The greatest thing God could give us was life—not only human life but a sharing in his own life. This mystery is called grace. Grace affects us at the very roots of our being. We are as new as the day we were first created. Yet the newness is not something added on top of what we already are. It soaks our nature, permeates our being—if we let it. This means that the very power whereby God loves is our power. The very wisdom and intelligence with which God loves is ours. The very giving and going out, the generosity and feeling is all ours, for what is in God is in us, not by some kind of distant imitation but by our participation in God’s own life.

—from the book Live Like Francis: Reflections on Franciscan Life in the World
by Leonard Foley, OFM

First and before all, Francis wanted to imitate the poverty of Christ. He was not pursuing an abstract ideal. He saw the clear picture of the Gospels—a Christ who had nowhere to lay his head, and Francis responded, “Whatever he did, I want to do.”

This fundamental lesson of Franciscan poverty must never be forgotten. Poverty, in the sense of non-possession, is neither good nor bad—it is simply a fact. What makes Gospel poverty valuable is its purpose: the imitation of Christ for the purpose of Christ. This is why St. Paul’s great hymn speaks of Jesus’s “emptying” himself, foregoing the glory to which he had a right as God, entering into human nature in all its limitation, weakness, and suffering (Philippians 2:6–11).

By entering into the weakness and damages that sin had caused to us, Jesus could heal it by the holiness of his inner spirit. No matter what suffering he underwent, what frustration, misunderstanding, injustice, pain, deprivation, or poverty he endured, his human spirit was always directed in simple trust to the Father’s praise. Francis had an intuition of the beauty of Christ’s poverty. He wrote no profound philosophical analysis of this; he simply imitated it.

What was the result of Jesus entering into human poverty with a totally loving trust? He was able to enjoy all the things of earth that happened to come his way. He saw all creation as praising God, not as something to be grabbed, hidden, or sold. He saw all God’s gifts as the inheritance of all people, to be shared in justice and charity. He saw all creation as the possession of everyone.

Jesus was the final flower of a movement that began in the Old Testament. At first, the poor were merely the miserable victims of society’s greed and cruelty. As time went on, it came to be realized that since they were the victims of injustice, God had to be on their side. Their only trust was in God for the practical reason that there was no one else to go to. Gradually the poor became those who were totally dependent on God. They were those to whom God said, “Blessed are you poor.” They did not put their trust in earthly things, whether they possessed them or not. The poorest of all these was the virgin of Nazareth. Because she was completely free of selfish attachments, completely open to God,

Mary was the perfect virginal dwelling place in which the Word could “empty” himself into her spiritual and material poverty. This was the vision of Francis, and this was the reason why he always joined Jesus and his mother in his praise of poverty. We have still not settled the practical question as to whether poverty is material or spiritual, whether it is mainly positive or negative, whether it is an ascetical practice or a generous sharing of this world’s goods with others. It is possible for a materially wealthy person to be totally unattached to his or her possessions.

And a person poor in possessions can be stingy, grasping, and hoarding. If we place the question within the mystery of Christ, perhaps we can see that there is no neat answer.

Questions for Reflection

• What did Francis intend when he imitated the poverty of Christ?

• Who are the poor of today among whom the infant Jesus might be most comfortable?

Connecting with Scripture

Then the king will say to those at his right hand, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” —see Matthew 25:31–46

Prayer

Lord, show me how to be poor
in a culture that worships the wealth
of power, possessions, and prestige.
Amen

“She was the first flower in Francis’ garden, and she shone like a radiant star, fragrant as a flower blossoming white and pure in springtime.”
—St. Bonaventure—

What does Clare teach us about following Jesus? She teaches us to follow Francis, who followed Jesus so perfectly and so literally in pursuit of poverty, desiring nothing more than the Lord. Clare teaches us that we can be committed faithful followers of Francis and of Jesus while doing it in our own unique way in accord with our circumstances in life. Both Clare and Francis sacrificed all attachment to material possessions in their search for the Christian life they were called to follow. Francis’s journey took him to distant places in his world. He walked hundreds of miles around the peninsula now called Italy. He ventured to the land of the Sultan of Damietta.

