Saint Francis, the founder of the Franciscan Order, was born at
Assisi, a walled town of Umbria, in Italy. His father, Peter
Bernardone, or Bernardo, was in France on business when his son was
born and named. On his return, or, as some say, at a later time, he
changed his son's name from John to Francis. His wealth enabled him to
supply Francis with the funds necessary to maintain his leadership
among gay companions. Catholic writers are fond of describing the early
years of their saints as marked by vice in order to portray them as
miracles of grace. It is therefore uncertain whether Francis was
anything worse than a happy, joyous lad, who loved fine clothes,
midnight songs and parties of pleasure. He was certainly a very popular
and courteous lad, very much in love with the world. During a short
service in the army he was taken prisoner. After his release he fell
sick, and experienced a temporary disgust with his past life. With his
renewed health his love of festivities and dress returned.
Walking out one day, dressed in a handsome new suit, he met a poor
and ill-clad soldier; moved to pity, he exchanged his fine clothes for
the rags of the stranger. That night Francis dreamed of a splendid
castle, with gorgeous banners flying from its ramparts, and suits of
armor adorned with the cross. “These,” said a voice, “are for you and
for your soldiers.” We are told that this was intended to be taken
spiritually and was prophetic of the Begging Friars, but Francis
misunderstood the dream, taking it as a token of military achievements.
The next day he set off mounted on a fine horse, saying as he left, “I
shall be a great prince.” But his weak frame could not endure such
rough usage and he was taken sick at Spoleto. Again he dreamed. This
time the vision revealed his misinterpretation of the former message,
and so, on his recovery, he returned somewhat crestfallen to Assisi,
where he gave his friends a farewell feast. Thus at the threshold of
his career we note two important facts,—disease and dreams. All
through his life he had these fits of sickness, attended by dreams; and
throughout his life he was guided by these visions. Neander remarks:
“It would be a matter of some importance if we could be more exactly
informed with regard to the nature of his disease and the way in which
it affected his physical and mental constitution. Perhaps it might
assist us to a more satisfactory explanation of the eccentric vein in
his life, that singular mixture of religious enthusiasm bordering
insanity; but we are left wholly in the dark.”
Francis now devoted himself to his father's business, but dreams and
visions continued to distress him. His spiritual fervor increased
daily. He grieved for the poor and gave himself to the care of the
sick, especially the lepers. During a visit to Rome he became so sad at
the sight of desperate poverty that he impetuously flung his bag of
gold upon the altar with such force as to startle the worshipers. He
went out from the church, exchanged his clothes for a beggar's rags,
and stood for hours asking alms among a crowd of filthy beggars.
But though Francis longed to associate himself in some way with the
lowest classes, he could obtain no certain light upon his duty. While
prostrated before the crucifix, in the dilapidated church of St.
Damian, in Assisi, he heard a voice saying, “Francis, seest thou not
that my house is in ruins? Go and restore it for me.” Again it is said
that this pointed to his great life-work of restoring spiritual power
to the church, but he again accepted the message in a literal sense.
Delighted to receive a command so specific, the kneeling Francis
fervently responded, “With good will, Lord,” and gladly entered upon
the task of repairing the church of St. Damian. “Having fortified
himself by the sign of the cross,” he took a horse and a valuable
bundle of goods belonging to his father and sold both at Falingo.
Instead of turning the proceeds over to his father, Francis offered
them to the priest of St. Damian, who, fearing the father's
displeasure, refused to accept the stolen funds. The young zealot, “who
had utter contempt for money,” threw the gold on one of the windows of
the church. Such is the story as gleaned from Catholic sources. The
heretics, who have criticised Francis for this conduct, are answered by
the following ingenious but dangerous sophistry: “It is certainly quite
contrary to the ordinary law of justice for one man to take for himself
the property of another; but if Almighty God, to whom all things
belong, and for whom we are only stewards, is pleased to dispense with
this His own law in a particular case, and to bestow what He has
hitherto given to one upon another, He confers at the same time a valid
title to the gift, and it is no robbery in him who has received it to
act upon that title.”
Fearing his father's wrath, Francis hid himself in the priest's
room, and contemporary authors assure us that when the irate parent
entered, Francis was miraculously let into the wall. Wading (1731 A.D.)
says the hollow place may still be seen in the wall.
