FRANCIS--CALLED TO BE A SAINT.
"God's interpreter art thou,
To the waiting ones below
'Twixt them and its light midway
Heralding the better day."
We have seen Francis as a young man, gay, careless, pleasure loving,
kind-hearted, a leader at every feast and revel, known to his
companions as a thorough good fellow. We have watched the first
strivings of the Holy Spirit in his soul, and marked his earnest
attempts to follow the light that then began to penetrate his hitherto
dark soul. We have followed that glimmering light with him, step by
step, seen him persecuted, mocked, stoned, beaten, watched his lonely
wilderness wrestlings when there was no human eye to pity, no human
arm to succour. We have seen, too, how, little by little, this thorny
pathway led to a closer and more intimate acquaintance with God, for
which acquaintance Francis counted his sufferings as nothing, and the
world well lost.
[Sidenote: _"Saint" Francis._]
Francis was not an extraordinary character in any sense of the word. He
was what he was simply and solely by the grace of God, which is ever
free for all men. He was not a man created for the hour. He was a
vessel, cleansed and emptied, and thus fit for the Master's use, and God
used him, as He always uses such vessels. The whole secret of his
sainthood lay in his simple, loving, implicit obedience. Not the
lifeless obedience that one renders to inexorable law, but the
heart-felt, passionate desire to serve, and to anticipate the lightest
want of the One Object of the affections! That baptism of personal love
for God and union with Christ was poured out upon Francis in the black
hour of what looked to him complete failure; when hunted and pursued, he
sought refuge from his angry friends in the caves of the earth. The gift
that he then received he never ceased to guard and cherish, and other
blessings were added to it, for God has promised, "To him that hath it
shall be given." And God gave liberally, good measure, pressed down, and
running over. But the gifts which were Francis are ours too, by right of
grace Divine--to be had for the faithful seeking, and kept by pure,
faithful, and obedient living--"Called to be saints." The few? One here
and there in every century? Oh, no. "Called to be saints," are the
myriad souls who have received the Divine touch of regeneration. This is
the calling and election of the redeemed; but oh, how few there are that
make them _sure_!
Five years had now elapsed since that spring morning, when, weak and
ill from fever, Francis dragged himself out of doors, to look again on
the glorious landscape that he thought would bring him health and
healing. The story of his disappointment we have already told. During
those five years Francis made gigantic strides in heavenly wisdom and
knowledge, and we feel that we cannot do better than to pause in our
narrative and try to give you some idea of the spiritual personality
of the man, whose name even now the people were beginning to couple
with that of "saint."
In appearance Francis was a thorough Italian. He was rather below than
over the ordinary height, his eyes and hair were dark, and his bearing
free and gracious. He was chiefly remarkable for his happy, joyous
expression. This he never lost: even when illness had robbed him of
his good looks, the light in his eyes, and the smile on his lips were
always the same.
[Sidenote: _Holy Boldness._]
The most striking points of Francis' character are, perhaps, his
humility, his sincerity, and his childlike simplicity. Humble Francis
was not by nature. There was nothing in his training to make him so,
and everything that would tend to the growth of pride and arrogance.
But, with his conversion, humility became one of his strongest
convictions. He truly considered himself less than the least, and he
held it to be an offence against God if he ever let himself, or his
little feelings and prejudices, stand in the way of accomplishing what
he believed to be for the extension of the Kingdom. It seemed as
though he had no feelings to be hurt. What most people would call
justifiable sensitiveness, Francis would call sin. He went straight to
the mark, and if he did not accomplish all he wanted to at first, he
simply tried again, and generally succeeded sooner or later.
In places where the Friars were not known, Francis often found it a
little difficult to get permission to preach in the churches. At a
place called Imola, for instance, where he went to ask the bishop for
the use of the church, the bishop replied, coldly and distantly:--
"My brother, I preach in my own parish; I am not in need of anyone to
aid me in my task."
Francis bowed, and went out. An hour later, he presented himself
again.
"What have you come for again?" asked the bishop, angrily. "What do
you want?"
"My lord," answered Francis, in his simple way, "when a father turns
his son out of one door, the son has but one thing to do--to return by
another."
This holy boldness won the bishop's heart.
"You are right," he said. "You and your brothers may preach in my
diocese. I give you a general permission to do so. Your humility
deserves nothing less!"
Francis never considered himself at liberty to "shake the dust" of a
city off his feet unless he had tried and tried again and again, to
get a hearing there; indeed, nothing convinced him of the uselessness
of his quest unless he were thrown out neck and crop, then it was more
than likely he would gather himself up, and try another entrance! He
entirely forgot himself in his love for his Master.
