A Franciscan Novena: Day Four

As a young man, seeking to know and to do God’s will for him in his life, Francis of Assisi would often go to the abandoned church of San Damiano (Saint Damian) outside the city walls. One day the figure of Jesus on the Cross spoke directly to him: “Francis, rebuild my Church, which as you can see, is in ruins.” Initially, Francis took the injunction of Christ literally: he began to beg and “borrow” stones to rebuild San Damiano and a number of other small churches. In time, as he matured spiritually, he began to understand that by ‘church’ Jesus might have been referring to the institutional church of the medieval period as well as to the People of God and their needs. Francis was called—and in time responded to—a vision which far exceeded his own imaginative capacity.

This week which bears the name of Il Poverello (‘the little poor man”) of Assisi is celebrating two ‘churches’, each of which has both its physical aspect as well as its broader embodiment in terms of the people it serves.



On Saturday, September 27, William Cardinal Levada, prefect of the Congregation of the Faith and former archbishop of San Francisco, dedicated the ‘new’ Porziuncula chapel at the National Shrine of St. Francis of Assisi. Over the past several years, artists and artisans from both Europe and the United States have been engaged in a labor of love to produce a nearly full-scale (78%) replica of the little chapel so beloved by Francis himself and celebrated as the cradle of the spiritual movement which bears his name. The project was spearheaded by San Franciscan Angela Alioto, whose passionate involvement insured the completion of the $4 million project. As part of the National Shrine’s Renaissance Project, the Porziuncula chapel is intented to create a visible Franciscan presence in the City of St. Francis—a center of hospitality and evangelization in the heart of the traditionally Italian North Beach neighborhood--- and in close proximity to Fisherman’s Wharf.



Less than a mile away from the Porziuncula, the St. Anthony Foundation is celebrating both a building (it’s newly completed multi-service center) and the people it serves in the Tenderloin neighborhood. Founded on October 3, 1950 by Franciscan Father Alfred Boeddeker, the St. Anthony Dining Room and Foundation has served more than 35 million (!) meals to the city’s poor and homeless population—without government funds.



For decades, thousands of volunteers from throughout the City and the Bay Area have come to SAF to assist in this effort. The new multi-service center will house a medical clinic, dining facilities, social services, and a ‘state of the art’ computer center for San Francisco’s poor. While not technically a ‘church’, the Foundation certainly functions as a ‘living building’ made of ‘living stones’ through its direct presence among the marginalized and abandoned.



Two " churches". Two celebrations. Two important visual reminders of Christ’s Presence and Love. Two ways of reaching out to the world in the spirit of the Gospel and through the inspiring example of St. Francis. The injunction of Jesus to ‘repair my church’ is no less compelling to us today. The invitation and challenge are equally personal and global. How can I (we) respond to the call of Jesus to ‘rebuild’ the Church in our own time and society? That’s remains the compelling nature of the call to Franciscan life.

A Franciscan Novena: Day Three

On October 4 -- next weekend-- we will celebrate the feast of our Seraphic Father Francis of Assisi. In preparation for that celebration, we are presenting a series of daily blog entries as a kind of "novena" for study and personal reflection. Today's entry is the third in a series of three articles which first appeared in Catholic San Francisco under the title "St. Francis' Conversions." The remaining segment will be featured tomorrow. The wonderful image of the smiling Francis (above) is provided through the courtesy of the artist,Mic Carlson. More of his cork can be found at www.miccarlson.com and www.micasso.com

Francis had been a troubadour as a youth. His songs of courtly love echoed through the piazzas of Assisi. After his conversion he sang songs to a new mistress, “Lady Poverty.” For 16 years he walked the roads of Italy, journeyed to Spain and even, on two occasions, visited the Holy Land. (With his customary directness, Francis requested an audience with the Muslim sultan. He thought that if he could just tell him about Jesus he would convert, and all these crusades could be avoided!)
Francis’ joy sustained him, even in the midst of exhaustion, illness, and misunderstanding, and it must have been contagious. The Fioretti (“Little Flowers of St. Francis”), among the most popular books ever written, convey something of the simple charm that radiated from St. Francis.


