Franciscan Yet (?)
We approached Assisi from the west, having driven through Gubbio (with its tale of a ravenous wolf, tamed by Francis) and clipped the ring road around Perugia (the city which had defeated Assisi in a brisk and short-lived war, in November 1202 - in which campaign Francis had fought as a 21 year old). We even passed through Collestrada – site of the disastrous defeat, at which battle Francis was captured and held for ransom.
We debouched onto the great fertile plain: olive groves, orchards, wheat, poppies.
And the airport, of course. But a modest one.
Ahead I could see the great bulk of a lowering hill: I took it for Mt Subasio. At its western extremity was an horizontal smudge of white, with occasional towers: I took it for Assisi.
As we got nearer it became Assisi with absolute certainty: I could identify the imposing mass of the great basilica and its associated friary. The western end of the medieval city is completely transformed by a great terrace and substratum, extending the hill-side and providing the platform for the basilica.
It was a strange thing to see.
Not really the seeing of it, but the timing. Twenty-two years too late. I left the friars in June 1992, and here I was in Assisi, to tip my hat to Il Povorello, in May, 2014.
We motored on past the city, getting tantalising views of the Basilica, the Church of St Clare, and the underground car parks built to accommodate the pilgrim coaches. The satnav was directing us to our digs, on Mt Subasio itself. Soon enough, we reached a turning on the left and began to climb the hill side. But even the satnav, which we assumed to be in the know, had underestimated the climb. Up and up we went: the road narrowed, and weaved through olive groves; the tarmac gave out and was replaced by gravel and dust. It was a first gear climb, on occasion. The road signs were optimistic, at least – pointing us clearly onward, round the hairpins. And after one last 160° bend, we arrived.
On a narrow, levelled terrace of considerable length, stood Le Mandrie di San Paolo.
This solidly built edifice stood burnished by the afternoon sun. Its antiquity, and its sensitive restoration, was joyfully evident. A profusion of wild flowers, herbs, and some ancient olive trees, together with some garden plantings, framed it, and a scattering of tables invited you for wine and cheeses and olive oil. The place is as old as Francis himself: the farmstead belonged to the Benedictine Abbey of Mt. Subasio, which foundation gave Francis the little chapel on the plain below, together with a modest grant of land – Santa Maria degli Angeli, and the Portiuncula, as the home for his nascent brotherhood.
Our room – a splendidly large and airy space, with an old, terra-cotta tiled floor and a new, superbly finished en-suite – was directly over the central, arched doorway of the farmstead. Above that portal, in our room, a pair of doors opened to reveal an iron railing and an indescribably lovely view over the entire plain below. To the right, through the pines, was the city of Assisi itself, draped languidly on the hill slope – the Rocca Maggiore on its summit, the churches, streets, and basilica, beneath. Directly below Le Mandrie, olive groves tumbled down the mountain slope. On the plain itself, I looked for the fabled (yet not fabled, but documented and attested) origins of the Friars. I could plainly see Santa Maria degli Angeli – no longer a tiny chapel but a domed basilica - and another church, closer to hand. It was too large to be San Damiano. But I could see no other candidate for that most holy place. (In fact, San Damiano’s could not be seen from our vantage point – what I could see was the church built over the hermitage of Rivotorto).
There was a sense of unreality about it all, a sort of detachment; as if I was not really present but looking at a map from my past. A map sketched by my own hand, cherished knowledge gleaned when I lived another life. And even then, not surveyed directly but interpreted through imagination, filtered by the passage of time. Here I was, in Assisi, tour guide to myself, looking out of a window, poring over imagination’s map, a faint sense of wonderment stealing in the with evening haze.
The import of iconic locations can have unpredictable effects.
Practically any Commonwealth War Cemetery can produce tears from me.
And I clearly recall ascending the acropolis in Athens, with j, carrying with me a sense of visiting the spring from which my philosophical, cultural, and democratic paradigm wells, only to be curiously deflated at the top by the baseball-hatted crowds for whom the place had no significance at all, save for being a funky setting for a selfie. But then again, as if to balance that disappointment, attending a liturgy in Our Lady of Kazan, in St Petersburg, gave my (then) agnostic scalp goose bumps; whilst approaching the Death Steps at Mauthausen affected me to such an extent that I came close to stumbling, dissolving into a heap, and wailing on the bare earth.
