Encounters: On the Paths of Francis of Assisi

It was a Monday evening in Bamberg. I came home tired from work, and yet I was looking forward to the evening, because I had deliberately planned something different from the usual rhythm of the week. It was a reading as part of the Bamberg Literary Festival. A few hours in which I could step outside the working routine and let myself be inspired by something else.

I had already engaged with Francis of Assisi. I had read books and had also taken up one of his stories in my own book “Beneath the Open Sky – Nature & Enjoyment”. I wasn't expecting much that was new, but I was curious to see how this evening would unfold.

The library was well attended without feeling crowded. Small tables stood around the room, with various snacks laid out on them. People sat together, spoke quietly, adjusted their chairs. The staff greeted everyone warmly, and so an atmosphere arose that felt calm and almost familiar.

The author spoke of the journey he had undertaken himself. From Rome to Assisi, fourteen days on foot. Images from Umbria appeared on the screen. Gentle hills, wide landscapes, and lush greenery defined the scenery. The paths wound through fields and hillsides, and one could sense that this route was not merely distance, but also time.

Between the stories, a musician stepped forward. He accompanied the Canticle of the Sun on guitar. Verse by verse he delivered the text, giving each one its own sound. It was not singing, but a quiet recitation carried by the music, which lent the evening an even, steady rhythm.

Eight centuries lie between us and this man, and yet his spirit felt tangible in that moment.

Francis could barely see by the end of his life. He suffered and knew that his time was nearly over. And it was precisely in this period that he turned to the praise of creation. He sang of the source of all light, the sun. He praised the moon, water, fire, and air, as well as the fruits, flowers, and herbs.

He taught this song to his lesser brothers because he wanted it to be carried on. They were to travel the land as God's troubadours, singing to the people of Sister Sun, touching their hearts and making them joyful.

When a doctor told him he had only a few weeks left to live, he did not lament. He added another verse and began to praise Brother Death, from whom no one can escape. And again he asked his lesser brothers to sing the song — now with the new verse.

There is a great strength in this thought. Not one's own suffering takes centre stage, but rather what one can still give. That was his way of looking at the world.

I imagine walking this path myself. Stepping into the footsteps of Francis of Assisi for a time and letting myself be carried by his Canticle of the Sun, by his trust in creation.

In doing so, I find myself thinking back to a long-ago time. To months travelling with a rucksack, to Africa, to nights in a tent, to the feeling that between me and the starlit sky there was only a thin piece of fabric.

To how little it takes to be happy.

But that is another story.

B.