Author Mark P. Shea explores this subject with his usual depth and authority here, but the quick definition is, essentially, a set of principles that positions a country as firmly Christian and, in some circles, exclusively White. There’s no denying that Christian nationalism has played a role in our jagged politics for years now. How can we, as people of faith, make sense of it? Shea provides a road map of sorts. We hope you like his article. We’re proud of it. 

In his writings, St. Francis of Assisi said, “God revealed a form of greeting to me, telling me that we should say, ‘God give you peace.’” As the election draws closer, I’m tethering myself to that ideal. The deafening discord in this country cannot rob us of our greater calling to love one another—even those who vote differently than we do. 

I hope this issue finds you well. And may God give you peace. 

A growing movement seeks to blur the line between Church and state by imposing Christian values on others, which goes against the teaching of the Church and poses a threat to democracy. 

We live in an hour when a significant minority in the US Church—Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox—increasingly believes that the way to save both the American Church and America itself is to embrace Christian nationalism. Many American conservative Christians, feeling themselves threatened and even victimized by something called “secularism,” seek a champion who will defend them from it and give them power to fight it and whatever else they believe threatens our Christian heritage. The thinking goes that the Gospel calls us to bring Christ to the world as Lord, so let’s have an America controlled by Christians and make the state impose that even (and perhaps especially) on those who do not acknowledge the Gospel. To question that is to exalt godlessness over God. People who subscribe to this thinking believe that if we will only give the state the power to impose “Christian values” on what they perceive to be an increasingly godless society, then all will be well, and America will be great again. 

Accompanying this is typically a notion of America as being somehow “chosen” by God in such a way as to set it above and against other nations. This seemingly justifies our right to protect our border from an alleged “invasion” by desperate refugees as well as to purify the nation from so-called enemies within. 

The promise, to many, seems to be simplicity itself. Once upon a time, America was full of prosperous, hard-working Christians who reverenced family values. Then the sexual revolution, the welfare state, scary minorities who kneel at the national anthem and say their lives matter, and godless liberals took over and America lost its greatness. All that can be restored if we make the state the protector of Christians and weaponize it against the forces of godlessness. 

The Roots of Christian Nationalism 

It is not a new idea. At the outset of Jesus’ ministry, he deliberately went into the wilderness to face exactly this temptation to impose the kingdom by law, blood, iron, force, and fear. As Matthew reports: 

“Then the devil took him up to a very high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in their magnificence, and he said to him, ‘All these I shall give to you, if you will prostrate yourself and worship me.’ At this, Jesus said to him, ‘Get away, Satan! It is written: The Lord, your God, shall you worship and him alone shall you serve’” (Mt 4:8–10). 

Several factors contribute to the confusion that leads many Christians to fall for Christian nationalism. 

The first, as is always the case with false teaching, is that it exploits and exaggerates real Catholic teaching (just as the devil did when he quoted Scripture in the effort to get Jesus to sin during the temptation in the wilderness). 

Specifically, it exploits and exaggerates the second greatest commandment: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” We may well ask, “What could possibly be wrong with loving your neighbor as yourself?” 

Nothing—as long as we clearly understand what is meant by “neighbor.” Because one of the temptations we face is to limit “neighbor” to a particular category of persons. And if we give that idea its head, we can (and have many times in history) come to the dark spiritual place where a particular class of neighbor becomes the only class that matters, while others are categorized as outsiders, foreigners, enemies, and even subhuman vermin fit only for extermination. “Love your neighbor” gets whittled down to “Love your kind,” and loving your kind becomes the pretext for oppressing, jailing, exploiting, enslaving, and even exterminating those who are not our kind. 

This is why the command to love one’s neighbor is the second, not the first, greatest commandment. The love of neighbor must be subordinated to the love of God, precisely because God commands us not merely to love those we call neighbor, but those he calls our neighbor: namely, everyone, including even our enemies. 

This is not to deny the legitimacy of loving one’s own kind. The Church teaches us that the love of family is perfectly legitimate. Indeed, it teaches us that the family is the “‘the domestic church,’ a community of grace and prayer, a school of human virtues and of Christian charity” (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1666). The Church has long insisted that the union and fruitfulness of marital love are a sacramental image of and participation in the life of the Holy Trinity and that the family is the basic building block of civilization. 

But here’s the thing: Building blocks are for building. Specifically, they are for building the kingdom of God. And so Jesus, living in a culture that takes for granted the primacy of family ties, national pride, and blood relationship, shockingly declares: “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (Lk 14:26). 

He does not, of course, mean that we are to wish harm and damnation on our family or ourselves. Rather, he means that nothing, not even the love of one’s own kind, is to take priority over the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God takes priority over the family, and the family exists as a kind of preschool for the kingdom. Disobedience to God on this point can be seen in such things as clan warfare in Romeo and Juliet, in bloody gang struggles on the streets of Los Angeles, and in slaughter between the Hatfields and the McCoys. 

