The Via di Francesco, to the extent that it can be thought of as one, singular thread, is essentially composed of two halves. Over these days, I finished the first part, linking Rome and Assisi. Perhaps 90% of the pilgrims I encountered along the way were walking Assisi-to-Rome, in what has been suggested to me is a one-year uptick because of the Jubilee. I expect the number to be closer to 100% for pilgrims walking La Verna-to-Assisi in the second half. After all, you can earn the Rome Testimonium or the Assisi Testimonium, but there’s “nothing” waiting for you in La Verna beyond a bunkbed in a large dorm room.
These final two stages of the northward walk into Assisi fall well within the orbit of Francis’s local peregrinations. Trevi, a lovely hill town that somehow hides its duomo away, was visited by the saint in 1213, during which time he founded a Franciscan community. The Via di Francesco finally abandons the hills for a bit after that, descending into the valley in order to cross through the large city of Foligno. This was the place where Francis, hearing the call to restore the Church of San Damiano, made his first hamfisted attempt, selling off his father’s cloth, along with his own horse. I opted instead to shop for sunscreen and hummus. While the city was a cheery enough place to walk through, with an extended pedestrian-only zone, the kilometers leading in and out proved to be a slog, leaving me hungry for a return to the hills.
Francis’s most famous journey along the road from Assisi to Roma occurred in 1209, when the young man ventured forth to gain papal recognition. The varied accounts underscore his lack of political canny or strategic vision. He assembled a ragtag bunch of followers, perhaps twelve, though the numbers change from author to author, and proceeded to the Vatican, believing quite naively that he could march directly into an audience with Pope Innocent III. First, he encountered his own bishop, Guido II of Assisi, who was surprised to find Francis in Rome, almost like having your supervisor learn of you meeting with their boss. Nonetheless, it seems that Guido advocated for the idealist, connecting him with Cardinal Giovanni Colonna di San Paolo, who could then potentially help Francis gain access to the pope. First, though, the cardinal challenged him asking why the traditional models of the hermit and monk couldn’t suffice–why exactly he aspired to a practice steeped in the purity of the apostles as described in the gospels.
Whatever Francis said was convincing enough, as the cardinal arranged that meeting, and offered this by way of an introduction: “I have found a most perfect man who wishes to live according to the form of the holy Gospel and to observe evangelical perfection.” The pope proceeded to do what any experienced political leader does when facing a complicated question: defer. He advised Francis to pray for a sign from God that his plan was legitimate. Conveniently enough, Francis had a dream that night, in which a poor woman, living in the desert, sends her sons to live in the king’s palace, who happens to be their father. There’s more to the story, but suffice it to say that Francis was satisfied. The pope, meanwhile, had a dream of his own–of a Francis-like figure holding up the leaning tower of the Lateran single-handedly, a medieval Petrus on which to continue building the church.
Ultimately, then, Pope Innocent III gave Francis oral approval to spread the word, to take up his apostolic goals, to live in the manner he aspired. Again, though, like any experienced politician, he went no further. No commitments were made in writing; no formal endorsement of a Franciscan Order was offered. That would take another six years.
In the first few accounts I read of this journey to Rome, the dominant theme was of Francis’s naivety and the danger he courted in pursuing papal support. He was hardly alone in trying to launch a new movement in this era, and one need look no further than Southern France and the Albigensian Crusade to recognize that movements to “purify” the Church were often met with condemnation and potentially violence. There’s a thin line between reformer and heretic.
For that reason, I was interested in GK Chesterton’s account of this in his book Saint Francis of Assisi (which, on the whole, could have benefited from more Francis and less Chesterton). In the former’s telling, the reluctance of the cardinal and the pope to support Francis derived from their concern for him and his followers. The path he sought to follow, they believed, was far too arduous. It asked too much of men (never mind the women, the Poor Clares, who would soon join the movement). The beauty of the monastic model, shepherded so successfully by Benedict, was its conservatism. It meshed seamlessly with the external world, despite its separation, and the economics of this system were particularly sound. A monk might never live a lavish lifestyle–though certainly some found ways to achieve that, hence the waves of monastic reform over the years–but he was assured of a consistent, steady, and reliable one. By contrast, the approach promoted by Francis was nothing but uncertainty. No property, no wealth, no assurance of anything from day to day. Could humans really live that way? Could they endure it for years? Francis was an extremist, and that scared the cardinal and pope–for his sake.