After a month, the young hero, confident of his courage to face his
father, came forth pale and weak, only to be stoned as a madman by the
people. His father locked him up in the house, but the tenderer
compassion of his mother released him from his bonds, and he found
refuge with the priest. When his father demanded his return, Francis
tore off his clothes and, as he flung the last rag at the feet of his
astounded parent, he exclaimed: “Peter Bernardone was my father; I have
but one father, He that is in Heaven.” The crowd was deeply moved,
especially when they saw before them the hair shirt which Francis had
secretly worn under his garments. Gathering up all that was left to him
of his son, the father sadly departed, leaving the young enthusiast to
fight his own way through the world. Many times after that, the
parents, who tenderly watched over the lad in sickness and prayed for
his recovery, saw their beloved son leading his barefooted beggars
through the streets of his native town. But he will never more sing his
gay songs underneath their roof or sally forth with his merry
companions in search of pleasure. Francis was given a laborer's cloak,
upon which he made the sign of a cross with some mortar, “thus
manifesting what he wished to be, a half-naked poor one, and a
crucified man.” Such was the saint, in 1206, in his twenty-fifth year.
Francis now went forth, singing sacred songs, begging his food, and
helping the sick and the poor. He was employed “in the vilest affairs
of the scullery” in a neighboring monastery. At this time he clothed
himself in the monk's dress, a short tunic, a leathern girdle, shoes
and a staff. He waited upon lepers and kissed their disgusting ulcers.
Yet more, he instantly cured a dreadfully cancerous face by kissing it.
He ate the most revolting messes, reproaching himself for recoiling in
nausea. Thus the pauper of Jesus Christ conquered his pride and
luxurious tastes.
Francis finally returned to repair the church of St. Damian. The
people derided, even stoned him, but he had learned to rejoice in
abuse. They did not know of what stern stuff their fellow-townsman was
made. He bore all their insults meekly, and persevered in his work,
carrying stones with his own hands and promising the blessing of God on
all who helped him in his joyful task. His kindness and smiles melted
hatred; derision turned to admiration. “Many were moved to tears,” says
his biographers, “while Francis worked on with cheerful simplicity,
begging his materials, stone by stone, and singing psalms about the
streets.”
Two years after his conversion, or in 1208, while kneeling in the
church of Sta. Maria dei Angeli, he heard the words of Christ: “Provide
neither gold nor silver nor brass in your purses, neither two coats nor
shoes nor staff, but go and preach.” Afterwards, when the meaning of
these words was explained to him, he exclaimed: “This is what I seek
for!” He threw away his wallet, took off his shoes, and replaced his
leather girdle by a cord. His hermit's tunic appearing too delicate, he
put on a coarse, gray robe, reaching to his feet, with sleeves that
came down over his fingers; to this he added a hood, covering his head
and face. Clothing of this character he wore to the end of his life.
This was in 1208, which is regarded as the first year of the Order of
St. Francis. The next year Francis gave this habit to those who had
joined him.
So the first and chief of Franciscan friars, unattended by mortal
companions, went humbly forth to proclaim the grandeur and goodness of
a God, who, according to monastic teaching, demands penance and poverty
of his creatures as the price of his highest favor and richest
blessings. Nearly seven hundred long years have passed since that
eventful day, but the begging Brothers of Francis still traverse those
Italian highways over which the saint now journeyed with meek and
joyous spirit.
“He was not yet far distant from his rising
Before he had begun to make the earth
Some comfort from his mighty virtue feel.
For he in youth his father's wrath incurred
For certain Dame, to whom, as unto death,
The gate of pleasure no one doth unlock;
And was before his spiritual court
Et coram patre unto her united;
Then day by day more fervently he loved her.
* * * * *
But that too darkly I may not proceed,
Francis and Poverty for these two lovers
Take thou henceforward in my speech diffuse.”
—Dante.
In 1210, with eleven companions, his entire band, Francis went to
Rome to secure papal sanction. Pope Innocent III. was walking in a
garden of the Lateran Palace when a beggar, dusty and pale, confronted
him. Provoked at being disturbed in his thoughts, he drove him away.
That night it was the pope's turn to dream. He saw a falling church
supported by a poor and miserable man. Of course, that man was Francis.
