Seeking thy honor in all things and with all our strength, by spending all the powers and senses of body and soul in the service of thy love and not in anything else; and that we may love our neighbors even as ourselves, drawing to the best of our power all to thy love.
WRITINGS OF SAINT FRANCIS
WHEN FRANCIS ARRIVED AT Ancona after his unsuccessful attempt to go as a missionary to the infidels, worn and tired after shipwreck and storm and perhaps dispirited by failure, he did not know that the providence of God would use this failure to bring great things to pass. Because he returned to Ancona just when he did, in the spring of 1213, he received the gift of the mountain of Alvernia, and in the divine pattern of things that gift played its great part not only in his own life but also in the creation of the Third Order. He could not know this but he was accustomed to see in the circumstances brought about by any honest attempt to serve God, even if the attempt had seemed to end in disaster, an indication of God’s further will for him. He had failed, and like a little child running after his father had fallen headlong, and now he must pick himself up and set his feet once more in the footsteps of his Lord. So from Ancona he set off at once on a preaching mission and found himself some while later in the foothills of the Apennines, on the borders of Tuscany. Here he heard that at Montefeltro in the mountains there was to be a tournament in celebration of the knighthood of a young kinsman of the Lord of Montefeltro.
A tournament in the mountains in the spring, with the lists set in the meadows full of flowers, the singing of the troubadours at evening in the great castle, the dancing, and all the grace and color of a knightly occasion made an irresistible appeal to Francis. The troubadour he had once longed to be was not dead in him, merely transmuted into the jongleur de Dieu, and he decided at once to take his own light heart and the song in his soul up the mountain to Montefeltro. As he trudged up the steep road toward the castled village on its high rocky ledge he could see the castle itself towering up against the brilliant blue sky with banners flying from the tower and trumpets ringing out their welcome from the walls. All the ways up to the castle were thronged, for this was a great occasion for the countryside. From all the castles that crowned the hilltops of the neighborhood gay cavalcades had ridden forth, the knights in armor followed by their young esquires, each with that little round buckler of a page upon his arm that once Francis himself had carried, the women wearing the tall stiff headdresses and the brilliant gowns with jeweled girdles that were de rigueur upon festive occasions. Perhaps as the lovely ladies swung by in their litters, Francis remembered Clare in the dignity and beauty of her youth, sitting in the cathedral at Assisi listening to his preaching, and his thoughts reached quickly out to her where she was now, praying before the crucifix at San Damiano, dressed in the habit of his order. Or a knight riding past would remind him of his son Angelo, or the fine patrician bearing of some nobleman of his beloved Ruffino, and he prayed for them all. There were humbler folk upon the road too, peddlers, minstrels, and mountebanks, and within the shadow of his hood Francis’s bright eyes sparkled with delight and interest. And also with love. Many must have turned to smile at the little trudging friar in his gray habit, and then as their eyes met his his deep clear voice rang out with, “God give thee his peace.” How he must have longed to gather them all into God’s kingdom, and perhaps even then, though the time was not yet, his thoughts were busy with all those men and women for whom life in the world was God’s will but yet whose hearts were hungry for some sort of discipline upon their lives, some inner dedication that should give purpose and sanctity to what they did, and must do, in the world.
When they came to the castle, he mingled with the crowd there and at some time during the festival he found himself in the courtyard. Probably they were holding a minstrels’ contest, for that would have drawn him more surely than anything else. When it was over he knew that he must speak to them all and climbing up on some raised place he begged that there might be silence for him for a little while that he might speak. It was the kind of request that he seldom had to make twice, for the very tones of his voice compelled attention and probably word had already gone around that Francis of Assisi was here. They gathered around him, minstrels, knights, and ladies, their faces upturned toward him, smiling at him, amused and touched by his diminutive figure, eager face, and bright eyes. He took as his text two lines of a minstrel’s song, perhaps one that had already been sung in the courtyard.
So great is the good I have in sight,
In every hardship I delight.