A Healthy Patriotism 

The Church likewise commends the virtue of patriotism, the love of one’s people, native land, and culture (which is simply the love of family extended). This particular species of the love of neighbor is also normal and healthy and can engender all sorts of virtues as it teaches us to be grateful, not only for our family and loved ones, but also for the enormous gifts of love we have received from our community and our ancestors, who gave us everything from a state of ordered liberty instead of chaos or tyranny to an infrastructure we could never have invented ourselves that provides us with everything from pencils to penicillin, water to waffles, literacy to lettuce.

To be grateful for and loving toward those who have, by their pains and sacrifices, given our country so much, whom we can never repay except with thanks, is perfectly fitting. Such love is right and proper and honors God as well as family and country. 

But such patriotism is the dead opposite of nationalism. For nationalism is to healthy patriotism in a people what the satanic sin of pride is to the virtue of healthy self-love in a person. The command is to love your neighbor as you love yourself. Pride is the will to exalt yourself as you despise your neighbor, which in the end is to exalt yourself as you despise God. And multiplied by millions of hearts and minds and endowed with billions of dollars and the force of arms, it can and has resulted in some of the most immense bloodbaths in human history.

Not unrelatedly, as White Christian nationalism was germinating in the years after 9/11, one of the arguments many conservative Christians made was that America was facing something called “demographic winter.” The claim was that Muslims were outbreeding the godless sexually libertine West. So it was essential that those who reverence “Judeo-Christian values” boost their numbers in America or be swamped by a tide of Islam. 

But then, suddenly, the argument shifted. At about the same moment, a Black Christian with a foreign-sounding name was elected president under the completely false accusation that he was not a real American citizen and a Muslim to boot. The discourse shifted sharply among conservative Christians to the supposed deadly peril of refugees “invading” America’s southern border. 

Virtually all these refugees were Christians, seeking only a chance to work, to raise their families, and to practice their faith—the very stuff that Christian nationalists said would restore our country’s greatness. But they were Black and Brown, speaking languages that made Christian nationalists uncomfortable. And so the lie was revealed: The issue was not that they wanted more Christians, but more Whites. The goal was not to “defend the Gospel” but to defend White privilege. 

Not a Chosen Nation 

And that brings us to the central internal contradiction of Christian nationalism: It is a complete oxymoron, like “married bachelor.” The fundamental nature of the Gospel is that it is intended for all human beings, that there is no preferred nation, that pride is a sin and love is a virtue, and that “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free person, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal 3:28). 

America is not a chosen nation. It is a human invention. To be sure, it has many virtues, much to be grateful for, and many good people. But it is, like all human things, fallen and afflicted by sin, and its people are, like any other, in need of salvation. Any greatness we possess should be an occasion for humble gratitude to God, not for swollen pride that we are the authors of our greatness, superior to all other people. The Gospel arms us to do battle with our own sins, not with the least of these, the poor, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. 

God, in short, is not Caesar’s servant, and Caesar is neither God’s savior nor ours. To be sure, Caesar has a God-given role in the affairs of human beings. As Paul says: 

“[T]here is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been established by God. Therefore, whoever resists authority opposes what God has appointed, and those who oppose it will bring judgment upon themselves. For rulers are not a cause of fear to good conduct, but to evil. Do you wish to have no fear of authority? Then do what is good and you will receive approval from it, for it is a servant of God for your good. But if you do evil, be afraid, for it does not bear the sword without purpose; it is the servant of God to inflict wrath on the evildoer” (Rom 13:1–4). 

The state exists, therefore, to ensure that justice and the common good are upheld, and, insofar as it does that, it does God’s will. But ensuring justice does not mean “ensuring White Christians are always top dog, no matter what” for the very good reason that all human beings, not only the White Christian ones, are made in the image and likeness of God. 

But the issue runs deeper than that because the attempt to make Caesar the savior of Christianity is, in the end, an act of idolatry by its very nature. The Church already has a Savior. The attempt to use the might of the state to impose the Gospel on the “godless” is guaranteed to fail. For the Gospel itself teaches that we are saved, not by the law, but by grace working through faith in Christ. Its very essence is freedom because “where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom” (2 Cor 3:17). To attempt to force a population of unbelievers to live by Christian values that are completely the fruit of Christian faith in Christ is not only impossible [since, as Jesus himself says, “I am the vine, you are the branches” and “Without me you can do nothing” (Jn 15:5)], but it is guaranteed to create a backlash as Caesar tries to force people to do what is impossible for them for reasons they cannot for the life of them understand. 

And, of course, all this is further complicated by the question “Whose Christianity is to be imposed on the ‘godless’?” Some argue, for instance, that some Christian theology is so fundamental that it must be imposed on all and civil punishments visited on those who do not practice it (this is common among those who want civil laws to punish certain pelvic sins). But there are things far more foundational to Christian teaching than sexual morality or the dignity of the human person: namely, the dignity of God, whom we are commanded to love with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. Shall we punish atheists? Muslims? Jews? Non-Trinitarians? Pagans? For Catholics, the Eucharist is God the Son, fully present in his body, blood, spirit, soul, and divinity. Shall Caesar, as savior of Christianity in America, punish those who fail to adore the Eucharist? Or if Caesar is Protestant, shall he punish Catholics and other apostolic Christians as idolators? 

