St. Francis and the violin of sticks

Yesterday I went to El Zapote Santa Rosa. I was planning to go to their Mass for the vigil of the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi, their patron. When I got there I found out that Mass wouldn’t start until 6:00 PM. I decided I’d stay until the procession began, since I was planning on going to two Masses on Sunday, his feast day.

Despite being an introvert, I sometimes find myself being rather overflowing with energy, interacting with a lot of folks. Last night was one of those times.

I talked to scores of the people waiting for the procession to begin – kidding around with the kids, talking with the young men who are almost always at the edge of church meetings, scaring a few infants but entertaining many kids.

There was a marching band of percussion from Dulce Nombre who had come out for the procession. 

While they were drumming, I remembered the Philadelphia Mummers Day parades on January 1. I began to strut and “dance” to the rhythm. I invited others to join – but no one did. In fact, I think I scared one older woman!

Then, while near the truck with the statue of St. Francis, I remember the story of St. Francis picking up two sticks and playing his “violin.” I even got two kids to play two sticks.

I was having a lot of fun and full of joy and wonder.

The procession began after Padre German arrived with the sound system. The truck with the statue of St. Francis was followed by kids and others with saplings which they were going to distribute Sunday to be planted.

I left a little sad because I wouldn’t be joining them for Mass, since that would mean getting home about 8:30 PM. But I watched as they walked to the church.

When I got home I looked for the tale of Francis and the stick violin. I found several but the one I like is from Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel Saint Francis:

      One morning he sat up in bed and clapped his hands with elation. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking all night long, Brother Leo?” he shouted to me. “That every piece of wood is a lute or violin; that it has a voice and glorifies the Lord. . . . If you want my blessing, Brother Leo, bring me two pieces of wood.”
      I brought them. He placed the first on his shoulder and slid the other over it with rapid bowlike motions. Seated on his mattress, he played and sang endlessly, beside himself with joy. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back: he was in ecstasy.          “Do you hear the pieces of wood, do you hear them singing?” he asked me. “Listen!”
      At first I heard nothing but the two sticks rubbing and grating against each other. But gradually my ear became attuned, my soul awoke, and I began to hear an infinitely sweet melody coming from the two dry branches. In Francis’s hands the mute wood had become a viol.
      “Do you hear, Brother Leo? Do you hear? Cast aside your mind and leave your heart free to listen. When a person believes in God there is no such thing as a mute piece of wood, or pain unaccompanied by exultation, or ordinary everyday life without miracles!”

All creation speaks and sings in praise of God, even the piece of wood that appears mute.

Mother Earth

Later this month Pope Francis will release his encyclical on the environment – on God’s creation. To celebrate this I'd like to offer a few photos for your contemplation. 

It is reported that he will use words from St. Francis’ Canticle of the Sun as the opening words – “Praised be…” 

Near San Damiano, Assisi

In that Canticle, Francis praises the God of creation and addresses all that is made as his sisters and brothers – 

Brother Sun, 

Sister Moon, 

Sister Water, 

Water spigot in Assisi

Brother Fire:

Easter Fire

Brother Wind, Brother Death, and even Mother Earth.

 Living in the countryside since last December, I have often been moved by the beauty of nature:

The flowering trees:

Acacia - Arbol del fuego (fire tree)

The beautiful landscapes:

The cicadas and birds that sing outside my window:

Chiquirín - cicada

The izote and coffee bushes in flower:

Flor de izote

Coffee in bloom

Even the spider web, sparkling in the dew:

And so much more.

But I also see the devastation that humans are wreaking on Mother Earth:

Trees are being cut down to enlarge coffee farms.

Hillsides are being burnt – to provide for grazing lands or more coffee fields.

 People build with little concern for the effects on nature. Trash is just thrown wherever.

I pray that we may begin to take seriously the call to respect all creation, which is, after all, a gift of God.

Accompanying the poor with St. Francis

Today is the feast of St. Francis of Assisi.

In the last year or so, the place of Francis in my life has become much more central.

There is much to learn from the Little Poor Man from Assisi, especially for one who works among the poor in Honduras. Francis is central to my understanding of my mission.

This year, though, I will not celebrate the feast there but in the Us, visiting St. Thomas Aquinas Church in Ames, the church where I served in campus ministry for 23 years and which supported me in my mission. 

On the plane yesterday, I began to read Jon Sweeney’s collection: Francis of Assisi – In His Own Words.

