Tag: faith

Listen.

The owl calls from the darkness,
not to break the silence
but to deepen it.

The cedar answers with its breath.

Beneath fern and root,
small creatures move through hidden passages,
keeping mysteries older than our names for them.

Somewhere beyond the trees
the laughter of children rises,
lingers among the branches,
and vanishes—

like spirits passing gently
through the thinning veil.

Do not follow.

Simply listen.

The night knows the way.

Above us
the nocturnal choir gathers—

wind and wing,
water and stone,
insect and branch,
root descending,
moon ascending,
the distant trembling of stars.

Each sounds its single note
within a hymn too vast
for any creature to hear whole.

Perhaps prayer has always been this:

not speaking into the Mystery,

but becoming quiet enough
to discover
that the Mystery
has been speaking all along.

Here, beyond the machinery of the world,
beyond its clocks, demands,
possessions and restless noise,

my poverty becomes our feast.

Nothing is possessed.

Nothing needs to be.

The empty hand
receives everything.

The open heart
becomes a bowl beneath the moon.

I am no longer an offering
poured endlessly
upon the altars of exhaustion.

The earth receives me differently.

She asks nothing.

She simply opens.

Love returns me to loam,
to blood and breath and bone,
to the dark soil from which Adam was shaped,
to the ancient clay of our becoming,

and to that first holy breath
by which dust awakened
and discovered itself alive.

Beneath the resinous cedars,
come near.

Not to possess.

Not to conquer the loneliness.

Only to enter the circle together.

North before us,
keeper of stone, bone, root, and winter.

East awakening,
keeper of breath, dawn, feather, and beginning.

South burning quietly within us,
keeper of fire, desire, courage, and transformation.

West descending toward darkness,
keeper of water, dream, surrender, and return.

And beneath our feet,
Earth.

Above our heads,
the immeasurable heavens.

Within us,
the hidden center
where all directions meet.

The circle is cast
without walls.

Nothing is imprisoned within it.

Nothing holy
is kept outside.

Brother Sun has gone beyond the trees.

Sister Moon rises
to keep her silver vigil.

Earth turns beneath us.

The waters remember the moon.

The blood remembers the waters.

The body remembers the earth.

And the soul remembers
something it cannot name.

Come close enough
that I may remember
there was never meant to be a war
between flesh and spirit.

The body, too,
is a threshold.

Skin is not the enemy of holiness.

Breath is not separate from prayer.

Desire itself,
held gently and without possession,
may become a lantern
carried into the sanctuary of another.

Let me taste the sacred earth
upon your skin.

Let your breath mingle with mine
until the boundaries soften,

until I cannot tell
which of us is breathing
and which of us
is being breathed.

Perhaps this, too,
is sacrament:

the warmth of your body beside mine,

the trembling tenderness of touch,

the courage of remaining open,

the surrender of one guarded soul
into the keeping of another.

Not possession.

Presence.

Not hunger that consumes.

Attention that receives.

For what is love
if not the ancient discipline
of standing before another mystery
without demanding
that it reveal everything?

So we remain beneath the trees.

No temple but the forest.

No walls but darkness.

No incense but cedar and pine.

No candles but fireflies
and the wandering stars.

No bell but the owl.

No chalice
but the hollow of our hands.

No scripture
but the language written
in water, skin, stone, feather,
root, blood, moon, and tide.

The elements gather around us.

Earth beneath.

Air within.

Fire between.

Water remembering.

And Spirit

unnamed,
uncontained,

moving through them all.

When silence finally takes us,
may we enter willingly.

Past every name we have given God.

Past every image.

Past every certainty.

Past the need
to divide sacred from ordinary,
heaven from earth,
spirit from flesh,
human from creature.

Past even the words
with which we have tried
to hold the Holy.

Into the radiant darkness.

Into the womb of Mystery.

Into that fertile night
where endings become beginnings
and nothing truly dies
without becoming doorway.

There beneath the turning heavens,
may every breath become canticle.

Every touch, blessing.

Every wound, opening.

Every tear, water.

Every desire, flame.

Every silence, earth.

Every whispered prayer, air.

And may the hidden Spirit
move among them
as gently as moonlight
crossing the forest floor.