I wasn’t sure what Assisi would draw forth, now that I’d evolved (unevolved?) into an atheist, ex-Friar-Minor. Twenty two years or more ago the response it drew would certainly have been different. Today – the location might well be capricious…
Peter and I settled in to our room and then briskly settled on late afternoon visits to Santa Maria degli Angeli : its dome and gilded statue of the Virgin making a significant landmark. And to San Damiano, that little rural church to which Francis repaired as a conflicted young man, and where he received the commission to ‘rebuild my church’ from a Byzantine cross in the semi-derelict sanctuary.
“Let’s start at the very beginning…” sang Julie Andrews.
“Logical” says Mr, Spock.
“Let’s reserve Assisi until tomorrow”, says I.
The plan was to go to San Damiano first. The satnav sent us off along narrow lanes. Its electronic instructions seemed at odds with my mental map. It seemed intent on sending us into Assisi itself, although San Damiano was not in the city. We demoted San Damiano and headed for the conspicuous dome of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Easy enough to find.
The basilica is big. The seventh largest church in Christendom, apparently. It’s a bold edifice with a suggestion of Baroque about it. The latin inscription above the portal identifies it as head and mother church of the friars minor. Indeed….
We had an attenuated and yet irrevocable claim upon one another.
And so Peter and I went in. The interior space is largely white, airy, not over-indulged.
The eye is immediately drawn to the dome and crossing, beneath which sits a small 9th CE chapel. There’s a mural painted on the façade, above the arched door, and an ornamental spire above that: we were looking at the Portiuncula.
We turned to approach the tiny chapel down the nave’s central aisle. At its western end are two large bronze-gilt statues – one of Clare, one of Francis. A bit incongruent, perhaps, given their radical and uncompromising embrace of holy poverty. But, dulled by age and as one of the basilica’s few ornaments, tolerable.
There were but few people about. The quiet helped. When we got right up front, I paused for a bit. Just to take in the details and make sure I was all present and correct. It really is a very small chapel – not even the size of my kitchen and lounge combined. Steeply raked roof – stones laid in a diamond pattern. Little apse to the rear. Spire over the portal. The mural is later of course and, that painting apart, the original stonework is visible. I was strongly reminded of the house of the Virgin Mary at Ephesus. The chapel has the same ambience – simple, authentic, palpably special. Stepping over the threshold took a little courage on my part. I held out my hand and touched the architrave as I stepped through, “So this is where it began”. It is this location that marks the point of origin of the Friars.
After the experience of war and being held prisoner, Francis became something of a conflicted loner. He avoided former friends and the scenes of his erstwhile revels and spent extended periods in caves and rural churches. Commanded to “rebuild my church” by the crucifix in the church of San Damiano, he took that message literally. He begged for stones, preached penance, poverty, and simplicity of life, and made a decisive break with his family. There’s no record of him ever being reconciled with his father, whose parenthood he publicly renounced, stripping himself naked in an Assisi square and handing his clothes back to his dad. And so he lived for a number of years – an idiosyncratic and eremetical itinerant preacher and make-shift restorer of churches, clad in a simple tunic of un-dyed wool, who ministered to the lepers living around Assisi. A bit of a faltering start.
But he began to attract followers and didn’t really know what to do with them. By 1209, there were a dozen of them: Francis went to Rome to see the Pope and establish a rule of life.
He held to simple Gospel precepts – to live simply, to work, and to preach the good news, proclaiming conversion of life and the happiness that it brought.
And thus, the Friars Minor (Lesser Brothers) came into being. Due to the generosity of the Benedictines of Mt Subasio, Francis and his companions were granted the little chapel and some land surrounding it – where he and his followers built wattle huts, and bounded the enclosure with a hedge. The Portiuncula was the epicentre of their world. No-one could have predicted that it would become the epicentre of a world-wide movement, a band of brothers and sisters holding fast to those original ideals. Not numerous, it’s true, but with an almost universal appeal. There are, perhaps, 30 000 friars worldwide, and some 20 00 Poor Clares.