But the saint who laughed also wept. He was moved by the beauty of creation, by the pain of others, and above all by the Passion of Christ. He could not think of our Lord’s sufferings without weeping. It was Christ crucified who had told him, “Rebuild my Church,” and the cross was never far from Francis’ thoughts. There are two seemingly contradictory images of the saint: the joyful wanderer singing the beauties of creation, the mournful penitent weeping over the sufferings of Christ.
G. K. Chesterton points out that, while paradoxical, these images are not contradictory: “The whole point about St. Francis of Assisi is that he certainly was ascetical and he certainly was not gloomy.”
The “new madness” Francis preached was in reality the very ancient folly of the cross about which St. Paul had written to the Corinthians: “We preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.” (1 Cor 1:23-25)


All that Francis had given up – possessions, status, security – he had given up for the sake of Christ, who had called him to take up his cross and follow him. Francis let everything else go so that he could embrace the cross. Toward the end of his life, he in turn was embraced by Christ crucified in a remarkable way.
Francis’ final years were particularly difficult. He saw the leadership of his community taken from his hands, and his “little brothers” were heading in a direction not to his liking. He was afflicted with a painful disease of the eyes, and even more painful – and useless – remedies.
In 1224 he retired to Mount Laverna for a lengthy retreat. On Sep. 14, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, Francis underwent a profound and mysterious event. He himself would not speak about it, but it was an encounter with the Passion of Christ so intense that it left the marks of the Crucified on his body.
What St. Paul had ardently desired was Francis’ own longing, too: “Indeed I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things … that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that if possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead.” (Phil 3: 7-10)


“Becoming like him in his death, that if possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead”: if there is a “secret” to the life of St. Francis, this is it. On Mount Laverna Christ fulfilled Francis’ hopes in a way beyond his wildest expectations. This embrace by the Crucified was to carry the Poor Man of Assisi from this world to the glory of heaven.
Did the reception of the stigmata make Francis indifferent to this passing world? No. It was after this event that he wrote his beautiful “Canticle of Brother Sun”; and he intervened to make peace between the quarreling bishop and mayor of Assisi. He still traveled from town to town to preach, although his poor health made it necessary for him to be carried on a donkey. But the experience on the mountain was the climactic moment in Francis’ journey of discipleship. He could follow his Master no more closely here on earth.



In September 1226, the dying Troubadour of God asked to be brought home to his beloved “Little Portion,” the church of St. Mary of the Angels which he had rebuilt as a young man in the first fervor of his conversion. The man who had owned nothing, but appreciated everything, sent word for a friend to come from Rome – and to bring him some of the delicious pastries she had made for him in the past. Then, on the afternoon of Oct. 3, Francis instructed his Brothers to remove all his clothing and lay him naked on the bare earth. In this way he welcomed “Sister Death.”


Francis was well aware of the insight of Job: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return.” (Job 1:21) He had stripped himself of all he possessed years earlier in order to follow naked the Lord who had stripped Himself of everything out of love for him. Paradoxically, the less Francis could call his own, the more he rejoiced in the beauty of the creation which he accepted as God’s gift to him. Now, he died as he lived – owning nothing, yet for that very reason closer to the earth; one with every human being in our common nakedness; united to the Lord who had died naked on the cross. Clothing not only protects, it conveys status. It says something about who we are. Francis had put all this aside. One thing only he could not take off: the marks of the crucified Christ. These had not been put on from without, like the clothes his father had given him. They emerged from within, from a heart on fire with love of God.
Francis of Assisi has inspired artists, novelists and filmmakers; the simple drama of his life makes him one of the most popular of saints. If you go on pilgrimage to his National Shrine in the city bearing his name, you can see the events of his life portrayed on the walls of the church, and there is a wealth of material available about him.
By all means, acquaint yourself with his life story. But take to heart the words he himself spoke at the end of his life: “I have done what was mine to do. May Christ teach you what you are to do.”

This article was prepared by the Worship Commission of the Archdiocese of San Francisco and is reprinted from Catholic San Francisco, newspaper of the Archdiocese. Our thanks to Dan Morris-Young, editor.

A Franciscan Novena: Day Two

(On October 4 -- just eight days from now-- we will celebrate the feast of our Seraphic Father Francis of Assisi. In preparation for that celebration, we are presenting a series of daily blog entries as a kind of "novena" for study and personal reflection. Today's entry is the second in a series of three articles which first appeared in Catholic San Francisco under the title "St. Francis' Conversions." The remaining segment will be featured tomorrow.

Exasperated by his son’s foolishness, Pietro da Bernadone dragged Francis before the bishop of Assisi. He demanded that the bishop command Francis to show proper respect for his father and his property. In response, Francis gave back to his father not only the money he was carrying, but the clothes he was wearing. From now on, he said, God would be his father. Penniless, parentless, with no plan, no trade, and no home, Francis left his city singing.