In the end, every attempt to make Caesar the savior of the Church is like the attempt to use the One Ring to save Middle Earth. Caesar is neither God’s savior nor ours. He is, at best, God’s very imperfect servant. That is why the Catechism warns (676): “The Antichrist’s deception already begins to take shape in the world every time the claim is made to realize within history that messianic hope which can only be realized beyond history through the eschatological judgment. The Church has rejected even modified forms of this falsification of the kingdom to come under the name of millenarianism, especially the ‘intrinsically perverse’ political form of a secular messianism.” 

And it is also why the Church, having rejected the Americanist heresy over a century ago, went on to give us the Decree on Religious Liberty at Vatican II. 

“For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the one that is to come” (Heb 13:14). 

God marked Francis in soul and body with the total gift of Christ in his suffering and death on the cross. 

Francis of Assisi was a man who wanted no possessions yet accepted the gift of a mountain in Italy. He came to that mountain to find solitude but carried with him the problems of the outside world and his new community of brothers. What happened there was something Francis was reluctant to share. But the event forever identifies him. 

This year, Franciscans mark the 800th anniversary of God’s gift to Francis of the stigmata—the marks of the wounds of the crucified Christ. As Pope Francis told a group of Franciscans in April: “The stigmata are one of the most eloquent signs the Lord has granted over the course of the centuries, to brothers and sisters in faith. . . . 

“They remind everyone in the holy people of God of the pain suffered by Jesus in his own flesh for our love and salvation; but they are also a sign of the paschal victory: It is indeed through the wounds that the mercy of the crucified and risen one, as if through channels, flows towards us.” 

A Place of Solitude 

The Franciscan sanctuary on Mount La Verna, in a remote, forested area in central Italy’s Tuscany region, is the focus of this year’s commemoration. To reach it, pilgrim buses ascend a twisting route to the mountaintop, where there is a cluster of buildings—a church, several chapels, a pilgrim hostel, and primitive caves—and a spectacular vista of the surrounding valleys and mountains. 

Snowbound in winter, often covered with a blanket of fog, prey to summer storms, but capable of rewarding the pilgrim with brilliant skies and breathtaking views, the sanctuary of La Verna still captures the solitude that Francis sought 800 years ago. 

Like the cross, Mount La Verna is itself a paradox. In 1213, Francis was traveling with his companion and secretary, Brother Leo, through this region. He stopped at the Castle of San Leone, where a feast was in progress, hosted by Count Orlando Cattani of Chiusi. Francis favored the guests with a sermon, and the count was so impressed that he offered the Poor Man of Assisi the gift of the mountain as a place of solitude and prayer. A document from May 8, 1213, attests of this remarkable gift—to a man who wished to own nothing! 

Francis visited Mount La Verna six times between that first visit in 1213 and 1224. His final visit came during what was known as the “Lent of St. Michael,” a time of fasting and prayer for 40 days before the feast of the Archangel Michael. 

In his recent, excellent study: Francis of Assisi: His Life, Vision and Companions (London: Reaktion Books, 2023), Father Michael F. Cusato, Franciscan historian, describes the man who made the painstaking journey to La Verna that fall: “Not only were his ailments beginning to take their toll upon his eyes and stomach, but he also had to witness . . . the slow drifting of a growing segment of the fraternity away from the primordial ideals which he considered to be of divine revelation and the way of life that God had wanted of him and his friars.” 

Cusato calls the last three years of Francis’ life, 1223–1226, “The Years of Decline.” Francis had finished revising the formal rule of life for his order, approved by Pope Honorius III in November 1223. Despite having resigned the day-to-day administration of the order, many still looked to him as guardian of the order’s “spiritual vision.”  

Francis carried another burden, according to Cusato, who has made an extensive study of Francis’ historic encounter with the Muslim leader, Sultan Malik-al Kamil, in 1219. This meeting, amid the bloody conflict known as the Fourth Crusade, made a lasting impression on Francis. Cusato believes that the announcement of Pope Honorius III, in April 1223, of another campaign against the Muslim forces “profoundly disturbed and unsettled Francis.” What would a new round of violence mean for the sultan, whom Francis had befriended? 

This, then, was the man who came to La Verna in the fall of 1224. 

The First Chroniclers 

The stigmata itself was a profoundly private experience. The saint allowed only a few followers to see and care for the wounds—which actively bled and caused real pain. Our knowledge of the event is based on their witness, and the testimony of those who saw the body of Francis after his death. 

The oldest account of the stigmata comes from Francis’ first biographer, Thomas of Celano, writing in The Life of St. Francis, two years after the saint’s death: 

“While he was staying in that hermitage called La Verna, after the place where it is located, two years prior to the time that he returned his soul to heaven, he saw in the vision of God a man, having six wings like a Seraph, standing over him, arms extended and feet joined, affixed to a cross. Two of his wings were raised up, two were stretched out over his head as if for flight, and two covered his whole body.” 

The resulting physical manifestation is also described by Celano: “His hands and his feet seemed to be pierced through the middle by nails, with the heads of the nails appearing on the inner part of his hands and on the upper part of his feet, and their points protruding on opposite sides. Those marks on the inside of his hands were round, but rather oblong on the outside; and small pieces of flesh were visible like the points of nails, bent over and flattened, extending beyond the flesh around them.” 

