Salvation

 

Dave Fawcett

 

 

The bell tolled, rousing Brother Francis from his pallet and calling him to prayer. The pale edge of dawn glowed faintly through the thick glazed window as he struggled to his feet, pulling the coarse cold woollen cassock over his head.

Finding his way along the dim corridor he joined the other brothers descending the night stairs that led directly into the transept of the Abbey and shuffled across the icy tiles to the Chancel. As he turned to genuflect to the altar Francis looked up at the great crucifix and was transfixed.

 

The first rays of the dawn sun striking through the multi-hued canopy of glass in the great east window crowned him with a halo of gold, crimson and green. His eyes, dazzled by the glory, focused on the figure of Christ suspended in majesty amid the coruscating rainbow.

 

As Francis gazed, dazed and half blind into the enchantment of the morning he began to see – imagine perhaps – the merest hint of something in the centre of the sparkling, dancing arch of light; a softer pinpoint of glory that emanated from and surrounded the crucified wooden statue.

 

“Oh God!” he moaned. “If it is your will let me see this thing. Help me in…..!”

 

“……. Brother” a voice intruded. “Are you ill?”

 

Francis tried to ignore the voice, concentrating instead on the point of light. For a moment it seemed that he might retain the vision, but once again the voice insinuated itself into his mind, this time stronger and with other voices murmuring behind it.

 

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!' Francis screamed in his head. ‘Why does it have to happen every time? Will you ever let me witness your glory? Time and again you give me hints and lead me on, then just when I think I have you something comes between us. Why?'

 

Helped back to his cell Francis sat on the edge of his pallet; isolated; huddled in a cocoon of memory induced introspection. He did not need to ask himself what had happened that first time. He could remember the event as if it was but a moment ago. He had been walking in the forest close to his home. Sunlight dappling through the still leaves filled his sight with subtle hues of gold and green. Birds singing in the wooded canopy slipped imperceptibly into harmonic arpeggios. Small animals; rodents, rabbits and even foxes ceased their purposeful scurrying through the undergrowth to gather ever closer at his feet. At last there came that one sublime moment when he could feel the approaching presence of God. A feeling of indescribable peace and unutterable joy had suffused his being, a precursor for his first encounter with God.

 

The moment had never happened. A raucous blast of a huntsman's horn had destroyed the vision; then only blackness.

 

Aware of movement in his cell Francis opened his eyes momentarily. Brothers bustled around him cleaning his body and changing his clothes. Allowing his eyes to close he dismissed these external distractions and tried to recapture his thoughts.

 

His second near encounter with God had occurred in his own room at home. On that occasion his mother had entered inopportunely and mistaking him for dead or in a coma she had raised the whole household with her screams, wrecking his moment of divine truth again.

 

On subsequent occasions he had felt the presence of God in the street; in the theatre; in his father's shop; even in bed while making love. On each occasion some distraction had disturbed him; a voice in the street or shop; a stage death with all the attendant drama; even his own erection.

 

Francis dreamed' his memories drifting in and out of focus. All at once one memory stood clear. Yes! That occasion had been the most potent and sublime and had been of seminal importance to him personally.

 

It had been a scorched, glaring white summer's day. Walls and cobbles were furnace hot, first trapping the heat and then throwing it back at those who loitered too long in one place. Under the statue in the town square preachers solicited souls, beggars solicited coin, the town prostitute solicited sex and petitioners solicited signatures for whatever cause it was that was fashionable at that moment. In the shelter of an arcade a troupe of itinerant actors performed a mystery play to a small bored audience.

 

He had stopped to watch as the play reached its climax. A ‘crucified Christ', arms outstretched and pinned to an imaginary cross struggled to be heard above the cacophony of noise around him.

 

“Father forgive……;” people clattering past chattering noisily. “……. They know not……;” a parade approaching, trumpets blaring and cymbals clashing. “…… They do.”

 

The head of the ‘crucified Christ' dropped to his chest and as if at a signal every sound ceased. Francis looked around, startled.

