Francis of Assisi grasped the rocks of Mount Laverna in order to get to the top. He had no finger nails left from all the intense friction of his fingers against the stones. Cold and damp, the air whirled round about him as his mind moved from delusion to illusion and finally, to complete focus -- clarity. The climb. The mountain. The confusion. The infusion. The wind so powerful that causes fear in the heart to hear its rush is inescapable, even in a cave. On that crest, was Christ. Christ the focus for Francis! It was a focus of the eye, the heart and the soul. Christ with wings and a lance. Clarity. This encounter was at Francis' invitation. This was no intrusion of the Christ. This was truly infusion of living bread into a dilapidated body which Francis himself called "brother ass." On that crest, Francesco Bernardone had his greatest challenge. This would be a prayer of struggle. A gauntlet had been thrown down by Christ on the crest of the mountain top. It was a kind of "put up or shut up" offer. They would be Gladiatores. "We who are about to die, salute you." This moment was inescapable since Francis was drawn by his visions of conquest as a young man . He was drawn to the sense that if he could be at the top, he would then show God he was not a saint, that he should not be blessed, that he was forsaken, a smelly leper, that he was rejected. He was there because his own brothers had rejected him as their Minister General and put him out to the "spiritual pasture." He was at the mountain top to boldly claim to God that he, Francis, was God's mistake.
The glove was thrown down. And in the spirit of Jacob wrestling with God, Francis wrestled with the Christ on the crest who had wings and a lance. Frances had longed for relationship. He longed for touch. It had been too long. He longed for flesh and blood and was tired of illusions and dreams. He needed something real, solid, like Thomas the Apostle, to touch the wound of the man for whom he lived, breathed and had his being.
At the moment of this rapture, the little man with a bony body, and faced with scabs on the skin, gained the strength like Samson. Adrenaline rush. The wind changed and worked with him. The wind was not his enemy. The wind was lifting him as though he too were like the man with wings. His heart pumped. And Francis felt such strength he could have bench pressed ten times his weight. His heart swelled with a sense of purpose as he struggled to get the better of the encounter. He had only one weapon. The lance he had to defend himself was his clarity, his sense that his spirit force was greater than the pain he experienced at any time in life even the pain of "now". And so he dared Christ on the crest to pierce him. "I want more than to feel your wounds with my hands," he sang. "I want to feel with mine own hands, on my own body, your great love for me. Pierce me Lord that I may know you in a way that there is no more of you to know."
In a moment, the clarity remained but the winds slipped down the mountain and into the hills below on its way to overtake the brothers. The winds would be a new Pentecost for them. And he would be clear. He would not have to speak. He would only have to amaze himself that he survived this encounter on top of the mountain, and he had the wounds to show for his chivalry. He forever would be marked with the stigmata of Christ. He forever would be associated with the evangelization of the world by the extreme in trying to make the extreme the norm. Now that, was the real mountain and even to this day of fast paced life, modernism, and technology, the brothers are still tasked with preaching the Gospel but using words only when necessary.
I have imagined this scene in my own way. This mystical experience of St. Francis of Assisi has been written about by authors more knowledgeable than me: Thomas of Celano, St. Bonaventure, G.K. Chesterton, and Murray Bodo ofm, are some examples. I imagined what took place as if it were not some sort of anomaly or enigma. Such an encounter as described is indeed the stuff of mystics and saints, yes. But the encounter of St. Francis with Christ on the crest of Mount La Verna is repeated everyday in the lives of those who see beyond the mountains of their difficulties; those in everyday turmoil, struggle, anxiety. The immigrant child whose father has just been deported struggles with Christ on the crest. And no doubt, this child will be wounded. But these are not conflicts with devils as one might imagine. These are conflicts that challenge what is greater than our mortality to struggle and not acquiesce. And by virtue of that struggle and perseverance, we prevail against our weaker selves. Finally, to paraphrase the words of Paul the Apostle, it is in facing our own weaknesses that we in fact do become strong. I say this with a sense of awe though because the trick is not that we face the struggle alone as though we are in some cocooned environment. Around the cocoon are butterflies. As in the case of Francis, we too mount up to the crest in hope that God and His angels, powers and principalities will be our assistance in our resistance to defeat our weaker selves. We are not alone in the struggle. We must see with clarity the image we wish to be imprinted upon our minds, hearts and souls. This imprint is the imprint that Francis took upon himself in a literal sense and form. In us, we take it up that same imprint more vicariously, perhaps more like Simon of Cyrene. Not all of us are stigmatists or mystics. But all of us are not unlike Francesco Bernardone men and women incomplete and longing for completion following the divine pattern that preceded our conception. In the end, we are all gladiators.
