The Cross of San Damiano

You have changed me, O God, and all the things I once so longed for, the things I pursued with such ignorant devotion, I see now as meaningless.  Riches, the acclaim of friends, the honour of the elite, all of these are vanity, and I consider them loss.  But where do I go from here?  What do you desire of me?  What would you make of this life?  When I claimed it as my own, I laid claim to it falsely, O Lord.  It is yours, my Jesus.  It always has been.

I desire only to please you, to serve you, to love you.  But there is much darkness in my heart.  There is much inside it that is unknown to me.  There is faith, but it is haunted by doubt.  There is hope, but it is faltering.  There is love, but it bears the flaws of selfishness.

Only the consonants of his whispered prayer could be heard in the vacant church.  A cool breeze blew through its broken stone walls.  Prayers offered here were few now, the pastor who had let him in a shepherd of almost none.  The cross, hanging by rusted chains from the fractured ceiling, swayed slightly in the wind.  The quiet sound of the creaking chains took his eyes to the strange crucifix, and he was reminded of all that so recently had died within him.  

The young soldier, fighting for the honour of his city, had died after a year as a prisoner of war.

The socialite, the life of the party, had died after a year of debilitating illness.

And the crusader, fighting for the glory of God, had died before he even reached the enlistment centre.

What was left was a broken young man whose heart had been awakened to something divine, but whose soul’s compass could find no bearing.  

His knees were sore from kneeling–he had been here for hours–but he wasn’t finished yet.  His eyes were fixed on the cross above him.  It was a crucifix unlike most others that he’d seen.  It was foreign in its iconography, in the style of the churches of the East. Angels and apostles crowded at the Christ’s feet, by his side and at his head.  Francis’s eyes read the figures like a story, and he saw himself in each one.  Betrayer, sinner, repentant friend, and worshiper.  Blood flowed softly from the palms of Christ, and from his side, a small fountain poured forth.  His eyes remained on that little fountain for a long time.  A small centurion was pictured at the side of Christ, and Francis saw in him an image not unlike himself: a small bird, stretching out his neck, desperate to fill his gullet with life.

And now, he looked into the eyes of Jesus.  They were large and steady and gentle and strong.  He looked at the mouth of Jesus.  This Christ’s lips, too, were different from those on any icon he’d yet seen, though he could not at first identify how.  Folded hands to his own lips, he squinted a little longer at the mouth of Jesus.  

Jesus was smiling.  

From the cross, he was smiling.  Perplexed, Francis looked to the Christ’s head, expecting a crown of thorns.  But they were absent.  Only a halo encircled his head.  And then something came dawning on him like sun through a window.  Of course there was no crown of thorns.  Of course he was smiling.  The Christ which rested on this cross was not the Crucified One, but the Risen One.  His arms were outstretched not in crucifixion, but in welcome.  This Christ was alive, and giving life to his beloved.

The glorious, risen, joyful Christ smiled down upon him from his now beautiful cross.  Francis smiled back, and a prayer came flowing from his very soul, rolling like a river from his lips.

“Most High, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart!  Give me right faith, sure hope and perfect charity.  Fill me with understanding and knowledge that I may fulfill your command.”

He stared in silence at the risen Jesus.  He was wordless now, joyously, peacefully wordless.  His anxiety lay on the floor beneath him like a shed garment.  The two figures remained, their eyes locked in the steady gaze of love.  He could not later recount how long he had knelt there, staring at him, when that Jesus’ pleasant lips parted.

“Francis,” he said, “go and rebuild my church, which, as you can see, is falling into ruin.”

A Franciscan Pilgrimage: Single

It’s not an easy thing to be single and thirty-seven.

Granted, there are infinitely more difficult things to be, but it can be a challenge.  I’ve felt confident of my call to remain single for several years now.  I remember the day I “heard” it.  I don’t think it could have been more clear had an audible voice come down, accompanied by a singing dove and a heavenly mariachi band.  Perhaps I exaggerate, but it was very clear.  I felt it in my soul, down deep, on the stone table that rests at the centre of every heart.  It was clear and direct and felt like freedom.  And it was true.  I’ve never doubted it.  Well, at least not for more than a second or two.  

Of course, those second-or-twos can last a very long time.  I see a husband and wife exchange a kiss, or a look, or even a thoughtless touch that represents everything beautiful about love, and there’s a second-or-two.  A dad side-hugs his boy in the coffee shop line-up.  A girl holds her father’s hand in the pew at church.  There’s a second-or-two.  It’s then that those second-or-twos can jump out of time and remain in a state of suspended eternity.  

But it’s a good life, and there are times when I am reminded that this is just the life for me.  Like when I’m standing alone on a mountain in a foreign land.  Or when I’m praying with a weeping drunk at midnight.  When I’m sitting on the street next to a homeless friend and a passerby gives us both some spare change.  These are good moments for me.  I am at peace with who I am in those moments.  I am at peace with my calling.

But there are other moments, and these are neither about doubting my calling or being confident of it.  They are the moments when I simply wish my inward call had an outward sign.  These are moments when I very badly want something to cling to: a stamp, a symbol, a seal.  A kind of spiritual wedding ring to show people, when they say things like, “Now when are you getting married?” or, “Oh, you think you’re a bachelor, but when the right one comes along…!” or my personal favourite, “Wow, you must have been really burned!”  In those moments, an outward sign could make things a little easier.  “Oh no,” I could say, “See my collar?  I’m a priest.  ”  Or, “Oh, no.  See my awesome habit?  I’m a Franciscan Brother.”  People don’t generally approach a Roman Collar or a man in an imposing brown robe and say, “Well I think you just haven’t met the right girl yet!”

Of course, priesthood or brother-hood may yet be in my future, but I don’t know for certain.  (And if you thought this story of chasing Francis to Assisi was going to be about me finding out, you’re wrong.)  It’s not for lack of prayers or desire or even trying.  Ironically, it’s a bit like finding a girl.  There has to be some stirring in the heart, some romance, and some sense of knowing.  But I still want the sign, the vows, and it’s a little weird when you want to give all of who you are to God’s service by the promise of a sacred vow, and he seems to be the one saying, “It’s just a piece of paper, baby!”

This all becomes very tricky when discerning the next phase of one’s vocation.  What if I only want to be a priest so that I can have a quick label with which to identify myself?  Do I want to take Franciscan vows for a more palpable sense of identity?  (After all, that friar’s robe is pretty impressive.)

Why do I want to take these vows?  Have I not committed myself to them already?  I live below the poverty line; I try to be generous and unconcerned with money.  I am prudent and chaste and committed to celibacy.  I want to follow and do the will of God, to be obedient to whatever and wherever he calls me to be.  Are these personal commitments to poverty, chastity and obedience not enough?  If they are not, who is it they are not enough for?  My ego?  My sense of identity?  But is there not something pure and beautiful in this desire for vows as well?  These questions walked close behind me through the streets of Assisi, they walked beside me on its mountain paths, they knelt down next to me in its holy places.

And so, Lord, I am tossed by the wind from peace to anxiety.  To be secure, to be anchored, I must descend to the depths and understand a little more about the mysteries that motivate me.  I’ve descended down into the depths of my heart before, and it’s dark there, and all I have to light my way is the moonlight trailing in from above.  But I want to do your will, God; I want to please you; I want to serve you.  So I pray as Brother Francis did eight centuries before me:  Most High and Glorious God, illuminate the darkness of my heart.