It was towards the Poor Clares that we directed our next steps: towards San Damiano.
Clare of Assisi was a particularly devout and strong-minded girl, who deferred her arranged marriage. In 1209, or thereabouts, Clare heard Francis preach in the cathedral of San Rufino. It affected her profoundly. When she reached the age of 18, she was expected to marry the man her father had chosen for her. Instead, she eloped from home on Palm Sunday in 1212, rendezvoused with Francis, was tonsured and habited, and consigned to the safe-keeping of the Benedictine nuns at Bastia. Her father attempted several times to abduct her, without success. Clare was insistent that she intended to follow Francis’ radical poverty and the simplicity of life from which he and the early brothers derived such nourishment, and drew followers of her own. Eventually, she wrote a Rule of life for the sisters and they made their home in San Damiano – the very church that Francis had started to restore at the command of the miraculous crucifix.
At first, the sisters were directed by Francis himself, but Clare became abbess in 1216, which role she maintained until her death in 1253, just two days after she had extracted Papal approval for her Rule of radical and joyful poverty, which successive Popes had attempted to water down.
For Peter and I, fnding San Damiano was a matter of following, in faith, the directions of the satnav. It seemed intent on taking us into Assisi itself (which was hopelessly wrong, and discomfited me somewhat) but it became apparent that such a heading was just to allow us to reach the access road. We then turned from the flank of the hill, and descended towards the plain. Down the narrow lane we went, until the church and enclosure came into view. A cobbled way, flanked by cypress trees, ran alongside. We parked, and set off down the cobbled way: cypress trees on our right, enclosure wall on the left.
At the end of the lane, a bronze statue of a very windswept and bedraggled Francis headed towards the church. The piazza, open on one side, gave views towards Santa Maria degli Angeli, on the plain to the west. The extended arms invited visitors to turn towards the church.
For me, the façade of San Damiano has an austere and simple beauty. The silhouette of the original church is plainly visible, with the rose window centrally placed. Additions have resulted in the window appearing off-centre in the current façade, its bottom edge clipped by the pan-tiled roof of a portico which extends across the width of the church.
I was getting goose bumps, just looking. I was aware of a sense of quiet, of being invited to step back, a sense of ‘placement’. Not geographical, not merely ‘locational’: instead, a nexus, a potent emotional connection.
I intended to gather up enough of San Damiano to sustain me for a long time. Which struck me as odd, even then. I wasn’t so sure that there were any flowers of St Francis growing in my garden. Maybe they were just overlooked?
The approach to the church, via the portico, is enlivened by subtle frescoes. Just by the door, which led into the corridor that led to the church, there was a sign, saying NO PHOTOGRAPHY.
I intended to ignore it. Forego flash, yes. Be discreet and sensitive, yes. But I was going to ignore the blanket ruling.
The church itself is small, with barrel-vaulted nave and an apse. Above the choir is a replica of the cross of San Damiano (the original is in the Basilica of St Clare, in Assisi itself).
In the apse, a fresco of the Virgin with SS Damian and Rufino. There are vestiges of frescoes on the walls but the overall impression is of plainness and simplicity. It invites, almost compels, silence and humility. Under-illuminated, there was a palpable stillness and sense of recollection. I selected a pew towards the back and sat for a short while. Stepping back into that moment, sitting at home, I’m not sure which was uppermost in my mind: sifting the fact that I was actually there, or weighing the significance of the fact the Francis had been there. Maybe there isn’t much difference – the one led directly to the other. But, by merely being in Assisi, 20+ years post-factum, I am a little square peg squatting in a succession of indisputably round holes to see if they chafe.
Peter was patient and quiet, and when I moved, he came with, and pointed out that photography was not allowed. I disclosed that I was not going to comply – which may have surprised him somewhat.
