Memorial of Saint Francis of Assisi

Some days, the Scriptures sound like they were written for a headline we just read. Today is one of those days. The readings tell of exile and return, of power and humility, of God’s delight in the small and the simple. On the Memorial of Saint Francis of Assisi, they offer a way through the noise of modern life—past our metrics of accomplishment and toward a joy rooted in heaven.

When Exile Becomes a Teacher (Baruch 4:5-12, 27-29)

Baruch speaks to a people who feel the ache of distance—distance from home, from God, from themselves. Their exile is not the end; it’s a wake-up call. “Fear not… turn now ten times the more to seek him” (Bar 4:27). That “ten times more” is not punishment; it’s passion—the zeal of a heart that knows it has wandered and wants to come home.

In a world full of restless scrolling, career whiplash, and relationships stretched thin, many know this spiritual dislocation. Baruch does not minimize the pain, nor does he accuse without hope. He names the truth: choices have consequences; love can grow cold. But he also declares a greater truth: “He who has brought disaster upon you will, in saving you, bring you back enduring joy” (Bar 4:29).

St. Augustine taught that God heals disordered love by reordering our desires toward the Highest Good. The point is not to wallow in regret but to let grace reorder the heart. Exile can become a teacher when it turns us toward the Lord with a fiercer love than before.

The God Who Hears the Poor (Psalm 69:33-37)

“The Lord listens to the poor” (Ps 69:34). The refrain is not flattery; it’s a fact. The psalm insists that the God who names galaxies bends low to hear those who have no leverage. Poverty here is both social reality and spiritual posture. It is the stance of a heart that knows its need.

Saint Francis didn’t romanticize poverty; he befriended it. He called it “Lady Poverty” because he discovered in it a freedom and a joy that wealth couldn’t buy. The psalm not only promises that the poor are heard; it says creation joins their song: “Let the heavens and the earth praise him, the seas and whatever moves in them!” (Ps 69:35). In a time of ecological anxiety, this line lands with force: praise is not escapism. It is alignment with the truth of things. To praise is to inhabit reality as God made it—gifted, interdependent, and ordered to love.

The psalm promises rebuilding: “God will save Zion and rebuild the cities of Judah” (Ps 69:36). Rebuilding isn’t just stone and mortar; it’s the restoration of belonging, trust, and shared purpose. Those who “love his name shall inhabit it” (Ps 69:37). Love, not dominance, makes a home livable.

Joy Without Triumphalism (Luke 10:17-24)

The seventy-two return thrilled: “Even the demons are subject to us because of your name” (Lk 10:17). Jesus doesn’t deny the power that flowed through them, but he recalibrates their joy: “Do not rejoice because the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice because your names are written in heaven” (Lk 10:20). There is a joy that swells with results—and a deeper joy rooted in belonging. Jesus points to the latter.

Augustine saw pride as the precipice from which Satan fell—“like lightning” (Lk 10:18). Spiritual gifts, accomplishments, even victories over evil can become snares if they inflate the self. That’s why Jesus lifts their eyes to the registry of heaven. Your deepest identity is not in your power but in your being known and loved by the Father.

This is liberating for the age of analytics. Ministries, companies, and personal brands all keep score. Jesus blesses impact, but he refuses to let the heart be chained to it. Joy, he insists, is safest when anchored in the Father’s remembrance of you.

Hidden Wisdom and the Childlike (Matthew 11:25; Luke 10:21-22)

“Blessed are you, Father… you have revealed to little ones the mysteries of the kingdom” (Mt 11:25; cf. Lk 10:21). Jesus rejoices in the Holy Spirit over the small. The Greek hints at “infants.” God’s secrets are not unlocked by cleverness, but entrusted to those who receive like children.

St. Teresa of Ávila described prayer as a simple, honest friendship with God—a “loving attention” that requires humility more than technique. That’s the childlike posture Jesus celebrates. Francis embodied it by calling his brothers “lesser ones” (fratres minores). Not naïve, but unguarded before God. In an era that prizes credentials, Jesus reminds us that revelation is relational. The Father is known in the Son, and the Son reveals the Father “to anyone to whom the Son wishes to reveal him” (Lk 10:22). The doorway is low; we bow to enter.

Saint Francis: Rebuilding by Becoming Small

Born into wealth, Francis of Assisi (1181/2–1226) learned to chase applause and found it hollow. In the ruins of San Damiano, he heard Christ say, “Rebuild my church.” He began literally—stone by stone—but soon realized the call was broader: renew the Church by living the Gospel plainly.

He stripped himself of privilege before the bishop, embraced lepers, and made peace a way of being. He met the Sultan al-Kamil during the Crusades not with a sword but with vulnerable courage. He received the stigmata, bore the wounds of Christ in his flesh, and sang the Canticle of the Creatures as a brother among brothers and sisters—sun and moon, wind and water.

Francis’s holiness was not managerial brilliance. It was transparent love. He believed the psalm: the Lord listens to the poor (Ps 69:34). He trusted Baruch: turn back “ten times the more” (Bar 4:27). He lived the Gospel: rejoice not in power, but in being written in heaven (Lk 10:20). In a polarized world, Francis shows how the Church is rebuilt: not by louder outrage, but by deeper conversion, concrete mercy, and joyful littleness.

Practicing a Franciscan Turn Today

Turn “ten times the more” (Bar 4:27): Name one way your heart has strayed—resentment, distraction, self-reliance—and choose a small, consistent act of return this week: daily examen, honest confession, or a set time of Scripture.
Choose hiddenness: Do one act of service that no one will see. Let it be your quiet “rejoice that your name is written in heaven” (Lk 10:20).
Pray like a child (Mt 11:25): Spend five minutes in wordless presence. Simply tell the Father, “Here I am.” Receive being loved more than you strive to achieve.
Let creation teach praise (Ps 69:35): Step outside, notice one detail of God’s world, and give thanks. Consider a concrete care-for-creation habit: reduce waste, plant something, or support an initiative that heals your local watershed.
Side with the poor (Ps 69:34): Share a meal or a conversation with someone on the margins. Support a ministry of housing, reentry, or mental health. Let your proximity reshape your priorities.

The through-line of today’s readings is clear: God has not forgotten you. Exile is not your name; beloved is. Power is not your identity; son or daughter is. The world will offer reasons to gloat or to despair. The Gospel offers a better center: the Father’s delight, revealed to the childlike in the face of the Son (Lk 10:21-22).