Until Brother Sun
and Sister Moon,

North, South, East, and West,

earth, air, fire, and water,

cedar and hemlock,

owl and moth,

the creatures sleeping beneath leaves,

the agates dreaming along the shore,

the ancestors whose names
have disappeared into the earth,

the children whose laughter
drifts beyond the trees,

your body
and mine,

our longing
and our letting go—

all become
one great circle of prayer.

And somewhere within that circle,
beyond possession,

beyond doctrine,

beyond fear,

beyond even the distance
between lover and beloved,

may we hear
the oldest Voice beneath all voices—

not commanding,

not judging,

not explaining,

but whispering through root and river,
blood and moonlight:

You were never separate.

The earth was always beneath you.

The heavens were always within you.

The waters were always remembering you.

The fire was always waiting
inside your bones.

Love was here
before you knew how to call it love.

Love moved through the darkness
before the first creature opened its eyes.

Love whispered through cedar roots
before there were human prayers.

Love danced upon the waters
before anyone divided
the sacred from the wild.

And all things—

stone and star,
animal and angel,
body and spirit,
living and dead,
remembered and forgotten—

are turning together
within the Great Mystery.

Season into season.

Moon into moon.

Dust into body.

Body into earth.

Earth into green.

Green into breath.

Breath into prayer.

Prayer into silence.

Silence into Mystery.

And Mystery
back into Love.

So remain with me awhile
beneath the turning moon.

There is nowhere
we need to go.

The circle has no beginning.

The circle has no end.

Only this breath.

This earth.

This night.

This tenderness.

And the ancient Holy
moving quietly through everything,

singing the many
back toward the One,

and the One
again and again

into the beautiful,
bewildering,

sacred many.

The Marian Heart of the Secular Vocation: A Reflection on OFS Rule, Article 9

“The Virgin Mary, humble servant of the Lord, was open to His every word and call. She was embraced by Francis with indescribable love and declared the protectress and advocate of his family. The Secular Franciscans should express their ardent love for her by imitating her complete self-giving and by praying earnestly and confidently.”

— Rule of the Secular Franciscan Order, Article 9

Article 9 of the Rule of the Secular Franciscan Order calls us to look to the Blessed Virgin Mary, recognizing her as the model of perfect openness to God’s word and call. St. Francis embraced her with an “indescribable love” and made her the protectress of his family. The Rule instructs us to express our own ardent love for her not merely through words, but by the active imitation of her “complete self-giving.”

Mary’s fiat—her complete self-giving—takes on flesh in the daily reality of our specific, lived vocations. In the everyday commitments of secular life, work, and community, the imitation of Mary’s self-giving is found in the constant, quiet yielding to love, patience, and the needs of others. The General Constitutions of the OFS (Article 16) remind us that Mary is the supreme “model of listening to the Word and of faithfulness to vocation.” Faithfulness over a lifetime requires her kind of deep, abiding listening amidst the noise and demands of the world.

The Franciscan Intellectual Tradition has always placed Mary at the center of the Incarnation. Blessed John Duns Scotus championed her Immaculate Conception, seeing her not as an afterthought of redemption, but as God’s masterpiece of grace, perfectly preserved to be the dwelling place of the Word. St. Bonaventure similarly emphasized that Mary conceived the Word in her heart through faith before she conceived Him in her womb. This underscores our own daily calling: before we can act as effective Secular Franciscans in the world, we must, like Mary, cultivate an interior stillness that allows Christ to be conceived in our own hearts.

This living tradition of the Order has long been recognized by the Church as a powerful leaven for the laity. Pope Leo XIII, a great champion of the Third Order, wrote in his encyclical Auspicato Concessum (1882) that if the institutes of St. Francis were revived, “every Christian virtue would easily flourish.” He saw the secular Franciscan vocation—and by extension, the deeply Marian and Christocentric virtues it upholds—as the antidote to the spiritual and social ills of the modern era.

Today, this profound connection continues to be echoed by the Magisterium, including our current Holy Father, Pope Leo XIV. In his apostolic exhortation Dilexi Te, he reminds us of our urgent obligation to the poor and marginalized—a call that aligns seamlessly with the Secular Franciscan commitment to justice and solidarity. Building upon the legacy of Pope Francis, who beautifully called Mary the “Mother of Evangelization” in Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Leo XIV challenges us to be a missionary Church with open arms. Just as Mary brought the warmth of a home to the cold stable in Bethlehem, Secular Franciscans are called to bring the warmth of the Gospel to a fractured modern world.