Many centuries before, St. Anthony of Egypt had heard the words of Jesus, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor … and come, follow me.” (Mt 19:21) He took the words literally. He sold everything he owned, went into the desert, and devoted himself to a life of prayer and penance. Having forsaken home and family out of love for Christ, Bernadone’s son had two options available to him: he could join the clergy of Assisi, or he could enter a monastic community. He chose neither course. For a time, like St. Anthony, he lived the life of a hermit; but then he too heard a passage from the Gospel that gave him his life’s plan.



On the feast of St. Matthias the priest read the Gospel passage which describes Jesus sending the Twelve on mission: “And preach as you go, saying, ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ … Take no gold, nor silver, nor copper in your belts.” (Mt 10:7,9) Like Anthony, Francis took the words of Jesus literally. He would own absolutely nothing, and would spend his life traveling from town to town preaching the Gospel. In following this novel vocation, Francis made himself a social outcast. He did not fit into any accepted way of life. Like his beloved lepers, Francis did not “belong.”





Francis did not return his clothes to his father as a rebuke to the elder Bernadone’s greed, nor did he refuse to enter religious life as a criticism of the worldliness of the Church. Rather, he had discovered that total dependence on God alone gave him great peace of heart. The rich young citizen of Assisi had known happiness, but the poor vagrant had discovered joy. Happiness is not to be despised, but it is ephemeral. It can evaporate when circumstances change. What we desire one day can disgust us the next. Joy, on the other hand, is deeper than happiness, and not dependent on external prosperity. Happiness comes from the outside in, but joy wells up from the depths of our being.

Jesus spoke to his disciples about this abiding quality of joy on the very eve of his crucifixion: “So you have sorrow now, but I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” (Jn 16:22)

Francis discovered that it was really quite simple: the less he had (not only of possessions, but of position or even reputation), the more he had to rely on his heavenly father. The more he did so, the deeper was his joy.
One day Francis told his companion, Brother Leo: “Even if all the Brothers gave sight to the blind, healing to the lame, and deliverance to all who were possessed, there would not be perfect joy in that.” A little later, he said: “Even if the Brothers knew all languages and the deepest meaning of Scripture, and could know the deepest secrets of consciences, there would not be perfect joy in that.” Then: “Even if one of the Brothers could preach so well that all the infidels were converted to Christ, there would not be perfect joy in that.”



Finally, Brother Leo begged Francis to tell him where perfect joy is. Francis replied: “If we come to St. Mary of the Angels, soaked by rain and frozen by cold, starving, and we ring at the gate, and the porter, instead of welcoming us, leaves us to freeze out in the snow, and tells us that we are not welcome – if we can bear that without being troubled or complaining, that is where true joy is found.”
Is this an example of saintly hyperbole? In fact, toward the end of his life Francis was excluded from the leadership of the very community he had brought together. His followers esteemed him for his sanctity, but judged that Francis’s rather “naïve” approach could not meet the needs of the thousands of men who had been inspired by his example to leave everything and become itinerant preachers.

Later generations of Franciscans fought among themselves about the best way for the order to embody the poverty of their founder. The poor man of Assisi found he had become something of leper to his own community – albeit a highly venerated leper – but nonetheless someone who did not “fit in.” Rejection by the wicked is bearable; rejection by the good is a much heavier cross. Francis told Brother Leo that even this could be a path to perfect joy. Everything can bring us closer to God. In the words of St. Paul: “We know that in everything God works for good with those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.” (Rom 8:28)


Francis had embraced the leper, and Francis had become a leper. This state of exile became for him, not a cause of resentment, but a doorway to a deeper union with God. In the words of G. K. Chesterton: “He plunged after poverty as men have dug madly for gold.” God was leading Francis to another momentous conversion. He who had abandoned everything to embrace the leper, would now himself be embraced by Christ.

This article was prepared by the Worship Commission of the Archdiocese of San Francisco and is reprinted from Catholic San Francisco, newspaper of the Archdiocese. Our thanks to Dan Morris-Young, editor.

A Franciscan Novena: Day One

On October 4 -- just nine days from now-- we will celebrate the feast of our Seraphic Father Francis of Assisi. In preparation for that celebration, we will be presenting a series of daily blog entries as a kind of "novena" for study and personal reflection. Today's entry is one of a series of three articles which first appeared in Catholic San Francisco under the title "St. Francis' Conversions." The remaining segments will be printed in sequence.

