Following Francesco

Franco Zeffirelli’s film Brother Sun Sister Moon came to my hometown in the fall of 1973 when I was a junior in high school. One Saturday night I picked up my girlfriend and told her we were going to see a movie. She asked me what it was about but I had no idea. Little did I know this movie would define my self-perception and worldview for the next twenty years.

The movie is the story of the life of St. Francis of Assisi – Francesco – and his transformation from spoiled rich kid to humble hermit hungry for God. Francesco’s father is a wealthy textile merchant who expects his son to become an integral part of the business once he returns from a military expedition. A year later Francesco returns from war seriously ill. Once he recovers he cannot speak. In this muted state he discovers a compassion for the overworked and poorly paid laborers in his father’s factory. Soon his acts of kindness irritate his father who commands Francesco to begin attending church services again. During one high mass Francesco has a revelation of Christ’s humility and suffering and miraculously his speech is restored.

Francesco’s newfound faith leads to bigger problems. He becomes even more committed to bettering the lives of the peasants who toil in terrible working conditions for his greedy, uncaring father. When Francesco begins to throw expensive fabrics out the window onto the street below while urging his father to forsake the materialism of this fallen world, his father’s patience is exhausted and he drags Francesco by the collar to the town cleric. There in the public square the bishop angrily confronts Francesco accusing him of trying to start an insurrection that could overturn the established order. Francesco assures the priest his only desire is to live a simple life devoted to the poor. He then strips naked before the stunned crowd and gives his father his clothes telling him I’m not your son anymore.

A spiritual odyssey commences for Francesco that banishes him outside the city to the ruins of an old chapel. Stone by stone he rebuilds San Damiano and, in the process, one by one his old friends are drawn to his faith and join him in his work. Eventually his effort in the region gains enough momentum to pose a real threat to the holy mother church. Conflicts and tragedy ensue prompting Francesco and his band of brothers to journey to Rome to seek an audience with the pope. Under the majestic canopy of St. Peter’s Basilica and surrounded by the privileged elite in their pretentious attire, the ragtag troupe timidly approaches the greatest power on earth. With nothing but his conscience for a defense, Francesco explains to His Holiness the mission to the poor that has gripped his soul. In a moment of honest introspection that shatters the pervasive arrogance engulfing his every breath, Pope Innocent III removes his cumbersome vestments and kneels to kiss Francesco’s dirt-encrusted feet.

Now, looking back across five decades, it’s difficult to put into words the profound impression the cinematic portrayal of this simple man made on me. It was as though I saw for the first time what true spirituality looked like inside the soul of a man thirsting for God. Here was a man who seemingly opened his heart to the world with a transparency that astounded me. He was unafraid to be himself even when that meant wearing the clothes of a peasant, or begging for food in the pouring rain, or lovingly touching a leper. He was the best example I’d ever seen of a man resolutely fixed in the certainty of his individuality. He knew he was unlike anyone else he’d ever known, and in that uniqueness he reveled as though he was a gift unto himself.

The sheer power of his will to love God and serve the forgotten was of a magnitude I had never witnessed. He was undaunted by all the forces that surrounded him – the ecclesiastical monolith that crushed dissent, the poverty that enchained the masses to short and miserable lives, the isolation that came from turncoat friends, and even the frigid elements that pummeled his body and bloodied his feet. He was oblivious to the pain of ridicule and rejection at the hands of those who utterly refuse to accept variances in people that threaten customary conventions of belief and behavior.

Perhaps most penetrating was the tenderness through which Francesco displayed his masculine strength and love. This demonstration of sensitivity and sympathy resonated deeply with me. I had grown up feeling that kindheartedness was softness and that gentleness wasn’t manly. I thought I was soft when I had an aversion to hunting because I loved animals. I thought I was soft when I was unwilling to bully feebler classmates because I felt empathy for them. I thought I was soft when I was disinclined to imitate the crude conduct or lewd language I saw and heard in school. Even my distaste for alcohol and cigarettes led me to believe that I would never earn the genuine manhood badge. Yet here was Francesco being generous and thoughtful and affectionate even towards those the world deemed unlovable.

I was hypnotized as I sat in the theater watching this inconceivable life unfold in front of me. It was as though Francesco was looking straight at me and asking me to give an account of my life. He wanted to know if I were willing to be true to myself, to let my conscience speak its mind, to give undisputed allegiance to my friends, and to be impervious to the labels that invent a reputation out of thin air. On the screen Francesco was showing me it was possible to defy the expectations that permeate the culture in a typical high school and be more alive for doing it.

That night in the theater some kind of numinous individualism was cemented inside of me. I would make my fledgling faith a profession and not a pastime. I would stop being uncomfortable saying the words I love you to male friends. I would learn how to live in my own authority to decide what I liked and disliked, what I hoped for and dreamed about. I would end groping for reasons to justify conformity with ideals contradicting my own grounding. I would find the contentment that comes from a conscience free of coercion.

That night I fell in love with Francesco. It certainly didn’t hurt that Graham Faulkner, who played Francesco in the movie, looked strikingly similar to a real-life soulmate who is the subject of the next post in this series.