To imitate Mary’s self-giving, as Article 9 asks, is to embrace the daily, hidden acts of service that mirror her own life in Nazareth. It means praying the Rosary not just as a devotion, but as a confident tether to her maternal protection. Ultimately, it is a lifelong commitment to saying “yes” to God—whether in the quiet moments of prayer, in the bustling center of daily life, or in extending Christ’s peace to those most in need.

Peace and Every Good

Mike

References

Fiałkowski, M. (2022). Formation of lay Catholics: Franciscan inspirations. Religions, 13(8), 686. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel13080686

Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump.

Christians have many ways to bridge our differences – ranging from local ministerial to worldwide networks like the Global Christian Forum (the organization I serve). But we often fail to take advantage of them, identifying ourselves with our narrowest affiliations rather than with the wider Christian community.

Comedian Emo Philips told a joke that captures this problem well:

Once I saw this guy on a bridge about to jump. I said,
“Don’t do it!” He said, “Nobody loves me.” I said, “God loves you. Do you believe in God?” He said, “Yes.” I said, “Are you a Christian or a Jew?” He said, “A Christian.” I said, “Me, too! Protestant or Catholic?” He said, “Protestant.” I said, “Me, too! What franchise?”
He said, “Baptist.” I said, “Me, too! Northern Baptist or Southern Baptist?” He said, “Northern Baptist.” I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist or Northern Liberal Baptist?” He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist.” I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region, or Northern Conservative Baptist Eastern Region?” He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region.” I said, “Me, too! Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1879, or Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912?” He said, “Northern Conservative Baptist Great Lakes Region Council of 1912.” I said, “Die, heretic!” And I pushed him over.1


Quoted from the November/December 2025 issue of Ecumenical Trends Magazine. The Paul Wattson Lecture, Chicago The Global Christian Forum: Reshaping the Global Ecumenical Landscape

Living the Gospel: Four Principles of Secular Franciscan Life

As Secular Franciscans, our commitment is to live the Gospel in the spirit of Saint Francis. But how do we truly grasp that spirit today? By anchoring our lives in four essential documents that create a cohesive and powerful framework for our vocation.

I. The First Principle: The Interior Source (Dilexit Nos)

Our entire vocation begins with a single, non-negotiable truth: God loved us first. Pope Francis’s Apostolic Exhortation, Dilexit Nos (“He Loved Us”), on the Sacred Heart of Jesus, is the source of our motivation.

  • The Why: We are called to place our “mind and will… under the ‘political rule of the heart.” This means our decisions, thoughts, and intentions are governed by the gentleness, humility, and boundless love of Christ, who poured out everything on the Cross.
  • The Demand: For us, this is the call to radical interior conversion. The external life of service only has merit if it flows from a heart shaped by the self-giving love of Christ. If our heart is not ruled by His, our actions risk becoming mere philanthropy, not Christian charity.

II. The Second Principle: The Exterior Mandate (Dilexi Te)

The love we contemplate in Dilexit Nos must immediately translate into concrete action, a mandate beautifully articulated in Pope Leo XIV’s Apostolic Exhortation, Dilexi Te (“I Have Loved You”). This document—a spiritual successor to the call of the Sacred Heart—focuses entirely on the preferential option for the poor.

  • The What: Pope Leo XIV makes it clear: “Love for the Lord… is one with love for the poor.” The poor are not just objects of our pity; they are the “sacramental presence of the Lord.” For us, the wounded Heart of Christ is revealed in the wounds of the marginalized in our communities.
  • The Demand: Our vocation is not just about charity; it is about justice. Dilexi Te calls us to address the “structural causes of poverty and inequality.” As Secular Franciscans living in the world—in our careers, families, and neighborhood like Grosse Pointe Park—we are mandated to speak out against indifference and the “throwaway culture” and work for fairness.

III. The Third Principle: The Authentic Spirit (The Testament of St. Francis)

The Testament of Saint Francis is the authentic, un-glossed spirit required to successfully live out the mandates of the two Popes. It provides the necessary Franciscan attitude to connect divine love with difficult service.