In contrast, Clare journeyed the short distance from her father’s home to the little Church of Saint Mary of the Angels, which Francis dubbed the Portiuncula, or Little Portion. There she was received by the brothers. After a brief stay with Benedictine nuns, she was to spend the remainder of her life in the convent of San Damiano, the little chapel where the Lord had spoken to Francis from the crucifix saying, “Go and rebuild my Church.”

Clare was to have a permanent home. Francis had special places he visited, but if he were alive today, we might say he had no permanent mailing address. Francis met and preached to unknown numbers of people—on the dusty roads, in city squares, in churches and chapels around the countryside. Clare spread God’s love through prayer, which attracted followers to her Franciscan way of life. Her prayers brought healings. She wrote letters to those in foreign lands, encouraging them in their Franciscan journeys. But she stayed close to home at San Damiano.

Two dramatically different lifestyles followed the same goal: loving God with all their heart and soul and mind and strength. Few of us are called to give away everything we possess. In many cases, that might actually be an ungodly thing to do because we have responsibilities for others—spouses, children, aging parents—that God entrusts to us. God has given us special gifts to use for his purposes—as workers in the marketplace, friends in the community, healers of the brokenhearted, lovers of the downtrodden. We won’t shed our clothes on our village square in exchange for a ragged tunic with rope belt as Francis did. We won’t have our hair shorn as a sign of humility in imitation of Clare. But we can devote our lives to following Jesus in the way of Francis and Clare in ways adapted to the time in which we live.

The challenge of Francis and Clare to us is to discover that way and to persevere on its path in our own times in our own ways. Even the twelfth-century hill town of Assisi vibrated with enough noise of humans, animals, carts, and wagons to drown the voice of silence. Not only sounds but reminders that there is something we must be doing that distracts us when we seek God in prayer.

Both Clare and Francis sought quiet spots where they could hear the Lord speak in their hearts. They knew God had much to say to them if only they could hear the message. Clare’s quiet place was the monastery; Francis retreated to mountain caves. Our world is undoubtedly much noisier than Assisi eight centuries ago. Distractions abound. Noise thunders. Silence is a precious commodity, one to treasure. God has much to say to us, as he did to Clare and Francis, if we can find the space and place to listen.

Clare’s name means “light.” She is the bright, shining one who reflected God’s love into the world from a cloistered convent where she lived with her spiritual sisters, first known as the Order of Poor Ladies, later the Poor Clares. That light continues today to shine through the Poor Clares throughout the world as they pray for our world.

Clare is also referred to as the “little plant” of Francis. One can visualize a branch plucked from a plant and stuck in the soil to take root to become a plant of its own. So was Clare’s spiritual being rooted in Francis. Both of them were the branches grown from the Lord who proclaimed, “I am the vine, you are the branches” (John 15:5).

Christ is the mirror of God. “Mirror of Perfection” is a term used to describe Francis. And Clare was indeed a mirror of Francis. She caught what he taught by his way of life and then sent it into the world through her sisters, her prayer, her writing, and the Order she established. You and I can become mirrors of Jesus, Francis, and Clare in our own ways, in our own times.

Questions for Reflection

• What is your reaction to Clare’s decision to leave her family’s home to follow Francis?
• What aspect of Clare’s way of following Francis and Jesus do you think you might incorporate into your life? What would you have to sacrifice?

The Vision of a Seraph

Bonaventure goes on: “While Francis was praying on the mountainside, he saw a Seraph with six fiery and shining wings descend from the height of heaven. And when in swift flight the Seraph had reached a spot in the air near the man of God, there a appeared between the wings the figure of a man crucified, with his hands and feet extended in the form of a cross and fastened to a cross. Two of the wings were lifted above his head, two were extended for flight and two covered his whole body.

“When Francis saw this, he was overwhelmed and his heart was flooded with a mixture of joy and sorrow. He rejoiced because of the gracious way Christ looked upon him under the form of a Seraph, but the fact that he was fastened to a cross pierced his soul with a sword of compassionate sorrow.”

