Finale: Francis and Creation

Homily for the Solemnity of St. Francis of Assisi

The readings chosen for this solemnity offer us a remarkable portrait of St. Francis, even though his name never appears in them.

In the first reading from Sirach, the high priest Simon is described in language that overflows with beauty: "like a star shining among the clouds, like the full moon at the holy days, like the sun shining upon the temple." Sirach praises a life that reflected God's glory so clearly that others could glimpse heaven through it. Francis of Assisi became such a light.

Born into wealth and privilege in Assisi around 1181 or 1182, Francis seemed destined for a comfortable life. Yet the Lord gradually dismantled the dreams he had built for himself. Through illness, disappointment, encounters with lepers, and the mysterious voice of Christ speaking from the crucifix of San Damiano, Francis discovered a greater treasure. He was called not to worldly success but to conformity with Christ. The beauty of Francis' life was not that he accomplished extraordinary things. The beauty was that he allowed God to transform him. Like the figure described in Sirach, he became radiant because he reflected the light of another.

That same humility appears in the Gospel. Jesus rejoices that the mysteries of the Kingdom have been revealed not to the wise and learned but to the childlike. Francis embodied that childlike spirit perhaps better than anyone since the apostles. He never claimed greatness. He never sought influence. In fact, whenever honor came his way, he fled from it. He wanted only to be "the little poor man," a brother among brothers. His greatness lay precisely in his refusal to grasp at greatness.

This explains why Francis has remained so compelling across eight centuries. The world often admires power, accomplishment, and self-promotion. Francis chose poverty, simplicity, and humility. The world says accumulate. Francis says receive. The world says control. Francis says trust.

In the Letter to the Philippians, Paul invites us: "Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God." Francis lived those words. What is striking is that Paul does not simply tell us not to worry. He offers an alternative way of life. Anxiety yields to prayer. Fear gives way to trust. Complaining is replaced by thanksgiving. The disciple learns to rest in the providence of God.

We see that movement throughout the life of Francis. As a young man he worried about reputation, success, and the dreams he had fashioned for himself. But once he encountered Christ, he began a lifelong journey from self-reliance to dependence upon God. The more he surrendered, the freer he became.

Paul promises that "the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus." Francis became a living witness to that promise. It is difficult to explain his joy by ordinary standards. He embraced poverty, uncertainty, rejection, illness, and suffering. Yet those who knew him encountered in him a freedom and peace that seemed to flow from another source. Paul's words had become flesh in his life.

The passage concludes with Paul's exhortation to dwell on whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, and gracious. Francis had a remarkable ability to see precisely those things. He saw goodness where others saw inconvenience. He saw brothers and sisters where others saw strangers. He saw the Creator's beauty reflected in every creature. In many ways, the Canticle of the Creatures is a Franciscan commentary on Philippians 4. Francis fixed his mind and heart on the goodness of God revealed throughout creation, and praise overflowed from him spontaneously.

His life was marked by uncertainty. He had no financial security, no institutional power, no guarantee of success. Yet he placed everything in God's hands. Again and again, he entrusted himself to divine providence. The result was the peace Paul describes, "the peace of God that surpasses all understanding."

One could argue that the most extraordinary miracle of Francis' life was not the stigmata, remarkable though they were. It was the profound joy and peace that flowed from complete surrender to God.

As we commemorate the 800th anniversary of his death, we remember that Francis died in 1226, lying upon the bare earth near the Portiuncula he loved so dearly. He asked that the Passion according to John be read. He welcomed Sister Death not as an enemy but as a final encounter with the Lord whom he had spent his life following. Perhaps the greatest way to honor Francis today is not through admiration but through imitation.

The Season of Creation offers a beautiful connection here. Francis saw all creatures as brothers and sisters because he first recognized God as Father. The Canticle of the Creatures was not merely poetry; it was the expression of a heart reconciled with God, neighbor, and creation itself. Francis teaches us that care for creation begins in contemplation, in seeing the world as gift rather than possession.

Perhaps that is the enduring message Francis offers us after eight centuries. Become small. Trust more. Give thanks. See creation as gift. Welcome one another as brothers and sisters. And above all, keep our eyes fixed on Christ. For in the end, Francis never wanted disciples of Francis. He wanted disciples of Jesus.

And so today, with gratitude for our founder and brother, we join the prayer that shaped his entire life: "Most High, glorious God, enlighten the darkness of our hearts and give us true faith, certain hope, and perfect charity, sense and knowledge, Lord, that we may carry out Your holy and true command."