Francis of Assisi is one of the most beloved Catholic saints, honored by people regardless of their faith. His gentleness, love God’s creation, and deep human compassion make him a most attractive figure.

But his unvarnished embrace of the Gospel makes Francis a challenging person as well. By the sheer force of personality, Francis of Assisi effected a revolution in 13th century-Europe- but that personality was shaped in the crucible of Christian conversion, indeed, of several conversions. In this series, we will look at three important turning points in the life of the Poor Man of Assisi. May his example shed light on our personal journeys of faith.



St. Francis himself tells us about his first conversion. As he lay dying at the little church of St. Mary of the Angels (the Porziuncola), he dictated a final testament. It began with these words: “This is how God inspired me, Brother Francis, to embark upon a life of penance. When I was in sin, the sight of lepers nauseated me beyond measure; but then God himself led me into their company, and I had pity on them…What had previously nauseated me became a source of spiritual and physical consultation for me.” Our reflection on what Francis has to teach us begins with this life- changing meeting w/ the leper.



First, Francis says that God himself led him into the company of lepers. While this encounter shocked Francis, it was not a bolt out of the blue. God had been preparing him for this momentous meeting. Early biographies of the saint describe him as the pampered son of a rich merchant, but some time in early adulthood Francis experienced a sea-change as regards his ambitions. From dreams of wealth he turned to dreams of military glory, but then abandoned these to embrace a life of prayer and charitable works. In this he faced strong opposition from his ambitious father, who disapproved of his son’s “throwing away” a successful career.
God gradually led Francis into these deeper spiritual paths, but when He brought him into contact with lepers, it was a watershed moment. Francis was being invited-or challenged- to step across an immense social chasm.




Because contagious diseases were such a mystery to the people of the Middle Ages, it is understandable that lepers were isolated from the larger community. Given the miraculous healings of lepers by Christ, they were viewed with ambivalence by Christians; their affliction was not necessarily a sign of divine disfavor, and it was recognized that they should receive both religious and social assistance. However, they were clearly marginalized, and for the sheltered son of Pietro da Bernadone to consort with them must have been the talk of Assisi.
Whatever its impact on his fellow citizens, it is clear from Francis’ own words that a new chapter opened in his life the day he embraced that leper.

This encounter teaches us some uncomfortable truths. First, it suggests that when we seek to do God’s will, He always calls us to make greater sacrifices. Some years ago a book appeared called “The Good Enough Catholic.” As an antidote to scrupulosity, or to efforts to somehow impress God by our good deeds, such a phrase might be therapeutic. But if by a “good enough Catholic” we mean “What do I have to do to just get by?” the life of St. Francis, and indeed any of the saints, disturbs us in our mediocrity.

Francis had already violated a number of taboos: abandoning a career in the entrepreneurial society of his family, working as a common laborer to rebuild abandoned churches, selling his father’s goods to help the poor. These were not the actions of a Catholic content to “get by.” And still, Francis learned, it was not enough: Christ had given Himself to the last drop of blood out of love for Francis. Francis for his part could not put limits on his love in return.



A second challenge of this conversation is the question it forces each of us to ask: “Who is the leper in my life?” It might be a category of persons, a co-worker or neighbor, or it could even be a member of our own family. I may feel I have good reasons to avoid this leper. It does not matter. The point is simply that, wherever we draw the line, Jesus stands on the other side of it.

This is what Francis realized on that fateful day. A holy man close to our own time, Charles de Foucauld, observed that Jesus has taken the lowest place, and no one can deprive him of it. The early biographies tell how the leper disappeared after Francis embraced him, and imply that it may have been Christ Himself. If so, this simply illustrates the plain words of Jesus: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.” (Mt 25:40)



To recognize Jesus in the leper meant, for Francis, to recognize him in everyone. His “preferential option for the poor” included his wealthy and headstrong father, too. It meant seeing Christ in the spiritually diseased.

There is a story told of a group of heretics who publicly denounced the priest in their town who kept a mistress. Francis simply went up to the priest, knelt, and kissed his hand. Our choices “for” often imply choices against; once Francis reached across the chasm and embraced the leper, he learned that there is no “us” and “them.” We are all poor sinners.
The greatest shock Francis experienced was not simply that he saw Christ in the leper. He saw himself in the leper.

This article was prepared by the Worship Commission of the Archdiocese of San Francisco and is reprinted from Catholic San Francisco, newspaper of the Archdiocese. Our thanks to Dan Morris-Young, editor.