When the vision disappeared, writes Bonaventure, Francis was left with a “marvelous ardor” in his heart. At the same time, there “was imprinted on his body markings that were no less marvelous.”

These markings were the stigmata, the wounds of Christ crucified.

More about the Seraph

There are two things to dwell on here. First is the Seraph. Seraphs are angels closest to God, burning with love as they bow before God, shouting, “Holy, holy, holy!” Their fiery wings suggest the flaming intensity of God’s love that Christ communicated to Francis, which, in turn, set Francis’ heart afire. The word seraphic is often used to describe Francis’ passionate style of relating to God and is often applied to the Franciscan Order, which is sometimes called the Seraphic Order.

Second, we focus on “the gracious way that Christ looked upon him.” This is something of a repeat of the vision Francis had in the beginning of his spiritual life in which “Jesus appeared to him fastened on a cross. Francis’ soul melted at the sight, and the memory of Christ’s passion was so impressed on the innermost recesses of his heart that from that hour whenever Christ’s crucifixion came to mind, Francis could scarcely contain his sighs . . .” (Bonaventure’s Life of St. Francis).

Suffering for Christ

In themselves, sickness and suffering are tragic and senseless. But Christ has sanctified even the wounds of human nature. This terrible scourge can be changed into a blessing by being united to the sufferings of Christ. Many people feel that this sublime privilege does not count for them. They are not good enough. Their sickness is not that important. They believe it is a punishment. But Christ wants to take your individual suffering and unite it to his.

Of all the statements about our continuing Christ’s life, none is more astounding that this: “I am now rejoicing in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am completing what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church” (Col 1:24).

Francis received the highest proof of Christ’s love and need of him when his body was literally put on a cross with Christ by the reality of the five wounds of the stigmata.

Prayer

Lord, you promise to make all things new.
That includes me.
As I begin this journey
to discover St. Francis’ way to you,
I ask you to begin to renew
my faith, my hope, and my love.
Amen.

As a former Greek teacher, I take delight in pointing out that the word metanoia connotes a change of mind and heart, altering one’s mind-set toward whole new ways of thinking and acting. This involves taking a look at where we are and trying to see where we ought to be. It involves testing our values and discerning how they stack up against the values that Jesus offers his followers.

Fortunately, metanoia is not something we have to do all by ourselves. God’s word gives us a lot of help in the process, as does the example of our brothers and sisters in the Lord who are engaged, during these weeks, in the same exercise.

Lent is also the season of final preparation for those who will be baptized at the Easter Vigil. The Church invites its members to pray for these catechumens, but also to renew their own commitment to the life that began in them when they were baptized and so became members of God’s people.

Finally, Lent prepares us for Holy Week, for those most sacred days in the Church’s year when we celebrate the suffering and death of Jesus, the Lord’s gift of himself in obedience to the mission he received from his heavenly Father. Of course, the suffering and death of Jesus—and his resurrection—present questions and challenges to each of us in the context of our own mission as followers of Christ and so in our process of metanoia.

During the weekdays of Lent, therefore, the Scripture readings for the Eucharist are concerned with three main themes. The selections for the first three weeks have to do almost exclusively with change of heart: what it means and what it involves. They present the classic motifs of Lent: prayer, care for our neighbor, repentance for our sinfulness.

The fourth and fifth weeks offer us a series of selections from the Gospel according to John. These deal at first with the basics of Jesus’ mission and thus further outline the change of heart that is required of us while, at the same time, teaching us about what the catechumens—and we—are to seek from him in Baptism. As the season progresses, the readings lead us into the Passion of Jesus, showing us the tensions and controversies that finally led the leaders of his people to do away with him.

Sometimes the Church plays us only one of these themes. Sometimes two or even three of them are presented together in a sort of harmony so that we become aware that a change of heart and beginning a new life and participating in the sufferings of Jesus are all part of what it means to be his disciples.