My God and My All

by Elizabeth Goudge

  The little church was so old that it had perhaps once been a pagan temple or tomb. According to the legend that Francis loved, four pilgrims, coming back from the Holy Land in the fourth century, had found this place. They were happy pilgrims, for their eyes had seen the Holy Places and their feet had trodden the very paths where once their Lord had walked, but they were footsore and tired and they thought that they would stay here. They had with them a precious relic that they had brought from our Lady’s sepulcher in the Holy Land, and with this relic they sanctified the pagan shrine and they called it Saint Mary of Jehoshaphat, and they sang to God and praised him within its walls. After a while they went away but the shrine was not deserted because the angels had taken a fancy to it and they came and sang there. Visiting hermits also came sometimes, and they heard the angels singing, and so did peasants passing through the woods, and children who came gathering flowers, and so it came to be called Santa Maria degli Angeli, Saint Mary of the Angels, and the fame of its holiness spread abroad like the fragrance of a flower. It was as a flower that Saint Benedict found it, growing here in the woods in quietness and peace, and he loved it so much that he took possession of it for his order. He bought a small plot of land around the shrine and called it the Little Portion, Portiuncula, and he built for his monks the monastery whose ruins were still there when Francis came. They lived there for six hundred years and then, the times being so dangerous, they went away to the safety of the Benedictine fortress on the slopes of Mount Subasio. When Francis came to rebuild the church it had been left for nearly a hundred years to the angels and the birds.

  Francis, who called the life of prayer the life of heaven, was no doubt very much aware of the angels as he worked and sang in the echoing woods, but beneath his happiness he was in great perplexity. What did God want him to do next? Christ had said to him, “Rebuild my church,” and he had rebuilt three churches and helped to restore a fourth, and he did not know of any more rebuilding that he could do. When Christ had said, “My church,” had he meant San Damiano, or had he meant something greater, something of which that little shrine was the symbol? Francis knew how the symbol can be a shadow of truth, and yet when you pass beyond it to what it foreshadowed that too is only a shadow of something greater still, and so you pass on and on as you are able, from one handhold to another, and yet each shadow in its own place is the truth. He knew now that he must mount a little further but he did not know how, and he prayed as he had prayed at Spoleto, “Lord, what wouldst thou have me to do?”

  Chapter 5

  My God and My All

  I beseech thee, O Lord,

  that the fiery and sweet strength of

  thy love may absorb my soul

  from all things that are under heaven,

  that I may die for love

  of thy love as thou didst deign to die

  for love of my love.

  WRITINGS OF SAINT FRANCIS

  EARLY ONE MORNING, on February the 24th, 1209, when Francis was twenty-seven years old, he came from the little shelter he had made for himself in the woods and walked toward Santa Maria degli Angeli. It was completed now and to please him the old priest from San Damiano came sometimes to say mass there and today Francis was going to serve the mass. It was Saint Matthias’s day. Very reverently he made the church ready, sweeping the floor with a broom made of sprigs of heather fastened together, dusting the plain stone altar and the window ledges, seeing that everything was in order in this tiny place. If he had known that this was to be not only a great day in his own life but also in the history of the world, he could have been no more awed and expectant than he was. Nothing could be greater than the coming of Christ the King in the sacrament of the altar. Soon the little church would be as holy as the courts of heaven, and angels and archangels would be thronging there. “My soul hath a desire and longing to enter into the courts of the Lord: my heart and my flesh rejoice in the living God.” He put away his broom and knelt down upon the altar steps to pray. The silvery light of a morning in early spring grew stronger and through the unglazed windows and the open door came the woodland sounds, sweet sharp flutings as the birds made trial of the spring day and the stirring of the trees as the morning wind blew down the world. And then at last the footfall of the priest was heard coming through the wood. Presently Francis heard his greeting, “Dominus det tibi pacem” (The Lord give thee peace).

  The priest stood before the altar and his server knelt upon the steps. The words of the divine office rose and fell, the birds sang in the wood and the bolder among them hopped in and out of the open door. The moment came to read the portion of scripture which was at that time the gospel for the day, and as the priest turned toward Francis and began to speak there seemed a great silence in the world.

  “And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils: freely ye have received, freely give. Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses, nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats, neither shoes, nor yet staves: for the workman is worthy of his meat. And into whatsoever city or town you shall enter, enquire who in it is worthy; and there abide till ye go thence. And when ye come into an house, salute it. And if the house be worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it be not worthy, let your peace return to you. . . . Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves.”

  No interior voice this time, no dream, no sudden visitation of God such as had struck him almost unconscious in the streets of Assisi, only the quiet deep conviction that this was for him. This was what he had to do. These were Christ’s words to his apostles. Christ was calling him to be an apostle as he had called those other poor men long ago. He was saying, “Follow me.”

