Jottings from Assisi on Jon Sweeney’s When Saint Francis Saved the Church

Jottings from Assisi on Jon Sweeney’s When Saint Francis Saved the Church October 13, 2014

assisiI read this book about St. Francis of Assisi all wrong.

I should have read chapter five, Through Personal Poverty, in the Piazza del Vescovado, where St. Francis stripped himself naked and defiantly returned the clothes he had taken (read: stolen) from his father’s shop to distribute them to the poor. Instead, I read chapter five–on poverty–in the basilica of St. Francis, whose grandeur might have embarrassed him, according to Sweeney.

I should have read chapter six, By Developing a New Spirituality, at the Eremo delle Carceri, a few scattered buildings that lie a stiff hike up Monte Subasio, where St. Francis spent stretches of time alone in the silence, steeling his resolve to live differently, to live like Jesus. Instead, I read chapter six–on spirituality–in the bustle of tourists on a late Saturday afternoon.

I should have read chapter eight, By Embracing Death, at Portunculo, “the small church he loved,” as Jon Sweeney phrases it, “in the valley below Assisi” (x). Instead, I read chapter eight–on death–in the Piazza del Vescovado, where, as I’ve just said, I should have read chapter five, on poverty.

It’s hopeless! I’ve made a muck of this book. I’ve read the book all wrong—though there’s really no way to read this lovely little book wrong, thank goodness. Part biography, part devotional, it is a rare combination of history and inspiration. That’s why Barbara Brown Taylor, on the jacket cover, writes, “Jon Sweeney is good at many things, but he is a master at retrieving the treasure of the Christian past and restoring it to currency for the Christian present. In this book, he transcends even those categories.” I prefer to say it this way, taking a page from Car Talk: “When Saint Francis Saved the Church is half scholarship (though never brandished like a Crusader’s sword), half theology (though never stilted), and half an expression of hope for a church under the leadership of today’s pope, the first in eight hundred years to take the daunting name of Francis.

Why would a biblical scholar like me agree to review a book on St. Francis of Assisi? Let me give you three reasons—reasons why you, too, whatever your faith, whatever your church, whatever your vocation, should read this book.

First, I knew that Jon Sweeney is an extraordinary writer. I was confident I’d learn from a sane, intelligent writer about this legend-encrusted figure of history. And I have. Immeasurably, and without the pain of academic prose.

Second, I knew that St. Francis is important, though I really only knew about him from the Franco Zeffirelli movie, “Brother Sun, Sister Moon.” I knew I needed to know more. Who better to guide me than Jon Sweeney, who’s already written noteworthy books on medieval popes and paupers—and Francis himself?

Third, I knew I was travelling to Assisi exactly when Patheos wanted the review. Yep, you heard me right. My wife Priscilla, a theologian and historian, is part of an ecumenical dialogue between Roman Catholics and Methodists that’s gone on since Vatican II in the mid-sixties; this year the discussion is taking place right now, at this very moment, at the Citadella Ospitalita, on the edge of the medieval city of Assisi. How better could the stars align, I wondered, than by giving me the opportunity to read a fine book by an exceptional author in an unforgettable hill town in Umbria, Italy?

Not just any hill town, but Francis’ home. I’ve visited San Rufino, the medieval cathedral where Francis was baptized. (Interestingly, Rufino, not Francis, is the patron saint of Assisi.) I’ve wandered the narrow alleyways of his home town (very few of which are level, explaining perhaps why Francis remained a whisp of a boy even as a wealthy merchant’s son—though I’m afraid too much pasta and gelato has led me to a different fate). I’ve sat quietly in the morning light and slight chill of the Piazza del Vescovado, this wonderful book in my hands, with pigeons drinking from a small fountain. I’ve read When Saint Francis Saved the Church in the basilica, surrounded by swarms of tourists. And I’m sitting now, in the late morning sunshine, with a decaf cappuccino on my café table, in the Piazza del Comune, the town center, which is abuzz with construction workers, tourists, delivery vans and still more pigeons bathing in a grandiose fountain flanked by small marble lions. In fact, apart from us tourists, it’s a hive of activity, very much like it was in St. Francis’ day eight centuries ago.

Who could ask for more?

A good book.

An inspired setting.

A cappuccino at my elbow.

And a gourmet lunch at the Franciscan Friars of the Atonement house in half an hour—which is why I won’t say another word about this delightful, informed, and inspiring book, at least not just now.

Ciao!

 

 


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