Embracing the Leper

We may never have a hint as to whether or not our choice to suffer, to be a martyr, will mean death. We do know, however, that there are lepers everywhere waiting to be held.

Late in the dim house of Pietro Bernadone a young Assisi soldier laid beaten, waiting to be lifted by a dream of war in a world both dim and dreamy. It was a time when war could still touch men’s thoughts and send them dreaming; when they fought for what sat nearest about their heads and not for dreams. 

Something stirred deep within this young man like it does in all men’s hearts though often realized by so few of them — something noble, something sacred, something so wholly human it seems divine; something therefore which easily falls on ears terrified to hear, which are the bulk of ears. But if a man can muster up the strength for stillness, the words will rain over him and he’ll feel the will of God like he feels the rain. It just so happens that our young man was becoming such a man as this, the man all men are in their own way supposed to be: God.

The dream came to him through the dimness, ornate with blades in the pattern of the crusader's cross. Spears and shields were raised high, patterned after that same cross, as if he’d stepped into the armory of heaven. He awoke, took up arms, and mounted his horse. How else could a young soldier read a dream like this? He then fled the town for battle. 

The stones of Assisi echoed Francesco Bernadone’s quest for honor as he rode away, “I will come back a great prince.” 

Francesco was charmed by the chivalry defining his age, undoubtedly; but in the remote places stirred a hunger for the glories of war — and how could it not? That hunger nips like a jackal in every man. And the glory which is won in war awakens something in our blood. What we do with that mangy mutt, and how we allow our blood to burn is what defines us.

So, as Francesco rode toward war one was already afoot within his chest. 

Due to brashness, sickness struck Francesco on the road again. He rode off far before he had recovered, hardly making any progress on the road at all. Once more our young man was in darkness and once more he had a dream. “You have mistaken the meaning of the vision,” a voice reached him in the night, “return to your own town.” He made his way accordingly back home, beaten yet again. 

As Chesterton points out, Francesco Bernadone was not merely defeated, he was “puzzled and bewildered.” When something bursts forth from the brush, when something lands before our feet, we cannot help to think it means something. Similarly, Francesco could not help but think the visions contained meaning. But what exactly they did mean, he had no earthly clue. 

He rode now without aim, in open country where he could see everything and seemingly, therefore, nothing. But then there was something. A figure appeared in the distance, the outline of a man. As time passed two things were made clear: the man was walking toward him and the man also was a leper. Francesco froze with fear. What was now marching toward him was not the enemy’s cavalry, which he never dreamed to shy away from. His courage was not challenged by the enemies of Assisi. Swords were not banging on his father’s door. The fear was coming “from within and not without,” as Chesterton says, though the sun revealed it clearly there before him. 

The man was closer every second. Francesco’s stomach turned from the dizzying smell of ulcers. He sat still on his horse; and then he didn’t. He leapt down from his saddle, the fire of the holy spirit melting the fear iced over his bones. He darted for the leper and threw himself in his embrace and gave him all the money that he had, beginning his arduous and persisting vocation of ministering to the lepers. He then remounted his horse and slowly rode away. When he looked back, St. Francis of Assisi saw no one else behind him.

In his biography of St. Francis, G.K. Chesterton notes that while this encounter with the leper “has not always been immediately connected with the business of the dreams,” it seems to him “the obvious culmination of them.” I consent to Chesterton’s judgment, though when I first read it, I was stumped. It did not seem to me a culmination of the dreams, let alone an obvious one. But then the answer hit me square in the nose: martyrdom. 

In claiming that St. Francis of Assisi’s dreams of war and his moment with the leper are woven together, Chesterton seems to be marrying two things we not only do not deem complimentary, but that we see as entirely contradictory. 

For us moderns, martyrdom is a country mile away from what we believe to be the ends of war — protection, defense, conquest. But for the Christian, the two are fastened together tightly. Martyrdom is something above war, touching it because it touches all things; and touching all things because when man fell from life he fell into death; he fell into war. The life, death, and resurrection of our Lord, however, revealed martyrdom as the solution to war, the way back into Life. 

Sitting atop the hierarchy of this principle is a mystery which hides its face as soon as we see it. But try beginning at the bottom. Look around you. Look at your relationships. When two friends enter into strife or struggle—war—the first impulse for both parties is often for victory; a grasping for power.

But now turn to the resolution, where is it found? In sacrifice. One of the friends sacrifices his ego for the sake of the other, for peace. There is a laying down of the self, a crucifixion, a martyrdom. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,” our Lord tells us; it’s love. Through martyrdom we return to Life because we participate in Life’s ordering principle, the very thing that gives the cosmos breath: Love.

Now, this martyrdom we as Christians are called to is not always physical death; even when it is a possibility, it is not necessarily the outcome. When St. Francis of Assisi held the leper in his arms he may as well have wrapped them around death itself, though, in the end, his body did not die. This is why St. Paul was able to declare “I die daily” with a beating heart. 

What, then, is martyrdom in war? What is the occasion of death for an entire military? Is it actual, physical death — a laying down of swords in preparation for annihilation? Not quite. The answer, applying the teachings of the Holy Church, would be the fidelity to justice; the adherence to the principles of a just war. 

Ignoring justice in war is easy. It is the broad path, the wide gate. If the lungs of a nation are blown to smithereens how can it breathe, let alone fight you? How can it kill more of your men?  If the farms and towns of your enemy are but ashes, what could kindle rebellion again? Justice has long been a nuisance to Generals, but it is now a stumbling block to the administers of war who conduct airstrikes behind screens. Why concern yourself with justice when you can’t hear your enemy scream?

Our post-Christian world accordingly continues to be plagued by war, two in particular which have completely captured our eyes today and turned our stomachs sick. There is much to say concerning both though very much has already been said, and the analysts will belabore them even when the killing stops. Perhaps that is all well and good. The only thing I will say is that the hands of sophists are smothering justice as war crimes are exchanged between dueling parties like middle school love letters. 

But that is far from us right now. The need, as I see it, is not for more analysis. The need is for martyrs. It is what we should be praying for — martyrs who will choose Christ in the midst of war, who will choose justice. We should be praying for the courage and the fidelity to see it through and to do the work required of us as sons of God. Of course it isn’t easy, but we’re called to greatness and greatness never sits lightly on men’s shoulders. Indeed, it rests on them always as a cross — but Greatness Himself carries it before us. 

Sure, we often lack knowledge of what the outcome will be when we lay down our lives. It is quite unlikely that St. Telemachus had foreknowledge of the events which would unfold after he thrust himself between two gladiators screaming “In the name of Jesus, stop!” But it would be the last of those wicked games. St. Francis of Assisi knew very well that hug could’ve been with death. He leapt down from his saddle still. Both were holding fast to St. Peter’s words:

For even hereunto were ye called: because Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow his steps: Who did no sin, neither was guile found in his mouth: Who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not; but committed himself to him that judgeth righteously.

We may never have a hint as to whether or not our choice to suffer, to be a martyr, will mean death. We do know, however, that there are lepers everywhere waiting to be held.

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