Saint Francis Read Free Page A

able with God's help to reach her soul. You loved that soul, but without ever denying her body, and without ever touching it either. And not only did this carnal love for Clara not hinder you from reaching God, it actually helped you greatly, because it was this love that unveiled for you the great secret: in what manner, and by what kind of struggle the flesh becomes spirit. All love is one; it is exactly the same whether it be for wife, son, mother, fatherland, or for an idea, or God. A victory, even though on love's lowest rung, helps form the road which will lead us to God. So, you fought the flesh, vanquished it mercilessly, then kneaded it with your blood and tears and after a terrible struggle which lasted many years, transformed it into spirit. And didn't you do exactly the same with all your virtues and all your vices? They too were flesh, were Clara. Weeping, laughing, tearing your heart in two, you turned them into spirit. This is the road; there is none other. You led the way and I, panting, followed you.

    One day as I watched you rise from the bloodstained rocks, moaning, your body one great wound, my heart took pity on you. I ran to you and clasped your knees. "Brother Francis, why do you torture your body so?" I cried. "It too is one of God's creatures and must be revered. Don't you feel sorry for your blood, your blood which is being spilled?"

    But you shook your head and answered me, "Brother Leo, with the world in the state it is today, whoever is virtuous must be so to the point of sainthood, and even beyond; whoever is a sinner must be so to the point of bestiality, and even beyond. Today, the middle road is no more."

    And on another occasion when in desperation you looked to the earth and it wanted to devour you, to heaven, and it refused to help you, once again you turned to me, and I shuddered when I heard your words:

    "Listen, Brother Leo," you said. "I'm going to tell you something very grave. If you cannot bear it, lamb of God, then forget it. Are you listening?"

    "I'm listening, Father Francis," I answered. I had already begun to tremble. You placed your hand on my shoulder as though trying to steady me and prevent me from falling.

    "Brother Leo, to be a saint means to renounce not only everything earthly but also everything divine."

    But as soon as you uttered those blasphemous words, you became terrified. Bending down, you seized a handful of dirt and thrust it into your mouth. Then, placing your finger over your lips, you glared at me in horror. A few moments later you cried:

    "What have I said? Did I speak? . . . Quiet!"

    And you burst into tears.

    Every evening beneath the light of the lamp I took aim at each of your words, each of your acts, and pinned them down securely one by one so that they would not perish. A single word from your lips, I said to myself, may save a soul. If I fail to record it, fail to reveal it to mankind, that soul will not be saved, and I will be to blame.

    I had taken up my quill to begin writing many times before now, but I always abandoned it quickly: each time I was overcome with fear. Yes, may God forgive me, but the letters of the alphabet frighten me terribly. They are sly, shameless demons--and dangerous! You open the inkwell, release them: they run off--and how will you ever get control of them again! They come to life, join, separate, ignore your commands, arrange themselves as they like on the paper--black, with tails and horns. You scream at them and implore them in vain: they do as they please. Prancing, pairing up shamelessly before you, they deceitfully expose what you did not wish to reveal, and they refuse to give voice to what is struggling, deep within your bowels, to come forth and speak to mankind. As I was returning from church this past Sunday, however, I felt emboldened. Had not God squeezed those demons into place whether they liked it or not, with the result that they wrote the Gospels? Well then, I said to myself, Courage, my soul!