Image of a poor man, outside San Damiano, Assisi

This quotation from the Earlier Rule for the Lesser Brothers struck me:

they should rejoice when they have an opportunity to talk with people who are easily despised, with the poor and the weak, with the sick and lepers, and with anyone who begs in the streets.

That is what I most love in my ministry in Honduras – the chance to stop and speak with those at the margins.

I do have to admit, though that there are some people I try to avoid – the drunk who is always asking for money, the pastoral worker who always seem to be complaining (and who speaks so fast I cannot always understand him).

But just standing around and listening to people sustain me. It is also important for them, for so many people ignore and do not even listen to the poor.

But listening is the first step in recognizing the dignity and the worth of each person. It is the first step in seeing Christ present in the poor.

I need to do it even more.

Pray and fast for peace 2: putting lives on line

In 1965 I had the chance to participate in a program on inter-racial relations run by Friendship House on the south side of Chicago. It was a very mind opening experience – seeing urban poverty and racism up close.

I especially remember a meeting we had with Bernard Lafayette, a civil rights activist and proponent of nonviolence who had put his life on the line many times. . He spoke about the civil rights struggle, including talking about the use of active nonviolence. I was impressed.

At one point he started talking about the Viet Nam War. This was years before the major mobilizations of 1968, 1969, and 1970. The war was hardly an issue in my mind and in the mind of most people in the US.

I remember that he specifically suggested that religious leaders, including the Pope, should go to Viet Nam, putting their lives on the line to stop the war. That struck my imagination, Sadly nothing like this happened, though several religious leaders did go to Hani and lived for a few days under US bombs. The Viet Nam war lasted another ten years.

I wonder what would happen if Pope Francis something like that now.

The Grand Mufti of Damascus, Ahmad Badreddin Hassou, wants to come to Rome to pray with Pope Francis this Saturday.

What would happen if Pope Francis decided to go to Damascus.

If he did, Pope Francis would be following in the footsteps of his namesake Saint Francis of Assisi.

In 1219 in the midst of a Crusade, Francis went to Damietta in Egypt where the Crusaders were encamped. With another friar he walked through the lines and sought to visit the Sultan of Egypt, Malek-al-Kamil. For some reason, the guard let them through and they spent some time speaking with the Sultan. The meeting was amicable. The sultan offered Francis many precious gifts, but Francis would only accept an ivory horn.

Paul Moses discusses this story in depth in The Saint and the Sultan: the Crusades, Islam and Francis of Assisi's Mission of Peace. I read the book several years ago and have lent it to friends. It might be good reading for these days - a reminder of the possibilities of nonviolent love.

This bold action of St. Francis did not end the war. The Crusades continued their bloody course.

But Sultan al-Kamil subsequently treated Christians with compassion. When he took over the city of Damietta in 1221 after it surrendered, he spared the lives of the Christians and treated them with respect.

But just imagine – Pope Francis, the Grand Mufti of Damascus, the Archbishop of Canterbury, religious leaders from throughout the world, praying in Damascus and other cities of Syria. What a witness of a loving God, what power.

In the meantime, let’s all pray and fast this Saturday for peace in Syria – and throughout the world.

It’s a start.

---
After I had started writing this entry I came across this article by Tobias Winright, "The Grace of Doing Something in Syria."

Last full day in Assisi

There is a story about St. Francis that a bird in one of his retreat settings woke him for Matins, except when Francis was ill or especially tired.

I had intended to get up and go to Lauds and Mass at Santa Chiara. But I woke with only enough time to get to Mass in the crypt of the St. Francis Basilica. I must have needed the extra sleep.

After Mass and breakfast, I went to leave some laundry to be washed. I thought of going to Rivo Torto, the Holy Hovel, but decide to wait until the afternoon.

Wanting through the crooked streets of Assisi, I ran across the tiny chapel of San Francesco Picollino. It's almost literally a hole in the wall.

One tradition is that Francis was born there in a stable - according to the early lives that tried to make Francis an other Chrixt, alter Christus. Another tradition is that this is where his father, Pietro Bernadone, had his fabric shop.

Neither tale may be true - or both may be. It doesn't matter because here is a holy place, simple and small, befitting the memory of Il Poverello, the little poor man.

I sat and prayed, reveling in the presence of God.

After lunch I decided to go to Rivo Torto, walking by way of San Damiano. God had other plans.