Celano relates that similar marks appeared on Francis’ feet: “His right side was marked with an oblong scar, as if pierced with a lance, and this often dripped blood, so that his tunic and undergarments were frequently stained with his holy blood.” 

Christ Crucified 

Despite the physical pain of the stigmata, Celano tells us Francis “rejoiced at the gracious way Christ looked upon him under the appearance of the Seraph, but the fact that the Seraph was fastened to a cross pierced [Francis’] soul with a sword of compassionate sorrow.” 

Cusato uses this reference to Christ’s crucifixion to provide an understanding of Francis’ mystical experience. 

The image of Francis, receiving the wounds of Christ from what Celano calls a “Seraph,” can be “unwittingly misleading,” Cusato says. The popular depiction suggests a “seraphim,” one of the nine choirs of angels, as depicted in Isaiah 6:1–2, where the prophet has a vision of “seraphim” with six wings. 

But Cusato cites two other biblical texts underlying Celano’s use of the term Seraph. In Numbers 21:4–8, God instructs Moses to fashion a bronze serpent on a pole, so that those bitten by “saraph serpents” may look at it and be healed. 

Then in John’s Gospel (3:13–17), Jesus tells Nicodemus, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that ev-eryone who believes in him may have eternal life.” 

“The Seraph, in other words,” Cusato contends, “is not really an angelic figure; rather it is Christ himself, crucified for the healing of the human race.” Cusato concludes that “Francis had internalized so deeply and profoundly the image of the crucified Christ on the cross that it literally, physically exploded out of his psyche and onto his own flesh, marking him with the wounds of Christ, the stigmata. . . . Francis became what and to whom he was praying.” 

A Gift for Francis’ Followers 

We have inherited eight centuries of accounts and legends surrounding the stigmata. We have the teaching of St. Bonaventure and many others. Even Church art depicting the crucifixion bears the influence of Francis’ embrace of the crucified Christ. Art historian Stella Grace Lyons writes that, after Francis, “Artists responded by painting increasingly realistic scenes of Jesus’ vulnerability—at birth and at death.” Think of the contrast between the crucifix of San Damiano, with its serene, victorious Christ, risen and ascending to heaven, and any one of the countless graphic crucifixion scenes in art or film. 

What can Francis’ experience mean for 21st-century Franciscans? To understand it, we need to look beyond the event commemorated this year. 

Francis’ whole life led to La Verna. His youth in Assisi was marked by frequent violence. He took part in bloody conflict in the ill-fated war of Assisi against Perugia in 1202, which journalist Paul Moses believes—along with Francis’ yearlong imprisonment—caused what today we know as post-traumatic stress disorder. Francis’ conversion—through long months of isolation and prayer—did not happen in one moment of insight. 

Rather, God led Francis in and through the depths of suffering to come to know Christ. As Francis himself tells us in his Testament, God led him to embrace the suffering, crucified Christ, in serving lepers, the outcasts of his time. And finally, on Mount La Verna, God marked Francis in soul and body with the total gift of Christ in his suffering and death on the cross. 

Knowing God and Himself 

I believe there is a beautiful connection to the event of the stigmata found in an early collection called The Deeds of Blessed Francis and His Companions (better known in its Italian translation, The Little Flowers of St. Francis), written more than a century after Francis’ death. 

In chapter 9, Francis comes to Mount La Verna in the fall of 1224 with a few companions. He builds a small hut and tells Brother Leo not to disturb him—save to bring bread and water once a day and come at night for matins. 

But Leo can’t resist eavesdropping on Francis. One early morning, Leo overhears him praying, “Who are you, my most dear God, and who am I, a worm and your little servant?” Leo’s presence disturbs Francis. He first reprimands Leo, but then agrees to explain what Leo overheard. Francis relates that “two lights were opened for me in what you saw and heard: One, a knowledge of the Creator, and the other, a knowledge of myself.” Francis shares how God showed him “the abyss of infinite divine goodness and the depths of my own vileness.” 

Francis knew himself and his own journey through violence, human weakness, and sin. As he prayed, “Who am I?” the legend recounts that God consoled Francis and promised that “in a few days, on this mountain God will perform an astonishing miracle which the whole world will admire.” 

Making Francis’ Prayer Our Own 

The two questions from the prayer of Francis overheard by Brother Leo are, I believe, one of the simplest ways to approach God. We open ourselves and allow God to answer that first question, Who are you, my God? Reflecting on the Scriptures or nature—as Francis often did—will prepare us to hear who God is in our lives. 

For Francis, the answer came dramatically in the vision of the crucified Christ in the form of the “seraph.” 

For us, we can trust that—in all our “crosses”—our suffering, our weakness, and even in our sins, God will respond in love. Despite the suffering caused by the stigmata, Francis lived his final days with an answer to that second question, Who am I? 

The answer God promises to give to you or me will be unique to each of us. But in faithfully imitating the way of St. Francis of Assisi, we can be assured that God will show us how we are loved, and what our response can be.

This Franciscan sister and immigration attorney shares lessons from St. Francis of Assisi that can help fix our broken immigration system. 

