This year marks 800 years since the death of St. Francis of Assisi, a man who remains at the same time familiar and elusive. Eight centuries have passed, and yet he continues to speak across generations, inspiring artists, poets, musicians, environmentalists, and anyone searching for a different way of living.
When I think of St. Francis, I think first of Giotto’s fresco in the Basilica of Santa Croce in Florence, where Francis is portrayed surrounded by his brothers as he says farewell to the world. It is a deeply human image: not a distant saint, but a man who was profoundly loved at the end of his journey.
I also think of the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua, where his presence still feels extraordinarily close. Francis was not only a religious figure; he became, in a sense, one of the first great influencers in history. Dante dedicated an entire canto of the Divine Comedy to him, countless artists have tried to represent him, and even Zeffirelli brought his story to the screen in Brother Sun, Sister Moon — a beautiful film, but still unable to fully capture his mystery.
Because this is the point: Francis escapes every definition.
Some people, jokingly, have described me as “undefinable” in the same way. I like the comparison, although it does not go very far. Francis transformed the world; I am simply an imperfect human being, a sinner trying to make sense of life.
As part of the anniversary celebrations, a local conference included Professor Fabrizio Nicoli speaking about the Franciscan Rule in a detailed and technical way. Bruno Micheletti then gave an excellent presentation about the Franciscan influence throughout the Valle del Serchio, showing how Francis’s ideas spread through local Franciscans far beyond Assisi, reaching villages and communities throughout Italy and even the Arab world. After all, St. Francis met the Sultan of Egypt and tried, in his own way, to overcome religious barriers. It was, I believe, a lecture worthy of publication.
There was also an unusual but interesting contribution from Dr Betti, brother of our pharmacist, who offered a Jungian interpretation of St. Francis. Some of the ideas may have pushed the interpretation a little too far, but I appreciated the attempt to look at Francis from another perspective. Great figures are never exhausted by a single point of view.
Yet the central question remains: how could a man embrace poverty in such a radical way? How could he renounce comfort, material possessions, and even concern for his own physical well-being?
The story of “perfect joy” offers a key. Francis describes joy not as success or comfort, but as the moment when one is cold, hungry, rejected, and exhausted — and yet remains inwardly at peace. At first this seems like a paradox. Why should suffering be joy?
Perhaps because it is the moment when everything superficial falls away. When there is nothing left to defend and nothing left to prove, another kind of freedom emerges. Perfect joy, for Francis, is the discovery that even when stripped of everything, one continues simply to be.
Francis has accompanied me since my youth, when I first read the Little Flowers of St. Francis. Those stories seemed almost like fairy tales, yet they carried a deeper truth: the story of a man who saw beauty everywhere.
Then there is the Canticle of the Creatures, one of the earliest works of Italian poetry, remarkable for its simplicity and its breadth. A medieval friar praising the sun, the moon, the earth, water, and fire seems almost modern in his ecological sensitivity, yet at the same time completely timeless.
Here in the Valle del Lima, his presence still feels close, especially in the frescoes of the nearby monastery of San Francesco, which have been intelligently interpreted by Christopher Stace, an English scholar living in the neighbouring valley. He has also studied and translated Bartolomeo of Pisa’s Conformity of the Life of St. Francis to the Life of Christ, which draws striking parallels between Francis and Jesus.
Of course, there is only one Christ and only one Francis. They cannot be merged together. But Francis’s desire to imitate Christ is what gives strength to his life.
There are aspects of him that I still struggle to understand: his radical self-denial, his extreme poverty, and his apparent neglect of the needs of the body. I also question his relationship with St. Clare. Spiritual love and human affection do not have to be in contradiction; even the Song of Songs celebrates their unity.
Yet other aspects speak to me deeply.
I admire his courage in rejecting the wealth and expectations of his family. He rejected the logic of money and prestige. A refusal of that kind is rare and profoundly courageous.
Above all, I am moved by his love for nature and animals. The story of the Wolf of Gubbio — whether taken literally or symbolically — reveals a vision in which even fear can be transformed through compassion.
Perhaps this is his greatest lesson: that what we fear can sometimes be healed, and that even we ourselves can be tamed.
Francis was also a poet, a musician, a troubadour, and a man of joy. He was not defined only by renunciation. His vision of simplicity and freedom appears surprisingly modern, almost “hippy” in spirit, as has emerged in recent reflections.
The conference took place in the church of Pieve di Controni, one of the most beautiful churches in the Valle del Lima. It is a Romanesque masterpiece, often overlooked, a place whose bell tower I have climbed, where I have sung, and from where I have looked out over the valley. Places like this remind us how deeply history and spirituality are intertwined with the landscape.
And then there is something more personal.
My name is Francis.
I have often reflected on this. My mother chose well. As the years pass, I feel increasingly close to the saint whose name I carry.
One day, like him, I too will have to leave this world. I do not know when, but I hope to do so with the same peace that he found. I hope I will have no great regrets, and that I will feel that my life had meaning, that it mattered, and that perhaps I left the world a little better than I found it.
I do not want to spoil this world, nor what comes afterwards.
So, after 800 years, St. Francis continues to speak — not because he was perfect, but because he was always searching. He struggled, he doubted, he loved, and he transformed.
And I am grateful that my mother gave me his name.
Francis.
Postscript. On September 4 and 5 there will be a conference on saint Francis. This is the programme.
THE DEATH OF SAINT FRANCIS (Giotto)
He waits for Sister Death: they kiss his feet,
his hands, his arms; they cling and will not leave
the poor one. Yet he lies in winding sheet,
a truth their grieving hearts cannot believe.
The upraised palms and eyes still plead and grieve,
yet his gaze passes beyond his failing beat;
he does not meet their glance, nor can receive
the mystery of Her cold, eternal heat.
But yet the brothers shall resign and meet
the final things that sorrow’s threads shall weave;
and he shall sit beside his Lord and eat,
as swifts and swallows in the summer leave.
The morning hymn begins: “Let us now praise
the bright, ecstatic wonder of His ways.”
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