We moved from the church and turned up a narrow stair: at the top, a white-washed oratory with wooden choir stalls at one end. No seats or misericords: the Poor Clares stood. Above the stalls, a simple window. On the floor, terra cotta tiles in an herring-bone pattern. Here was the prayer place of Clare and her sisters. Literally, her sisters: one of Clare’s sisters, and her mum, joined her and the other Poor Ladies of San Damiano. Clare lived out her life in the cloistered confines of the little sanctuary. She was the first woman to write a Religious Rule. The Rule was simple: prayer, work, poverty summarises it accurately enough. Francis visited occasionally, most notably shortly before his death, when Clare cared for him with the tender solicitude and mutual affection that so characterised their relationship.
As a teenager, I once saw a horror / suspense movie called the Stone Tapes – the premise being that buildings could record traumatic events and that sensitive people could detect, and even be influenced, by them. The film was bilge. But the premise has promise...
Perhaps I was investing San Damiano with significance, having carried it with me all these years, long after I put off the habit. Nonetheless, it spoke to me. It spoke to me of the authentic, immediate, unmediated presence of Francis. Not Francis in the sense that he walked here, or sat there, or rebuilt the decayed church and placed that stone there upon another. No: that would be perilously close to ticking a check-box or collecting locomotive engine numbers. I am not a collector. I don’t believe in acquisition. I believe in encounter. What I experienced there, and what I mean, is Francis in the sense that what he discovered, what fired him with zeal, drove him to extremes, what he shouted joyfully about, this was tangible. Either I touched it, or it touched me.
Francis…. He was a mercurial admixture of extreme penance and joy. His penances were so severe that he had the good grace, and sense, and humility, to apologise to Brother Ass (his much put-upon and sore-neglected body, by then marked with the stigmata, and cauterisation scars – an attempt to cure blindness) immediately before his death. He apologised for the dreadfully high expectations he had of it, and for his poor regard to its welfare. And thanked it for carrying him thus far.
He gave instruction to the brothers: after his death, he was to be laid on the bare earth, naked, for the length of time it takes to walk a mile slowly. No pretence or misplaced reverence.
I’d like to do as much: to recognise death so forcefully and debunk effete sensibilities.
It’s probably not feasible – I won’t have that measure of control. But I want my coffin, at least, on the ground for those 20 precious minutes. “Welcome, Sister Death” he wrote, in an addendum to the Canticle of Brother Sun. I wrote an addendum of my own in September, 1988, just at the time I made my vows at the end of my novitiate. I’d almost forgotten that.
But it’s not bad, and I’ll share it at the end of this Note. Anyway…
I ponder, sometimes, that Francis’ extremes of fasting might have triggered incipient diabetes (blindness / stigmata?). I wonder. But if he was hard on himself, he was kind to his brothers: one night, when a young novice cried out with hunger, he didn’t give him any grief, or criticise him for weakness and lack of self-control. Nope. He woke up all the brothers and led them all into the kitchen, and everyone ate. He was utterly gracious: he never sought to discomfit anyone. He spoke his truth, rather than imposing it. He invites you to see the world from his perspective but he doesn’t insist.
However, back to the tour…
Adjacent to the oratory, there’s a tiny frescoed chapel, ancient in form and of unspoilt simplicity. Among the frescoes are some tender depictions of Clare and her sisters, and two idealised portraits of Clare and Francis.
From here, you step into the dormitory; an unadorned and unfurnished rectangular space. Clare’s bed, the place where she died, is marked by a cross. There are views to the cloister below, with its well and bright geraniums, and its shaded portico. Beyond: the dark, pine-green flanks of Mt Subasio.
The cloister is joyful. If it doesn’t make your heart sing, there’s no music in you.
Off it, lies the refectory – a white-washed and vaulted space: original. Benches, rough tables.
A fresco at either end. One details the Pope Gregory IX’s visit when Clare blessed the bread – and crosses appeared on the loaves. Well, why not? Clare faced down Popes who tried to meddle with her calling to radical poverty, prayer and work –and I’m sure God backed her up. He knows his own.