Immigration has been in the news. Migration of peoples is a global concern as war, food shortages, joblessness, and climate change cause hundreds of thousands of people to leave their countries of origin to reach secure sanctuaries. The increased illegal border crossings here in the United States have led to a call for more border security. 

Some people stereotype immigrants as criminals, rapists, and murderers, but the majority of immigrants are good people fleeing economic poverty or threats to their lives and those of their families. Most immigrants are merely hoping for a better life. What insights might St. Francis of Assisi have regarding immigration today? 

From his writings, we know that St. Francis experienced the love of a generous, self-giving God and wished to imitate that love of God in his following of Christ. Although St. Francis is revered for his love of animals and of all creatures, his life and teachings call us to do more. In his Earlier Rule, Francis exhorts his followers to love all persons as brothers and sisters in Christ and to live a life of poverty in imitation of the poor Christ. Let us see how these two key ingredients of Francis’ spirituality broaden our understanding of the reality of immigration in society today. 

Inherent Dignity 

First, St. Francis’ love of God overflowed in his love for each person, whom he saw as a brother or sister in Christ. Francis believed in the dignity of each person, which was not contingent on rank, wealth, or nobility at birth. He sought to live among the poor and the powerless, in whom he found an image of the poor Christ. In his first Rule, Francis writes to his friars: 

“Whoever comes to them, friend or foe, thief or robber, let him be received with kindness. . . . They must rejoice when they live among people considered of little value and looked down upon, among the poor and the powerless, the sick and the lepers, and the beggars by the wayside.” 

That the friars were to serve the poor in humility was a testimony to the dignity the poor have as children of God and brothers and sisters in Christ. 

Today’s immigrants and refugees are some of the poorest and most vulnerable of society. Often looked down upon by those who wield power, they are seen as a burden on society. Yet, as followers of Francis, we see in them our brothers and sisters who are to be treated with the kindness and respect that human beings deserve. Why else would people give of their goods, their time, and their resources to help feed and clothe these poor if not for the love of the poor Christ? Not only at the borders, but in shelters, food banks, towns, and cities, people throughout the United States give of their time, their money, and themselves to help immigrants in the Franciscan (and Catholic) tradition and at the urging of Pope Francis. 

Yet the United States legal system is quite harsh toward migrants. The border is inaccessible to most, and few of those who enter the United States will find legal remedies to stay. The asylum process is lengthy, and applicants must wait for six months before receiving permission to work, even though they and their families have to eat. Requisites in asylum law exclude most who come to the United States seeking relief from dire poverty or gang threats because poverty and crime are not an accepted basis for asylum. Nor will those who come to earn money in support of families in their countries of origin be granted asylum. Recent executive action has made attaining asylum status even less available. 

Other factors, including the lack of knowledge of English and the high cost of attorney fees, which can begin at $10,000, greatly impede immigrants’ chances of remaining in the United States. Yet these are human beings created in the image of God. How should we as Franciscans and followers of Francis view and treat these individuals who are feared and seen by many as a burden on society? If Francis were alive today, he would surely be among them. 

Poverty and Power 

St. Francis is also known to have lived a life of absolute poverty—something that would be unreasonable in today’s society. But Francis also recognized that human persons have needs. In his Earlier Rule, he exhorts the friars: 

“Let all . . . strive to follow the humility and poverty of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and let them remember that we should have nothing else in the whole world except, as the apostle says: Having food and clothing, we are content with these.” 

Francis would not allow the friars to receive money—only goods. Francis equated money with power; the aristocracy accumulated wealth to retain their powerful status. On the contrary, the goods the friars received were to be shared in order to provide for the needs of each one. As the Franciscan understanding of poverty developed in the burgeoning medieval market economy, it was the accumulation of wealth for one’s own benefit, the hoarding of wealth, that failed against poverty. The free-flowing exchange of goods that money in the market economy accomplished was good for the community in the growing cities. It allowed the people who no longer lived on the land to get what they needed to live and provide for their families. 

It is interesting that the Franciscans were instrumental in developing the market economy of the 13th and 14th centuries. Poverty was intertwined with minority so that the market economy was based not on competition, but on solidarity in the community. The sharing in the market economy helped the people to grow and the cities to flourish. It bolstered the common good. The worker could use the money he earned to obtain the goods that he needed, just as workers do today. 

In today’s market economy, many immigrant communities follow this Franciscan design where cooperation, not competition, unites people in a wholesome way. Many studies and articles have demonstrated that immigrants bolster the economies of the towns and cities where they work. Their solidarity increases the common good for the overall community and brings about a communal aspect where even those living in poverty are cared for. Immigrants creatively respond to the needs around them, and in this way provide for their families as well as the whole community in a way that ensures a more stable, lasting, and just foundation for human security and well-being. 

Yet permission to work is not easy to obtain if one does not have a pathway to remain in the United States. Asylum applicants must wait for at least 150 days before even applying for this permission. Many immigrants who have lived in the United States for years are unable to apply for any remedy as a punishment for having entered or reentered without permission. Migrants who came here as children and who are now adult US citizens cannot apply for their parents because they would then be barred for years at a consulate for a long-ago illegal (re)entrance into the United States. This harsh immigration provision punishes what is seen as a willful violation of the law while, at the time, the arriving immigrants were simply looking for work to provide for their families. 

