On the Road with Francis of Assisi by Linda Bird Francke Page B
Authors: Linda Bird Francke
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on in the forest soon after restoring San Damiano. He was captivated by what Celano describes as a “church of the Blessed Virgin Mother of God that had been built in ancient times, but was now deserted and cared for by no one.” Francis set to rebuilding the church, which measured just ten feet by twenty-three feet and was nicknamed the Porziuncola either for the “little piece” of land it sat on owned by the local Benedictines or, as others suggest, for the “little piece” of stone from the site of the Virgin Mary’s assumption into heaven brought back there by pilgrims from the Holy Land.
Whatever the source of the Porziuncola’s nickname, the derelict church and its spiritual aura resonated with Francis. Not only did he revere the Virgin Mary but while he was restoring “her” church, he was visited often by the angels inherent in the church’s formal name. The combination led to his decision to live at the Porziuncola. “He decided to stay there permanently out of reverence for the angels and love for the Mother of Christ,” writes St. Bonaventure. “He loved this spot more than any other in the world.”
Eight hundred years later, no other church, including his own basilica in Assisi, is so closely associated with Francis and his legend. It was at the Porziuncola that Franciscanism took hold; that Francis welcomed the runaway Clare; that Francis lived for eighteen years with his friars; that in 1219 his order gathered, some five thousand strong; that Francis resigned as head of the order in 1220, and that, six years later, he died.
The humble church where it all began quickly became an international shrine. To accommodate the crowds, a huge basilica was erected over the tiny chapel in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, rebuilt after an earthquake in the nineteenth century, and restored again after the earthquake of 1997. A town quickly grew around the basilica, both named Santa Maria degli Angeli, and the old forests were felled and replaced with grids of paved streets. Hotels, restaurants, and coffee bars followed, as did shops and street bazaars featuring sweatshirts with the logo “Assisi.”
Nonetheless, the power of that original, simple chapel extended worldwide, including America. A Franciscan friar exploring California in 1769 named a river, in Spanish, Nuestra Señora de los Angeles de la Porciuncula, and the settlement established later along its bank came to be known as El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula, or the Town of Our Lady the Queen of Angels of the Little Portion. The name of that settlement would, in time, be shortened to Los Angeles.
The town of Santa Maria degli Angeli is a madhouse during one of our visits there in the fall of 2004. The streets are being overrun by Italians, waving placards and banners and flags and marching in a
Manifestazióne di pace.
It is that once-a-year day when more than one hundred thousand Italians march for peace from Perugia to Assisi via Santa Maria degli Angeli, and we find ourselves, accidentally, among them. It seems entirely fitting that Francis, a medieval monument for peace, would have brought all these people to the town named after his little church and on to his hometown in the midst of the war with Iraq.
“Pace,”
the tie-dyed banners read. Peace.
Francis would have loved the foot-weary peace pilgrims sprawled on their backpacks in the gigantic piazza in front of the equally gigantic church. But he would have been stunned to see what had happened to his simple little church, which used to stand along a narrow path in the woods below Assisi.
The Porziuncola now sits on acres of marble floor inside the triple-nave basilica, dwarfed by massive columns and the basilica’s sky-scraping dome. It looks more like a gaily painted doll’s house than the simple home of the Franciscan Order. The only authentic feeling of Francis is in the chapel’s rough stone interior and the excavated fragments of the
Whatever the source of the Porziuncola’s nickname, the derelict church and its spiritual aura resonated with Francis. Not only did he revere the Virgin Mary but while he was restoring “her” church, he was visited often by the angels inherent in the church’s formal name. The combination led to his decision to live at the Porziuncola. “He decided to stay there permanently out of reverence for the angels and love for the Mother of Christ,” writes St. Bonaventure. “He loved this spot more than any other in the world.”
Eight hundred years later, no other church, including his own basilica in Assisi, is so closely associated with Francis and his legend. It was at the Porziuncola that Franciscanism took hold; that Francis welcomed the runaway Clare; that Francis lived for eighteen years with his friars; that in 1219 his order gathered, some five thousand strong; that Francis resigned as head of the order in 1220, and that, six years later, he died.
The humble church where it all began quickly became an international shrine. To accommodate the crowds, a huge basilica was erected over the tiny chapel in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, rebuilt after an earthquake in the nineteenth century, and restored again after the earthquake of 1997. A town quickly grew around the basilica, both named Santa Maria degli Angeli, and the old forests were felled and replaced with grids of paved streets. Hotels, restaurants, and coffee bars followed, as did shops and street bazaars featuring sweatshirts with the logo “Assisi.”
Nonetheless, the power of that original, simple chapel extended worldwide, including America. A Franciscan friar exploring California in 1769 named a river, in Spanish, Nuestra Señora de los Angeles de la Porciuncula, and the settlement established later along its bank came to be known as El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula, or the Town of Our Lady the Queen of Angels of the Little Portion. The name of that settlement would, in time, be shortened to Los Angeles.
The town of Santa Maria degli Angeli is a madhouse during one of our visits there in the fall of 2004. The streets are being overrun by Italians, waving placards and banners and flags and marching in a
Manifestazióne di pace.
It is that once-a-year day when more than one hundred thousand Italians march for peace from Perugia to Assisi via Santa Maria degli Angeli, and we find ourselves, accidentally, among them. It seems entirely fitting that Francis, a medieval monument for peace, would have brought all these people to the town named after his little church and on to his hometown in the midst of the war with Iraq.
“Pace,”
the tie-dyed banners read. Peace.
Francis would have loved the foot-weary peace pilgrims sprawled on their backpacks in the gigantic piazza in front of the equally gigantic church. But he would have been stunned to see what had happened to his simple little church, which used to stand along a narrow path in the woods below Assisi.
The Porziuncola now sits on acres of marble floor inside the triple-nave basilica, dwarfed by massive columns and the basilica’s sky-scraping dome. It looks more like a gaily painted doll’s house than the simple home of the Franciscan Order. The only authentic feeling of Francis is in the chapel’s rough stone interior and the excavated fragments of the
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