  • The How: The Testament begins with Francis’s conversion: the moment he showed mercy to the lepers. This teaches us that true evangelical action requires physical encounter and the spiritual ability to transform the “bitter” into the “sweetness of soul.”
  • The Demand: Francis demands radical humility and minority. We must be “simple and subject to all,” avoiding pride and ambition. By commanding us not to “gloss” his words, Francis insists on a literal, uncluttered commitment to evangelical poverty, which is the only way to avoid judging the poor or being corrupted by worldly values.

IV. The Fourth Principle: The Practical Guide (The OFS Rule of Life)

The Rule of the Secular Franciscan Order (1978) is the blueprint that structures the first three principles into our daily, secular life.

  • The Where: The Rule ensures our commitment is lived in the world through a committed fraternity. It guides our actions:
    • The call to Conversion (Article 7) is powered by the love of Dilexit Nos.
    • The focus on Justice and Peace (Article 15) is directed by the demands of Dilexi Te.
    • The practice of Simplicity and Poverty (Article 11) is modeled after the spirit of the Testament.
  • The Response: The Rule makes our vocation communal. As a local fraternity, we must constantly hold these four anchors in dialogue during our formation and apostolate, ensuring our prayer feeds our action, and our action validates our prayer.

By embracing this Quadruple Anchor, we live a life rooted in the heart of the Church and the essential documents of the OFS, making us true witnesses of Christ’s love in the world today.

Strangers No Longer

A Franciscan Invitation to Welcome

One of the great gifts of our Franciscan vocation is that it is always bigger than ourselves. We are called into fraternity—not only with those who gather with us each month, but with the poor, the excluded, and the stranger at our door. This is why I recently reached out to Strangers No Longer, to see how our fraternities in the Divine Mercy Region might walk with them.

Catholic Roots and Mission

For anyone unfamiliar with Strangers No Longer, let me offer a bit of background. The name comes from the 2003 pastoral letter Strangers No Longer: Together on the Journey of Hope, written by the Catholic bishops of the United States and Mexico. That letter called on the Church to see immigrants not as problems to be solved, but as brothers and sisters to be welcomed.

Out of that vision, Catholic leaders and parishes in Detroit came together to form what we now know as Strangers No Longer. It is a network rooted in the Church, working with parishes, schools, and Catholic organizations across the lower peninsula. Its Circles of Support always begin with prayer, Scripture, and the recognition that Christ is present in each person.

✦ A Note on Strangers No Longer

Some may wonder if Strangers No Longer is truly Catholic. The answer is yes. The movement’s name comes directly from the bishops’ pastoral letter, and its work is firmly grounded in Catholic social teaching—especially the dignity of every human person.

Circles of Support open with prayer, are led in collaboration with Catholic parishes, and flow out of the Church’s call to accompany immigrants and refugees. When we Franciscans walk with Strangers No Longer, we are not stepping outside the Church. We are standing firmly within her, living the Gospel in the spirit of Saint Francis.

Why It Matters for Franciscans

For us as Secular Franciscans in the Divine Mercy Region—with fraternities spread across the lower peninsula and Toledo—this connection is very natural. Our Rule calls us to be peacemakers (Art. 13), to respect cultural diversity and work for justice (Art. 19), and to collaborate with all people of goodwill for human dignity (Constitutions 18.2).

By participating in Strangers No Longer, we are not taking on “one more program.” We are living what our Rule already asks of us, in communion with the wider Church.

A Call to Fraternity

Saint Francis himself lived as a pilgrim and stranger, finding Christ in the leper, the poor, and the outsider. When we join hands with immigrants and refugees today, we walk the same path.

Our Region is blessed with many gifts and wide reach. Together, we can help make real the words of St. Paul: “You are no longer strangers and sojourners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19).

In the end, this is not about politics or programs. It is about fraternity—seeing Christ in the faces of those who arrive among us, and letting them see Christ in us.

A Franciscan Blessing

May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May He make His face shine upon you, especially in the faces of the strangers who become friends.
May He give you courage to welcome, patience to listen, and joy in walking together as brothers and sisters.
And may the peace of Christ, which Francis carried into every place, guard your hearts and guide your steps.

Peace and all good.

Mike

Email: mikeofs@ofsmike.com

D.E.I.