From the cloister, you step back out into the portico that fronts the church. And if you’re like me, you carry away something indefinably precious.
From there, it was back to the car and back to Le Mandrie. We stopped at the end of the cobbled path / enclosure wall to take photos of a couple of nuns who were, in turn, trying to take photos of a mouse that had taken up residence in the bas-relief plaque that decorated the angle of the enclosure walls. Franciscans, I ask you! Irremediably sentimental, with an eye for cute.
Next day, we went into Assisi itself. First stop was the Basilica di Santa Chiara.
The draw here was the cross of San Damiano – removed form its erstwhile dwelling place, the eponymous church, when the Poor Clares moved to their new home in the Basilica complex.
I knew the image and form. I knew the scale of it (slightly more than life size). It’s not, strictly-speaking, a crucifix: more of an icon. Painted in a style that draws heavily on Byzantine forms, and with other (much smaller) figures visible on the shaft, the cross is as educational as much as a devotional object. Nonetheless, it is the figure of Christ that dominates and draws the eyes of the onlooker. Eyes open, he looks tenderly at the viewer, transcending the suffering plainly depicted, and offers hope of resurrection. It’s the compassionate face that carries the emotional and spiritual message, with serenity and calm. Painted around 1100 by an Umbrian artist (no name has come down to us), it was already a century or more old when Francis came upon it and used it as a focus for his prayers.
But knowing this is scant preparation for seeing it. In a large chapel, off the nave, with a Friar or Poor Clare always in devotional attendance, it hangs quietly. Warning notices ward off photographers but I was not intimidated. I took a few shots with as steady a hand as I could muster, and then sat quietly, looking with the naked eye.
Except of roads less trodden, taken 30 years ago, that brought me to my own encounter and moment of decision. I joined the Friars, after two years of uncomfortable wrestling with my understanding of myself, and what was bidden. The dialogue between life and self didn’t start, or stop, there, but it did take a decisive turn. I became a novice in the Order of Friars Minor in September, 1987. There have been other decisive turns since.
The one that should be noted here is probably June, 1992 when I left the Friars (did he jump, or was he pushed? I jumped, rather than abrogate all I‘d come to understand and value about that life / self dialogue. The pity of it is that the Friars should ever have so cornered me).
I harbour no animosity: it’s plain to me that the Friars did not want what I brought – at least the English Province didn’t want it, in 1992. I’m a firm believer in time and place. The time is now, the place is here. This is what’s real. This is what matters. When reality poses searching questions, it doesn’t help to frame your response in daydreams or elaborate and insubstantial fancies. I never even contemplated the appeal to the Minister General, or the move to another province, or the ‘keep quiet until after solemn vows’ advice that was thrust upon me. As I said to a very perplexed and downhearted Joe Kearney: “I stayed as long as I could, longer perhaps than I ought”.
The cross didn’t offer a rebuke. Nor do I.
Peter and I descended into the crypt to see Clare in the 19th CE tomb of marble gothic.
The waxen effigy, clothed in a Poor Clare habit and resting on its bedboard, didn’t stir me. The ragtag of preserved items that had been used by Francis and Clare were much more affecting. Undiluted poverty.
It took us some while to get to Francis’ basilica – we meandered somewhat.
Again, knowledge of its form and content was hardly adequate preparation for the visit.
We went first into the lower basilica – which was crowded and unwelcoming because of it. Too much chattering about frescoes, too many expansive Franciscans leading pilgrim groups on a spiritual bring and buy. Too much grandstanding and not enough spirituality. Too much wandering, not enough wondering.
Again, it was the few items associated with Francis that shut the chatterers up. I had a sense of direct encounter, looking at his habit (so patched and ragged that you couldn’t actually identify if any of the original garment remained). That, and the evidence of his utter frailty and suffering at the end.
Exiting the lower basilica puts you adjacent to the two-storey arcaded cloister of the friary, which has a lovely cast iron grille to prevent you from where going where you ought not. The architecture is poised, gracious and not overblown. I liked it. I liked the basilica, too: it is a treasure house of art, and a fine architectural ensemble. But it’s more than that.