He preached to them of the saints of God who had thought no price too great to pay in penance and discipline, counting even death itself a little thing, if they could attain at last to the vision of God. Here in this beautiful castle in the mountains he painted for them a picture of the heavenly country, the green pastures and still waters that are on the other side of the cross, and no doubt then as always he uncovered the hunger in their hearts so that they knew that all the beauty about them, every treasure they possessed, was like so much dust running through their hands if it did not bring them nearer God.
When his sermon was over, and he had climbed down and was mingling with the crowd again, a noble and brilliant figure approached him, bowed to him and asked if they might talk together. Francis must have been used by this time to these aristocrats who fell so readily into the net of his preaching, and with the sense of the unfolding of a familiar pattern he smiled at the Lord Orlando dei Cattani, Lord of Chiusi in Casantino, and said, “Right willingly, but this morning thou must do honor to thy friends and dine with them and after thou hast dined we will confer together.” The Lord Orlando consented to this and later in the day they met in some quiet place and sat and talked long together; perhaps until the sun was low in the west and the valleys below them were filled with golden mist. But the interview did not follow quite the usual pattern, for the Lord Orlando wanted Francis to strengthen him not to forsake the world and join the order but to live the Christian life within the world, a task which perhaps seemed to him the harder task of the two, and when the interview was over and the strength he needed had been given to him, he said he wanted to give Francis a gift, and the gift he offered this little friar vowed to poverty must have taken his breath away. For he wanted to give him a mountain which he owned. Francis must have listened in astonishment as this mountain was described to him. It was Alvernia in the Apennines, close to the Lord Orlando’s own castle of Chiusi. It looked down upon the plain of the river Arno, that was ringed about with mountains, and beautiful with its mulberry trees, olives and vines, wheat fields and meadows. The lower slopes of Alvernia were clothed with woods of chestnuts and oaks, and then pine, fir, and larch, full of birds. Above the woods were bare rocks with chasms in them. At the summit of this mass of rock was a plateau where once again the woods grew, and the Lord Orlando thought this plateau, from which a man could look out and see half the sunlit hills of Italy, would be a perfect place for prayer and contemplation, and he offered it to Francis for the use of his order. Francis accepted the gift.
HE WENT BACK TO THE PORTIUNCULA and sent some of the brothers to Alvernia at once but he did not yet go himself, for he had come to a turning point in his life and he wanted to be at the Portiuncula to pray about it. His life shows a recurring rhythm of solitary prayer leading up to flashes of light in which the will of God was made known to him in such a manner that it was as though the sun shone out suddenly from behind a cloud, followed by periods of intense and happy activity; almost like an echo of the mystic’s way of purgation and illumination, followed by union and a return to the world to work there for God in power and joy. We see it in his days of solitary prayer in the woods about Santa Maria degli Angeli, followed by that flash of insight when he heard the gospel for Saint Mathias’s day and knew God’s will for him and set out instantly and joyously to preach at Assisi. Then again when he climbed up to the solitary place above Poggio-Bustone and was alone there in misery because of his sin, and there came to him the assurance of forgiveness and the vision of the growing company of the knights, and he hurried joyously back to the brothers and led them to Rome. And so it is with him now. He went “into the wood” and stayed there alone with his problem, praying to God for help and guidance.
The failure of his missionary journey, followed by the gift of Alvernia, had made him wonder if God perhaps did not want him to continue as a missionary and was calling him to the life of prayer only. He had always believed that contemplative prayer must support the labors of the order, and now he wondered if it was his part to leave the missionary work to his sons and be their Moses on the mountain, Alvernia his Horeb, his arms held out in supplication for the battle down below. “Lord, what wouldst thou have me to do?”
