Remade for mission

Rebuild the Church the way St. Francis was called to do

Bishop Edward B. Scharfenberger

“Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” — St. Francis of Assisi

If ever there was such a thing as a born saint, Francis of Assisi was, by his own admission, not one of them. He once said, “I have been all things unholy. If God can work through me, he can work through anyone.” Unhappy with where his life was going — despite the wealth of his family, his father’s great plans for him and his fantasies about being a heroic knight — he found himself wandering aimlessly around the outskirts of his town. Pausing at the site of an old, rundown little church, San Damiano, he was drawn to a wooden crucifix in the Byzantine style where he fell down on his knees, almost giving up. From the anguish of his heart he basically asked something like, “God, what do you want from me? What am I supposed to do?”

Many of us have come to a similar point in our lives. Whatever it is we are into is not working anymore. We wonder, is this what I signed up for? Would it surprise you to know that I have heard brother priests say that? Weary of the demands on them, the things they never were taught in the seminary, like dealing with ancient boilers, leaky roofs and unpaid bills, they still manage to muster a smile as they hurry from church to church to keep up with tight Mass schedules, barely able to find a minute to pause with a parishioner seeking a moment of their time, if only for a quick Confession.

Francis was nowhere near so solicitous of souls at this point in his life, having lived largely to satisfy only his own desires. Yet it was exactly at that point when he could admit his sense of desperation with his life that God came to him with the command, “Go and rebuild my church which, as you can see, is falling down.” He looked into the large painted eyes of that icon-like crucifix and suddenly found his mission. Or so he thought.

Not doubting that he had received a call, he put his hand right to plow, so to speak, and begin to reassemble, stone by stone, the little church out of the crumpled rubble. It would take some time for Francis to discover that there was a much larger “church” to be rebuilt than this little stone chapel. Far more urgently in need of repair was the morale of the clergy, the corruption of many of the faithful as a result of their neglect and self-indulgence — the human lives in his community that were falling apart.

The parallels to our challenges today are striking. Though we are blessed to having many fine priests, diocesan and religious, still weathering one of the most demoralizing periods of our history with the scandal of sexual abuse, many parishes still reeling from the devastation of the COVID years during which we lost many of our more vulnerable and benevolent faithful, we are suffering not only from a shortage of clergy, but an absence of congregations able consistently to fill our often half-empty churches. Though it may seem harsh to say we have too many buildings — can there ever be enough places in which to worship the good Lord (if you want a quiet place you can certainly find one!) — the reality is that the funds to sustain them are quickly running out. No amount of well-intentioned raffles and cake sales is going to bring back the lost worshippers.

St. Francis faced a very similar challenge after his conversion — which did not happen all at once. Realizing that his beautiful little church which he worked so hard on restoring was not attracting many people back, he began to rethink what God was really asking him. Maybe the “church” that he was to rebuild was not the one made of bricks and mortar, but the “living stones” of which St. Peter speaks that are the all-too-human members of the Body of Christ, much in need of spiritual, emotional and physical repair. It was at about this time that he had his famous encounter with the leper, a man whose stench and appearance repelled him. Yet moved by his suffering and what only could be called the grace of God, Francis was impelled to embrace him. God was remaking St. Francis for mission. In small increments of recovery, God was leading St. Francis in the margins to encounter the poorest and most fragile to bring them to the center of the sacramental life of the Church.

St. Francis was never ordained a priest but he serves as a powerful example of what our Lord can do with our human weakness — despite our limitations and sinfulness. I have little doubt that if St. Francis were alive today, he would be inviting us not to look for our mission in church pews but in the humanity of those who live in the margins of our own neighborhoods. We may not see them “in” church, but they are in our midst, souls yearning only to be noticed and embraced with love. The prisoner recently released. The homeless teenagers who, even though not found in the streets, attend classes by day not knowing where — or if — they will eat or sleep that night, their putative caretakers not being reliably sober. Children suffering from autism, often undiagnosed, or the innocents with Down syndrome or cerebral palsy who do not “fit in” with their peers. The survivors of domestic violence and sexual abuse who fear that the mere reporting of their stories will only bring on more disgrace if not serious emotional and physical harm. The quiet and unspeakable isolation of aging couples entering the twilight of dementia. St. Francis would most likely be “finding” the Church of Jesus precisely in those recesses of every city block or country lane. If we are to rebuild the Church, in the way St. Francis was called to do, then we may find ourselves remade for mission by making his our own. No mission, no church!