 

The town was going about its business as if nothing had happened. The preachers and beggars were still exhorting; the beggars and the prostitute were still pleading and the parade was still passing by; but all in complete and profound silence. He had been struck deaf – BY GOD. This had to be the work of God. Suddenly all was clear. God had done this to attract his attention. What was the reason though? The life of the town had swirled around him as he stood there completely immobile, watching for a sign that the expected vision was coming.

 

Then he knew what he had to do to prove his worthiness as the recipient of a visitation. . His own name saint St. Francis had been in the same position and in an act of humility he had given away everything that he owned.

 

Slowly and methodically Francis had begun to remove his clothes right there in the town square, offering each item to the crowd that was fast gathering around him as he divested himself. His last memory of that day had been of a silent commotion in the crowd; of jostling and pushing and of rough hands on his skin. He had woken in a white painted cell not unlike the one he now occupied.

 

Once more a movement in his cell disturbed him. A white gowned figure; one of the brothers; came to him and sat on the edge of his pallet. A hand lifted his head gently and a cool bitter liquid trickled down his throat. The brother spoke but the words although familiar, were distant and garbled. Then amongst the gibberish one word stood out. His old long abandoned full name.

 

Francisco had been his given name until that day in the square but in the days that followed a conviction had begun to grow that God had some great task for him. In dreams and memories hints lingered on the edge of his awareness and crowded his waking thoughts, distracting him from his daily life. He had struggled through the long weeks, fumbling in the simplest physical tasks and largely absent in mind until the day that God's will had become clear. God was sending St. Francis to show the world a way to peace and love and he had chosen Francisco to be the vessel for that task.

 

In a frenzy of ecstasy and joy Francisco had opened his soul, his heart and his mind to the spirit of St Francis and from that moment he allowed himself to be guided by the spirit of the saint. The first command had been to take the name of the saint and to finish disposing of his worldly goods. He had set about this with a will taking care to ensure that each item; his house; his furniture and chattels; his horse and cart and his small cache of money all went to the poor and the needy. In all of this he had been guided directly by St. Francis. Each recipient had been chosen by the saint. When nothing was left except the clothes on his back he gave thanks to God and set out on the road.

 

In the months that followed he had preached in many towns and villages. His message had been simple. Listen to the words of the saint. Love your families. Love your neighbours. Love your countrymen. Most of all love your enemies.

 

In his journey he had been beaten, stoned, reviled and abused but he had also reached into the souls of a few people and given them to God. There had been an elderly woman in a village churchyard; a small boy playing in the fields; a man on his way home from work. These three and a few more he had consecrated to God; nine in all. Not many perhaps but then Christ himself only had twelve disciples. In each case he knew that the conversion and consecration had been true. St. Francis had chosen them.

At Easter things had changed. Francis remembered the incident well. He had been guided to a new believer, his tenth convert and he was in the midst of a laying on of hands when out of the darkness men had appeared who had laid rough hands on him and dragged him away. Memories of other rough hands intruded for an instant and then were gone.

 

He knew now that these men had been evil; disciples of the devil; intent on wrecking his mission. They had taken him and locked him away. In his captivity other men had questioned, beaten and tortured him but of that he could remember little other than that St. Francis had been with him taking away the pain.

 

Finally the Brothers had come. They told him that he would be in their care and he had gone willingly with them knowing that they would keep him safe until the time came to continue his work. Until that time St. Francis had commanded him to silence, and silent he had remained. He was never alone. St. Francis was always with him, instructing, supporting and counselling him. “Have patience” he had said. “Our time will come again”.

 

The white gowned brother was leaning across his chest listening to his heart. All at once Francis knew that the moment had come and that he need be patient no longer. The saint had chosen again and another disciple was waiting to be directed along the road to salvation. Slowly; lovingly; his hands embraced the white gowned Brother, caressing his throat; squeezing; crushing; opening the path to God and eternal life.