Remembering St. Francis

The Argentine cardinal's choice of his name for pope reminds me of a story about a humble man named Joe. Every time the man had a simple decision to make another option would have been better.

Let's say for example that Joe was at a bank, store or fast food restaurant and he had to choose what line to stand in. If he picked the shortest line at the bank then the little old lady in front of him wanted to get her change in multiple denominations, would not have signed her check and was still working with the patient  cashier 15 minutes later. If he picked the express lane at a store someone in front would have a clothing item without a tag requiring the clerk to get on the intercom and yell “Help needed for checkout 4”. And really no matter what line he picked at Burger King he would end up with their special needs trainee who would be told by the young girl patiently helping her; “Now press erase on this button, no, this button, there you've got it, and now press value meal number 7, yes it's over here. One space over Honey. OK, let's start again.”

Since this was the pattern for his whole life it began to wear Joe down and he became depressed. He thought that it would be great if he could take a vacation to some far away place, just sit in the sun and get away from the day to day decisions that always would turn out so bad. The route Joe picked to drive to the airport had an accident ahead of him that made traffic come to a halt for 2 hours, causing him to miss his flight. He had a choice of leaving by the same airline the next morning or he could leave that night on a flight offered by a budget carrier.

Taking the night option Joe self selected a seat that looked like it would offer him the best option to lay back and get some sleep but just before the loading door closed a very big man who had obviously been drinking and was now getting quite nauseous came in and sat down next to Joe. The airplane takes off and about midnight it flies through a terrible thunder and lightening storm. First one engine goes out, then the second, then the third and finally the last. The airplane begins a shaky descent through the storm and the pilot gets on the intercom and advises the passengers that if they know how to pray then now would be a good time.

Joe begins to pray. “St. Francis, you are my patron saint. I just want to let you know that my life has been miserable up to this point. Nothing has gone right. I have never asked you for anything but now, please, I need your help.”

Just then a giant hand reaches into the clouds and grabs the falling airplane. A voice booms out; “Are you the one who prayed to St. Francis.”

“Yes, yes, that was me!” responds Joe.

“Would that be St. Francis de Sales or St. Francis of Assisi?”

This is of course what I was thinking after the new pope picked his papal moniker. Everyone assumed he was honoring the saint that preached to the little birds but I had grown up attending a church named after a guy named Francis who was educated by the Jesuits and who preached return to the Roman church to  Calvinists.  And there is also a third logical option. A priest by the name of Francis Xavier was one of the founders of the Jesuit order, the same order belonged to by the new Pope Francis.

I think it is important that we assign Roman numerals to differentiate between the possible choices. Is this Pope Francis I – Pope Francis II or Pope Francis III? Perhaps we should let historians of the future figure it out. Maybe he will combine aspects of all three and be Pope Francis IV or VI. The age of the guy might suggest I V. To be frank, we don't want a pope with any sixes affixed to his name.

Our church was named after St. Francis de Sales, as was the grade school I attended for 8 years. This was the church I was baptized from. This was the church in which basement Jackie and I helped lead prayer meetings in for many years. This was the church we left when it dawned on me that the Holy Spirit would never be welcome in the labyrinth of the Roman Church bureaucracy. But we had some good times and we did see a lot of changes there.

St. Francis de Sales always had a large Hispanic attendance and they would offer a mass each Sunday in Spanish. We once had an associate priest from a South American country who would give these fiery sermons and pull no punches. One Easter, upset that some people would only grace the church with their presence twice a year, he proclaimed; “Happy Easter! And since you're already here, Merry Christmas too!” He happened to be the priest officiating at our last service at St. Francis, giving a sermon on nuclear disarmament.

One time after we had left the church our daughter Missy, who was in college at the time, told us she was going with a friend of hers who was Hispanic to help that girl's ladies group make burritos in the basement of St. Francis for the upcoming Cinco de Mayo celebration. Jackie told Missy to take our food processor to help her cut up the cheddar cheese. Showing Missy how it was done she put a block of cheese into the processor, pressed the on button and “Twarpp”, there was a pile of shredded cheese.

Missy and her friend arrived at the church basement and all the older Hispanic ladies get out their hand shredding implements and began the four hour process of shredding and socializing. My daughter then plugs in the food processor, takes a few blocks of cheese and “twarpp, twarpp, twarpp”, has a massive pile of cheese in about a minute. Looking up pleased she notices the concerned look on all the other brown faces. Getting the hint Missy unplugs her machine. We would later joke about Missy almost being able to destroy centuries of Spanish culture in one afternoon until the food processor disarmament.

St. Francis of Assisi wrote a famous prayer that was later used as a basis for a beautiful hymn.  We used to sing this at St. Francis de Sales and it was one of our favorites at our home prayer meetings.  Picking this song was a choice where you couldn't go wrong.

Make me a channel of your peace:

Where there is hatred, let me bring your love,

Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord,

And where there's doubt true faith in you.

Make me a channel of your peace:

Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope,

Where there is darkness, only light,

And where there's sadness, ever joy.

O Master, grant that I may never seek

So much to be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved, as to love with all my soul!

Make me a channel of your peace:

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

In giving of ourselves that we receive,

And in dying that we are born to eternal life.