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BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS IN THE LORD
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This essay will be a long way around making a simple observable point, but I hope you won’t mind the trip with me.
A recent and very insightful biography of St Francis of Assisi has been written by a Dominican priest, Augustine Thompson (I’ve already been told there’s an irony involved in a Dominican named Augustine writing about Francis!). But one of his insights is the basis of the end of this essay.
Everyone who knows me knows that Assisi is probably my favorite place on earth. I’ve been there well over 60 times (and by “times” I mean at least one overnight). And, Lord willing, I’ll be heading there again this April after Easter. Why? It’s because there I find rest in the Lord like I find in just about nowhere else.
I find rest walking down from Assisi to Santa Maria degli Angeli, to the Porziuncola, which Francis dearly loved, where his community gathered, where he died. I pray the Rosary walking the 2 or so miles; yes, it is a time of rest in the Lord.
I find it, as well, in the Basilica of Santa Chiara, where there is a side chapel which houses the San Damiano crucifix before which Francis prayed and through which he began to discover his vocation. I’ll come back to this.
I find it on the slopes of Mount Subasio, above the city, where an ancient Benedictine establishment was a place of prayer for Francis; its view of the valley below is unforgettable, and the chapel is so tranquil! It’s a hard walk uphill, but there’s a great restaurant involved nearby…
I find it most of all during Adoration and Evening Prayer in San Damiano itself. The walk down is delightful; the walk back up is somewhat less so! But I would not skip this for the world.
In front of the San Damiano crucifix Francis prayed: “Most high and glorious God, bring light to the darkness of my heart. Give me right faith, certain hope, and perfect charity. Lord, grant me insight and wisdom, so I might know your holy and true will.” It is, as Fr Augustine noted, the prayer of a seeker, one perhaps tormented, one desiring a new life. It was where and how he prayed when he was dealing with the crisis that his former life of fun and adventure brought him (“when I was in my sins” is the way he put it).
Toward the end of his life his prayer changed; it became one of consolation and confidence in where his strength and peace were found “We adore you, most holy Lord Jesus Christ, here, and in all the churches in the world, and we bless you, because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world.” Marked with the stigmata, recognizing his utter dependence upon the crucified Lord who was constantly present to him in the churches where the Eucharist was celebrated and reserved, he was at peace even when tormented by misunderstanding, by suffering, by pressures relating to the new Franciscan Order.
These prayers have become part of my own spirituality, too. The first 3 “Hail, Mary” prayers of the Rosary are traditionally invocations for an increase in faith, hope, and love; you can see how Francis’ earlier prayer fits in with this. And when I’m in San Damiano for Adoration & Evening Prayer, the time there always ends with our recitation of Francis’ later prayer. There are beautiful musical settings of these prayers (and many others) by John Michael Talbot in his recording “Troubadour of the Great King”—I highly recommend it.
So Francis went from seeking to finding, just as Jesus told us in the Gospel: “Seek, and you will find; ask, and you shall receive; knock, and the door will be opened to you.” For what, especially during this Lent, are we seeking, asking for, knocking on? Can we recall where we began? Do we know where we would want to end, and how (God willing) we might get there?
It's Lent; it’s time for these questions.
