Apart from the cloud it was an occasion of rejoicing, holding within itself all the special Franciscan beauty, and to it there came, as though in homage to Francis, all those over whom he would have been so astonished to know that he reigned: the rich, the poor, and the creatures. The Franciscan chapters were at this time held twice a year, at Whitsuntide and Michaelmas, and of the two the Whitsun chapter was the more important and was attended by every friar who could get there. The Whitsun chapter, called the Chapter of the Mats because of the vast number of thatched huts built for the housing of the brethren, followed the accustomed pattern. From all over Italy the brothers, about five thousand of them, converged upon the Portiuncula, tramping barefoot over the mountain passes and through the woods, happy in the thought of this family reunion, of participating in the conventual mass in Santa Maria degli Angeli, seeing the beloved face of Father Francis and hearing him preach. Many of them were young novices who had never seen him or the Portiuncula, and their expectation was tinged with excitement. What was he like, this little man who had brought all Italy under his spell? What would life be like at the Portiuncula? They had been told that they would have both peace and liberty there. Though a multitude of men would be living in their huts in the woods, they would speak only in low voices and there would be long hours of prayer and quietness, as well as the glorious tumult of all of them praising God together. When they met in assembly to discuss the affairs of the order the youngest novice might get up and speak out his heart and be respectfully and courteously listened to, for none was more important than another, and the concern of one would be the concern of all. They would see all the great men of the order as well as Francis himself: the first men, Bernard and Giles, Sylvester and Angelo, Ruffino and Leo; and though they would not see them they would know that Clare and her sisters were kneeling in prayer for them in the chapel at San Damiano. And it was early summer. The vines were green, the birds were singing and the young brothers had not a care in the world. Men working in the fields stopped and called out a cheery greeting as the gray-clad friars tramped by, and many voices cried back to them, “God give thee his peace!” As well as the brothers other poor men were making their way through the forest to the Portiuncula, beggars and those who were sick and lame. They would find healing and comfort there and hear the brothers singing the praises of God. All Umbria felt a thrill of pride because it was the time for the Whitsun chapter, for the fame of the order was spreading through Europe now and the country of its origin sunned itself in its glory. Assisi was especially proud, for Francis was its own son. The city was preparing a surprise for him at this chapter, a gift which it hoped would give him joy.
The rich as well as the poor were coming to the Portiuncula this year, though they would not tramp barefoot. Cardinal Ugolino was to preside at the chapter and on Whitsunday he would ride from Perugia with a retinue of nobles and princes of the Church, all of them sitting easily upon fine horses, their many-colored cloaks and surcoats making a river of color threading through the woods.
And the reason for this vast concord, the focal point of it all, was a tired little man who was also making his way barefoot through the woods, limping a little because it was the end of a long journey. Francis had been away on a preaching tour and was only now coming home to the Portiuncula. With a lifting of the heart he came to the space where the trees thinned out, and saw the gable of Santa Maria degli Angeli and the quickset hedge. And then he saw something else and could hardly believe his eyes, for a large stone building stood near the little church. It was the surprise that the people of Assisi had prepared for him, the chapter house they had built so that whatever the weather the deliberations of the brothers and their distinguished guests could take place comfortably. But Francis did not know this. All he knew was that this was not the poverty of Christ. His Lord had preached at street corners, in the fields or in a little boat rocking on the lake, and had prayed at night on the bare mountainside, his head wet with dew. The rain had drenched him, and the wind had tanned his skin and caught at his garments, for he had not had where to lay his head. The heart of Francis, that had been near to breaking, was suddenly hot with that fierce anger that could at times take hold of him. He strode into the enclosure and called to some brothers, no doubt the hefty Masseo, Leo, and Ruffino and other faithful sons, to come and help him. With them he climbed up to the roof of the fine new chapter house and began to hack and tear it to pieces, flinging the wooden laths down to the ground. The sympathy of all the brothers was not with him, for this fine building was a symbol of their growing discontent, of their desire for more security and comfort, and a messenger was sent hastily to Assisi. Francis had not got far with his furious demolition when burgesses and knights came running down the hill and into the enclosure. “Father Francis,” they cried, “this building is not yours; it belongs to the city.” And they were upheld by the brother who had been chosen to be seneschal of the chapter, an Englishman called de Barton. Francis stopped and looked down at them, deep sadness and his habitual courtesy taking the place of the rage that had consumed him. “If this house is yours I have no wish to touch it,” he said, and he climbed down from the roof. There was nothing else he could do but he had not accepted the gift, for in order to save it the giver had had to take it back.