As always, he was too humble to think that he alone, by himself, was capable of knowing certainly God’s will for him. The Little Flowers of Saint Francis says, “He had no opinion of himself or of the virtue of his prayers; and wishing to know the will of God he sought to learn it through the prayers of others.” And also it seems probable, when we think how great was the gift of prayer that God had given him, that the life of contemplative prayer was what he would have chosen for himself if he had not put the will of God before his own, and that hidden longing made the decision harder for him. So he sent for Masseo and told him all his trouble and asked him to go to Clare and to Sylvester and ask them to pray that God would reveal to them his will for his servant. Masseo tramped off, to Clare at San Damiano and to Sylvester, who was praying in one of the caves of the Carceri, and then back again to each to know their answer, and Francis waited for him at the Portiuncula. When Masseo returned, tired and hot, Francis would not ask for the answer until he had looked after him, treating him with all possible honor as the messenger of God. He knelt before him and washed his feet, prepared a meal for him and served it. Only then did they go “into the wood” where Francis kneeled down, put back his hood and crossed his arms upon his breast to hear God’s will for him. Clare and Sylvester had both received the same answer to their prayer for guidance. Francis’s vocation was to go forth into the world and preach the gospel; for the grace of the vocation was not given to him for himself alone but was for the salvation of souls. If this was not what Francis had secretly wanted it was the will of God, the thing that he adored, and the moment it shone out upon him he was full of joy and cried out gladly, “Let us go forth in the name of God.”
He set out at once and his mood of joy is shown in his choice of companions, the cheerful and eloquent Masseo and Angelo, happy and courteous. They tramped away through the woods from the Portiuncula, southeast in the direction of Cannara. It was summer with the sun fierce and wonderful, the harvest fields looking ready to burst into flame, the whole scene vital and strong and gay. From this glowing life in Francis himself and his companions, and in the world about them, there came two sermons so full of power that in their different ways they are as alive today as they were at this joyous time when Francis preached them. His utter delight in doing the will of God got into them and made them deathless.
Francis, Masseo, and Angelo could see Cannara as they tramped along, for it was only two miles’ walk from Assisi. It was a walled city with a gate in the center of each side and a tower at each corner. On one side its walls were washed by a river and a moat encircled it with drawbridges and gates, and there were trees near. It was set in a country of trees and water, such as birds love, and Francis found its narrow streets hot and stuffy when he came to them, and called to the people who were thronging around him to follow him outside: “Good people, good people, God give thee his peace! Come out to the fields where it is cool under the trees.” Where he led he was always followed, above all today when he was so brimming with the joy of doing the will of God, and the whole population of the little town, men and women and children, streamed over the drawbridge after him and out into the fields, and Cannara was left empty like Keats’s little town of the peaceful citadel.
Out in the fields Francis preached to the people of the kingdom of God, and he preached with such power and joy that he swept them right off their feet and they all begged to be allowed to join the order straightaway. Francis tackled their enthusiasm with his usual wisdom. What they asked for was impossible. They had their work to do in the world, work that was God’s will for them, and he on his side could not go around Italy depopulating all the towns. Yet neither could he discourage their ardor for God’s service. He told them to go back to their homes, and love and serve God there, and be patient, and he would think out some way of life for them that should combine deeper devotion and discipline in the service of God, and membership of the order, and yet not separate them from those duties in the world to which God had called them. And the people of Cannara were content to wait, and their patience, in the fullness of time, became the foundation stone of the Third Order.