I started to go the way my guide sheet said, but decided it was too far and it was better to stop and pray at San Damiano. But I did have the blessing to encounter a beautiful sculpture of Francis praying, in a meditative stance. It touched me deeply.

And so I ended up sitting for a good time in San Damiano, praying quietly, with no one to disturb  me. The peace was palpable.

I returned to Assisi and walked, read, relaxed until I headed to Vespers (Evening Prayer) in the chapel of San Quirico which is a Poor Clare monastery.

What a center of peace. As Vespers began, one of the sisters brought a simple monstrance  with the Host and placed it on the altar, while the sisters sang an Italian version of Adoro Te, devote, accompanied by what was probably a psaltery. (It reminded me of a hammered dulcimer but was plucked, rather than struck.)

The prayer was heavenly.

I left, had dinner, finished Carlo Caretto's I, Francis, and went to sleep.

Friday Mass at the Basilica was followed by my departure for Rome.

I left grateful, finding here an oasis of peace, that nourished my spirit and challenged me to live out a Franciscan life of being with the little people of the world, trusting in a God who is our real security.

Ash Wednesday in Assisi

To celebrate the the beginning of Lent, I got up early and walked to San Damiano, the small church where Francis heard his call to repair the church.

Lauds and Mass were simple, sung by the friars and the congregation, mostly women religious. The priest was young and gave a short, to the point, homily. Then ashes were blessed and we came forward to be signed. I was surprised when the ashes were dropped on the top of the head, instead of being put on the forehead. But the symbol spoke clearly.

After Mass I walked back to the guesthouse for breakfast and spent th day visiting a few places.

But most of all it was a day, dry like a desert. Tuesday had been full of strong emotions, but the strongest I experienced Wednesday was homesickness for Honduras. I really missed home.

But I also became aware of the way I look for and want security and control. From my reading I am beginning to see that a central part of Francis' message of poverty is the need not merely to relinquish stuff, but more important to live in the precariousness of life with faith in the providence of God.

Francis was so intent on poverty because he feared that houses and books would lead people to seek their security there, rather then in God. The poor don't have that type of security and neither did Jesus.

So, to seek things is to look for other sources of security. And,  Francis once said, if we have possessions, we will need weapons to protect them!

So, I struggled Wednesday.

But the day ended well, with Evening Prayer at Santa Chiara.

Assisi, day two

Tuesday morning after breakfast I got a taxi to take me to the Carceri, the hermitage that St. Francis often used, about three miles up the mountain from Assisi.

What an oasis of peace!

I spent some time in the chapel, praying and beginning to read Carlo Carretto's I, Francis. It was providential that I had brought this book with me.

It was cold there, with ice and snow on some parts of the grounds. But I walked and read Carretto as I prayed at the site of Francis' cave.

Toward the end of my walking I found the caves of Brothers Rufino and Masseo up from the church. It was tricky getting down to Brother Masseo's cave, the descent was rocky and icy to the cave perched at the end of an abyss. As I walked to the back of the cave, I experienced a sense of peace. I looked out at the stream and hillside in front of me and felt grateful for the beauty of this place.

To get warm, I went back to the chapel and found a spot where the sun could warm me. Two groups came and went. Even though each group had someone speaking with them in Italian, the chapel was still a place of peace. I read some more and I wrote.

I left about 12:30. I had been there for more than three hours.

I walked back down to Assisi and ate lunch.

After a short rest, I went to the lower town to the basilica of Our Lady of the Angels. The small church, the Porziuncula, where St. Francis lived and died, is under the dome of this immense church. It's rather incongruous but I prayed there and later found a priest from Bangladesh who spoke English hearing confessions.

After confessing he spoke with me and asked me about the situation in Honduras. I started to tell him about the poverty, the instability, and especially my concern about the consequences of the poor coffee harvest. As I shared my fears of every hunger a few months from now, I found myself on the verge of tears. Obviously the people I try to serve have a special place in my heart.

That night, to celebrate Mardi Gras, I had a larger dinner than usual and went to bed content and full of peace.

Assisi, day one

This is a very personal blog entry, but I want to share what is happening to me here in Assisi.

I arrived late Monday morning and signed into the guesthouse where I'll be staying until Friday morning. My room looks out onto the Basilica of St. Francis.

My first visit was to the tomb of St. Francis in the crypt, a simple place to pray. After a Mass in the lower church I walked some more and then headed back for a little rest (since many churches are closed from noon to 2 or 2:30).