  The priest turned back to the altar and the prayers and praises continued peacefully, Francis’s voice steady and quiet as he made the responses. Mass was celebrated and God visited his people. When it was over the priest and server continued to kneel for a while in silent prayer. The birdsong was louder now and the sunshine stronger. Then they rose and Francis asked the priest if he would read the gospel to him again and explain it. Together with his impetuosity there was always in him this humble reliance upon the help of others, even when he believed that he had had direct revelation from God. It was said of him, “He believed his companion’s advice to be safer, and others’ views seemed to him better than his own. He used to say that anyone who kept back the treasure-chests of his own opinion had not left all for the sake of God.” But what the priest said only strengthened his own certainty. He got up full of joy, pulled off his sandals and wallet and flung them aside. And then he carefully learned by heart the command that he had heard. “This,” he said, “is that which I am fain with all my might to fulfill.”

  He spent that day making himself ready, praying and thinking, and as always the practical thing that he did was the outward expression of his thought and enables us to follow it a little way. For this new adventure he made himself a new garment, a habit shaped like a cross, with a hood, and instead of his belt he girded himself with a rope. Upon the tunic the bishop had given him he had chalked a cross; he had been a servant wearing his master’s badge on his livery. But now he clothed himself in the cross itself. “Put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ.” He had set himself, as far as a man may, to imitate Christ in all things, with arms stretched out both ways in love to God and man. He would have had no illusions as to what was before him. To love God meant perfect obedience to the will of God and he knew from the example of his master what suffering that might bring. To love men meant living a sanctified life, or God’s grace would not reach them through the channel of his spirit, and sanctification calls for hard and ceaseless discipline. In deep humility, in fear and trembling as well as joy, he put on his habit. How could he, a weak and sinful man, carry this cross? Only by living so close to Christ that they would carry it together. Perhaps he thought of the rope that he wore as a symbol of the love and obedience that bound
him to Christ. Or perhaps he thought of it as one of the symbols of the suffering of Christ, remembering the rope with which they had bound his master’s wrists in the Garden of Gethsemane. And so he made ready, and prayed in the little church, and the next morning he went barefoot up the stony way to Assisi to preach, saying, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

  Except for that first silent sermon in the bishop’s palace he had not preached before, but his Lord was with him and his preaching took hold of the people almost at once. They did not mock him now. Two years had passed since the children had cried out “Pazzo! Pazzo!” in the streets, and through those two years he had shown a courage and perseverance of which no madman is capable. The austerity of his life, the rebuilding of the churches, and the nursing of the lepers had made the people respect him. Earlier they might not have listened to what he had to say but now they were very ready to listen. His preaching was something new and fresh to them. The lay preachers to whom they occasionally listened in the streets were usually heretics or men with a grievance. Francis was no heretic and he had no grievance. Like Saint John before him he preached simply as the herald of the great King, proclaiming the kingdom of heaven. His preaching, like himself, was utterly simple. He would go quietly through the streets and when he saw a few citizens together he would greet them saying, “The Lord give thee peace,” and then standing at a street corner, or on a flight of steps leading up to an arched doorway, he would talk to them of repentance and of the life of love that is the life of the kingdom, and then one after another men, women, and children would gather around him until the street or square where he was standing was full of people. Though his preaching must have increased in power as his life went on, Francis from the very beginning seems to have been a compelling preacher. He had a strong and beautiful voice, grace and charm, and the actor’s ability to use voice and gesture harmoniously together. And to these natural gifts he added sincerity and authority. For he knew what he was talking about. He had himself repented in agony and tears and after much suffering he had found the peace of God. He knew what it meant to love God and to be loved by him, and he had yielded himself to love forever. His words were not empty “but full of the might of the Holy Spirit, piercing unto the marrow of the heart, insomuch as that his hearers were rapt in amazement as they listened.”

  The quality of his preaching is seen in the type of men who were the first to give up all for Christ as he had done. They were not very young men, and not beggars or outcasts who had lost their all already, and neither was there anything of hot-headed enthusiasm or fanaticism about them. They were a wealthy businessman, a lawyer, a farmer’s son, and a priest, and they did not come to Francis without thinking first what they were doing. His appeal was not to facile emotion but to the deep hunger for God within men, a hunger of which they may be only vaguely aware until something pierces them “unto the marrow of the heart,” some grief or beauty or holiness which awakens them to know the purpose for which they were made.

  The two who came first were Bernard da Quintavalle and Peter Cathanii, the businessman and the lawyer. Peter was a doctor of laws and a lay canon of the cathedral and he had the distinction of having studied in the famous law schools at Bologna. Francis must have been deeply moved and astonished when he came to him and asked that he might be his pupil in the school of love. The humility of this scholar, who had discovered that learning and intellect left him hungry still, and turned for help to a young man who could equal him in neither, was well matched by the humility of Francis, who had set himself to learn patience of the homeless poor. Francis felt great reverence for the learning of Peter, and Peter for the selflessness of Francis, and they talked together often of the God whom both men served, and of Peter’s desire to do what Francis had done and strip himself of all that he had for Christ’s sake.