A Canticle of God’s Love

(Based on Auxiliary Bishop Roy Campbell Jr writings)

Let us sing of God, O people, for God is within us, And God’s name, Dei, is a light for all the world.

We praise you, O God of Diversity, For you called forth a people from every nation, An assembly of nations from Jacob’s loins. You are the one who makes us fruitful and multiplies our grace, Bringing together a rich tapestry of life and tongues, That we might know your face in every face.

We give thanks to you, O God of Equity, For your works are true and just and reliable are your decrees. You sent forth your Son, and his example is our way, To share what we have and not to hoard, That your truth and your justice may be applied with love to all, For your law is written on our hearts.

We worship you, O God of Inclusion, For you read your law to every single soul: To the elders, the women, the children, and the resident aliens among us. You call us to live your law as one, a single flock, a single people, To know that the love we have for one another Is how the world will know we are your own.

For the dignity of every human being is your will, O God.
You work among us and through us,
To make us fruitful and to bring us all home to you.

Glory to God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
The source of all diversity, equity, and inclusion,
Now and forever.

Amen

A Tale of Two Sites: A Franciscan Reflection from Baltimore

By a Secular Franciscan Observer

When I arrived in Baltimore for the National Chapter meeting, I expected fellowship, prayer, and peace—and I found all of that. Yet I also encountered something unexpected: a quiet spiritual tension.

As I walked the grounds of the places we visited, I carried with me certain difficult truths I had come to know beforehand. They became part of my inner dialogue throughout the gathering. Two sites—each beautiful, each steeped in history—led me into a deeper reflection on what it means to live our Catholic and Franciscan vocation with honesty and compassion.

A Peaceful Place That Stirred a Deep Memory

Our meeting was held at a serene retreat center owned by the Sisters of Bon Secours. The setting was peaceful, and our time together was filled with moments of grace—especially when Carolyn Towns received the annual Justice, Peace, and Integrity of Creation (JPIC) Award.

While nothing was said about the past, I found myself quietly recalling something I had previously learned about the Bon Secours Mother and Baby Homes in Ireland. There, long ago, vulnerable women were placed in institutions where many served without pay, and many of their children died and were buried in unmarked graves.

No one spoke of this at the retreat, nor did I expect them to. It was simply something that came with me, unbidden, as I walked the grounds—a reminder of how our Church’s history holds both great love and real sorrow. That awareness did not diminish the beauty of the place or the kindness of the sisters who welcomed us. It simply deepened my prayer, making it more tender.

Echoes Across Continents

Those quiet thoughts also called to mind similar histories closer to home, such as the Indian residential schools in Canada and the United States, where Indigenous children were taken from their families, stripped of their identities, and often never returned. These stories, too, are part of our shared Catholic past.

They reminded me how easily institutions created to nurture can also cause harm—and how healing begins with honest remembrance. This was not part of our gathering, yet it was part of what I carried in my heart as I prayed for peace and justice.

A Quiet Moment of Honesty at the Shrine

Later in the week, we visited the St. Anthony Shrine. The shrine stands on land once owned by Charles Carroll of Carrollton—the largest Catholic slaveholder in U.S. history and the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Our tour included not only the grounds but also the interior of the complex, which has been cared for by the Conventual Franciscan Friars since they purchased the property in the 1920s. Inside, there was abundant evidence of our rich Franciscan heritage—statues, devotional artwork, and architectural details that spoke to nearly a century of prayer and ministry by the friars.

Yet as I walked through the buildings and grounds, something quietly stirred in me. I saw no visible remembrance or images of the enslaved people who had lived and labored there long before the friars arrived—no pictorial history of the slave quarters once on the property, no mention of the slave cemetery that has since been discovered, and no acknowledgment of the enslaved people who are believed to have built at least one of the original structures still standing.

This absence was not something I took as neglect or erasure; rather, it simply struck me as a silence. It reminded me that these stories often remain hidden unless we choose to seek them out and name them. And it deepened the impact of what came next.

In a quiet and heartfelt moment, our guide Ray, a fellow Secular Franciscan, gently pointed to a distant field where the enslaved once lived and, after I asked about the history of the land, he told me that a cemetery had been discovered there. It was a simple act of truth-telling. Hearing the story spoken aloud in that beautiful space felt like a small act of healing—acknowledging that our sacred places can hold both sorrow and grace, and that remembering is itself a form of love.