Saturday morning/ Monday night at the Brother Giles Fraternity

“Brother, why don’t you write a blog about us?” queried the timid friar. “I mean, about—you know—who we are and how we spend a typical day and all that kind of stuff.” Well, okay, why not? So, here are my impressions of a typically atypical day (well, actually, parts of two days rather clumsily patched together) at one of our friaries-- the Brother Giles fraternity in Berkeley, California-- which I visited twice this past week.



Saturday morning
Woke up around 7:30 and immediately headed for the shower. I was in luck. Three bathrooms for eight friars in this homey former apartment house divided into a series of little rabbit hutch-sized rooms. I climbed the back stairs to forage for breakfast. The fridge looked just like the one at home in Sacramento: a veritable culinary museum, only without a curator. Lots of mysterious-looking substances piled one atop the other. Forget the mystery, I thought. I’ll just have cold cereal: corn flakes with soy milk. And a quick moment by myself to read the headlines of the morning Chronicle.

Famous Last Words. As if on cue, the place snapped into life. Adrian—we’re all pretty much on a first-name basis at home- made himself a pot of green tea before feasting on poached eggs and vitamins. A very determined Joe (a young friar from Singapore who is staying with us while doing studies) was up and about, too. Simultaneously emptying the dishwasher whle eating his bowl of watermelon slices. Luis secured the far end of the table for his kingdom of oatmeal, bananas and sliced toast. (He caught me trying to hide the latter under the table). Everyone else had already left: John (Gootz) was still at work in San Jose where he supervises a hospital emergency room. Oscar was at our parish in east Oakland getting ready for a spate of weekend liturgies. Dennis was in San Francisco providing home help for our brother Richard. Martin, newly returned from his ordination trip to Mexico, hadn’t moved in yet. David was probably off to the Multicultural Institute.

There was no question about our lounging around the whole morning either. Joe was already in his room studying for his classes at the Jesuit School of Theology (JSTB).



Everyone else was reporting for duty: the Visitor General, Peter Williams, was to arrive for his official “inspection” within 24 hours. The house had to be cleaned, the guest room made up, Martin’s room refurnished, and the house accounts put in order. Let’s go!

I accompanied Luis and Adrian on a forced march to Bed, Bath & Beyond. We filled our cart with sheets, pillows, floor mats, and curtains for the rooms they were fixing up. After this whirlwind immersion into the consumer experience, we headed to the dry cleaners (alterations for the curtains), then lunch at a nearby south Indian restaurant. “I only eat north Indian food usually, “ quipped Luis, “but I’ll make an exception this time.” After a wonderful sampler lunch which included three soups and an equal number of curries, we headed home to the housework. As a short-term visitor, I concluded it was better for me to get out of the way. They needed my room, after all, for the next guest.


While Luis and Adrian spent the afternoon and evening cleaning and scrubbing, I borrowed one of the house cars (we don’t have our own private vehicles) to visit friends in the area. By the time I got home at 10:00 pm, everyone had already crashed. When I left the house early on Sunday morning (to catch the train back to Sacramento to get to church to preside at liturgy and to baptize five new Christians babies) everyone was either getting up or already out of the house. Welcome to community on weekends. It’s all about ministry.




Monday night.
I took the late afternoon train back to Berkeley for a quick return visit. I’m on jury duty all week so I have to stay close to home. But I didn’t want to miss the birthday party for Adrian. When I arrived, Mass was already in progress in the living room (not enough room in the chapel), with himself presiding. I got there in time for the homily, in which Adrian read to us from the writings of Julian of Norwich:




“The love that God Most High has for our soul is so great that it surpasses understanding. No created being can comprehend how much, and how sweetly, and how tenderly our Maker loves us. As truly as God is our Father, so just as truly is He our Mother. In our father God Almighty, we have our being; in our merciful mother, we are remade and restored. Our fragmented lives are knit together and made perfect. And by giving and yielding ourselves, through grace, to the Holy Spirit, we are made whole.”

I looked about the circle as our brother spoke: “This is what happens in community, Brothers. You know, our father Francis told us that we should be mothers to each other. He didn’t say we should be fathers for each other…. Mothers because we are called to nurture each other. And community is that place where we can come home to receive the care and understanding that gives us new strength and energy for ministry….. It’s like my own mother at home in Ireland would do for us. We’d come home from school and she’d say, “Now, tell us about it. How did it go today? Would you like a little something to eat?” And that’s what we can do for each other— give this kind of nurturing and caring to one another.” Heads nodded. Brothers exchanged glances, grinning in recognition.



