Feast of St. Francis
Jer 22:13-16; Ps 148:7-14; Gal 6: 14-18; Matt 11:25-30
On Friday evening, we consecrated a Bishop here in this sanctuary. It was a glorious service: twelve bishops, dozens of clergy and lay readers, hundreds of people, wonderful music offered by our choir and that of l’Église de la Nativité, a small army of altar servers, a preacher who preached the paint off the walls — and, amidst it all, the quiet presence of our bishop-elect standing in the shadow of St. Francis, the beloved saint represented in our readings and whom we also celebrate this morning.
It was a striking juxtaposition: the elaborate imperial ritual of the church, intended to showcase the glory of God, and the small, brown saint who has become for millions of the faithful the embodiment of all that is sweet and humble: mercy, kindness, joy in the natural world, simplicity of spirit, deep and abiding trust in God. I don’t know what others made of it, but for me, it evoked the human reality at the heart of our faith — that our worship, our church, our faith writ large, is nothing unless it is also grounded in the sanctuary of a spirit where Christ himself is at home.
Francis seems to have understood this implicitly. Born around 1181 as Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone, he was the son of a wealthy cloth merchant. Giovanni grew into a young fop, preoccupied with parties and glamour and music. He was even given the nickname Franceso — the Frenchified one. He twice signed up to serve as a soldier, but was derailed first by illness and imprisonment, and then by a vision of the woman who became his great love, Lady Poverty. After some years, he had another vision in a small church at San Damiano, in which the Christ on the crucifix came alive and commanded him, “Francis, Francis, rebuild my church.”
In response to that vision, Francis renounced his wealth and his paternity. He began to rebuild that small chapel with his own hands, but then realized he was called to a different kind of rebuilding: the hard and joyful work of rebuilding the spirit of the church, of calling them away from complicity with violence, wealth, and power, by setting the example of absolute poverty, joyful humility, and deep and abiding trust in Christ. Thus, he renounced money, power, status, violence — the monsters which were prowling in his world, and, today, in ours. And for that renunciation, he was loved.
It is easier to love Francis than to follow him, and yet, he, like ourselves, lived at a time of profound societal transformation. In the early 13th century, when Francis grew into adulthood, the new (or revived) use of metal coinage was creating a rising tide of social division in Europe. As long as trade was mostly in-kind — exchanging wool for wheat, or wine for fabric — there was a limit to what most people (beyond the landed lords) could amass. There was inequality, to be sure, but the life of a farmer looked more like the life of a laborer than like the life of a lord. But once bulky perishable goods could be exchanged for portable and imperishable coins, the gaps began to loom large. Businessmen could stockpile wealth while those who lived on the edge could not, and if there were not yet billionaires, still, laborers were losing the ability to dream of the better life they could see taking form around them. Seen within that setting, Francis’ renunciations were not only the marks of simple and loving heart; they were a deliberate rejection of the forces that Francis believed were dividing human beings one from another. Indeed, when people began to flock to him to live like him, he forbade those first friars even to touch a coin.
We, too, are living at a time of change, and there’s a deep unease among many within these walls and around them. The emergence of AI and cryptocurrencies is threatening our fundamental systems of work and of exchange in ways that have the potential to be profoundly dehumanizing. The re-emergence of fascist forms of nationalism already is, and the ongoing destruction of the environment threatens all forms of life, not just our own. Amid these changes, it is tempting to look for big solutions — one-stop fixes for all that ails us — and, when we do not see them, to walk around with the weight of the world on our shoulders.
But the example of Francis points us toward a different way, the way of deepening our humanity. Franciscan friars today are mendicants, which means they beg for their bread, but Francis’ original companions were workers. They would travel around the countryside as the Spirit led them, and just join themselves to those who were working in the fields. At the end of the day, if the farmer felt like giving them some bread as a form of payment, they accepted it gladly; if the farmer stingy or poor, they went hungry, knowing that many around them also lacked bread. It was a form of radical solidarity, helping people, not in a big way, but by changing lives, one person at a time.
