Francis—Called to be a Saint.
"God's interpreter art thou,
To the waiting ones below
'Twixt them and its light midway
Heralding the better day."
We have seen Francis as a young man, gay, careless, pleasure loving, kind-hearted, a leader at every feast and revel, known to his companions as a thorough good fellow. We have watched the first strivings of the Holy Spirit in his soul, and marked his earnest attempts to follow the light that then began to penetrate his hitherto dark soul. We have followed that glimmering light with him, step by step, seen him persecuted, mocked, stoned, beaten, watched his lonely wilderness wrestlings when there was no human eye to pity, no human arm to succour. We have seen, too, how, little by little, this thorny pathway led to a closer and more intimate acquaintance with God, for which acquaintance Francis counted his sufferings as nothing, and the world well lost.
"Saint" Francis.
Francis was not an extraordinary character in any sense of the word. He was what he was simply and solely by the grace of God, which is ever free for all men. He was not a man created for the hour. He was a vessel, cleansed and emptied, and thus fit for the Master's use, and God used him, as He always uses such vessels. The whole secret of his sainthood lay in his simple, loving, implicit obedience. Not the lifeless obedience that one renders to inexorable law, but the heart-felt, passionate desire to serve, and to anticipate the lightest want of the One Object of the affections! That baptism of personal love for God and union with Christ was poured out upon Francis in the black hour of what looked to him complete failure; when hunted and pursued, he sought refuge from his angry friends in the caves of the earth. The gift that he then received he never ceased to guard and cherish, and other blessings were added to it, for God has promised, "To him that hath it shall be given." And God gave liberally, good measure, pressed down, and running over. But the gifts which were Francis are ours too, by right of grace Divine—to be had for the faithful seeking, and kept by pure, faithful, and obedient living—"Called to be saints." The few? One here and there in every century? Oh, no. "Called to be saints," are the myriad souls who have received the Divine touch of regeneration. This is the calling and election of the redeemed; but oh, how few there are that make them sure!
Five years had now elapsed since that spring morning, when, weak and ill from fever, Francis dragged himself out of doors, to look again on the glorious landscape that he thought would bring him health and healing. The story of his disappointment we have already told. During those five years Francis made gigantic strides in heavenly wisdom and knowledge, and we feel that we cannot do better than to pause in our narrative and try to give you some idea of the spiritual personality of the man, whose name even now the people were beginning to couple with that of "saint."
In appearance Francis was a thorough Italian. He was rather below than over the ordinary height, his eyes and hair were dark, and his bearing free and gracious. He was chiefly remarkable for his happy, joyous expression. This he never lost: even when illness had robbed him of his good looks, the light in his eyes, and the smile on his lips were always the same.
Holy Boldness.
The most striking points of Francis' character are, perhaps, his humility, his sincerity, and his childlike simplicity. Humble Francis was not by nature. There was nothing in his training to make him so, and everything that would tend to the growth of pride and arrogance. But, with his conversion, humility became one of his strongest convictions. He truly considered himself less than the least, and he held it to be an offence against God if he ever let himself, or his little feelings and prejudices, stand in the way of accomplishing what he believed to be for the extension of the Kingdom. It seemed as though he had no feelings to be hurt. What most people would call justifiable sensitiveness, Francis would call sin. He went straight to the mark, and if he did not accomplish all he wanted to at first, he simply tried again, and generally succeeded sooner or later.
In places where the Friars were not known, Francis often found it a little difficult to get permission to preach in the churches. At a place called Imola, for instance, where he went to ask the bishop for the use of the church, the bishop replied, coldly and distantly:—