After the Mass, friars (there were an even dozen of us by now—residents and a few guests, like myself) dispersed to set the table, do the cooking, or just sit and snack. Within a quarter of an hour, it all came together: the wonderful birthday buffet of carne asada, poached salmon, veggie and fruit salads, rice and beans, tortillas, Tapatio sauce, and drinks. Sunday’s feast on Monday evening.





John (Gootz), following one of our daily rituals, read the necrology—the brief biographies of our confreres who had died on this particular day—then blessed the food. “Al ataque!” Swift to the trough, hungry friars piled their plates and settled down to serious eating, but not very serious table talk.



It was a great way to end an otherwise demanding work day for just about everyone: Joe, Jose-Luis, and Luis-Alberto had classes. Adrian put in a full day as chaplain at our St. Anthony Dining Room in San Francisco. Gootz was back from the hospital; so was Rami, who popped in—pooped—from a busy day in another hospital. Martin and Oscar were back from the parish-- St. E’s. And so on…. All tired and hungry, but by the time for the cake and candles— more relaxed, refreshed and renewed. And yes, nurtured.

“Now, tell us about it. How did it go today? Would you like a little something to eat?”//

The Big Brown Wedding Ring: by Eric Pilarcik ofm

“Then they may be given the clothes of probation. Namely, two tunics without a capuche, a cord, short trousers and a little cape…” —St. Francis, from the Rule of the Friars Minor

Not too long ago, I didn’t even know what a capuche (pronounced ca-POOSH) was, let alone imagine that I’d be wearing one every day. As of this past June, I am a novice in the Saint Barbara Province living at Mission San Miguel, the sixteenth of the twenty-one historic California missions. For the religious-order-clothing-unaware, the Franciscan habit is a long, brown robe bound at the waist with a white cord. The capuche is the separate and detachable cowl or hood-part of this habit. The scapular is connected to the capuche; it hangs from the shoulder and covers the chest with a half-circle shape. Friars traditionally wear plain leather sandals.

Up until a couple of years ago, I had seen this religious attire only in movies, books, paintings, in tales of Robin Hood and his associates, and on the Frangelico bottle my parents had up on the top shelf. I associated it with poverty, religious devotion and a way of life long-gone and centuries past. Then, here on the west coast, I met the Franciscans.






It was like seeing a living, breathing unicorn. I was in Br. Arturo’s tailor shop when I found out that the habit was not a one-size-fits-all design. I assumed the expansiveness of all that brown fabric compensated for the oversized friar; conversely, the cord cinches at the waist to gather excess fabric for the undersized friar. It turns out that I am a larger, irregular shape, and each of the habits has to be individually tailored anyway. Br. Arturo made skillful alterations; then I turned to see myself in the full-length mirror. I saw a reflection of myself from what looked like Thirteenth Century Europe, the same me but completely different. I was stunned and it was powerful. It might be like a new military recruit seeing him/herself in a military uniform or a bride or groom seeing her/himself for the first time in wedding clothes. It’s partially about realizing the future in a very visual sense and re-imagining yourself as a part of something different, new and larger, deeper and older than yourself. It’s also a glimpse into the past, the present and eternal all at the same time.



The habit is a sign of the cross for others and ourselves. With its solid color, fuller sleeves and arms outstretched, it becomes a visual cross—not the one usually seen †, but the capital T-shaped tau cross that was Francis’s signature and very likely the kind of cross on which Jesus was crucified. Most Franciscans wear this tau on a chain around their necks. Wearing the habit means embracing Christ to the point of putting on the cross, and is a sign of his death and resurrection and love and mercy. It’s a visual reminder of our availability to all people and being exclusive to no one. Ideally, each of us is a sign of the Gospel in action — an instrument of God’s peace and love in the world. The habit reminds us that we’re here on this earth to love and serve God and others. Theresa of Avila expressed this vividly:
“Christ has no body now but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours. Yours are the eyes that must look out Christ’s compassion on the world.”