What might that witness look like today, in our world? The consecration of a new bishop invites us all to examine our own faithfulness, to wonder how we can serve Christ with courage, hope, and joy.The institutional church may be weak and disempowered here, but among people whose history has taught them to be skeptical of our claims to goodness, perhaps it is the smaller witness of faithful lives which will open people’s hearts to Christ. You’ll have to do the imagining for yourselves, knowing who you are and what gifts you bring, but here is what came to me:
Simplicity:
— Material simplicity, which is the choice to consume what we actually need, rather than everything we might want. One version of that focuses on sharing stuff: using the library, borrowing tools we don’t need everyday, buying used clothes from a thrift shop rather than new. Or, those who have resources can buy what they need new, but be intentional about sharing it or passing it on while it is still in condition to be of use to others. Material simplicity aligns us with the needs of the ecosystem rather than the cravings of our heart.
— But also, spiritual simplicity, which is, essentially, the choice to be a trustworthy person. Among a world of people dedicated to building their brands, creating personas on social media, maintaining the façade of perfection, Christians are called to a deep authenticity, rough edges, and imperfections, and anxieties, and all. One of the foci for this Cathedral in the next year will be creating spaces for authentic conversation about challenging realities; such conversation humanizes us by giving us the opportunity to speak truthfully and to listen with respect, to hold and to be held in love.
Freedom: This is not a virtue we tend to associate with Francis, but Francis refused to be constrained by the choices he was given. Again and again, faced with the expectations of his family or the church or even of his own companions, he refused the options which seemed to him fundamentally compromised and sought a third way, a way of integrity and interior freedom. Those ways were often costly in terms of relationships or commitments, but they allowed him to lay down the heavy burden of unbearable choices and to put on the yoke of Christ, the yoke which is easy and light because the one who carries it with us is God. There is no heavier burden to carry than a divided heart.
Suffering: Francis and his followers chose to suffer freely in solidarity with those whose suffering was imposed upon them. For Francis, it was leaving behind family and wealth; traveling long distances on foot, exposed to the wind and the rain; tending the sores of lepers and being exposed to the scorn and incomprehension of the powerful. For us, it might mean fasting once a week so that we can give the money we would have spent to feed the poor; or bringing cups of hot soup to unhoused people in our neighborhood; or (as many of you did) delivering groceries to homebound people during a pandemic.
But those active forms of suffering are only part of our work: the word “to suffer” implies that true suffering is involuntary — it means, “to be made to undergo, endure, [or] be subjected to.” In this way, it overlaps the word “Passion,” which we use to describe the final suffering of Christ. In August of 1224, St.Francis took three of his companions into the wilderness for a time of fasting and of prayer. They went there because Francis was dying, and he sought some space to prepare for his death. Together, they climbed a mountain known as La Verna. Once they had arrived, the brothers built some rustic cells, while Francis retreated further into the woods, beyond even their gaze. He spent his time in prayer, reading the gospels, meditating on the Passion of Christ. On the eve of the Feast of Holy Cross Day, Francis passed the whole night in prayer. As the sun rose, he seemed to see a vision: a seraph nailed to a cross, hovering above him. Francis’ spirit was caught up in a rapture of love and joy; when he came back to himself, a sharp pain revealed to him the marks of the cross on his hands and his feet — making him the first person known to have been marked by the stigmata.
Few if any of us will bear those marks on our bodies — some of you may not even believe it is possible. But each of us is called to share what those marks represent: the interior suffering that many of us experience when we pay attention to the state of the world. Suffering is the opposite of indifference; it calls us to remain attentive and engaged, to keep our hearts soft even in a world of deep pain.
And, finally, joy. One reason so many of us resonate with Francis is that he embodied a sense of holiness which was playful and childlike. He called himself “God’s troubadour,” singing and writing poetry and marveling in the wonder of the world. Even after receiving the stigmata, he tried to hide them, cloaking his pain and digging deep into the joy of Christ and the wonder of being alive on this good earth, among the companions of years or a lifetime.
Tomorrow morning, I will begin a two-month sabbatical, part of a larger transition in my call and I do not know when I will be able to be among you again. But in these six years, you have shown me that kind of companionship — you welcomed me when I was a stranger; we have prayed together, worked together, driven one another a bit crazy, and held one another in love. I am profoundly grateful to each of you. When times are dark, your faces light my way; you are among the joys I carry in my heart. May God bless us each until we meet again.