The cloud passed and the next day, Whitsunday, was full of joy. When a messenger arrived to tell Francis Cardinal Ugolina was coming the brothers went out in procession to meet him. The two processions met in the woods, the rich men from Perugia and the poor men from the Portiuncula, and the difference between them so touched the cardinal that he got down from his horse, took off his rich cloak and his shoes and walked behind the brothers barefoot to the church. There he sang mass, Francis assisting as deacon. The little place could not hold the vast congregation, but outside in the cathedral of the woods the brothers knelt rank upon rank on the grass and among the flowers, their deep voices lifting like a wave in the Sursum Corda, rolling through the forest in a storm of praise in the Gloria in Excelsis. Francis, in his place in the little church, shaken by that most moving of all tremendous sounds, a great multitude of worshipful men singing together, must have remembered the dawn of that day ten years ago, when the old priest of San Damiano had said mass for him alone; and now God had added to him all these sons.
When mass was over he came out of the church to an out-of-doors pulpit to speak to them, and they gathered in as closely as they could, for it did not appear possible that the voice of such a frail little man could reach very far. Yet when he turned and faced them, and began to speak, “his voice was powerful, sweet-toned, clear and sonorous,” and as always, “he saw the greatest concourse of people as one man; and to one man he preached most carefully, as if to a multitude.” The one man who had served the mass ten years ago had become this vast army, and yet this multitude of men was still one man in the sight of God, the Franciscan Order. To it he preached and each man heard his sermon as though it were for him alone. His text was a minstrel’s chant.
Great things we have promised,
But greater are promised to us;
What we have promised let us fulfill,
To what we are promised let us look forward.
The brief delight and punishment forever;
A little suffering and glory infinite!
Then he preached to them of the life to which they had pledged themselves, the life of love, humility, obedience, penitence, prayer, service, and poverty, recalling them to their first vows and their first fervor. He begged the five thousand men to have no care for their bodily needs at this chapter, but to give themselves wholly to prayer and praise, and God would feed them as he fed the birds and the creatures. Now, and for all the rest of their days, they were to cast all care upon “the good Shepherd and Nurse of soul and body, our Lord Jesus Christ the Blessed.”
The days that followed were happy and carefree. The brothers slept in their little huts of branches, with mats of reeds for roofs, lying on straw with stones
for pillows. They spent their time in prayer and praise, and in caring for the sick and poor who came to them for help. Cardinal Ugolino was moved to tears by the sight of their quietness and devotion and exclaimed, “Truly this is the field of God; this is the army, and these are the knights of the Lord.” But he did more than weep. Putting on the Franciscan habit, he made himself one with them and tried to help them in their works of mercy. But in caring for the poor he lacked their experience, and in washing the feet of a beggar he was not very successful in getting the dirt off. The beggar, unaware that the brother kneeling humbly at his feet was a cardinal, exclaimed, “Go on your way and let someone come that understands this!”
Francis’s faith that his five thousand would no more go hungry than did those five thousand men who followed Christ into the wilderness, and were fed with the loaves and fishes, was justified, for the creatures came to the Chapter of Mats, bringing food for the brothers. From Perugia, Spoleto, Foligno, and Spello came trains of horses and donkeys with carts and panniers laden with bread and wine, beans and cheese, the frugal food that the people of Umbria knew the brothers liked best. For God had put it into their hearts to see that the brothers did not go hungry, and until the end of the chapter they furnished the table of the Lord with all that was needed.
Yet in spite of God’s care for them, and Francis’s appeal to them on Whitsunday, there were those at the chapter who were afraid of the future, and they appealed to the cardinal to support them in their desire for a more practical way of life. Once again the fine stone building that Francis had attempted to pull down cast its shadow; it stood for what they wanted, just that minimum of shelter and security that were possessed by the other great orders. The cardinal listened to what they had to say and afterward repeated it to Francis, who heard him out and then took him by the hand and led him to the brothers assembled in chapter. Then only did he speak, crying out upon them all in anger and sorrow. “My brethren, my brethren, the Lord called me by the way of simplicity and humility, and this way hath he shown me in truth for me and those who will believe and imitate me. And therefore I would that ye name not to me any rule, neither of Saint Augustine, nor Saint Benedict, nor of Bernard, nor any way or form of living, but that which was mercifully shown and given me by the Lord. . . . But God will confound you through your wisdom and knowledge, and I trust in the sergeants of the Lord that God will punish you by them, and that you will yet return to your state with reproach, willy-nilly.” He was so passionate in his grief that he silenced them. They were ashamed and could say no more, and it was perhaps out of this shame that there grew the decision that was taken at this chapter. The order decided to send three missions to the infidels. Three bands of brothers were to set out for Morocco, Tunis, and Egypt. It was an immensely courageous decision, and we have seen already how fearful was the martyrdom that awaited the brothers who went to Morocco. The leader of the mission to the Moslems in Egypt was to be Francis himself. The moment he had longed for had come. It was four years since he had listened to the pope’s sermon in Saint John Lateran, and he had waited patiently for the hour that God had appointed for him, and now it was here at last and he was to go on the crusades.
Chapter 14
The Crusades
O Love, forever glowing and aflame,
Kindle thy warriors’ hearts,
And turn their tongues to darts,
To pierce each soul that hears thy sacred name.
