Father Alan Guanella
Vicar General and Judicial Vicar of the Diocese of La Crosse
For some reason, children seem to love St. Francis of Assisi. Over the years, as a school chaplain, associate pastor and pastor, I have visited many school and religious education classrooms and asked students about their favorite saints. There was always a significant number whose favorite was St. Francis of Assisi. More often than not, there was even an image or statue of him in the classroom.
I cannot recall a time when I did not know about St. Francis of Assisi, though I would not have necessarily considered him one of my favorite saints. Nevertheless, as I began thinking about writing these words for Catholic Life, I realized just how much St. Francis has quietly played a role in my own life.
One of my earliest memories of St. Francis comes from my first-grade religion textbook. I remember one page that showed “St. Francis in the Desert” by Giovanni Bellini. Even at a young age, I was struck by it. I recall being mesmerized, studying the image with a kind of fascination I could not quite explain. I loved it so much that when we were allowed to take our consumable textbooks home at the end of the year, I saved mine—and I still have it to this day. Years later, I had the opportunity to visit the Frick Collection in New York City, where the painting is housed, and I was able to admire it in person.
Another early memory comes from second grade, when Father Joseph Follmar held a blessing of animals on the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi for the schoolchildren. It was the first time I had experienced this tradition. It is one I later continued in parishes where I served as pastor. Over the years, I’ve blessed all kinds of animals, but the goats one year stand out the most, unlike the cats, who never seemed to appreciate the holy water.
As a seminarian, when I was sent to Italy to begin theological studies, I spent a summer living in Assisi while studying Italian. There, in the hometown of St. Francis, he became very real to me. Each day, on my way to class at the Italian Language Academy, I passed places closely associated with his life. His hometown became, for a time, my home away from home.
I attended Mass each morning at the Chiesa Nuova, built on the site of his presumed birthplace. I visited the Cathedral of San Rufino, where he was baptized and saw the baptismal font itself. I had the privilege of venerating his tomb whenever I wished at the grand Papal Basilica of St. Francis.
I often prayed before the San Damiano Cross, from which Our Lord spoke to Francis: “Rebuild my Church.” Not yet understanding the depth of those words, Francis set about physically rebuilding a small chapel, the Portiuncula, on the plain below Assisi, now enclosed within the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels.
During that summer, I was able to celebrate the Feast of Our Lady of the Angels of the Portiuncula on Aug. 2, and I have especially fond memories of praying in that small chapel.
Even while in Assisi, I felt a connection to my home Diocese of La Crosse. There are twin statues of St. Francis, often called the “Dancing Francis,” sculpted by Paul Theodore Granlund: one at Viterbo University in La Crosse and the other at St. Anthony’s Guest House in Assisi. I remember seeing the statue in Assisi for the first time and feeling an unexpected sense of connection to home. It was during that summer that St. Francis truly came alive to me.
As seminary continued, we frequently visited places significant in Francis’ life. I spent time on retreat in Greccio, where he initiated the tradition of the Nativity scene in 1223. Our class also spent time at the Eremo delle Carceri, a hermitage on Mount Subasio, where Francis would go to pray and contemplate. According to tradition, it was there that he preached to the birds as they perched upon an oak tree. I had an image of that event in my childhood bedroom, which still hangs in that room today.
When the time came for my ordination to the diaconate, the seminary custom was that it would always take place on a Thursday. As it happened, the date chosen for my class was Thursday, Oct. 4, 2012: the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. Francis himself was a permanent deacon, something quite rare in the 13th century. I could not help but see this as providential. As I prepared for ordination, I remember thinking back to that image of St. Francis that had captivated me as a first grader.
In “St. Francis in the Desert,” Bellini portrays Francis barefoot, his arms open as he receives the stigmata, with Mount Penna and the village of La Verna in the background. There is no visible image of God in the painting; instead, the entire scene is suffused with light, which represents the presence of God. In many ways, the true subject of the painting is that light. It touches everything: stone, leaf and Francis himself with equal attention. It behaves like grace.
Francis’ bare feet recall Moses before the burning bush and his open arms suggest a complete openness to God’s will. Whether I could have articulated it as a 7-year-old, this is what struck me then, and it is what continues to strike me today.
I am reminded of that openness every Oct. 4, as the Church celebrates the Feast of St. Francis and I mark the anniversary of my ordination to the diaconate. In the Office of Readings in the Liturgy of the Hours, there is a passage from a letter of St. Francis that reads, in part:
“Our Lord prayed to his Father, saying: ‘Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.’”
“Nevertheless, he entrusted his will to the will of his Father. He intended to leave us an example that we might follow in his footsteps. And he desires that all of us be saved through him. We ought to be servants, submissive to every human being for God’s sake. The Spirit of the Lord will rest on all who live in this way and persevere in it to the end.”
While I never would have listed St. Francis among my favorite saints, perhaps God has had other plans. In ways I did not fully recognize at the time, Francis has been present throughout my life—quietly teaching me to be open to God’s will and learning to see the light of God in all things.
One commentator, reflecting on Bellini’s painting, observed: “In an age of miracles painted as events, Giovanni Bellini paints a change of attention. St. Francis does not look through the world to reach God; he looks into the world until it becomes luminous with God.” In the end, that may be the lesson St. Francis offers all of us: not to look past the world in search of God, but to look more deeply into it, until we begin to see everything illuminated by His presence.