The glove was thrown down. And in the spirit of Jacob wrestling with God, Francis wrestled with the Christ on the crest who had wings and a lance. Frances had longed for relationship. He longed for touch. It had been too long. He longed for flesh and blood and was tired of illusions and dreams. He needed something real, solid, like Thomas the Apostle, to touch the wound of the man for whom he lived, breathed and had his being.
At the moment of this rapture, the little man with a bony body, and faced with scabs on the skin, gained the strength like Samson. Adrenaline rush. The wind changed and worked with him. The wind was not his enemy. The wind was lifting him as though he too were like the man with wings. His heart pumped. And Francis felt such strength he could have bench pressed ten times his weight. His heart swelled with a sense of purpose as he struggled to get the better of the encounter. He had only one weapon. The lance he had to defend himself was his clarity, his sense that his spirit force was greater than the pain he experienced at any time in life even the pain of "now". And so he dared Christ on the crest to pierce him. "I want more than to feel your wounds with my hands," he sang. "I want to feel with mine own hands, on my own body, your great love for me. Pierce me Lord that I may know you in a way that there is no more of you to know."
In a moment, the clarity remained but the winds slipped down the mountain and into the hills below on its way to overtake the brothers. The winds would be a new Pentecost for them. And he would be clear. He would not have to speak. He would only have to amaze himself that he survived this encounter on top of the mountain, and he had the wounds to show for his chivalry. He forever would be marked with the stigmata of Christ. He forever would be associated with the evangelization of the world by the extreme in trying to make the extreme the norm. Now that, was the real mountain and even to this day of fast paced life, modernism, and technology, the brothers are still tasked with preaching the Gospel but using words only when necessary.
I have imagined this scene in my own way. This mystical experience of St. Francis of Assisi has been written about by authors more knowledgeable than me: Thomas of Celano, St. Bonaventure, G.K. Chesterton, and Murray Bodo ofm, are some examples. I imagined what took place as if it were not some sort of anomaly or enigma. Such an encounter as described is indeed the stuff of mystics and saints, yes. But the encounter of St. Francis with Christ on the crest of Mount La Verna is repeated everyday in the lives of those who see beyond the mountains of their difficulties; those in everyday turmoil, struggle, anxiety. The immigrant child whose father has just been deported struggles with Christ on the crest. And no doubt, this child will be wounded. But these are not conflicts with devils as one might imagine. These are conflicts that challenge what is greater than our mortality to struggle and not acquiesce. And by virtue of that struggle and perseverance, we prevail against our weaker selves. Finally, to paraphrase the words of Paul the Apostle, it is in facing our own weaknesses that we in fact do become strong. I say this with a sense of awe though because the trick is not that we face the struggle alone as though we are in some cocooned environment. Around the cocoon are butterflies. As in the case of Francis, we too mount up to the crest in hope that God and His angels, powers and principalities will be our assistance in our resistance to defeat our weaker selves. We are not alone in the struggle. We must see with clarity the image we wish to be imprinted upon our minds, hearts and souls. This imprint is the imprint that Francis took upon himself in a literal sense and form. In us, we take it up that same imprint more vicariously, perhaps more like Simon of Cyrene. Not all of us are stigmatists or mystics. But all of us are not unlike Francesco Bernardone men and women incomplete and longing for completion following the divine pattern that preceded our conception. In the end, we are all gladiators.
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