His love of truth was with him almost a passion. Between his thoughts,
and his words, and his actions there was a perfect agreement, neither
one contradicted the other; he saw to it that it was so, knowing that
nothing hurt the Gospel of Christ like insincerity or double dealing.
Distractions in prayer he looked upon as secret lies, and saying with
the lips what the heart did not go with.
"How shameful," he used to say, "to allow oneself to fall into vain
distractions when one is addressing the great King! We should not
speak in that manner even to a respectable man!"
On one occasion he had carved a little olive-wood vase, probably
meaning to sell it for food. But, while at prayer one day, some
thought connected with this work came into his mind, distracting his
soul for the moment. Instantly he was full of contrition, and, as soon
as he left his prayer, hastened to put his vase into the fire, where
never again it could come between his soul and God!
One day, on meeting a friend on the road, they stopped to converse. On
parting, the friend said, "You will pray for me?" To which Francis
replied, "Willingly." Hardly was the other out of sight, when Francis
said to his companion,--
"Wait a little for me; I am going to kneel down and discharge the
obligation I have just contracted." This was always his habit. Instead
of promising and forgetting as so many do, he never rested till he had
fulfilled the promise he had made.
[Sidenote: _A Fox-skin._]
During the last two years of his life he was often very weak and
ailing. One cold winter, his companion, seeing that the clothes he was
wearing were very thin and patched, was filled with compassion on his
account. He secretly got a piece of fox-skin.
"My father," he said, showing him the skin, "you suffer very much from
your liver and stomach; I beg of you let me sew this fur under your
tunic. If, you will not have it all, let it at least cover your
stomach."
"I will do what you wish," said Francis; "but you must sew as large a
piece _outside_ as in."
His companion couldn't see any sense in this arrangement, and objected
very strongly.
"The reason is quite plain," said Francis: "The outside piece will
show everybody that I allow myself this comfort." They had to give in
at last, and Francis had his way.
"Oh, admirable man," writes a friend after his death; "thou hast
always been the same within and without, in words and in deeds, below
and above!"
[Sidenote: _A Temptation._]
On another occasion, he tore off his tunic, because, for a brief
moment of weakness, he harbored the thought that he might have led an
easier life, and still serve God. Like other men, he might have had a
settled home, and lived a tranquil existence. It was a passing
temptation, but Francis, tearing off his coarse garment, emblem of the
Cross that he strove to follow, cried--
"It is a religious habit--a man given up to such thoughts would be a
robber if he wore it." Nor did he put it on again till he felt he
could do so with a pure heart and clean conscience.
With the crystal transparency of his inner and outer life went a
simplicity that was akin to that of a little child. His sermons and
addresses were of the very simplest and plainest. Though Francis was
undoubtedly one of the orators of the age, his fiery words and burning
language were such that even the most unlearned could easily follow.
His theme was simply Christ, and Christ crucified for our sins, and an
exhortation to repentance and holy living. Learned ones pondered his
words and marvelled wherein lay his power, little dreaming that his
very plainness of speech was his strength.
His delight in the beauties of nature never left him. Sunset and
sunrise, mountain and plain, river and sea alike, filled him with joy,
and all spoke to him of the glory of God. Flowers always gave him
especial pleasure. He insisted that his disciples should always
reserve some portion of their gardens for the growth of flowers as
well as vegetables, "to give them a foretaste of the eternal sweetness
of Heaven." When the brethren went to the fields to chop wood, Francis
always warned them to take care of the roots, so that the trunk might
sprout again and live. To take life of any kind was intolerable to
him. For this reason he always lifted the worms out of his path and
laid them at the side of the road, lest an incautious traveller might
crush them.
His love and power over animals are almost too well known to need
mention. He always spoke of them as his brothers and sisters. He
disdained nothing. All were to him alike beautiful, because the work
of his God. For a long time, he had a tame sheep, that followed him
about wherever it could get a chance. This sheep always seemed to know
exactly how to behave under all circumstances. When the brethren knelt
at prayers, it knelt too; when they sang, it joined in with a
not-too-loud little bleat!
Near his room, at the Portiuncula, there lived a grasshopper in a
fig-vine. This little insect would hop on his finger at his bidding,
and when told to "sing and praise the Lord," used to chirp with all
its might! Birds, insects, and even fishes and wild animals, we are
told, all recognized in Francis a friend, and readily did his bidding.
