Eight hundred and thirty years ago in a small hillside town in Italy a woman named Pica Bernardone gave birth to a son and had him baptized Giovanni. When his father got home, from a long business trip into France, he announced that the boy was going to be called Francesco – “the little Frenchman.” We call him Francis, of Assisi.
His father had big plans for Francis. He made him a fashion plate, a walking billboard for his business of selling imported fabrics from France. He sent his son to the best schools so that he would mix with the elite of the town and of his generation. And sure enough Francis, a personable sort, made friends among the nobles’ sons and made his father’s fabrics fashionable. He led his friends through the town on celebratory excursions, leading them in singing the popular Provencal troubadour songs.
Young men in Italy then were in the midst of interesting times – full of the romance of the Crusades and rumors of more local wars. Francis began to have aspirations to adventure and to knighthood. His father decked him out in fine armor and sent him off to join the army of a famous warrior. But this was the first time he was to incur his father’s displeasure. Francis saw a poor knight, too poor to afford his own armor and horse, and Francis – with Quixotic generosity – gave him his. He traveled home – to an uncertain reception.
Later Francis had a vision of a small nearby church, San Damiano. The open-eyed figure on the Crucifix above the altar of the decrepit sanctuary seemed to be gazing directly at him, and calling to him, “Rebuild my church, which as you see is falling down.”
Francis went to his father’s warehouse, loaded a fine horse with fine fabrics, rode to the next town, sold both goods and horse, and walked back with the proceeds of the sale. He tried to give the money to the priest at San Damiano, who, suspecting trouble ahead refused it. Francis threw the money in a corner.
When his father got home … wrath! The old man went looking for Francis to visit his vengeance upon him. When he caught up with him he had him hauled in front of the town, the bishop and God and all, and demanded Francis return to him everything he had received from him. Francis complied.
Completely. He removed all his clothes, and piled them at his father’s feet. At that point the bishop intervened, wrapping his cope around Francis and leading him off. Later Francis found in a corner of the garden a discarded cloak – perhaps he mistook it for the gardener’s – and, chalking a rude cross on the back, wore it with joy.
His career was launched. And so was the rebuilding of the church in Italy. Francis rebuilt the church not only of rocks and mortar but of the living stones of his brothers and sisters, including some of those very same fashionable young men who had joined him on robust adventures in the past. Now he and they became troubadours for God. And they sang of joy for the goodness of God’s creation, and gave back – with extreme gratitude – all they had received from the Father from whom all things come.
Most High, all-powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory,
and the honor and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong
and no human is worthy
to mention Your name.
Praised be you, my Lord,
with all Your creatures.
Thanks to the Rev. Lance Ousley, Canon for Stewardship and Development of the Diocese of Olympia, for the good conversation on Holy Cross Day about Francis of Assisi and stewardship. We celebrate the feast of Saint Francis on October 9th this year.
(“The Canticle of Creatures” by Francis of Assisi)
http://www.ofm.org/ofm/?page_id=122&lang=en
September 14, 2011.
For the Gospel Grapevine, parish newsletter of Saint Alban's Episcopal Church, Edmonds, Washington, October 2011.
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