As she prayed, Clare gradually took on the visage of the very image of the crucified Christ she contemplated; but this happened, not just because she prayed, but because Clare always acted upon the word she was given in prayer. Hers was devotion, a word in the Middle Ages that meant the virtue of hearing the Word of God and then acting upon that Word with alacrity. I hear, and I do what I hear in God’s Word. How many must have been the words given to Clare through a lifetime of prayer! Words that Clare would endeavor to put into practice as she went through her ordinary day, even given her own suffering that was attendant upon an illness that kept her bedridden, off and on for years, an illness that grew worse as she grew older. She and the suffering Crucified Christ became mirrors of each other, a man and a woman who became the poverty of God, both in themselves and in their relating. For the perfect poverty of Christ is the emptying yet filling love and relating of the Blessed Trinity.
Clare looked into the San Damiano crucifix, which had spoken to Francis. Like her, we look into the mirror of Christ on the cross to see God and to see ourselves; who we are, who we can become. As Christ mirrors us, so we, when we contemplate that mirror, begin to mirror him, who is both God and us when we are transformed by virtue. And it all begins with contemplation, which enables us to see, not subject to object, but subject to subject. What we look at begins to look back at us, both of us alive in the Spirit of God. The cross is both the image of God and of us, only if we let ourselves be transformed by contemplating the crucified Christ. Clare gazed on the San Damiano crucifix for over forty years, and it transformed her into Christ’s mirror.
One of the more sugary movies made about Francis of Assisi pictures Clare as a golden-haired beauty floating through sun-drenched fields, a sort of one-woman counterpart to the new Franciscan Order.
The beginning of her religious life was indeed movie material. Having refused to marry at 15, Clare was moved by the dynamic preaching of Francis. He became her lifelong friend and spiritual guide.
At 18, Clare escaped from her father’s home one night, was met on the road by friars carrying torches, and in the poor little chapel called the Portiuncula received a rough woolen habit, exchanged her jeweled belt for a common rope with knots in it, and sacrificed her long tresses to Francis’ scissors. He placed her in a Benedictine convent, which her father and uncles immediately stormed in rage. Clare clung to the altar of the church, threw aside her veil to show her cropped hair, and remained adamant.
The Poor Ladies went barefoot, slept on the ground, ate no meat, and observed almost complete silence. Later Clare, like Francis, persuaded her sisters to moderate this rigor: “Our bodies are not made of brass.” The greatest emphasis, of course, was on gospel poverty. They possessed no property, even in common, subsisting on daily contributions. When even the pope tried to persuade Clare to mitigate this practice, she showed her characteristic firmness: “I need to be absolved from my sins, but I do not wish to be absolved from the obligation of following Jesus Christ.”
Contemporary accounts glow with admiration of Clare’s life in the convent of San Damiano in Assisi. She served the sick and washed the feet of the begging nuns. She came from prayer, it was said, with her face so shining it dazzled those about her. She suffered serious illness for the last 27 years of her life. Her influence was such that popes, cardinals, and bishops often came to consult her—Clare herself never left the walls of San Damiano.
Francis always remained her great friend and inspiration. Clare was always obedient to his will and to the great ideal of gospel life which he was making real.
A well-known story concerns her prayer and trust. Clare had the Blessed Sacrament placed on the walls of the convent when it faced attack by invading Saracens. “Does it please you, O God, to deliver into the hands of these beasts the defenseless children I have nourished with your love? I beseech you, dear Lord, protect these whom I am now unable to protect.” To her sisters she said, “Don’t be afraid. Trust in Jesus.” The Saracens fled.
Reflection
The 41 years of Clare’s religious life are scenarios of sanctity: an indomitable resolve to lead the simple, literal gospel life as Francis taught her; courageous resistance to the ever-present pressure to dilute the ideal; a passion for poverty and humility; an ardent life of prayer; and a generous concern for her sisters.
Clare desired to follow Francis’s evangelical way of life and may indeed have done so in the early part of her career. Although she described herself as “la piantacella,” the little plant of Francis, she was clearly no wilting flower. She had a strong, independent spirit and a real desire to join in Francis’ evangelical project. Whereas Francis saw poverty as the means for living authentic gospel life, Clare fought for the “privilege of poverty,” because poverty was the key to Christian life. The Incarnation spoke to her of the “poverty of God” manifested in God’s self-giving love.
One of the primary Franciscan traditions is to acknowledge the presence of Jesus in our lives. Both Francis and Clare built their lives around this idea. According to the first admonition of St. Francis, the gift Jesus gave us in the Eucharist is the opportunity to expand the work of the kingdom of God to everyone. We are changed dramatically just by being in this living presence and being open to the action of our gracious God. We become instruments of God’s peace, mercy, joy, consolation, or courage. The more we celebrate the small miracles of daily life, the more we realize the very personal action of God in our daily living. The presence of Jesus among us is just that—a widespread presence among all of God’s people. We are able to embed the wonders of the presence of God within us. Each of us can and must be the “Jesus Presence” in this world of ours.