At the same time, employers in the service and construction areas lament the lack of workers. Roofers and construction workers are needed, as well as those who work in hospitality, restaurants, and caregiving. Facilities for the elderly and day care centers are closing for lack of workers, who may be at hand but unable to apply. Many immigrants seek to be paid for work “under the table” since, as we all know, food and shelter are needed to live. 

The Franciscan Way and the Common Good 

If work, in the Franciscan tradition, was a way to promote the common good, would it not be advisable to allow immigrants the opportunity to work? Could not immigration law be mitigated to forgive entries or reentries that were not blatant violations of the law, but merely the effort to provide for families and loved ones? 

Is it not in our common interest here in the United States to allow persons who have been here for many years, who have worked and obeyed the laws, who have paid taxes and Social Security, and who have fostered family ties and built wholesome communities, to have the opportunity to remain here legally and honorably? 

Immigration law is complex, as is our immigration situation today. There is no easy remedy that will resolve our immigration system, as there is no easy solution for the complex causes of migration. But there is need for a Franciscan stance that can mitigate the harshness of our country’s immigration laws. It is my hope that the Franciscan tradition helps shine a light on the path forward for work in immigration—a calling that is deeply tied to our identity and vocation as Franciscans today. 

This mysterious Franciscan saint continues to inspire the faith lives of believers worldwide. 

Padre Pio was dead. After his passing in 1968, his fellow priests decided that nothing short of a crypt would be a worthy grave. Thus, Padre Pio could remain, now and forever, in the very friary and church in which he had worked. A huge light shines brightly in this crypt; a bit of paradise has descended into it. In that tomb lies the body of a man who imitated Jesus in pain and suffering as perhaps no one else of his time did. 

In an era when the world was conquering the moon, Christ was conquering the earth. When a civilization steeped in technology and materialism clamored to be heard, Padre Pio replied with his God-filled silence and his immolation in the confessional. His silent testimony was so effectual that it dealt a powerful blow to those whose apostolate was materialism and agitation and to organizations that devalued spiritual life, prayer, humility, obedience, and sacrifice. The proof that only a saint can leave such a lasting impression lies in the fact that, in spite of all their celebrity, the others are soon forgotten once they die. 

One day, Padre Pio said jokingly, “After my death there will be more hubbub than there is now.” Indeed, Padre Pio was truly a man who shook the world. “In the light of this ideal,” wrote Jesuit Father Domenico Mondrone, “the image of Padre Pio breaks out of the restricting frame of San Giovanni Rotondo and is offered for the guidance and admiration of the entire world. Padre Pio is still here waiting for you, watching over each of you, listening to you, and loving you. His love has not decreased with his death; it has, instead, increased immeasurably. I am sure that not a single one of you will leave that tomb without a gift from his inexhaustible paternal love.” 

Everyone who goes down to the crypt and kneels in front of the tomb feels that something under that massive granite is still moving. This is why an influx of pilgrims continues without interruption, increasing with every passing day. Like a mysterious force, everyone who goes down kneels, prays, and asks with the assurance of receiving. Father Fernando of Riese, Italy, who knew the saint, wrote, “Padre Pio, during his 50 years as a stigmatist, attracted the attention of the entire world, including nonbelievers, to himself and his work.” 

‘After I Die, I Will Do So Much More’ 

This attention did not stop after his death. Only the controversies ceased and were transformed to veneration. The greatest trial to which Padre Pio was subjected in life was excessive publicity, which nearly made him more of a martyr than a confessor. The greatest proof of his virtue comes from the people as they remember his life, make pilgrimages to his tomb, and ask for his intercession. 

Considering all the good he did and all the sacrifices he made for other people, Padre Pio should be regarded as a man full of glory. 

“His glorification,” wrote Raffaele Pellecchia, the late archbishop of Sorrento, Italy, “[will be the clearest reply that the Church council] will give to this modern era—because the glory and the hope, the sorrow and agony of modern man, especially the poor and the suffering, were also the joy and hope, the sorrow and agony of Padre Pio. There was nothing genuinely human that did not echo in his heart.” 

The late Archbishop Adolfo Tortolo, of Paraná, Argentina, believed that Padre Pio’s holiness had stirred the world and would continue to stir it. The illustrious prelate declared that the task of putting the marvelous pages of history before humankind had just begun, a history that would tell of his divine deeds—a new “gift,” a new “grace” that God would give humanity. “The dawn of the glorification of Padre Pio is already here,” said Father Bernadino of Siena, the late postulator general of the Capuchin Order, at the time of Padre Pio’s death. 

Inquiries were made to the Sacred Congregation for the Cause of Saints regarding the disposition of the authorities in regard to opening Padre Pio’s cause. A favorable reply was received and forwarded to the minister general of the order and his council on October 31, 1969, describing it as a “special cause involving universal reverberations.” 