As human beings, we can be attracted or repelled based on exterior appearance alone. We all know this from personal experience. This reaction to appearance can be harsh and punishing or it can spark (often unmerited) praise and adoration. We see ourselves and our desires, memories and opinions in the physical “looks” of others. This is a combination of attraction and projection and quite possibly has nothing to do with the real person wearing those clothes, that face or that habit. I felt the benefits of just such positive projection a few weekends ago at Mission San Miguel’s annual Fiesta. It is loosely based on the feast of St. Michael the Archangel, and it’s a fantastic Sunday barbeque for the whole local community. People whom I’d never met before identified me as a Franciscan because of the habit, and were extremely kind and full of good wishes. I’m very aware and humbled in knowing that this good will has to do with the good reputation of the Franciscans that the habit represents.



Before joining the Franciscans, I had a foreshadowing glimpse into this immediate reaction of others based on physical appearance. No one has ever come up to me and said that I’m stunningly handsome; however, I did bring a beautiful friend to work with me, and people magically changed in her presence. She is funny, kind, generous, plus she’s physically arresting with thick blonde hair, an amazing smile, sparkling eyes and a bubbly laugh. One fine day, she came to the office because we were on our way somewhere else. She walked in, and it was like the sun came out. People who never glanced at me more than a few seconds (sometimes barely lifting their eyes from their computer screens) were suddenly coming to life and approaching us (her) to say hello, offer coffee or make a joke. I saw a new, open, alive side of these folks that I’d never seen before just because I was standing alongside her. For weeks after that, people asked me about her, how she was doing, and when did I suppose she might come by again. I think this is an example of how God can use physical beauty to transform, wake us up or get our attention. By wearing the habit, sometimes we become a “spiritual attention-getter” for others.


You can’t be anonymous in a habit. People already “know” you or something about you when they recognize the habit. It’s similar for anyone wearing a uniform — military, US Postal worker, police officers — and for the person with a “Mohawk” haircut, or sometimes for the woman who is pregnant. All of a sudden, you’re on the receiving end of all kinds of comments, questions, pointed looks, and unsolicited advice, anecdotes, and, sometimes, hostility. The habit invites conversation and interaction, and it makes a strong non-verbal statement about our identity as Franciscans and about devoting our lives to a religious vocation.



However, there are times when none of us want to advertise who we are or what we do, and we just want to blend with the crowd — when traveling on a plane, for instance. Our human nature seeks the peace and neutrality that non-descript clothes provide. This is illustrated by how the mass of humankind (including Franciscans and most religious) chooses to move about in standard issue, non-distinctive, comfortable, culturally appropriate clothing (think of wearing your jeans or sweat pants into the grocery store).



Insight is gained into complications that women (and some men) encounter when wearing dresses or skirts. A friar brother tells me that the local dry cleaner calls the habit and the capuche a “dress” and a “hat” for their purposes. That adds a feminine angle to some of its practical aspects. It has physical restrictions and limitations that people wearing dresses or skirts face on a daily basis. In general, range of motion is restricted by all that extra fabric, and especially in the billowy nature of the sleeves. Oftentimes, they need to be rolled up while writing, eating (accidental dipping into soups and sauces), holding/lighting candles (accidental catching on fire), etc. Not to mention, riding a bicycle and climbing fence become awkward. Also, it takes more thought and effort to put on and take off than a shirt and pants. An additional aggravation is that there are no hip pockets. Granted, there are pouches in the sleeves, but they’re not as convenient. I’ve always pitied how women have to leave what they are doing and struggle to find the location of their purse when all they want is a simple stick of gum, a quarter, or a pencil. Now, here I am in this habit without front pockets. However, the simple white cord is a surprisingly effective belt.



St. Francis’s habit looks ragged and small. Historians estimate that Francis was a slight man, about 5’3” in height and 110 pounds. From the photos I’ve seen, his habit is made of rough cloth and worn with holes — but it is still essentially the very same design as what Franciscans continue to wear today. I feel almost guilty that in comparison the one that I wear is in such excellent condition. This brings to mind Francis’s commitment and dedication through all weather, terrain and life’s difficulties. Toward the end of his life, while in his weak and painful physical condition, Francis suffered as he saw the divisions within the order he founded, brothers opposed to brothers. The habit also speaks about our fragility as human beings, the temporary nature of life in this world and our dependence on God. As we get older, our bodies become ragged and faded and fall apart until ultimately we pass on (our own Transitus) to whatever that mystical union with God might be.

