I had such a delightful time this morning visiting with Friar Charles here in Rome. I love the Franciscans. They’re like a flock of scruffy sparrows nesting in the cracks of cathedrals, yet never owned by the grandeur. They’re poets of the poor who see the face of Christ in every beggar’s grin. They’re the stewards of the earth, whispering to wolves and birds, coaxing the world into praise. They’re the sacrament of the ordinary, splashing the complacent with the champagne of heaven.
These guys don’t chase miracles; they trip over them in the dirt, where a crust of bread or a brother’s laugh becomes the body of the Lord. I heard some wild stories of mind blowing miracles. But they dont market ministry on power. They have learned the joy of having nothing but everything in Christ. They’re the church’s reminder that the Kingdom of God is for the riffraff. The first time I watched an old copy of “Brother Son Sister Moon” on VHS and saw the Archbishop bend down to kiss the dusty feet of humble Francis, I was floored right along with him.
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