Having received “nothing to the contrary” from the guardians of the order, the postulator forwarded the official request to the archbishop of Manfredonia on November 4, 1969, stating that “Padre Pio’s reputation of holiness is becoming even better known since his death.” He believed “that such a reputation of holiness was not due to human artifice, but to the saintliness of Padre Pio’s life.” 

On October 25, 1971, Archbishop Valentino Vailati of Manfredonia ordered the clerics and all the faithful to send all their written reports to the Holy See as soon as possible because the preliminaries for the cause for the beatification and canonization of Padre Pio were underway. 

By the end of 1971, the postulator general was able to say that the cause had truly made progress. After the collection of testimonies, the preparation of a critical biography, the revision of Padre Pio’s writings by two theologians, and the preparation of all the other documents, the archbishop gave all the requested documentation necessary to the Sacred Congregation for the Cause of Saints on January 6, 1973. 

This was necessary for obtaining the nihil obstat for the introduction of the cause for the beatification and canonization of the Servant of God Padre Pio of Pietrelcina. This is the work and the will of man; the remainder is being done by God through his faithful servant who is keeping his promise: “After I die, I will do so much more.” 

Padre Pio’s Holy Mission 

“My real mission will begin after my death.” These words that Padre Pio spoke regularly became a prophecy. Devotion to the stigmatized Padre only increased in the years after his death, as people around the world invoked him in their prayers. Today, he is one of the most invoked religious figures in Catholicism. 

To those who knew him and the many who knew of him, Padre Pio was a saint in all but name. The road to canonization began in 1982, when the Archbishop Valentino Vailati was authorized by the Holy See to open up the investigation into whether or not Padre Pio should be considered a saint. 

Of course, to so many people it was not a matter of if, but a matter of when. Back in 1947, a young Polish priest, Father Karol Wojtyla, was studying in Rome when he had the chance to visit Padre Pio. He spent the week in San Giovanni Rotondo attending Pio’s Masses and later received confession from the friar. According to Stefano Campanella, the author of several books on Padre Pio, it was then that the friar entrusted the priest with a secret—he had another wound, one that he revealed to no one else. 

“It is my shoulder wound,” he told him, “which no one knows about and has never been cured or treated.” This wound can be equated to that which Jesus sustained as he climbed Mount Calvary. His most painful wound, as he revealed to St. Bernard of Clairvaux in a vision, came not from the nails of the cross, but from the heavy cross itself as he bore it on his shoulder. 

It is also long rumored—although Father Wojtyla denied it on many occasions—that Padre Pio had then predicted that the young priest would ascend to the highest position in the Church. It was this priest who, years later, forged the path to Padre Pio’s canonization: The world  came to know him as Pope John Paul II. 

The first true step to sainthood came in 1990 when Padre Pio was declared a Servant of God. From then, the Congregation for the Causes of Saints debated over the way Padre Pio lived his life, his saintliness, and all that had been said of him—the controversies and the rumors, the miracles and the intercessions. 

In 1997, Pope John Paul II declared him Venerable. Now the congregation had to turn to discussing the impact Padre Pio’s life had had on others, considering any reported miracles at his intercession. Many cases were considered. In their deliberations, they considered all his virtues and his ability to do good even after his death. 

After two years of debating, they had come to their conclusion. In 1999, Padre Pio was declared Blessed. Two scientifically unexplained healings were approved as miracles by the congregation: one in December 1998, that of Consiglia de Martino of Salerno, and one in December 2000, that of 7-year-old Matteo Colella of San Giovanni Rotondo. Both were cured by Padre Pio’s intercession years after his death. On June 16, 2002, 55 years after the Padre had heard his confession, Pope John Paul II declared Padre Pio a saint. 

An estimated 300,000 people attended the canonization ceremony; pilgrims flocked to the Vatican from all over the world. Certainly, in the years since his death, Padre Pio has become one of the world’s most famous and loved saints. Indeed, a survey by the Italian magazine Famiglia Cristiana found that more Italians pray to Padre Pio than to any other figure. 

His feast day is September 23, the anniversary of his death, and he has been declared the patron saint of adolescents, civil defense volunteers, the town of Pietrelcina, and stress relief. His famous words, “Pray, hope, and don’t worry,” have inspired many, as have his prayers, teachings, and great faith. 

San Giovanni Rotondo has become a center of faith and devotion to the friar, attracting over 8 million pilgrims each year. In 1995, construction of the Padre Pio Pilgrimage Church began. Designed by the renowned Italian architect Renzo Piano, the church is made of stone and glass and can hold congregations of 6,000 people. In 2004, after much dedication and patient work, the church finally opened to the public, and Pope John Paul II was there to dedicate the church to the memory of Padre Pio. 

Loved and Beloved 

To mark the 40th anniversary of his death, Padre Pio’s body was exhumed on March 3, 2008, and prepared for display in the crypt of the friary. Much of his body was in near-perfect condition, and one priest remarked that he looked as though he had a manicure. His face, however, had not fared as well and was coated with a silicon mask to preserve his likeness. His body was then laid out in a sepulchre of crystal, marble, and silver. 