It’s like a big, brown wedding ring. What would it look like if every person wore something on their body which communicated to others what was most important to them in life? When I lived in Los Angeles, I noticed the observant Jews wearing black clothes and yarmulkes or headscarves, and the Church of Scientology folks wearing dark pants and blue Oxford shirts. A wedding ring is the best comparison that I can see. Two people exchange rings and make wedding vows to love, honor and serve each other for the rest of their lives. Our habit with its total covering of the body (down to the ankles), recalls our vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, and is an outward sign of “putting on” the cross, and devoting our lives in love and service to God and others. Like a marriage, it’s ambitious, challenging and we never live up to it fully. It’s powerful, and there is always the danger of taking advantage of the good will it inspires in others.



What is our real “habit”? Each person’s calling in life comes from God, and it’s not about what we wear. In concept, being naked would be a truer habit. It might begin to express how completely dependent we are on God for all that we do and are. We make mistakes, and are continuously forgiven. Our life, all our days, all our energy and everything we are is a gift. Maybe our habit should be simply allowing this love from God to channel through us, and transform us — to love, serve and forgive more fully.

Friar Eric Pilarcik, ofm, completed his novitiate and made his first profession in July, 2008. He is now a student at the Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley, California. This article, published under the title, "The Big Brown Wedding Ring," originally appeared in The Way of St. Francis magazine, (vol.14, No.5, Sept/Oct 2008) and is reprinted with permission. For more information about THE WAY contact: ofmcaway@att.net.//

September 17: The Stigmata of Our Holy Father Francis

According to tradition, St. Francis of Assisi is the first Christian saint to have received the stigmata (pronounced "STIG muh tuh")-- or the imprint of the wounds of the crucified Christ on his own body. Franciscan sources report the event as having taken place at the hermitage of La Verna, Italy, on September 17, 1224, just two years before the death of Francis. What follows are descriptions by two of his biographers-- St. Bonaventure and Thomas of Celano. Bonaventure writes about the actual event, while Celano describes the reactions of Francis over time.

What is most significant for us as followers of Francis is not the event of his reception of this mystical gift. Rather, we are drawn more deeply into his faith and witness-- his total surrender to the love of God in his life and his longing to identify himself completely with the Crucified Christ. From this perspective, Francis's reception of the stigmata has very little importance solely as a physical anomaly or object of curiosity. it must be viewed as part of his entire faith journey and spiritual transformation.



From the Legenda Minor of St. Bonaventure, (de Stigmatibus sacris, 1-4; ed. Quaracchi, 1941; pgg. 202-204):

"Two years before Francis, the faithful servant of Christ, gave his soul back to God, he was alone on the top of Mt. Alverna. There he had begun a fast of forty days in honor of the archangel Michael and was immersed more deeply than usual in the delights of heavenly contemplation. His soul became aglow with the ardor of fervent longing for heaven as he experienced within himself the operations of grace.

"As he was drawn aloft through ardent longing for God one morning near the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, and was praying on the mountainside, he saw what appeared as a seraph with six bright wings gleaming like a fire descending from the heights of heaven. As this figure approached in swift flight and came near the man of God it appeared not only winged but also crucified. The sight of it amazed Francis and his soul experienced joy mingled with pain. He was delighted with the sight of Christ appearing to him so graciously and intimately and yet the awe-inspiring vision of Christ nailed to the cross aroused in his soul a joy of compassionate love.



"When the vision vanished after a mysterious and intimate conversation it left Francis aglow with seraphic love in his soul. Externally, however, it left marks on his body like those of the Crucified as if the impression of a seal had been left on heated wag. The figures of the nails appeared immediately on his hands and feet. The heads of the nails were inside his hands but on top of his feet with their points extending through to the opposite side. His right side too showed a blood-red wound as if it had been pierced by a lance, and blood flowed frequently from it.

"Because of this new and astounding miracle unheard of in times past, Francis came down from the mountain a new man adorned with the sacred stigmata, bearing in his body the image of the Crucified not made by a craftsman in wood or stone , but fashioned in his members by the hand of the living God."



From: The Life of St. Francis by Thomas of Celano: The Second Book. Quoted from: Armstrong, Hellmann & Short (eds.), Francis of Assisi: The Saint, (New York: New City Press), 1999. pp.264-5:

"He (Francis) his those marks carefully from strangers, and concealed them cautiosuly from people close to him, so that even the brothers at his side and his most devoted followers for a long time did not know about them....

"He would never or rarely reveal his great secret to anyone. He feared that his special friends whould reveal it to show their intimacy with him, as friends often do, and he would then lose some of the grace given to him. He always carried in his heart and often had on his lips the saying of the prophet: 'I have hidden your words in my heart to avoid any sin against You.'"