[Sidenote: _Two Small Mites._]
Francis' love for God was supreme, and his belief that God loved him
never wavered. To make people love and know God was his one burning
desire. It was not so much God's service he delighted in as God
Himself. He never lost sight of the Master in the Work, and to a large
extent this was the key to all his success. His work was the outcome
of his love. After we have received, the first natural impulse is to
give. Francis possessed "two small mites," an ancient historian
writes--"they were his body and his soul. He gave them both, bravely
and freely, according to his custom."
Whatever came--joy, sorrow, success, failure, pain, weariness,
sickness, insult, or favor--Francis took as direct from the hand of
God, and blessed Him for all. Why shouldn't he? His heart was right,
he had the assurance that his ways pleased God, and his faith was not
dependent upon knowledge. He was content, nay, glad to trust where he
could not see, confident in the belief that "nothing could hurt a
sanctified soul." His disciples could not always follow him so far.
Some of them, when they saw their master suffering--as he did suffer
severely in his last days--thought that God might have led His beloved
Home by a less painful road. One of them once gave expression to his
feelings thus:--
"Ah, my brother, pray to the Lord that He may treat you more gently.
Truly, He ought to let His hand weigh less heavily upon you."
Hurt to the quick, as well as indignant, Francis cried:--
"What is that you are saying? If I did not know your simplicity I
should henceforth hold you in horror! What! you have the audacity to
blame God's dealings with me!" Then, throwing himself on his knees, he
prayed:--
"Oh, my Lord God! I give Thee thanks for all these pains I endure. I
pray Thee to send me a hundredfold more if such be Thy good pleasure!
I willingly accept all afflictions. Thy holy name is my superabundant
joy!"
Nothing could ever make Francis say that anything in his lot was "very
hard." His love was too loyal, his trust too complete.
[Sidenote: _Rejoice Always._]
Joy was one of his cardinal articles of faith. "Rejoice always!" was a
divine command, and one not to be overlooked. As a young man, he had
been of a bright, joyous nature, but easily plunged into depths of
sadness and melancholy. God taught him upon what to base his joy, and,
when he had torn down all earthly external devices, led him to derive
his all from the true source. He held joy to be the normal state of
those whom God loves--the fruit of Christian life, without which
everything languishes and dies.
"The devil," Francis always said, "carries dust with him, and whenever
he can, he throws it into the openings of the soul in order to cloud
the clearness of its thoughts and the purity of its actions. If joy
knows how to defend itself and subsist, then he has had his spite for
nothing; but if the servant of Christ becomes sad, bitter or unhappy,
he is sure to triumph. Sooner or later, that soul will be overwhelmed
by its sadness, or will seek for false joys or consolations. The
servant of God who is troubled for any reason" (Francis always allowed
that causes for trouble in this world are innumerable) "must
immediately have recourse to prayer, and remain in the presence of his
Heavenly Father till the joy of salvation has been restored to him,
otherwise, his sadness will increase and engender a rust in the soul."
[Sidenote: _The Duty of Cheerfulness._]
This duty of cheerfulness Francis impressed upon all with whom he had
to do.
"My brother," he said to a friar, of doleful countenance, one day, "if
thou hast some fault to mourn, do it in secret, groan and weep before
God, but here, with thy brethren, be as they are in tone and
countenance."
His conviction of this duty was so strong that, during one large
gathering of the friars, he had this advice written in large letters
and posted up.
"Let the brethren avoid ever appearing sombre, sad and clouded, like
the hypocrites, but let them always be found joyful in the Lord, gay,
amiable, gracious--as is fitting."
Amiability and graciousness he also considered amongst the
virtues--courtesy, he called it. And courtesy he always said was akin
to charity, her younger sister, who was to go with the elder one and
help to open all hearts to her! An historian writes thus of Francis:
"He was very courteous and gracious in all things, and possessed a
peace and serenity that nothing could disturb. This sympathy and
benevolence was expressed on his countenance; his face had in it
something angelic."
His songs and hymns were the outcome of his perpetual joy in the Lord.
In those days there were no popular religious hymns or songs. People
praised God in Latin, with psalms and chants. Francis never found that
these gave vent to his feelings, and so, with the help of one of the
brothers--Pacificus, a trained musician--he began to write his own;
and soon, wherever the friars passed, they left a train of simple
melody in their wake. It was Francis, and his brethren, who first
turned the Italian language into poetry, and gave it that impetus
which has since rendered it the typical language for song.