JACOPONE DA TODI
LAUDA LXXXI
THE CRUSADE THAT Pope Innocent III had inspired, and did not live to see, was now in full swing and the armies of Christendom were in Egypt. Francis must have been on fire to join them for some while, only held back because the will of God was not yet clear to him. As we have seen, the movement of events about him was for him a clearer indication of God’s will than his own feelings, which he profoundly distrusted. Now the spontaneous decision of the whole order that they must go to the infidels had settled the matter, and lifted him up on a wave to see the far horizons to which he must travel before them as their leader. For that he should stay behind while they went forward to martyrdom was unthinkable. On a former occasion, arguing with Cardinal Ugolino as to whether or not he should share the missionary journeys of the brothers, he had said, “My Lord, much shame will it be to me if, having sent others of my brethren into far countries, I myself do not share in the hardships and troubles that await them.”
From the practical point of view this was hardly an expedient time for Francis to leave Italy, for with him out of the way the brothers whose way of thinking was symbolized by the new stone building would have a freer hand, but expediency was not a thing he considered when the will of God was clear to him, and in this particular decision he showed a high and heavenly wisdom. What a man does is far more compelling than what he says. A man who talks about his convictions may be politely listened to, but the man whom other men follow is the man who offers himself to die for them. If Francis had stayed at home and argued with the discontented brothers about the cross of Christ he might have postponed for a few months the changes in the order that later took place, but a great chapter in his life would have been missing, the chapter on martyrdom, and we shall see later that it was through his union with the suffering of Christ and not through his arguments that he saved the order. Actually he did not suffer martyrdom on the crusades, but without the crusades there might have been no Alvernia, for it was the consummation and acceptance of his offering of himself to die for Christ in Egypt.
Undoubtedly he wanted to die at the hands of the infidels and hoped that he would. Saint Bonaventure says he “yearned to offer himself up as a living sacrifice unto the Lord in martyr flames, that he might pay back somewhat in his turn unto Christ who died for us.” It needs a hard stretching of the imagination to realize that this was his outlook upon life. In his time he had shared the normal desires of men, he had wanted to make a success of his life, to achieve something, to be liked and loved, and the high peak of his youthful dreams had been some heroic action that should make him famous. But his outlook had changed and gone into reverse. He made no more claims upon God, clamored for no more gifts. Saturated through and through with the love and bounty of God, drenched in it as a man is drenched in the sunlight that pours down upon him, he longed only to pay back something of what he owed. He would have been the first to realize the absurdity of his longing, and to laugh at it, for what can a gnat do for the sun? Nothing at all except stretch himself out in the sun’s flames to die. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends . . .” In those words of Christ is a statement that cuts both ways. If God and man are friends then each can die for the other, and for both Calvary is the peak of being and the point of union. And so Francis’s whole being strained after it, and when later he was told of the martyrdom of the brothers who went to Morocco he was overcome not by remorse or sorrow but by pure joy.
However absorbed Francis might be in God he never forgot his sons. The small fiery chariot of his concern for them was always with them, chasing to and fro, as the brothers had seen it in their vision at Rivo-Torto. Before he left them he did all he could to arrange for the smooth working of the life of the fraternity while he was away. He appointed two brothers to govern the order in his absence, Brother Matthew of Narni who was to live at the Portiuncula and receive the novices, and Brother Gregory of Naples who was to travel through the provinces “to console the brethren.” They were men in whose loyalty he trusted and in whose hands he thought he could safely leave the welfare of his sons. Twelve brothers were to accompany him to the East, among them Peter Cathanii, Barbaro, Illuminato, who once had been Lord of Rocca Accarina in the valley of Rieti, and Leonard, who also was of noble birth. These were four staunch friends, a fact that lends color to the story that he himself did not choose the twelve, for it would have been very unlike him to cushion himself for martyrdom with the company of those he loved the best. According to the story
, he called a child to him and told the boy to choose twelve men out of the many who wanted to be with him. The presence of this child among the brothers, the fact that the choice was entrusted to him, suggests that the order had been deeply moved, and perhaps strongly influenced, by something that had happened in the April of the year in which Francis had made his first unsuccessful effort to reach the infidels. A shepherd boy of Vendome, impatient at the tardiness of the grownups in freeing the Holy Places, had preached a crusade to his companions, crying out that if men would not free the sepulcher of Christ then children would. Followed like the Pied Piper by a stream of children he had marched down to Marseilles, and was only halted there by the impassable sea and the refusal of the grownups to find them ships. The story of the children’s crusade was something that would have sunk right into the very heart of Francis. Perhaps the small boy who walked up and down before the company of grown men lined up for his consideration, choosing one here and one there, counting up twelve on his fingers, was a shepherd boy, a sheepskin over his shoulders and his shepherd’s pipe slung around his neck.
My God and My All Page 21