  Bernard da Quintavalle also had this strong passion for the costing simplicity of singlemindedness; as had all men who followed the light of Francis who was its most perfect embodiment. His house was close to that of Pietro Bernadone so that he and Francis must have always known each other, though perhaps not well, for Francis was the younger and the extravagance of his youth would not have commended him to the cautious, sober-minded Bernard. But the extraordinary change in Francis impressed him, his steady patient labor and now the sincerity of his preaching. He paid a secret visit to Francis, as once Nicodemus visited Christ by night, and after that he frequently asked Francis to spend the night with him and they talked together. This friendship must have given great joy to Francis and comforted him a little for the loss of his father, for Bernard was one of the merchant princes of Assisi, holding much the same sort of position as Pietro, and yet he could understand Francis as Pietro had not been able to do. When Francis came to visit him Bernard had a bed prepared for his guest in his own bedchamber, and must have been happy to think that for once in a way Francis could stretch out at ease on a soft mattress and have a little warmth and comfort. But Francis never stayed for long in his comfortable bed. As soon as he thought Bernard was asleep he would slip noiselessly out of it and kneel to pray. One night Bernard, who had only seemed to be asleep and was in reality awake, hard-pressed and struggling for decision, watched Francis and marveled at this silent prayer of adoring love. But now and then as the hours passed a few words would break from Francis, and always the same words, “My God and my all,” and Bernard realized that this was what he wanted, that God should be his All, this God of mercy who gave himself so entirely to those who gave themselves entirely to him. For this God he had longed all his life but he had been held back from him by divided allegiance, pulled one way by love of God and the other way by his great possessions. Watching Francis he made up his mind. He would follow Christ in the way that Francis had done.

  When Bernard told him of his decision, Francis was as careful for him and for Peter as he had been for himself in Santa Maria degli Angeli. Before they decided that what they wanted was the will of God they must seek this will through humble prayer. So in the early morning, when the sun was rising over Assisi and the shadows were long and blue in the streets, the three went to the Piazza San Giorgio, entered the church of San Nicola and knelt down to pray in the cool stillness and quiet within. The altar, and the book of the Gospels that lay near it, were touched with the light of the rising sun, and they heard the birds singing, for it was April and the world was turning toward a new beginning. After a few moments Francis, acting for the first time as a leader of other men, left Bernard and Peter and knelt before the altar and prayed for the three of them the prayer that he always prayed, that was the prayer of his life, that was his life, for he lived now only to do the will of God. We do not know what words he used, though thinking of this scene we remember the words he used on another occasion. “God Almighty, eternal, righteous, and merciful, give to us poor wretches to do for thy sake all that we know of thy will, and will always what pleases thee; so that inwardly purified, enlightened, and kindled by the fire of the Holy Spirit, we may follow in the footprints of thy well-beloved Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.” Then he got up and going to the book of the Gospels he opened it three times in the name of the Holy Trinity, and read out to Bernard and Peter the words to which the will of God directed his eyes when he opened the book. The first time he read from St. Matthew’s Gospel words which seem to us now especially applicable to Bernard the rich man. “If thou wouldest be perfect, go, sell all that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven; and come follow me.”

  The second reading from St. Luke seems for Peter, whose intimate treasures of knowledge and intellect must have seemed to him as precious and indispensable as scrip and staff to a pilgrim, and far harder to part with than Bernard’s gold. “Take nothing for your journey, neither staff nor scrip nor bread nor money, neither have two coats.”

  The third reading from St. Matthew belongs to Francis, who had already clothed himself in the cross. “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and t
ake up his cross and follow me.”

  Francis turned around to his companions. “Brothers, this is our life and rule for ourselves and for all who will join our company.” He came back to them and knelt beside them again, and the three prayed together, lifting up to Christ their gold and frankincense and myrrh, all they had and were, their prayer, their suffering, and death. Outside the thick walls of the old church the city was stirring to life but within them there was stillness, peace, and silence, and in this silence the great Franciscan Order was born.

  2

  A FEW DAYS LATER, on April the 16th, Assisi was humming with excitement. The people had heard already that the rich man Bernard da Quintavalle had sold his house and all his possessions, but when word went around as to what he was doing with the proceeds they could not contain themselves. They ran out of their houses, calling to their neighbors to come with them, and surged up the narrow streets to the Piazza San Giorgio to see a sight they had never seen before, a rich man giving away all his wealth to the poor. Beggars in rags and barefoot children, the old, the sick, the blind, and the cripples were jostling together in the sunlit piazza, and the rich men were watching in amazement, shamed or contemptuous according to their nature. But being Italians their amazement would not have been silent. The uproar must have been magnificent. At the heart of it all were Francis and Bernard distributing Bernard’s wealth to the crowd as calmly as though they were giving crumbs to hungry birds. Peter Cathanii was perhaps with them, but he had had few possessions and his giving would have been less spectacular; though perhaps when he gave to some beggar the price of his precious books the few coins weighed more in God’s sight than the whole of Bernard’s wealth put together. Francis, as he handled the gold and silver, sang loudly above the noise of the crowd. It was the last time in his life that he ever touched money, which he increasingly hated as the symbol of avarice, but this his last encounter with it was sheer joy; it flowed through his fingers like gold and silver rain upon the parched earth of the suffering of the poor.