When Francis left Cannara he, Angelo, and Masseo walked on toward Bevagna until they came to some fields where a multitude of birds had gathered, all very happy because of the harvest fields, the water, and the trees. Francis also was happy and the sunlight on the glancing wings of the eager little creatures, their merry chattering voices, caught him up in delight. He loved all the creatures and had the gift of winning their trust and friendship, and today these birds delighting in the bounty of God so touched his heart that he could not pass on and leave them. He said to Masseo and Angelo, “Wait for me here by the way whilst I go and preach to my little sisters the birds,” and he went on into one of the fields where the birds were all about him on the ground, and to his delight they were not frightened of him. The ones on the ground stayed where they were, even though his habit touched them as he moved gently among them, talking to them, and when they heard his voice the ones in the trees came flying down and settled themselves around him, and Francis said, “My little sisters the birds, ye owe much to God, your creator, and ye ought to sing his praise at all times and in all places, because he has given you liberty to fly about into all places; and though ye neither spin nor sew, he has given you a twofold and a threefold clothing for yourselves and for your offspring. Two of all your species he sent into the ark with Noah that you might not be lost to the world; besides which, he feeds you, though ye neither sow nor reap. He has given you fountains and rivers to quench your thirst, mountains and valleys in which you take refuge, and trees in which to build your nests, so that your Creator loves you much, having thus favored you with such bounties. Beware, my little sisters, of the sin of ingratitude, and study always to give praise to God.” As he said these words, all the birds began to open their beaks, to stretch their necks, to spread their wings, and reverently to bow their heads to the ground, endeavoring by their motions and by their songs to manifest their joy to Saint Francis. And the saint rejoiced with them. He wondered to see such a multitude of birds, and was charmed with their beautiful variety, with their attention and familiarity, for all of which he devoutly gave thanks to the Creator. Having finished his sermon, Saint Francis made the sign of the cross, and gave them leave to fly away. Then all those birds rose up into the air, singing most sweetly; and, following the sign of the cross, which Saint Francis had made, they divided themselves into four companies. One company towards the east, another towards the west, one towards the south, and one towards the north; each company as it went singing most wonderfully.
Francis stood watching them and he never forgot those cross-shaped wings. When years later upon Alvernia his Lord came to him it was as the crucified seraph that he saw him, with wings of power that filled the sky. He went back to Angelo and Masseo awed by what he had seen and aware that he had moved a little nearer to his God. After he had kissed the hand of the leper, and knelt before the crucifix in San Damiano, he had moved forward to a place where he could see Christ in all men, and all men in Christ, and love for men had become sweet and easy to him. Now it was the same with the creatures. He had always loved them for their beauty and endearing ways, but now his love had grown so much deeper that later it would be said of him, “Francis beheld in each creature the goodness of God perfectly, and therefore he was moved by a particular and heartfelt delight and love for all creatures.”
Francis, Masseo, and Angelo tramped on, stopping at the hour of vespers to say their office in the fields, and if Angelo and Masseo were not quite recollected in their responses it was because the words of Francis’s sermon still rang in their minds and they still saw his habit brushing gently against the fearless birds. They remembered what they had seen and told of it, and the story of that sermon lived on. It is the best-known story in The Little Flowers of Saint Francis and is the subject of the most famous of Giotto’s frescoes in the church of San Francesco at Assisi. It is a story of power because it was born of the joy that Francis felt in the doing of the will of God.
JOY CARRIED FRANCIS THROUGH the whole of that triumphant preaching tour. All the way through the valley of Spoleto, and later in the Marches of Ancona, the people flocked to hear him preach to them of the kingdom of God. And so, tired and happy, he came back in the hot late autumn to the Portiuncula, but not to rest there, for he could not forget the infidels whom he had failed to reach. They tugged at his heart and he made a plan to travel through Spain and Morocco and preach to the Moors. He chose a few companions, among them Bernard da Quintavalle, and set out again, walking with such an eager stride that his companions could scarcely keep up with him, for “he seemed like one intoxicated in spirit.” But the strength of his frail little body was never quite sufficient to support his zeal for God’s service, he had spent himself, and when he reached Spain he fell ill and could not go on. As soon as he was strong enough he went home, for he saw in his illness another indication of God’s will; the plight of the infidels still tugged at his heart, but the time was not yet.