St. Clare of Assisi does not give us a set of prayers that she created, but in her writings we discover her spirituality and her path to God. She invites us to gaze, consider, contemplate, and imitate Christ. Clare gazes on all of creation because it has the potential to speak to her of God. She considers the experiences of her life in the light of the Gospels. She contemplates the crucified and glorified Christ and opens herself to be transformed by the Divine One who loves her. She deeply desires to imitate the One she loves to become the image of the Word of Love.
Images of Clare portray her holding the monstrance of the Eucharist, lifting Christ up for all to see. She shows the Most High God to the world.
When Clare entered San Damiano, she came into possession of the beautiful Byzantine cross before which Francis had prayed. Now it was her “book” of prayer, her silent reminder each day: “Take up your cross and follow me.” In that Face, she saw mirrored the love that would insist that one who lays down a life is the greatest of Friends and the model of all Christian friendship. The story of redemption portrayed on the Cross helped her to anchor her soul in that mystery. One speaks of “reading” an icon. What did Clare read in that Cross? She found the images of those who accompanied Jesus to Calvary, the angels mourning the outrage they witness, the centurion piercing that beloved Heart with his lance. There, too, she would see the image of Christ ascending back to the heavenly firmament—his Father’s hand outstretched to welcome him.
Clare’s bereavement could hardly be equaled since for her, as for her sisters, Francis was “after God, her only consolation.” Now she must face an abyss of solitude in the quest for Gospel perfection. Thomas of Celano etches an indelible image: “Once he was taken away, the door that never again will suffer such pain, was closed on them” (First Life of St. Francis, Part II, Chapter X, 27). Indeed, the door closed on an experience of shared charisms that would never be rivalled. The time of grief did not reduce Clare to a shadowy survivor of the “good old days.” Rather, the immediate fires of loss and increased episcopal pressure to abandon their original plan only fortified her determination to stay the course. She would be the “lampstand to enlighten all in the house” of Francis. If the first half of her life had been spent in constructing the path with him, the second would be spent insisting on its trustworthiness as the penitent pilgrim’s road. She will live to enflesh the prophetic declaration: I will stand at my guard post, and station myself upon the rampart, and keep watch to see what he will say to me, and what answer he will give to my complaint. Then the Lord answered me and said: Write down the vision clearly upon the tablets, so that one can read it readily. For the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint; if it delays wait for it, it will surely come, and it will not be late. (Habakkuk 2:1-3)
Francis wrote his immortal Canticle of the Creatures while in Clare’s care at San Damiano. The incredible power and poetry of this song has long fascinated all who read, study, or sing it. One word in that poem, written in Umbrian dialect, and written during a time of daily nursing by Clare, catches the eye. It is the word clarite. “Praised be you, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars, in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful” (Canticle, 5). This is the adjective for the stars. They are “clarite et pretiose et belle,”—clear, precious, beautiful. In the long dark time of his illness, was it Clare who was this “pretiose, belle, clarite” companion whose light helped him endure encroaching blindness and searing pain? She had been—and would remain—the North Star for all who wanted to follow his way.
Sustaining them in these trials was the work of prayer. To such communities the church entrusted the “office” of praying the liturgy of the hours. The day—and night—was punctuated by formal prayer. In this way hymns, psalms, and prayers—recited or sung—would continually rise from earth to heaven. In this way the glory of God never ceased to be celebrated and the needs of humankind never ceased to be a source of trusting petitions. If those first sisters did, indeed, count the insults and privations as “great delights” what would explain such joy but the exaltation that flows from a love that “surpasses understanding.” It was through the daily cycle of prayer that such “blessed assurance” grew in them. The rounds of hours of the breviary brought the richness of psalms and Scripture texts into dialogue with their daily tasks. Meditation upon the Byzantine Cross, the adoration of the Eucharist, attending Mass, hearing sermons—all gave new meaning to each day’s trials or triumphs. Weaving prayer and productive work created the balance within their hearts and minds that allowed them to keep moving. The poor sisters lived filled with consolation, with assurance. They dared to believe that promise of Jesus. They were learning that he was true to his word and their joy was, indeed, full and free. They learned to reverse their own standards of judgment in favor of the riddle that calls one to lose life in order to gain it. That women could live without the safety net of approved monastic vows and ample endowments and follow Christ in such literal fashion was news indeed. And the women themselves were the first to understand that.
