Mischievous Mysticism
One of the most endearing parts of my recent faith journey has been the walk alongside such wonderful spiritual guides and mentors who lead me with their thoughtful, challenging, and personal encounters with Jesus. These writers can come from our own time, and many, including people like Chris Heuertz and James Martin, are still alive to offer us their wisdom and experience as modern day "elders" in the Church. Yet deeper still are those saints whose lives have left a path paved with the beauty of their personal witness. None of these has been more influential for me over the past year than Saint Francis.
Yes, Francis conjures up many images. He is perhaps known today amidst the resurgence in his devotion following our new Pope's public patronage of his name and spirit. He is perhaps most familiar as the stone statue placed in many gardens to be kept company by birds and flowers. He is, after all, the patron of the environment, that flower-smelling hippy at home in a Zeferelli movie. Here he is tame, sentimental, and (to use that despicable word) cute. I wonder how he would feel when presented with his own image today.
The Francis I've come to know is far different. He is an enigma of typecasting, a paradox of personalities whose literalism and stubborn adherence to idealism verge on the fanatic. It certainly cost him his own life, as he only lived a mere 45 years. I don't mean to give you the impression that Francis died a martyr for the faith, or even suffered at the hands of oppressors. Far from it; he was almost universally adored and inspired a following of devoted and passionate disciples for the few years he walked about central Italy to preach. Before I get mired in the details of his life, I'll warn you that far more has been written about him than perhaps any other living person short of Jesus himself. Because he left behind no written records himself, we rely on a compendium of accounts from eyewitnesses, partners, fellow Franciscans, and others touched by his life. The list is dizzying and quickly becomes lost amidst the legendary and mythologic nature of his legacy. The best approach, in my estimation, is to glean from his own background and context in the Middle Ages to give us insight into his mysticism. Although the contradictions remain, I hope you can see how his character captivated millions through the ages.
Italy in those days was a brutally dangerous place to be. Assisi was one of many warring city-states that levied armies from the surrounding villages to stake its claim at the rising merchant trade that chipped away at the old feudal order and established a burgeoning middle class. Franceso's own father, Giancolo Bernardone, was a member of that class and would have endowed his young son with wealth and prosperity. Yet it was not to be. In the greatest example of religious defiance the other side of Martin Luther, Francis stripped himself naked and renounced his inheritance and birthright. From then on he was Il Poverello, the poor one of Assisi. It would provide a challenge to the corrupt and swollen institution of the medieval Church, a breath of fresh air.
Still, long before his adventures taming wolves, calming the storms, and sojourning the countryside as a beloved preacher with vagabond entourage, he was a vainglorious and spoiled brat who wanted nothing more than bragging rights for his partying friends. He put on his armor and marched off to war against a neighboring city-state at the age of 20, only to be wounded and taken prisoner. Of course his father could afford the ransom, but not before Francis has suffered a serious setback to his pride. Like his later spiritual successor Ignatius, the humiliating defeat provided a canvas for God to work wonders upon his heart. Francis was forced to assess his attitude and use the space provided in emptiness to truly find himself, and God. He would suffer illness for the rest of his life, including a painful eye disease and the final test of his devotion, the very wounds of Christ expressed in the stigmata.
Good spiritual direction calls this type of experience one of liminal space. It is the space between plans and redirection. It lies between hubris and obedience. The death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a move, new career, or community provide space for all this. It allowed him to take himself astonishingly lightly, a transfigured form of the mischief and playfulness that endeared him to the youth of Assisi. He was beloved as a personality of gentleness, humility, and joy. Yet he was not afraid to offer reproach for compromise to wealth. For all the love I have for his extremism, his radical obedience, and prophetic voice to the powers of his day, I enjoy his capacity for mirth the most. In an age when corruption and violence threatened all security, a good dose of joy in community erases the snares of the devil more quickly than a pious prayer.
In my own life, I've embraced Francis' truly optimistic view of creation, one which embraces each new turn in the road to provide a lesson and reflection of God's goodness and provision. When people dismiss the saint as a fixture in a flower garden, they deny the rich history of his own struggle with pain and death. He found the great secret of the kingdom of heaven, celebrating the joy of creation and redemption of the resurrection. The next time you stumble upon the innocuos statue or icon, lean into the mystery, and try to find a smirk amidst his serene smile.
