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would not be the perfect joy." Guessing the uneasiness of his faithful friend, Francis wished to calm him with a word of personal affection, and to do as a mother instinctively does, when she reveals to her child the highest truths of the moral life; and she feels that she needs to draw him closer to her heart, to whisper to him words of affection and tenderness, words which have little sense left in them when written down, but which remain with those to whom they have been spoken as the brightest and most comforting memory of their whole life. "Brother Leo," he said, "God's little sheep, Frate Leone, pecorella di Dio, Brother Leo, God's little sheep, if the Minor could speak the tongue of the angels, if he knew the courses of the stars, the virtues of plants, the places where the treasures of the earth are hidden, if the qualities and properties of the birds and the fishes, of beasts and of men, of roots and of trees, of stones and of waters, had no more secrets for him, write down and note carefully that that would not be the perfect joy."

And he called once again, for he had perceived yet another false ideal against which he himself and his brothers must be on their guard: "O, Brother Leo, if the Minor knew how to preach with so much force and eloquence as to turn all unbelievers to the faith, write that that would not be the perfect joy."

Here we must pause, as Brother Leo did. St. Francis has pointed out to us the ways which lead to a false ideal, an ideal of outward seeming and emptiness.

Perfect joy-that is to say, the full and entire realization of man's mission on this earth; perfect joy, which means perfect harmony between the will of man and the mysterious destiny to which we are called; perfect joy, which means duty conceived, not as a neces

sity of which one cannot see the principle or the object, not as a sort of cloistered, or ritual or liturgical observance which one submits to through idleness or snobbishness, if not from hypocrisy or motives of self-interest; but duty conceived as a blossoming in the fresh air and full sunlight of all the energies of the human heart-perfect joy consists neither in good works, nor in miracles, nor in knowledge nor even in striking apostolic successes. Where, then, is it to be found? Here St. Francis could point out but one way. Progress in the spiritual life is gradual, like all other progress. Francis shows us one road which is the same for all, though we are each studying a different part of it, and that road is the way of work and of suffering, not the passive suffering which prostrates its victim, but the suffering which is voluntary and welcome, the suffering which is fertile, which we go to meet with uplifted head and a heart full of joy. That is the path, the only way, of perfect joy, or to take another expression of St. Francis which he borrowed from St. Paul, the way of glory; and at the entrance of this way stands the Cross, the throne of glory and suffering of Him Who willed to suffer and Who by that act of will became the firstborn among many brethren: "But far be it from me to glory save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ." 2

Does not this simple page of the Fioretti illumine our subject even to its furthest corners? It shows us St. Francis, or rather the soul of St. Francis; it shows us the Francis of history. so simple, so fine, so true, Francis the religious and social renewer, Francis the splendid realization of the Italian soul, Francis the obedient son of the Church who nevertheless dared to approach Innocent III., the most glorious pontiff who ever sat on the chair of

2 Gal. vi. 14.

St. Peter. There, clothed in humility

and with the authority before which even tiaras must bow, he told the tale of distressed souls and of the anguish of Christendom. And the Little Poor Man of God with the eleven beggars who followed him raised his eyes to the Vicar of Christ and spoke. He spoke to him, and history has preserved for us the record of this evermemorable interview. He told him of a poor woman exiled for long centuries in the heart of the desert, a woman whom Jesus had betrothed to His Church, but whom the Church had hastily driven away; and he, the Little Poor Man, vile and despised. had heard in his heart the sobs and cries of the poor abandoned woman; he was anxious to go and find her after all those centuries, and to console her and bring her back in order to restore her to her throne and to purify the Church. Did the prophets of ancient times, who came to warn kings of the divine vengeance, ever speak louder or more clearly? Which was the accused and which the judge on that memorable day when a poor beggar went to tell Innocent III. of the apostacy of the Church and of the resolution which he, the humble layman, had taken to seek in the desert for the central idea of the Gospel, in order to generate thereby a new spiritual family for Christ.

I.

St. Francis and the Twentieth Century. At first sight these words alone seem to set up a most formidable antithesis. What can be more contrary to the Poverello di Dio than our century with its passion for luxury and gain, with its science, its industry and its trusts? But, in the piece that we have just read, did you not see the antithesis disappearing? You are still looking for it because you have been so accustomed to see it, but seek as you will, it was an illusion and you

will not find it again. See! the clear and powerful sun has dispelled the clouds which hid the highest peaks from your eyes.

I shall hope to show you that our century is in harmony of idea with St. Francis on all the points in which our century differs from those which preceded it. The most modern thoughts of our day, far from carrying us away from St. Francis, are drawing us nearer to all in him that is most profound. Now, it seems to me there are two points in which our times are absolutely distinct from foregoing centuries: the peace movement and the social question. On these two points there are between our desires, our needs, our dreams, and the ideal of St. Francis of Assisi, not only points of contact, but conspicuous affinities; so that we may greet St. Francis as one of the makers of modern society in all its newest features.