The Franciscan Call to Hold Truth Gently

What stayed with me most from both sites is this: as Franciscans, we are not called to turn away from the world’s pain, nor to condemn, but to hold the whole truth gently—in prayer, in humility, and with hope.

The Sisters of Bon Secours offered us gracious hospitality. The shrine offered quiet beauty and reverence. And my heart brought its own history to both places. That mix of grace and sorrow, welcome and memory, reminded me that true peace begins when we dare to see all of it, and still choose love.

A Vow of Obedience? Not for Me!

For many, the idea of a vow of obedience seems outdated, perhaps even restrictive. How can a Secular Franciscan, living in the world, embrace a concept that seems to run counter to our culture’s values of personal freedom?

The Franciscan View of Obedience

When we talk about obedience in the Franciscan context, we’re not talking about blind submission to an authority figure. We’re talking about a radical act of love and surrender, modeled on Jesus Christ himself. As Secular Franciscans, we don’t take a vow of obedience to a superior in the same way as our friar or sister counterparts. Instead, our obedience is directed toward God, the Church, and our Rule of Life.

Let’s look at Philippians 2:5-13, a passage foundational to our understanding of this topic: “Have among yourselves the same attitude of mind that is also yours in Christ Jesus…he humbled himself, becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” This is the core of Franciscan obedience: a willingness to “empty oneself” for the sake of love, following the example of Christ’s ultimate act of humility.

For St. Francis, obedience was not about giving up his will to a person, but about aligning his will with God’s. He saw obedience as the path to true freedom, a way to shed the chains of his own ego and desires. In fact, he warned against the pride of those who would only obey “when they will and what they will.”

How this Applies to Secular Franciscans

As Secular Franciscans, our life of obedience is practical and lived out in our daily circumstances. Our Essential Documents of the Secular Franciscan Order guide us here, but it’s not a list of rigid rules. Instead, it’s a call to a certain way of life.

Our obedience is expressed in several key ways:

  • Obedience to the Gospel: This is our primary call. We commit to living the Gospel in our secular state, which means we strive to live as Jesus did—in humility, poverty, and love. This requires an ongoing conversion of heart, a daily “yes” to God’s will.
  • Obedience to the Church: We are called to be in full communion with the Church and to be obedient to its teachings. This is a sign of our love for the Body of Christ and a recognition that we are not lone spiritual agents, but part of a larger community.
  • Obedience to the Rule and Fraternity: We promise to live according to our Rule and Constitutions. This includes actively participating in the life of our fraternity, which helps us to grow in community and to put aside our own will for the good of the group.

In this light, a vow of obedience isn’t about giving up your will to another person. It’s about a daily commitment to follow Christ, to live the Gospel, and to walk in the footsteps of St. Francis, trusting that this path leads to genuine freedom and joy. The freedom of the Christian is not in doing whatever one wants, but in doing what God wants. And in that, there is true peace.

Email me at: Mikeofs@ofsmike.com

Living with Cosmic Conscience: Embracing Creation’s Beauty

The Universe as a Divine Poem

When we sit on our porch in Detroit and feel the cool breeze, or watch a butterfly flutter by, what are we really seeing? Is it just air molecules and a tiny insect, or something more? For us as Secular Franciscans, our hearts tell us it’s something infinitely more profound.

Science often describes the world in a beautiful yet impersonal way. It talks about physics, chemistry, and biology. Yet, our faith reminds us that behind all the laws and all the atoms is a profound and loving presence. This isn’t a new idea; it’s the very heart of the Franciscan way.

Beyond a Creator, to a Presence

For our founder, St. Francis of Assisi, God wasn’t just a powerful being far away in the heavens. God was intimately present in every part of creation. St. Francis didn’t just see the sun as a star; he called it “Brother Sun.” He didn’t just see water as H₂O; he called it “Sister Water,” for its beauty and utility.

This is because the universe is not just a creation, but a divine poem. A poem isn’t just words on a page; it’s a window into the mind and heart of the poet. In the same way, the universe isn’t just matter and energy. It’s a profound and beautiful expression of God’s wisdom, love, and divine conscience.