But Francis never allowed illness to prevent him preaching the gospel. Perhaps in this illness, perhaps in another attack of fever two years later, he dictated his “Letter to all Christians” which afterward formed the basis of the rule of the Third Order. Lying on his straw pallet he had no visible congregation to inspire him but the eyes of his spirit saw the vast concourse of all Christian people, men and women who like himself were trying to follow in the footsteps of Christ, but whose pilgrimage through this world was beset with temptations, with cares and anxieties that were like choking weeds about the flower of their faith. Forgetting the heathen for a while, his heart yearned over them. He remembered the lords and ladies riding to the castle of Montefeltro, and the Lord Orlando bowing before him and asking for his help. He remembered the people of Cannara asking if they might join the order, and the promise he had made them. He remembered Christians living in crowded cities, and he knew how evil pressed upon them, and how the indifference of those about them could be a harder trial to their faith than ridicule or persecution, and he remembered the multitudes of the toiling peasants who were often too tired to say their prayers. They wanted help. He called Leo to him, and while he talked to them Leo’s accomplished pen sped over the parchment.
The letter opens by saying that Francis, “the servant of all,” is sick, and so this letter comes as a messenger in place of his bodily presence. Then it passes on to a remembrance of the poverty of Christ; for that was what they all so desperately needed, that poverty of spirit that would enable them to move with detachment among the luxuries, the anxieties, and the evils that beset them. “The Word of the Father, so worthy, so holy, and so glorious . . . He being rich above all, willed nevertheless, both he and his most blessed mother, to choose poverty.” The letter went on to map out a rule of life. Christians were to remember the glory of the Blessed Sacrament, to repent of their sins, to confess them and to receive God with a pure heart and a chaste body. They were to visit churches frequently and to reverence the clergy, to fast at the appointed times, to be disciplined, self-denying, and obedient, observant of the counsels and precepts of Christ. They were to love God, to praise him and pray to him both day and night, to love their neighbor as themselves, to be merciful and humble servants of all, and they were to be generous and to give alms because alms “washed the soul from the foulness of sin.” Toward the end of the letter comes a great cry of delight that Christians should have such a Father, such a Brother as our Lord Jesus Christ. “O how glorious and holy and great it is to have such a Father in heaven! . . . O how holy and how beloved, pleasing and humble, peaceful and sweet and lovable and above all things desirable, to have such a Brother who laid down his life for his sheep and prayed for us to the Father saying: Holy Father, keep them in thy name, whom thou hast given me.” The letter ends with a blessing. “And all, both men and women, who shall receive these things kindly and understand and send them to others for an example, if they persevere in them until the end, may the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost bless them. Amen.”
A few years after the sermon at Cannara the Third Order was in existence, based upon this letter, but with more specific rules added to its broad outline of Christian living. It was open to all Christians, men and women, married or single, and its aim was to enable them to approximate their lives as closely as possible to that of the brothers and sisters of the First and Second Orders, while remaining in the world and carrying out there the secular duties to which they believed God had called them. Noblemen such as the Lord Orlando, who was one of the first whom Francis admitted to the order, did not renounce their hereditary duties, they continued to administer their estates as before, but they did their work looking to God, regarding even the smallest duties as having their place in God’s pattern, and when the needs of those dependent on them had been met they gave all their surplus money to the poor. It was the same with the merchants, who pledged themselves to carry on their businesses with strict integrity, renouncing all money which had been dishonestly earned in the past and keeping for themselves in the future nothing that was not needed for their sustenance. They dressed austerely and ate sparingly, holding themselves aloof from the luxury that was one of the evils of that as of any age. The men did not carry arms, they were pledged to peace, and they were absolved by the pope from taking the legal oaths which bound men to fight for their party whether the cause was just or unjust. They became a great power for peace in the quarrelsome Italian republics and, as their numbers grew, in Europe also. But there was nothing negative about them, or they could not have called themselves Franciscans. They lived their lives joyously, in no spirit of condemnation, and they did not think they had done their duty to the poor merely by almsgiving, they loved and served them, bringing them into their houses and caring for them when they were sick, and spending themselves for them in every way they knew.