My first afternoon visit was to the Basilica of Santa Chiara (Saint Clare). There I stopped and prayed before the crucifix that has been in the little church of San Damiano. Praying before this crucifix, Francis experienced a call to rebuild the church.

I knelt and prayed, "Lord, what do you want me to do?"

I had a very clear sense that Jesus was telling me, "Love."

"Love my people."

"Love the little ones of this world, the poor, the people at the margin."

In one sense this is a reflection on what I've been reading.

A few days ago I finished André Vauchez's Francis of Assisi: the life and afterlife of a medieval saint. Vauchez brings out Francis' radical sense of Jesus as God who became flesh, identifying with those who have no place in this world. 

As Vauchez writes on page 258:

"For Francis, the poor and humble not only constitute the necessary instruments for the salvation of the rich and powerful, as the traditional understanding of the Psalms would have it. They are imges of Christ and acquired by that fact their own human and spiritual dignity."

There is much more in Vauchez that strikes a sympathetic chord in my heart, but his insistence on the place in Francis of a poverty based in the vision of Christ as God emptying himself leads Vauchez to offer a vision of Francis as one who followed an incarnate God. And so, Vauchez also writes, on page 32:

"Francis does not flee the world. On the contrary, he rushes to plunge himself into it in order, like his Lord, to conquer it and to reintegrate back into society the poor and all those whom power and money have excluded of it."

And so the voice of God is calling me to renew my love and commitment with the poor. 

On the train to Assisi an event of the previous night left me with a similar message.

I had gone out to a local laundromat in Ravenna to wash a few clothes. No clean underwear! The washer was malfunctioning and the owner told me to come back in two hours. When I returned two young African guys were there and we struck up a conversation. Between a mixture of Spanish, Italian, and English we manage to communicate on a minimal level. They were middle school students, born and raised in Italy, of parents from the Sahel. At one point the older guy said to his friend that I was "simpatico." I felt blessed that, despite difficulties of language and differences of culture, they felt that I had a sense of them. Maybe they felt that I really respected them for who they are.

I felt at home with them, probably at the margins of Italian society, as I feel at home with the campesinos in Honduras.

I think there is something really Franciscan about this.

Leaving Saint Clare's basilica I walked down to San Damiano and sat in the back of the small church where Francis heard God's call.

Again I felt the call to love and be with the poor of the world.

In San Damiano I experienced a joy, though my eyes filled with tears. 

The basilica of Saint Clare and the church of St. Damian were for me "thin places." 

But I cannot remain in thin places. I need to return to the world with all its pain,  boredom, and difficulties, getting into the muck of things.

This had become clear to me in the church of San Vitale in Ravenna. 

There's a labyrinth there which I walked. Beginning I felt uneasy, losing my balance at one point. But when I reached the center round circle, I faced the altar with the mosiac of the youthful Christ and prayed. 

The way out was easier, I felt centered. When I left the labyrinth I saw the large round circle in the center of the nave, right in front of me that reminded me of the similar, yet smaller, circle at the center of the labyrinth, I am called to bring the peace of the center of the labyrinth to the center of the world. 

 That's how my days in Assisi have begun. 

Pray that I am open to God's grace these days.

Florence, day one

It's been less than two days since I've arrived in Florence, Italy, but it feels as if I have been here several days. I've walked more in the past 36 hours than I have for a long time.

I arrived late morning Wednesday, 7 February, and after settling in my stuff in a hotel I went off to explore the city. (I did have a concern, though, since my luggage hadn't arrived with me. Somehow it decided to take a Swiss vacation and landed up in Zurich.)

I stopped at the cathedral and had the chance to pray as well as marvel at the impressive building.

Then I was off to Santa Croce, the Conventual Franciscan church.

In some ways I came away a little disappointed.

The frescos of St. Francis are not in a good condition, though I marvel at the beauty of the death scene painted by Giotto.

In addition, the church is filled with funeral monuments of "important" people. There is also a separate chapel that was built with the money of a friend of the Medicis. So much for Franciscan simplicity.

Since it was a beautiful day, I decided to climb to the top of the cathedral dome, all 493 steps. I made it in decent time, though I let younger people pass me.

The view at the top was beautiful.

After a nice vegetable soup dinner I headed back to the hotel to upload photos. The luggage arrived at 9:00 pm.

Wednesday I woke up later than usual and spent the day walking more. Details to follow.