But you will stop me here and say: "Our century is first of all and above all a century of science; now, did not St. Francis condemn science? Did he not refuse to withdraw the curse he had hurled at the unhappy Jean de Stacia who was guilty of having organized a school at Bologna ?" You will remind me of the passage we were reading just now in which the vanity of omniscience was so clearly indicated.

But we must make no mistake. We must not forget that the same words to-day mean quite different things. What is science to-day? The scientific spirit, in its widest sense, is the spirit of research and investigation, of exactness, of experiment; it is a sincere endeavor to free our eyes and our minds from all that can puzzle them, and to study not the first cause and all the mysteries which God has not thought good to reveal to us, but to study those things which, generally speaking, belong to our domain and

which are in some respects entrusted to us.

The truly scientific man is a man who fulfils the first of the conditions laid down by Christ for all who would join themselves to Him: he denies himself. The scientific man is consecrated to work of which he sees only fragments, so that he cannot foretell their consequences or their results; he is a man devoted to work which others will carry on, to work, in fact, in which he himself is not the object. And he sets out, modestly and simply, with his pilgrim staff in his hand, and with the confidence and ardor which, 1902 years ago, stirred the hearts of those wise men who were guided by a star to the cradle at Bethlehem.

Is there anything less selfish or consequently more Christian than that? Why! a man of science is often a martyr, and if he is without faith in your dogmas, he is all the more worthy of admiration since he dies for a provisional and uncertain truth. Truly he gives his life; whereas, in your case, O martyrs of the Churches, you cannot be said to give yours as long as you are sure that the brief torments endured on this earth are to be abundantly rewarded in paradise.

Of course if we provided ourselves with a portrait of the ideal learned man as I have endeavored to draw him, and went seeking all over the world for those who are like him, we should find a group which would be far from imposing as to its numbers. I admit that freely; but to those who are inclined to draw too many conclusions from the results of this quest I would advise another, and that would be to search out, Gospel in hand, in all the world those who deserve to be called Christians. Perhaps they would find another group just as small in numbers as the first. So that we must not judge science by the scientific inen any more than we must judge the

Gospel by the Christians; but what becomes evident, if we go to the root of the matter, is this, that nothing can be more religious or more in accordance with the spirit of Christ than the spirit of modern science.

What St. Francis cursed under the name of science was exactly the opposite, it was what was called science in his time, that is to say, an undigested mass of formulæ quite out of touch with reality; it meant the charlatan quackeries by which the high priests of knowledge coined money; it meant scholasticism; that is to say, the intellectual disease which consisted in building up on a passage from Scripture or from the Fathers-more often than not with a wrong interpretationa gigantic structure which embraced the past and the future, God and the invisible world, everything save reality, everything save the humble truth, everything save man. This was what St. Francis called the great Prostitute; it was she who trafficked in the holy thing called truth; she who appropriated it to herself and who, when she was taken unprepared, was careful not to say that her granaries were empty, but continued her sales under the pretence that she alone had the monopoly.

The modern scientific spirit is all humility, all sacrifice; the spirit of scholasticism was all pride and self-interest. St. Francis cursed it; he did well; it will never recover from that condemnation.

II.

But it is not only in regard to the scientific spirit that St. Francis is in agreement with us; it is also in regard to all that touches the very depths of political evolution. We must not allow any petty controversies to hide from our view the march and progress of civilization. Now, what do we find, when from a high standpoint we take

into consideration the great contemporary movements of politics? International relations, alliances, treaties, whose object is in all cases to secure peace among nations. Ah! how well I know that all Europe is bending under the burden of unheard-of sacrifices in order to maintain her armies; but another thing I know is this, that never would the peoples submit to it if they were not assured that the object of these armaments is to preserve peace. And when I see in certain publications the image of a colossus representing the modern Moloch, I am always tempted to reply: "No! that is not true. The enormous sacrifices you are describing we freely offer, but with this momentous difference that we offer them not on the altar of the God of war, but on the altar of the God of peace!"

Many of us, I am sure, are prepared to believe that, although it was the dream of the prophets that war should be done away with, yet it was in the nineteenth century that the first step of any importance was taken towards the realization of that ideal, both by the growth of peace societies and by the refusal of the members of certain churches to undergo military service.