The first stage of this walk ended in Spello, an adjustment I made when I learned that the donation-based accommodation in Assisi can no longer allow pilgrims to stay for more than one night, due to city regulations. Instead, I split my walk into the city across two days, earning me this night in what proved to be a stunning town, among the loveliest of the walk so far. Between the Roman ruins, the parade of churches with stunning frescoes, and the pristine stone buildings and roads comprising the entirety of the gentle hill town, it’s an easy place to lose yourself for a while. I stayed on the outskirts, in a Franciscan convent with seven nuns, all quite aged. For the most part, I was on my own, moving between my little cell and the patio overlooking the valley. At dinner, though, I was ushered into the refectory. The nuns all sat around one table, while I was alone at the kids’ table. My meal–cheese ravioli, stewed eggplant, and mozzarella–was delivered to me by one of the nuns. The nuns, meanwhile, all served themselves from a cart, regardless of how labored their movements. Even the one lugging an oxygen tank around managed to balance her dinner in her other hand. When they finished eating, they each managed the cleaning of their dish and glass, and then pulled their bowl and mug out from a drawer beneath their table seating, positioning it for tomorrow’s breakfast. As the years passed, compromises were made–had to be made?–between Francis’s idealism and practical necessity. A personal bowl and mug are perhaps not too much to ask.
From Spello to Assisi, pilgrims have two options–a lower-level path through olive groves, or a high-level approach over Mount Subasio. I took the latter, of course, and enjoyed a thrilling walk far above the tree line. I’ve hardly lacked for beautiful valley views, but these were the most dramatic of them all, aided by perfect weather. The descent seemed endless, and I felt for the day hikers staggering upward, but eventually I passed the Eremo delle Carceri, a cave where Francis often spent time in isolation, and then finally I crossed the medieval gate into Assisi.
What would Francis think of Assisi today? The opulence and commercialism are staggering, at least in contrast to the values of the town’s most celebrated son. Nowhere is this more striking than in the Franciscan Basilica at the far end of town, covered top-to-bottom in colorful frescoes narrating the life of the saint. Most Franciscan churches along the route are among the least aesthetically striking, by design. They tend to be small, compact, and only very lightly adorned. After all, what purpose does an order devoted to poverty have for gilded altar pieces? By contrast, this basilica is the classic feast for the eyes, stuffed to the brim with visitors making the waymarked circuit from the lower level, down through the crypt, and then to the upper church. Outside, opportunities abound to purchase tau symbols, pictures of Francis, even processional robes.
Such is the fate of so many radicals, I suppose. Even in his life, Francis’s vision was already in the process of being co-opted by the Church, and as the years passed the edges were smoothed down, the most dangerous or provocative aspects were rubbed clear, and what was left was the Catholic equivalent of Western, commercialized Buddhism–a life balancing simplicity, austerity, and tolerance with a mortgage, a 401k, and the occasional “treat yourself” splurge. Because the pope and the cardinal were right; most of us weren’t cut out for the apostolic life promoted by Francis, myself included. The question, I suppose, is whether going “Francis Lite” is a credible way of honoring his tradition, or just an outright perversion of it.
Lest this sound like I spent the day in Assisi pacing around with clenched fists and a scornful eye, let me clear the air: I loved it. What a marvelous city, from the castle at the top (and the nearby garden bar with views to die for) down to the basilica, and onward to my accommodation in the Hospitale Laudato Si. I would have loved a day off here, but I’m glad to have at least had a full afternoon.
