun.
Crawling into the caves where Francis and his two dear friends
retreated into silence and solitude in order to gain better language and better
commune with people. “In silence we learn how to speak.” Three friends with
each different gifts and abilities--- in gazing at the stars, one in careful
calculation and recording in order to mark the distances, one in estimation of
constellations for basic teaching to the people, and one in reckless abandon,
shoes off and staring up at the work of God’s hands.
Giotto’s Frescoes of the Life of Saint St. Francis:
“Shhh. Silencio. Non foto.”
Compositional rooms like dollhouses, ready to be interacted
with even if I can’t make the birds flutter around Saint Francis or raise the
sick in their beds. My hand can’t make it move, but the instinct to reach into
that life is what counts.
Polenta yellow, Orvieto sky blue, Assisi stone pink, amarena deep red, and white like the skin under my arm that is never touched by
Brother Sun.
Treated to peach gelato and people sauntering in medieval
costumes.
Seeing a house in the middle of the fog on the van trip and
being commanded to “Remember that.”