Yes, Francis conjures up many images. He is perhaps known today amidst the resurgence in his devotion following our new Pope's public patronage of his name and spirit. He is perhaps most familiar as the stone statue placed in many gardens to be kept company by birds and flowers. He is, after all, the patron of the environment, that flower-smelling hippy at home in a Zeferelli movie. Here he is tame, sentimental, and (to use that despicable word) cute. I wonder how he would feel when presented with his own image today.
The Francis I've come to know is far different. He is an enigma of typecasting, a paradox of personalities whose literalism and stubborn adherence to idealism verge on the fanatic. It certainly cost him his own life, as he only lived a mere 45 years. I don't mean to give you the impression that Francis died a martyr for the faith, or even suffered at the hands of oppressors. Far from it; he was almost universally adored and inspired a following of devoted and passionate disciples for the few years he walked about central Italy to preach. Before I get mired in the details of his life, I'll warn you that far more has been written about him than perhaps any other living person short of Jesus himself. Because he left behind no written records himself, we rely on a compendium of accounts from eyewitnesses, partners, fellow Franciscans, and others touched by his life. The list is dizzying and quickly becomes lost amidst the legendary and mythologic nature of his legacy. The best approach, in my estimation, is to glean from his own background and context in the Middle Ages to give us insight into his mysticism. Although the contradictions remain, I hope you can see how his character captivated millions through the ages.
Italy in those days was a brutally dangerous place to be. Assisi was one of many warring city-states that levied armies from the surrounding villages to stake its claim at the rising merchant trade that chipped away at the old feudal order and established a burgeoning middle class. Franceso's own father, Giancolo Bernardone, was a member of that class and would have endowed his young son with wealth and prosperity. Yet it was not to be. In the greatest example of religious defiance the other side of Martin Luther, Francis stripped himself naked and renounced his inheritance and birthright. From then on he was Il Poverello, the poor one of Assisi. It would provide a challenge to the corrupt and swollen institution of the medieval Church, a breath of fresh air.
Still, long before his adventures taming wolves, calming the storms, and sojourning the countryside as a beloved preacher with vagabond entourage, he was a vainglorious and spoiled brat who wanted nothing more than bragging rights for his partying friends. He put on his armor and marched off to war against a neighboring city-state at the age of 20, only to be wounded and taken prisoner. Of course his father could afford the ransom, but not before Francis has suffered a serious setback to his pride. Like his later spiritual successor Ignatius, the humiliating defeat provided a canvas for God to work wonders upon his heart. Francis was forced to assess his attitude and use the space provided in emptiness to truly find himself, and God. He would suffer illness for the rest of his life, including a painful eye disease and the final test of his devotion, the very wounds of Christ expressed in the stigmata.
Good spiritual direction calls this type of experience one of liminal space. It is the space between plans and redirection. It lies between hubris and obedience. The death of a loved one, the loss of a relationship, a move, new career, or community provide space for all this. It allowed him to take himself astonishingly lightly, a transfigured form of the mischief and playfulness that endeared him to the youth of Assisi. He was beloved as a personality of gentleness, humility, and joy. Yet he was not afraid to offer reproach for compromise to wealth. For all the love I have for his extremism, his radical obedience, and prophetic voice to the powers of his day, I enjoy his capacity for mirth the most. In an age when corruption and violence threatened all security, a good dose of joy in community erases the snares of the devil more quickly than a pious prayer.
In my own life, I've embraced Francis' truly optimistic view of creation, one which embraces each new turn in the road to provide a lesson and reflection of God's goodness and provision. When people dismiss the saint as a fixture in a flower garden, they deny the rich history of his own struggle with pain and death. He found the great secret of the kingdom of heaven, celebrating the joy of creation and redemption of the resurrection. The next time you stumble upon the innocuos statue or icon, lean into the mystery, and try to find a smirk amidst his serene smile.
Comments
Post a Comment