On April 24, 2008, Cardinal José Saraiva Martins (then prefect of the Congregation for the Causes of the Saints) celebrated Mass in the Sanctuary of Santa Maria delle Grazie in San Giovanni Rotondo. Thousands arrived for this celebration of the life of Padre Pio. 

Within a week, over 800,000 pilgrims made reservations to view the body of the saint. The exhibition was to last until December 2008, but only 7,200 people were able to view the crystal coffin in a day, causing the organizers to extend the date to September 2009. 

Today, visitors can see Padre Pio in repose in a golden crypt in the Padre Pio Pilgrimage Church. He is dressed in his brown Capuchin habit with a white silk stole embroidered with crystals and golden thread. In his hands, he holds a large wooden cross, a symbol of not only his devotion to God, but also the stigmata by which he was known. 

Here he rests, but the message he spread in life continues to enrapture the world. Padre Pio, the living saint, will forevermore be St. Pio of Pietrelcina. 

This article was adapted from Padre Pio: A Personal Portrait (Franciscan Media).

I paused. “I guess I just feel like creativity is part of who I am. And when I don’t have time to create, I feel out of whack. How can I be a good dad when I feel out of whack? But how will I have time to create when we have another kid?” 

Therapy is for honesty, right? For processing out-of-whack-ness? What is “whack” anyway? Whatever it is, I guess I’m making circles around it. That’s why I’m out of it. 

“Well, you’re right,” she said. “Things are going to get even crazier after your second child is born. But do you really think God is going to take away this part of who you are, this way that you relate to yourself, to the world?” 

Creativity has long been fundamental for my mental and emotional health. If I can’t find time to write, my wife often senses my irritability and tells me to get in front of the blank page. Even if I write one lousy sentence, it feels good, right, necessary. 

Creativity, I feel, is like lowering an empty vessel into the deep well of the soul. It is a journey into the depths of ourselves to discover that which is life-giving, that which might be worth sharing through the process of slowly bringing the vessel of water back to the surface. It’s no wonder I feel “off” when I struggle to find the time to create. 

This inward then outward movement is also why creativity, for me, has been synonymous with prayer: It can be one of the most honest dialogues with life itself, with one’s own heart, with God. This interior journey often leads to encountering a truth that remained hidden before, one we would not have found had we not dared lower the empty vessel. We’re all creatives, I believe, divinely designed to plunge the depths of Spirit within and name what we have found. So that it might quench the thirst of others. 

Making Our Souls 

What I’m learning in this busy phase of life, though, as my wife and I await the birth of our second child, is that creativity also involves the making of the well. My conversation with my therapist made me wonder if this chaotic phase of life might be one of conscious soulful preparation, even if the words on the page are scarce. A conversation with Murray Bodo, OFM, for Franciscan Media’s new Off the Page podcast, echoed these same themes. 

“What have you learned about God or yourself through creativity?” I asked Father Murray, who has been publishing poetry for over six decades. 

“My life, your life, is a prayer,” he said. “It’s becoming a prayer. A life lived sincerely with a longing for God is a prayer. Sometimes you have the time to pray more deeply—to write or dance or sing or whatever it is. Other times, there isn’t as much time. But you’re still in the game.” 

Father Murray then bridged the creative journey itself to the making of one’s own soul. God gifts each of us a soul, but then the process of deepening our soul is a lifelong partnership with God. Father Murray continued, “John Keats was writing to his brother once and said that life on earth is a ‘vale of soul-making.’” Father Murray paused, “We’re learning to make our souls.” 

I’m reminded of how often I judge my progress through the lens of production. I’m not a mystic—I’m too dualistic. I judge my creative output on the lack of water in my vessel when maybe I’ve been improving the well all along: through discipline, daily hard work, and striving to love my family well, through preparing for our little one to come. It’s all creativity. It’s all prayer. 

There I go, trying to write like a mystic again. 

Living Waters 

There is a beautiful storyline in the third season of the Gospels-inspired hit show The Chosen where Simon—burdened with anger over Jesus’ healing of strangers while the apostles are left wanting—finds a certain solace in pouring that emotion into manual labor: helping a Roman centurion, Gaius, fix a cistern outside of the synagogue, the main water supply for the city. The disciples think Simon has gone off his rocker. 

They think he’s out of whack. But while Simon works on the well, he is also working on his own soul. In fixing what needed to be fixed, he is doing the same with his own heart. And this spiritual formation is happening alongside his growing friendship with Gaius, not Jesus, which seems to be how God works. 

St. Francis of Assisi once said, “Create within yourself a place where God might dwell.” I will likely always need to find time to write, but maybe Francis’ words direct us toward the ultimate form of creativity: soul-making. 

Maybe sometimes it feels like we’re not doing what we’re made to do. Maybe we feel like we don’t have the time. Maybe we’re overwhelmed. But God’s growth in us is mysterious. And God’s expansion within our own souls sometimes requires some excavating, some good old-fashioned manual labor. That way, we can dig a well for the living waters to flow. 

Prayer

Digging Deep 
God, creative living does not always look as I think it should look. 
Life can sometimes feel “off,” like a desperate search for water 
while the mouth gets more and more dry. 
Please partner with me as I dig the well. 
In the vale, let me participate with you in soul-making. 
Amen.