Troubadour to Saint: The Transformative Early Years of Francis of Assisi
In the winding streets of Assisi, where the scent of spices mingled with the clamor of commerce, young Francis Bernardone cut a dashing figure. Born into wealth as the son of Pietro Bernardone, a prosperous cloth merchant, Francis was clothed in silks and dreams from his earliest days. His mother, Pica, a noblewoman of Provencal descent, whispered tales of chivalry into his infant ears, planting the seeds of romance that would later blossom in unexpected ways.
It is a curious thing, this business of birth and lineage. For in Francis, we see the meeting of two worlds: the practical, mercantile world of his father, and the romantic, aristocratic world of his mother. It was as if, from the very beginning, Francis was destined to be a bridge between realms, a translator of the divine into the vernacular of everyday life. But we are getting ahead of ourselves, for the saint is not yet born, and we have before us a boy who is, in many ways, entirely ordinary.
As a child, Francis was quick-witted and charming, the darling of Assisi's youth. He learned his letters not from dusty tomes but from the colorful banners of the troubadours who passed through the town. His father's coins jangled in his pockets, and he spent them freely, hosting lavish feasts for his companions and clothing himself in rainbow hues that rivaled the sunset.
Yet even in these carefree days, there were hints of the saint to come. Francis was generous to a fault, his pockets as open to beggars as to his boon companions. And sometimes, in the quiet moments between revels, a strange melancholy would steal over him, as if he heard a distant music that none around him could perceive.
As Francis grew into young manhood, he became the very model of a medieval troubadour. He sang in Provencal, the fashionable language of courtly love, and dreamed of knightly deeds. His companions were the young nobles of Assisi, and together they caroused through the nights, filling the air with song and laughter. Francis was, by all accounts, the life of every party, the organizer of revels, the prince of the town's golden youth.
But let us pause for a moment and consider what it meant to be a troubadour in those days. For a troubadour was not merely a singer or a poet, but a living embodiment of the romantic spirit of the age. They were the rockstars of their time, if you'll forgive such an anachronistic comparison. These wandering minstrels sang of love and chivalry, of noble deeds and courtly manners. They were, in a sense, the custodians of the collective dreams of their society.
And our Francis? Oh, he was a troubadour par excellence. He had a gift for melody and verse, a charisma that drew people to him like moths to a flame. He sang of love, yes, but even then, there was something different about his songs. For while other troubadours sang of earthly passion, there was in Francis's music a hint of something higher, a longing for a love more perfect than any earthly romance could provide.
It was during these years that Francis began to dream of glory. Not the fleeting fame of a popular singer, mind you, but the lasting renown of a true knight. He longed to prove himself in battle, to perform great deeds worthy of the songs he sang. And so, when the opportunity arose to join the war between Assisi and the neighboring city of Perugia, Francis leapt at the chance.
Here, perhaps, we see the first great turning point in Francis's life. For war, that great unmasker of illusions, was about to tear away the gilded veil of Francis's youthful dreams. He rode out of Assisi in gleaming armor, his heart full of visions of glory. But the reality of battle was far from the chivalric ideal he had imagined.
The clash between Assisi and Perugia was a disaster for Francis's side. Many of his companions fell in battle, and Francis himself was taken prisoner. For a year, he languished in a Perugian dungeon, his health failing, his dreams of knightly valor crumbling around him. It was in this dark hour that the first glimmers of his transformation began to appear.
In the long, quiet hours of his imprisonment, Francis began to hear a different sort of music - not the lively melodies of the troubadour, but a softer, more insistent tune that spoke to his very soul. He began to see visions, strange and wonderful, that hinted at a glory far beyond anything he had previously imagined.
When Francis was finally ransomed and allowed to return to Assisi, he was a changed man, though the full extent of that change was not yet apparent, even to himself. He tried to return to his old life of revelry, but found it strangely unsatisfying. The songs he had once sung with such gusto now seemed hollow, the pursuits that had consumed him now felt empty.
It was during this period of restlessness that Francis experienced the first of his great visions. As he prayed in the dilapidated church of San Damiano, he heard a voice speaking to him from the crucifix: "Francis, repair my church, which as you see is falling into ruin." Taking the command literally, Francis began to rebuild the crumbling structure with his own hands.
But the real reconstruction was happening within Francis himself. As he labored among the stones and mortar, he began to see the world with new eyes. The poor and the lepers, whom he had once avoided, now became his brothers and sisters in Christ. The fine clothes he had once prized now felt like burdens, chains binding him to a world he no longer desired.
Yet old habits die hard, and Francis's transformation was not instantaneous. There were moments when he wavered, when the lure of his old life called to him. His father, Pietro, watched with growing concern as his son's behavior became increasingly erratic. Francis was giving away goods from his father's shop to the poor, spending long hours in prayer, and neglecting the business he was meant to inherit.
The tension between father and son came to a head in a scene that has become legendary. Standing before the Bishop of Assisi and his own furious father, Francis stripped naked, renouncing not just his inheritance but his very identity as Pietro Bernardone's son. "From now on," he declared, "I can say with complete freedom, 'Our Father who art in heaven."