If you will turn to the Rule of the Third Order of St. Francis, that is, the rule of those Franciscans who, without quitting the world, have remained in their families and continued to live the life of all men, but who nevertheless desire to join in the work of renewal, you will find a precept which must have burst like the ringing in of a Titanic new birth over the heads of our ancestors of the thirteenth century, over a Europe torn into tatters and ploughed up by incessant warfare. "The members of the fraternity shall not take up mortal arms against any

Regula antiqua fratrum et sororum de Poenitentia (1er fascicule des Opuscules de Critique Historique) cap. VI., par. 3, Cf. p. 18. This

man, nor shall they receive them." Arma mortalia contra quemquam non recipient vel secum ferant. The nations understood this simple and downright language, and a cry of reconciliation and love was heard throughout Italy. The prestige of the Poverello was so great, the popular sentiment was so keen, that willy-nilly the podestas were obliged to resign themselves to seeing a large portion of those whom they called their subjects refusing to follow them to battle. What a splendid episode, and what weight it would have had on the destinies of all humanity if it had continued! It lasted from 1221 to 1289, so that for two generations the spectacle was to be seen of men sans peur et sans reproche who refused to obey what was at that time considered the necessary duty of every citizen. There were indeed here and there timid attempts to chastise the rebels, but in general the magistrates perceived that it would be odious to treat them with rigor.

You know what the position is today. Two or three years ago we in France witnessed the strange sight of a pastor going to see a recruit who on the ground of religious scruples had refused to learn the use of the rifle, and undertaking to demonstrate to him that a Christian ought to kill, when some neighboring nation has been pleased to turn thief, or when some crowned head has considered that the honor of his country requires that it shall be done.

The experiment inaugurated by St. Francis came to an end in 1289, and it was neither a Jew, nor an atheist, nor a heretic, nor a Turk who caused it to cease; it was a Pope, and sadder still, it was a Franciscan Pope. By the bull Supra montem, dated from Soriano, near Viterbo, on the 17th August, 1289,

Rule has been published in English by the Revs. Messrs. Adderley and Marson, in a little volume entitled "Third Orders in 1294" (Mowbray).

Nicholas IV, altered the Rule of the Third Order and replaced the precept which I read just now by the following: "The brethren shall not carry arms of offence, unless for the defence of the Roman Church, of the Christian faith or of their country, or unless they have been authorized so to do by their superiors. Impugnationis arma secum fratres non deferant nisi pro defensione Romanae Ecclesiae, Christianae fidei, vel etiam terrae ipsorum aut de suorum licentiâ ministrorum.” Thus you see that all the peace associations, which for the last twenty years have had such considerable developments, have been following, without knowing it, in the pathway marked out long ago by St. Francis, a pathway which the Church had obliterated. They have a right to claim descent from him; it is their duty to profit by this early experience and to study well the causes of its failure.

III.

St. Francis in a certain way was at one with the modern spirit, and has anticipated our own day on one of the most serious questions of this opening twentieth century, I mean the social question. Not to the results, nor to the application, nor to the fruits of the Franciscan idea have we now come, but to its very centre, to its root, or rather to its heart; that is the question of poverty. St. Francis was above all things the preacher of poverty, the man of poverty. His life was not made up of a series of more or less remarkable episodes which could be linked together from one end to the other; it was not a chaplet of virtues or of miracles like the lives of other saints; it was the simplest but at the same time the most powerful realization of a unique principle, the principle of poverty. The word poverty perhaps suggests to your minds a picture of

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privation, misery, sickness and death? But look at Francis. Was he sad? Was not joy one of his most constant messmates? Was it not he who pronounced that admirable sentence, one of the finest and most forceful that humanity has ever heard: Ad Diabolum et ad membra ejus pertinet contristari, ad nos autem semper in Domino gaudere et laetari; "It is for the Devil and his angels to be sad; for us to be happy and to rejoice in the Lord.” ♦

The day on which the crisis which had been shaking the soul of Francis came to a decisive issue was the day when he met poverty and perceived her hidden beauty; human language could not express the plenitude of his joy or the ecstasies of his love, and so he called poverty his betrothed; each day he loved her more, and each day he drew renewed strength from this mysterious affection. Before so much simplicity and poetry and radiant beauty the official biographer himself paused in wonderment. For a moment Thomas de Celano feels the breath of the highest inspiration rising up within him, and in a sentence which I shall not attempt to translate, since Dante himself did not dare to do it, he says: "Proinde castis eam stringit amplexibus, nec ad horam patitur non esse maritus." 5 This imagery, which occurs again and again in the books of Francis, sufficiently demonstrates the gulf which lies between Franciscan poverty and the poverty recommended by certain philosophers of antiquity, by Eastern sages or even by some Christian monks. Their poverty was a selfinterested effort to acquire greater concentration or more self-control; Franciscan poverty was the effort of love to expand and to give itself more freely. The words are the same, but there is a complete contrast between

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