"Now for St. Francis nothing was ever in the background. We might say that his mind had no background, except perhaps that divine darkness out of which the divine love had called up every colored creature one by one. 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 a purpose, though it was a purpose of life and not a purpose of death. A bush could stop him like a brigand; and indeed he was as ready to welcome the brigand as the bush." - G. K. Chesterton
Back in the mid 1970s I was struggling with my faith. Three books helped to right my spiritual ship: The Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton, The Confessions St. Augustine, and St. Francis of Assisi by G. K. Chesterton.
Chesterton's book about St. Francis is considered one of the best biographies of the saint. It certainly was inspiring to me.
I'd known a little about St. Francis before reading the book. I grew up near a Franciscan monastery. I'd seen the 1961 movie about him. But reading Chesterton's book pushed me to learn more, and St. Francis has been pivotal to my life since. I've now read multiple books about him and seen several movies about him. Fifteen years ago, I even professed as a Secular Franciscan.
This year marks the 800th anniversary of St. Francis' transitus - his transition from earthly life to life in heaven with God - which took place October 3, 1226. Franciscans around the world will be celebrating that anniversary.
In 1980, I was inspired to write a poem about St. Francis.
San Damiano"One day in the church of St.
Damian, he (St. Francis) hears
words spoken from the Crucifix:
'Go, Francis, and repair my
house; as you can see, it is
falling into ruin.''
--- Fr. Stanislaus Majarelli, OFM
The roses are in bloom at San Damiano.
Their scent bleeds into the air,
flows down from the hills,
floods the streets of Assisi
like the beggars who cry,
``Bread and stones,
bread and stones.''
In the shadowy cafe,
men sit
hearing to the calls.
One man spits and mutters a curse.
Another man begins a bawdy song
that pours out
into the darkening air.
At midnight: silence.
Fog shrouds the streets
and snakes into the hills.
The hills rise above the fog
like islands in a dead sea.
And taller still
rises
San Damiano's half-built steeple
reaching toward