Four or five years later the pope will dream the same thing again. Then
the poor man will be Dominic. In the morning he sent for the monk whom
he had driven from him as a madman the day before. Standing before his
holiness and the college of cardinals, Francis pleaded his cause in a
touching and eloquent parable. His quiet, earnest manner and clear blue
eyes impressed every one. The pope did not give him formal sanction
however—this was left for Honorius III., November 29, 1223—but he
verbally permitted him to establish his order and to continue his
preaching.
Several times Francis set out to preach to the Mohammedans, but
failed to reach his destination. He finally visited Egypt during the
siege of Damietta, and at the risk of his life he went forth to preach
to the sultan encamped on the Nile. He is described by an eye-witness
“as an ignorant and simple man, beloved of God and men.” His courage
and personal magnetism won the Mohammedan's sympathy but not his soul.
Although Francis courted martyrdom, and offered to walk through fire to
prove the truth of his message, the Oriental took it all too
good-naturedly to put him to the test, and dismissed him with kindness.
Francis was a great lover of birds. The swallows he called his
sisters. A bird in the cage excited his deepest sympathy. It is said he
sometimes preached to the feathered songsters. Longfellow has cast one
of these homilies into poetic form:
“O brother birds, St. Francis said,
Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.
* * * * *
Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise
The great Creator in your lays;
He giveth you your plumes of down,
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of brown.
He giveth you your wings to fly
And breathe a purer air on high,
And careth for you everywhere,
Who for yourselves so little care.”
Like all ascetics, Francis was tempted in visions. One cold night he
fancied he was in a home of his own, with his wife and children around
him. Rushing out of his cell he heaped up seven hills of snow to
represent a wife, four sons and daughters, and two servants. “Make
haste,” he cried, “provide clothing for them lest they perish with the
cold,” and falling upon the imaginary group, he dispelled the vision of
domestic bliss in the cold embrace of the winter's snow. Mrs. Oliphant
points out the fact that, unlike most of the hermits and monks, Francis
dreams not of dancing girls, but of the pure love of a wife and the
modest joys of a home and children. She beautifully says: “Had he, for
one sweet, miserable moment, gone back to some old imagination and seen
the unborn faces shine beside the never-lighted fire? But Francis does
not say a word of any such trial going on in his heart. He dissipates
the dream by the chill touch of the snow, by still nature hushing the
fiery thoughts, by sudden action, so violent as to stir the blood in
his veins; and then the curtain of prayer and silence falls over him,
and the convent walls close black around.”
The experience of the saint on Mount Alverno deserves special
consideration, not merely on account of its singularity, but also
because it affords a striking illustration of the difficulties one
encounters in trying to get at the truth in monastic narratives.
Francis had retired to Mount Alverno, a wild and rugged solitude, to
meditate upon the Lord's passion. For days he had been almost
distracted with grief and holy sympathy. Suddenly a seraph with six
wings stood before him. When the heavenly being departed, the marks of
the Crucified One appeared upon the saint's body. St. Bonaventure says:
“His feet and hands were seen to be perforated by nails in their
middle; the heads of the nails, round and black, were on the inside of
the hands, and on the upper parts of the feet; the points, which were
rather long, and which came out on the opposite sides, were turned and
raised above the flesh, from which they came out.” There also appeared
on his right side a red wound, which often oozed a sacred blood that
stained his tunic.
This remarkable story has provoked considerable discussion. One's
conclusions respecting its credibility will quite likely be determined
by his general view of numerous similar narratives, and by the degree
of his confidence in the value of human testimony touching such
matters. The incongruities and palpable impostures that seriously
impair the general reliability of monkish historians render it
difficult to distinguish between the truths and errors in their
writings.
Some authorities hold that the marks did not appear on St. Francis,
and that the story is without foundation. But Roman writers bring
forward the three early biographers of Francis who claim that the marks
did appear. Pope Alexander IV. publicly averred that he saw the wounds,
and pronounced it heresy to doubt the report. Popes Benedict XI.,
Sixtus IV., and Sixtus V. consecrated and canonized the impressions by
instituting a particular festival in their honor. Numerous persons are
said to have seen the marks and to have kissed the nails, after the
death of the saint. Singularly enough, the Dominicans were inclined to
regard the story as a piece of imposture designed to exalt Francis
above Dominic.