We had a look in the gift shop. A surprising lack of religious tat, which pleased me greatly. Something for every budget, and most in good taste. Points for the OFM Conv. I bought nothing for myself – but I did get a gift for Gordon, and one for auntie Eileen. Unbeknownst to me, Peter bought me a bookmark -
Tau cross and the legend Pax eT Bonum; matches my tattoo.
Out of the shop, and into the upper basilica. This was better: less crowded and guides more muted in their commentaries. Here, they were talking about Giotto’s frescoes, which narrate Francis’ life. Frankly, they don’t really need a commentary – the story is told with cartoon clarity. Equip people to understand what they see before you get in the bloody building and then let them gaze in wonder at the simplicity of their composition, the sparse narrative style, the naivety of execution, the subtlety of colour. They will have a much better chance of getting the point!
At this point, Peter went out onto the terrace of the Upper Basilica: I returned to the lower basilica, to find the crypt and visit the tomb. Access is via a stair half way along the nave.
The tomb sits beneath the papal altar, in a sort of square cut, rough masonry pillar, with a niche for the stone sarcophagus, itself bound by wrought iron bands. The illumination is modest. In the chapel, people were praying left and right. I went and sat front right and just thought a little. I expressed my happiness at being there and allowed the aggregate weight of time, circumstance, and possibilities to roll around in my chest and hands. I got the forbidden camera out, too. When I was ready, I stood and walked towards the tomb: it is possible to circumnavigate the pillar. As I moved round I could see further niches in the exterior wall of the ambulatory.
And at this point, I lost my poise. Here, surrounding him in death, as in life, were the tombs of his closest companions – Leo, Rufino, Masseo and Angelo. And here (for me) lies perfection. Francis’ urged the brothers to love one another, to make their needs known to one another, to have a tender and compassionate care for one another, and bear with one another’s faults.
The placement of the tombs, a relatively recent disposition, speaks eloquently about that. Francis is not a lone saint: we see him in the midst of his brothers.
I have long believed there are no single entry tickets to heaven. No-one gets in alone. You get there alongside others, or you don’t get there. I was glad to have this view affirmed in this most special place.
No wonder the tears started. The wonder is they hadn’t erupted earlier.
As I rounded the pillar, I saw a friar sitting at a desk, quietly, breviary beside him. My best guess – he was Korean. But it doesn’t matter. I fished out the Cimabue portrait I’d got for auntie Eileen and asked the friar to bless it. He got a multilingual book of prayers from a shelf beside him, and gave the plaque a spectacular benediction, which made me cry even more.
And then I went back up into the basilica and out into the sunlight, turning once as I left the chapel, to take a last look at the resting place of the little poor man, and his companions.
I think Assisi will see me again: the attenuated yet irrevocable claim we have, one upon the other, is affirmed.
I wouldn’t presume to venture an opinion. But I would attest it’s a worthy epithet for an atheist to aspire to…
Most high, all powerful, all good Lord!
All praise is Yours, all glory, all honour, and all blessing.
To You, alone, Most High, do they belong.
No mortal lips are worthy to pronounce Your name.
Be praised, my Lord, through all Your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and You give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendour!
Of You, Most High, he bears the likeness.
Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;
in the heavens You have made them bright, precious and beautiful.
Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
and clouds and storms, and all the weather,
through which You give Your creatures sustenance.
Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Water;
she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.
Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom You brighten the night.
He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.
Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth,
who feeds us and rules us,
and produces various fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.
Be praised, my Lord, through those who forgive for love of You;
through those who endure sickness and trial.
Happy those who endure in peace,
for by You, Most High, they will be crowned.
Francis added this verse immediately prior to his death –
Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Bodily Death,
from whose embrace no living person can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those she finds doing Your most holy will.
The second death can do no harm to them.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give thanks,
and serve Him with great humility.
Be praised, my Lord, for those whom the world scorns
and believes contemptible -
You endow them with infinite worth.
Be praised, my Lord, for those who share with others
the love they receive from your hand -
They have an inexhaustible treasure.