In this dramatic moment, we see the troubadour transformed. The young man who had once sung of earthly love now dedicated himself entirely to divine love. The would-be knight who had dreamed of glory in battle now took up arms in a very different sort of struggle - the battle against sin and indifference, fought not with sword and lance but with compassion and humility.
Yet even as Francis turned away from his troubadour past, he carried with him the gifts of that earlier life. His charisma, his poetic soul, his love of song - all these remained, but were now directed towards a higher purpose. He became, in a sense, God's troubadour, singing not of courtly love but of divine love, not of chivalric deeds but of Christ's sacrifice.
As Francis began to gather followers, his new way of life began to spread. The man who had once led revels through the streets of Assisi now led a band of brothers dedicated to poverty and service. They preached not from pulpits but in the open air, speaking of God's love in simple terms that even the poorest and least educated could understand.
And here we see another echo of Francis's troubadour past. For just as the troubadours had popularized their songs by singing in the vernacular rather than in Latin, so Francis and his followers preached in the language of the common people. They brought the message of the Gospel out of the churches and into the streets, fields, and marketplaces.
But perhaps the most striking transformation in Francis was his relationship with the natural world. The young troubadour had appreciated nature as a backdrop for his romantic adventures. The converted Francis saw in every aspect of creation a reflection of God's glory. He preached to the birds, tamed the wolf of Gubbio, and composed his famous Canticle of the Creatures, in which he praised God for Brother Sun and Sister Moon.
This newfound love for nature was not mere sentimentality. It was a profound theological insight, a recognition that all of creation, from the lowliest worm to the brightest star, was a manifestation of God's love. In embracing poverty and rejecting worldly possessions, Francis paradoxically came to possess the entire world in a new and deeper way.
As news of Francis's conversion and his new way of life spread, young men from all walks of life began to join him. Some were nobles, like Francis himself, who gave up lives of luxury to embrace poverty. Others were simple peasants, drawn by Francis's message of God's love for all creatures. Together, they formed the nucleus of what would become the Franciscan order.
It's worth noting that Francis never intended to found a religious order. His aim was simply to live the Gospel as literally as possible, following in the footsteps of Christ and the apostles. But his example was so compelling, his joy so infectious, that others could not help but be drawn to him.
As his band of followers grew, Francis faced new challenges. How could they maintain their commitment to poverty while also meeting the basic needs of a growing community? How could they remain true to their ideals of simplicity and humility while also engaging with the wider church and society?
These questions would occupy Francis for the rest of his life, and would continue to be debated by his followers long after his death. But in these early years, there was a freshness and spontaneity to the Franciscan movement that was truly revolutionary.
Francis and his brothers would go out into the countryside, preaching, singing, and helping wherever they could. They owned nothing, begged for their food, and slept under the stars. Their joy and simplicity attracted people from all walks of life, and soon Franciscan communities were springing up all over Italy.
But Francis was not content to limit his ministry to his homeland. In 1219, he set out on a journey that would take him to Egypt, where he hoped to convert the Sultan and end the Crusades. This quixotic mission was perhaps the ultimate expression of Francis's troubadour spirit - a romantic, seemingly impossible quest undertaken for the highest of motives.
Though he did not succeed in converting the Sultan, Francis's courage and sincerity made a deep impression. According to some accounts, the Sultan was so moved by Francis's words that he offered to convert to Christianity if Francis could walk through fire unharmed. Francis agreed, but the Sultan's advisors persuaded him not to go through with the test.
This episode, whether strictly historical or not, captures something essential about Francis's character. He was a man who combined the highest ideals of chivalry with a radical commitment to the teachings of Christ. He was willing to risk everything - his life, his reputation, even his soul - in the service of his divine LORD.
As we look back on the early years of Francis, we are struck by the radical nature of his transformation. The troubadour became a saint, the rich young man became the poor friar, the singer of courtly love became the herald of God's love. Yet in another sense, Francis did not become someone new - he became more fully himself, more fully the person God had created him to be.
And herein lies the challenge and the invitation of Francis's story. For if God could work such a profound change in this merry troubadour, what might He do in each of us? The path from troubadour to saint is not an easy one, but it is one that remains open to all who, like Francis, are willing to hear the music of God's love and follow where it leads.
In Francis, we see a life lived with a poet's sensibility and a mystic's insight. He took the romantic ideals of his age - love, chivalry, adventure - and transformed them into something higher and more beautiful. He showed that true romance lies not in fleeting pleasures or worldly glory, but in a passionate love for God and all His creation.
And so, as we close this chapter on the early life of Francis, we are left with a sense of wonder and possibility. The troubadour has become a saint, but the song goes on. It echoes down through the centuries, challenging us, inspiring us, calling us to our own adventure of faith. For in the end, are we not all troubadours in God's great cosmic romance, each with our own unique song to sing?
-The Seeker's Quill