The Third Order, called the Order of Penitence, increased as rapidly as the First and Second, working always for peace, justice, honesty, and love. It lived on through the generations, a spiritual power the strength of which it is not possible to estimate, and lives still, and has numbered among its penitents some of the greatest servants of God that the world has known, kings and queens, poets and artists, men and women whose names ring like music in our ears today, such names as Christopher Columbus, Saint Louis of France, Elizabeth of Hungary, Angela of Foligno, Petrarch, Roger Bacon, Duns Scotas. Another penitent was Giotto, who painted the frescoes in the church of San Francesco at Assisi. It is probable that he came to Assisi as a pupil of Cimabue, whose paintings also glorify San Francesco, and whose portrait of Francis in the lower church shows us the little man with the humorous suffering face that our own imagination has pictured for us. After the death of Francis the brothers of the order would often present dramatized scenes from the saint’s life in their convents and churches, and the famous frescoes suggest that Giotto had seen some of these dramatic performances at Assisi, for there is much about them that suggests the medieval stage. They are fresh, dramatic, and lovely, with a naturalness about them that was something new in the stylized art of Italy and was the direct outcome of the simplicity and naturalness of Francis himself.
Two great poets wore the habit of the Third Order, Jacopone da Todi and Dante Alighieri. Francis inspired not only a new school of painting but a new era in poetry. His Canticle of the Sun was the inspiration of Jacopone’s verse and of that of the Italian poets, including Dante, who followed him. Jacopone was born in the strange old town of Todi probably in 1230, four years after the death of Francis, a man of wealth and ambition who found no place for God in his life until in middle age he passed through a time of such suffering and stress that the proud structure of his life collapsed beneath him and he became for a short while almost insane. Then from the ruins of it all God took him to himself, leading him to find shelter with the Franciscan family, first in the Third Order and later in the First, and to become the greatest poet of his age, expressing the Franciscan spirit in his verse as perfectly as Giotto in his paintings. Like Francis himself he was aflame with the love of God. It has been said of his poem “Amor de Caritate” that it is the counterpart of Francis’s mystic crucifixion, an expression in words, as that in flesh, of the miracle of the union of the soul with God. Saint Bernadine of Siena believed that Francis himself, not Jacopone, had written it.
The influence of Francis upon Dante was lifelong. He was educated at the school of the Franciscan Friars at Santa Croce and buried in the habit of the Third Order by the monks of Ravenna. A story told of him says that at a time of suffering in his life he came one night to a lonely convent in the Apennines and knocked at the door. The brother who opened to him saw a stooped and gray-haired man standing in the shadows and asked him what he wanted, and Dante answered, “Peace!”
These great names of kings and queens and poets lend luster to the Third Order, but there were thousands of humble men and women whose unseen and selfless lives were its bones and its strength. One of these was named Lucchesio. He was a native of Tuscany and lived at Poggibonsi, not far from Siena. He had been a rich merchant but when he joined the Third Order he gave all his superfluous wealth to the poor, keeping nothing for himself but his house, his garden, and his donkey. He had a beautiful wife whom he dearly loved, Bona Donna, who was with him heart and soul in all that he did for the love of God. Together they kept their house as a hospital for the poor, cultivating their garden that they might grow food for them. All who came to them were made welcome and tenderly nursed and cared for, and, not content with this, Lucchesio would ride out to the fever-stricken Maremma and seek out the sick there and take care of them. Sometimes he would bring them home with him, and Bona Donna would see him approaching the house with one sick man on his back and another on the donkey. For many years these two toiled together for Christ, and then Bona Donna fell sick, and when Lucchesio saw that she was dying his grief was too great to be borne. Perhaps like so many husbands and wives they had often said to each other, “We will go together,” and while he knelt by Bona Donna’s bedside, as she received the last sacraments, Lucchesio prayed that it might be so, and received the assurance that his prayer was answered, for he whispered to Bona Donna, “Wait for me,” and calling back the priest he asked that he too might receive the last sacraments. Then he held his wife’s hand and comforted her through her last agony, and when it was over he made the sign of the cross over her and lay down beside her, calling with love upon Jesus, Mary, and Francis, and so followed her.
It is fitting that among all the unknown stories of the knights of the Third Order this one should have been handed down to us, for in their love for God, for his poor, and for each other, these two were typical of the chivalry.