In the spring of 1206 C E, early in St. Francis’ career as God’s troubadour, the saint entered the little chapel of San Damiano. This shrine, located three-quarters of a mile below Assisi, was in ruins. However, there was still suspended over the altar a simple crucifix. St. Francis knelt before the wooden cross and began to pray. Suddenly the figure of Christ in the crucifix called him by name and said, “Francis, go and repair my house, which is falling in ruins.”
Francis was a simple man and looking about him at the ruins, he interpreted Jesus’ words literally and began his rebuilding project at San Damiano. He was not skilled as a mason and knew practically nothing about architecture. I have never been to Assisi, but I have been told that if you go to San Damiano and inspect the building you can tell exactly where Francis began to rebuild the chapel. The original structure was built with care and precision, each stone resting where it should in line with the others. Where Francis began his work, the stones are anything but in perfect order. They appear to have been haphazardly placed, perhaps by children who were playing at masonry.
Over a period of time after rebuilding several churches, Francis realized that the house Christ was calling him to repair which was falling in ruins was the church itself, not a building. Francis realized that the church in his day was no longer built upon the cornerstone of Christ. That passage in I Peter 2:4-5 took on special meaning for him and his future followers: “Come to him, a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.” For the rest of his life, Francis would try to build a Christian community whose foundation was none other than Jesus.
… the house Christ was calling him to repair which was falling in ruins was the church itself, not a building.
What strikes me about this part of Francis’ life is that he stumbled into the truth and mission God had for him. Frankly, at first he misinterpreted Christ’s message. I doubt if Jesus was or is much interested in the glory and attention we give our shrines. He is far more concerned about the church being built upon his example. But Francis was willing to act, even if he did not completely understand. He was willing to take a risk and to act the “fool” for Christ. He was willing to go outside his comfort zone and try something new for his Lord. And he dared to believe that Christ would speak to someone as insignificant as himself.
Kathleen Norris in her wonderful book entitled Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith reminds us that the root meaning of the word “ecstasy” is “to put out of place, to lose one’s stand.” Ecstasy is always a little frightening because it takes us out of a place we are certain of. That certainly was true of Francis who had been reared and pampered in the wealthy home of his father, Pietro Bernardone. We would say today that he moved from one paradigm to a radically different paradigm for the basis of his life. But perhaps Kathleen Norris’ observation about ecstasy reveals why this saint, whose life was lived from that point on in poverty and hardship, was characterized by ecstatic joy. It was as inconceivable in his day as in ours that such a life could have so much overflowing joy, but that is the testimony of all who knew Francis. Perhaps ecstasy/joy can come only to the one who is willing to be put out of place and lose one’s footing in this world as one’s feet find a radically different foundation.
Neither ecstasy nor joy can come to those who are unwilling to be put out of place.
We are a people who are obsessed with pleasure and happiness. Sacrifice and risky repositioning are not popular in our day. I would imagine that this is why our lives are strangers to ecstasy and why, in spite of our endless and costly search, pleasure and happiness, not to mention joy, always seem just beyond our reach. Neither ecstasy nor joy can come to those who are unwilling to be put out of place. Maybe that is why Jesus insisted that unless we become as little children, we cannot enter the Realm of God. In fact, in John’s Gospel, Jesus goes even further, demanding that we be born again/born from above. I would call that a radical repositioning.
But what about all those times when, like St. Francis, we misinterpret the call of Christ? That fear has kept many Christians from becoming saints in their own time and space. The fear of being wrong has planted countless feet in the ever-hardening cement of uninspiring timidity. We could learn from Francis in this as in many areas. In time he saw the wider truth of God and found his true mission. Perhaps he learned some lessons as he worked as an amateur mason that would serve him in the future. And we know that God used Francis’ “mistake” in a most wonderful way.
Perhaps the most faithful follower of Francis and his dream was the lovely Clare of Assisi. Inspired by his example, Clare founded the “Order of Poor Ladies” (or “Poor Clares” as they later came to be known). In many ways this order has been more faithful to the example of Christ than its male counterpart, the Franciscans. Clare needed a simple base for her order as they ministered to the poor and lepers. The restored chapel of San Damiano became their home and assured that the Franciscan witness would be preserved long after the death of the little man from Assisi. San Damiano also served Francis throughout his remarkable life. From time to time he returned there, the place of his calling, for inspiration, strength, and no doubt a reminder of how wonderful and playful are the ways of God. And it was there that Clare cared for him during the last days before he was transported to the Portiuncula, his own headquarters, to die. After his death and at his request, his body was taken in a procession to where his joyful pilgrimage began. At San Damiano Clare wept over his body and lavished it with the outward affection she could not give him in life. And I would imagine that God and the angels smiled upon this final homecoming of God’s Troubadour, for he had given himself to Christ in ecstasy, and the world would never be the same.
If we risk ecstasy for Christ, we will no doubt make our mistakes. But we shall learn and grow. And this mysterious, playful God will weave even our mistakes into wonderful patterns of love, life, and light. And we shall know joy.