But, if it be admitted that the marks did appear, as it is not
improbable, how shall the phenomenon be explained? At least four
theories are held: 1. Fraud; 2. The irresponsible self-infliction of
the wounds; 3. Physical effects due to mental suggestion or some other
psychic cause; 4. Miracle.
1. The temptation is strong to claim a fraud, especially because the
same witnesses who testify to the truth of the tale, also relate such
monstrous, incredible stories, that one is almost forced to doubt
either their integrity or their sanity. But there is no evidence in
support of so serious an indictment. After showing that signs and
portents attend every crisis in history, Mrs. Oliphant says: “Every
great spiritual awakening has been accompanied by phenomena quite
incomprehensible, which none but the vulgar mind can attribute to
trickery and imposture;” but still she herself remains in doubt about
the whole story.
2. Although Mosheim uses the term “fraud,” it would seem that he
means rather the irresponsible self-infliction of the wounds. He says:
“As he [Francis] was a most superstitious and fanatical mortal, it is
undoubtedly evident that he imprinted on himself the holy wounds.
Paul's words, 'I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus,' may have
suggested the idea of the fraud.” The notion certainly prevailed that
Francis was a sort of second Christ, and a book was circulated showing
how he might be compared to Christ in forty particulars. There are many
things in his biography which, if true, indicate that Francis yearned
to imitate literally the experiences of his Lord.
3. Numerous experiments, conducted by scientific men, have
established the fact that red marks, swellings, blisters, bleeding and
wounds have been produced by mental suggestion. Bjoernstrom, in his
work on “Hypnotism,” after recounting various experiments showing the
effect of the imagination on the body, says, respecting the stigmata
of the Middle Ages: “Such marks can be produced by hypnotism without
deceit and without the miracles of the higher powers.” Prof. Fisher
declares: “There is no room for the suspicion of deceit. The idea of a
strange physical effect of an abnormal state is more plausible.” Trench
thinks this is a reasonable view in the case of a man like Francis,
“with a temperament so irrepressible, of an organization so delicate,
permeated through and through with the anguish of the Lord's
sufferings, passionately and continually dwelling on the one
circumstance of his crucifixion.” But others, despairing of any
rational solution, cut the Gordian knot and declare that “the kindest
thing to think about Francis is that he was crazy.”
4. Roman Catholics naturally reject all explanations that exclude
the supernatural, for, as Father Candide Chalippe affirms: “Catholics
ought to be cautious in adopting anything coming from heretics; their
opinions are almost always contagious.” He therefore holds fast to the
miracles in the lives of the saints, not only because he accepts the
evidence, but because he believes these wonderful stories “add great
resplendency to the merits of the saints, and, consequently, give great
weight to the example they afford us.”
It is altogether probable that each one will continue to view the
whole affair as his predispositions and religious convictions direct;
some unconvinced by traditionary evidence and undismayed by charges of
heresy; others devoutly accepting every monkish miracle and marveling
at the obstinacy of unbelief.
Two years after the event just described Francis was carried on a
cot outside the walls of Assisi, where, lifting his hands he blessed
his native city. Some few days later, on October 4, 1226, he passed
away, exclaiming, “Welcome, Sister Death!”
Whatever we may think of the legends that cluster about his life,
Francis himself must not be held responsible for all that has been
written about him. He himself was no phantom or mythical being, but a
real, earnest man who, according to his light, tried to serve his
generation. As he himself said: “A man is just so much and no more as
he is in the sight of God.” “Francis appears to me,” says Forsyth, “a
genuine, original hero, independent, magnanimous, incorruptible. His
powers seemed designed to regenerate society; but taking a wrong
direction, they sank men into beggars.” Through the mist of tradition
the holy beggar and saintly hero shines forth as a loving, gentle soul,
unkind to none but himself. However his biography may be regarded, his
life illustrates the beauty and power of voluntary renunciation,—the
fountain not only of religion but of all true nobility of character. He
may have been ignorant, perhaps grossly so, as Mosheim thinks, but
nevertheless he merits our highest praise for striving honestly to keep
his vow of poverty in the days when worldly monks disgraced their
sacred profession by greed, ambition, and lustful indulgence.