A Franciscan Challenge
Here’s a story some of you may have heard before, about a conversation between St. Francis and God:
God says to Francis: you’re into nature, and you spent a lot of time down there, maybe you can explain something to me. What happened to the dandelions, violets, and thistles I started? I had a perfect, no-maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. I expected to see a vast garden of colors by now. But all I see are these green rectangles.
ST. FRANCIS: It's some of the tribes that settled there, Lord. They started calling your flowers weeds and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.
GOD: Grass? But it's so boring. It's not colorful. It doesn't attract butterflies, birds, or bees. It's temperamental. Do these tribes really want all that grass growing there?
ST. FRANCIS: Apparently so, Lord. They work hard to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn.
GOD: The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make them happy.
ST. FRANCIS: Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it, sometimes twice a week.
GOD: They cut it? Do they then bale it like hay?
ST. FRANCIS: Not exactly Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.
GOD: They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?
ST. FRANCIS: No, sir -- just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.
GOD: Now, let me get this straight. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And when it does grow, they cut it off and throw it away?
ST. FRANCIS: Yes, sir.
GOD: These humans must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.
ST. FRANCIS: You aren't going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and get rid of it.
GOD: What nonsense. At least they kept some of the trees. Trees are a sheer stroke of genius if I do say so myself. The trees provide beauty in the spring and shade in the summer. In the autumn they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. As the leaves rot, they form compost to enhance the soil. It's a natural circle of life.
ST. FRANCIS: You'd better sit down, Lord. As soon as the leaves fall, the humans rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.
GOD: No. What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter and to keep the soil moist and loose?
ST. FRANCIS: After throwing away the leaves, they pay money for something they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.
And so it goes, on and on….
There are other stories I could make up about God’s dialog with St. Francis or any other of God’s companions in heaven, stories about the world today that would not be so funny. Why are they all killing each other? Why do they care more about profits than people? Why do some people live by themselves in huge houses while other people have no houses at all? Why are they so afraid of so many things, when we tried to teach them that perfect love casts out fear? What’s going on there?
We live these questions and their answers. These questions, like the imaginary dialog about St. Francis and lawns, are really all about stewardship. The lawn conversation is about stewardship of creation. The hypothetical difficult, not-so-funny questions are questions about stewardship of our lives and our faith. Included in all of this, of course, is stewardship of our treasure, and how we use what God has given each of us to further God’s work in the world and this place.
Today’s gospel asks us to think about our faith and our place in the world. It’s not the easiest gospel to hear. This gospel challenges us to try on the kind of radical faith and radical humility that Francis practiced. When we do this, we open ourselves up to the surprise of grace.
If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to these flowers: fly back there to the font. If you had faith, you wouldn’t worry about your kids or the parish budget or the environment or your own health. Yeah, right. I admit this is not the kind of faith I have, or anyone I know. Except Jesus. When he talks about faith you can quantify and measure, like a mustard seed, I don’t think he’s talking about the faith you and I have, faith that is always a work in progress. I think he’s talking about his unique and mysterious experience of God. The rest of us must make do with faith that cannot be seen or touched, faith that ebbs and flows over the course of our lives.
If you truly know your place in the world, Jesus suggests, you won’t expect any thanks or special honors. You will say “we are worthless slaves. We have done only what we ought to have done.” Right. This is a tricky one, in part because if you’re like me, the phrase “worthless slaves” pushes so many buttons it’s hard to see past it. It’s hard to see past this phrase to the very real longing most of us have, for some indication that God is pleased with us. I wonder if this longing is not so different from faith. Thomas Merton famously prayed that the desire to please God does in fact please God.
Most of us have probably been in the situation of wishing for a word of thanks or appreciation from a boss or a parent. If you’re lucky, you’ve had a boss who thanked you for doing your job. When I was just starting out as a technical writer in the early 90s, I had a manager named Marilyn. Every day, when I left to go home she would say “Thanks for coming in. Be careful out there.” This is grace. What if the gospel contains an invitation to be surprised, rather than expectant, of grace? Because when we expect it, it ceases to be grace. When we think about our deserving, it ceases to be grace. And it is in the grace of doing the work God gives us to do, without expectation, that we can let go of all that stands between us and God’s purpose for us.
Which brings us back to Francis. Francis didn’t make trouble for the institutions of the church or civil society, he made trouble for people like me. Francis forces me to look at my own material attachments, from my mid-morning coffee ritual to where I live. If I pay attention to all of Francis, not just the animal-loving Francis, he forces me to ask myself hard questions about what gets in between me and my love of God and God’s creation.
Many sayings are attributed to Francis which he may or may not have said. Here’s my favorite: Love God, love the poor, love the earth, and love with a love so radical that everyone thinks you’re out of your mind.
Francis challenges us to let go of everything except the gospel of Christ. He challenges us to be a new creation. He challenges us to flexibility and cheerfulness. He challenges us to be fools for the sake of Christ.
What challenge does Francis offer you? How will you respond?
