I preached this homily at the tomb of Saint Francis this morning.
The man who is buried in the grave behind me is often remembered as a sweet-faced saint around whom birds twittered, not unlike Snow White in a Disney movie.
Yet, Thomas of Celano, his first biographer, knew Francis the man. He once wrote of how a very serious temptation of spirit came upon Saint Francis, and how “Because of it he was filled with anguish and sorrow; he afflicted and chastised his body, he prayed and wept bitterly. He was under attack in this way for several years.”
And yet, we are told, despite his suffering (and maybe even because of it) Francis never failed to be loving, compassionate and beaming with the joy of the Gospel. Maybe this is what he was talking about when he once said that the devil “is most delighted when he can steal the joy of spirit from a servant of God…He carries dust which he tries to thrown into the tiniest openings of the conscience, to dirty a clear mind and a clean life.”
So here he is, suffering greatly, but somehow emanating Christian joy. How did he pull that off?
I think the secret may be in his most beautiful prayer, the Prayer Before the Crucifix, which begins with the words “Most High and Glorious God, bring light to the darkness of my soul.”
Kneeling before the Cross, the great outpouring of the love of God, he seeks not an analgesic to this world’s troubles, but the light by which he might see the love which flows with blood and water from the side of crucified.
Through the grace of the poverello, this little poor one, may we join our sufferings to the cross of Christ, rejoicing that they had been found worthy to suffer with him, and therein find perfect joy.
Through the grace of the poverello, this little poor one, may we join our sufferings to the cross of Christ, rejoicing that they had been found worthy to suffer with him, and therein find perfect joy.