This is a simple truth that anyone can grasp, yet it is so profound. It asks us to look at a cloud, a tree, or even our spouse, Kathleen, and see not just what they are, but whose they are.

Living with a Cosmic Conscience

If the universe is a reflection of a divine conscience, then our own conscience is a spark of that same light. Our inner voice that tells us to do good and to love isn’t just a random feeling. It’s a small part of God’s own self-awareness that resides within us.

This understanding directly connects to our Franciscan life. Caring for creation isn’t just a “green” initiative; it’s a sacred duty. It’s about honoring the divine reality present in all things, just as we would praise God Himself. To harm creation is to harm the very expression of God’s goodness.

So, let’s go out and live with a cosmic conscience. Let’s pause to truly see the world around us. Let’s find God in the everyday, in the small moments of wonder and in the simple, loving acts we perform for one another. It’s in this that we honor the divine poem and live out our call as brothers and sisters of St. Francis.

A Grandfathers Cry

O Lord, my God, my soul is in anguish.

You have made me a great grandfather, a grandfather, a father, and a husband, and a son of Francis and Clare, a son of the Church. I am to be an instrument of Your peace, but my spirit finds no peace in this world. My heart is a barren land, and my eyes are a river of tears. I find only a litany of sorrows and a silence that wounds me to the core.

I cry out for the children of Gaza, O Lord. The land that Francis walked in peace is now a prison of despair for a million souls. They are hungry and broken, their spirits withered by a life under siege. How long, O Lord, will You allow this open wound?

I cry out for the children of Africa, O Lord. Their small bodies are withered by a famine of our own making, a famine of indifference. They die slowly and quietly, out of sight. Hear their silent screams, O Lord, and turn the hearts of all who have turned away.

I cry out for the children of my own nation, O Lord. In a land of staggering wealth, over a million are without a home. They sleep in cold cars and huddle in fear, forgotten in the shadow of our plenty. You, too, were without a home. Remember them, O Lord.

I cry out for the indigenous children, O Lord, whose hope was stolen on a path of broken promises. Their heritage is a river of tears, and their spirits are burdened by a history of wounds. Let the stones of this land cry out for justice, O Lord.

I cry out for the children at our border, O Lord. They are the stranger You commanded us to welcome, yet their faces are filled with terror. They flee from violence, only to find fear in our land. Let our hearts not be hardened, O Lord.

I cry out for the hungry children in our streets, O Lord. Their tables are empty because of the policies of men. You, who gave us manna from heaven, now see them denied the simple bread they need to live. Their bodies are made vulnerable, and their minds suffer for lack of a meal. Is there no feast for them, O Lord?

I cry out for the children suffering sexual abuse, O Lord. Their innocence is stolen in the shadows, their trust broken by those who should protect them. Their voices are silenced by shame, and their spirits carry wounds unseen. Heal them, O Lord, and bring them into the light.

I cry out for the children in our hospitals, O Lord. Their lives are measured by ledgers and spreadsheets, not by Your infinite worth. They die from treatable sickness, not for lack of a cure, but for lack of care. Have mercy on them, O Lord, for their lives are sacred.

And I cry out for the children in our schools, O Lord. They are slaughtered in their places of safety, and their blood flows as a river through our land. Firearms have become the greatest threat to their young lives. This silence, O Lord, is a sickness of our soul.

My spirit is weary, and my voice is small against this present darkness. But I will not be quiet. And yet, in the midst of my anguish, I see a small light. I thank You for Franciscan Action Network (FAN), O Lord, a voice for the voiceless in our own nation. And I thank You for Franciscans International (FI) at the United Nations, speaking for the poor and defending Your creation. I thank You for the work of Church World Service (CWS) and Sojourners for the homeless, and for the tireless dedication of Catholic Charities and St. Jude in the fight against sickness. I thank You for the justice sought by Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) and American Jewish World Service (AJWS), and for the mercy of Islamic Relief and the Zakat Foundation. I also thank you for the Interfaith Alliance and all who unite across faiths to defend human dignity. They are proof that Your heart is not silent, and for this, I am grateful.

My soul finds its purpose in this, O Lord, a path of peace and justice You have set before me. Help me to hold fast to the words of St. Francis: “Let us begin to do good, for up to now we have done so little.” Strengthen my voice and my heart to be an instrument of Your peace.

Amen.