For him, that was the best way to learn something. You may end up in the very same place you originally were, he would tell us, but at least you would be well-versed in the other pieces to the puzzle. As an avid political junkie, that was one of the things that troubled him during the later years of his life—too much yelling and shouting, too little discourse. I can’t imagine what he would think about the political climate now. 

That climate is exactly what author Stephen Copeland looks at in his article “Building Peace in a Nation Divided” here. He shows that St. Francis can offer a good model for us on how to engage with each other. Patrick Carolan also writes about issues facing us with the upcoming election and the need “to encourage an environment of informed, engaged, and peaceful participation in the electoral process. This is especially true for Franciscans,” he writes in his article “I’d Like to Say: The Time to Protect Elections Is Now.” 

Regardless of our political leanings, we must all remember that we need each other to move forward. St. Francis and the Franciscan spirit can help along the way. 

The example of St. Francis can be our guide as we navigate bitter divisions in our world, our nation—and perhaps even our dinner tables. 

I remember when I realized a new age of discourse was upon us. 

It was mid-November 2016. A contentious election had resulted in the unexpected. And now, as the holidays approached, there was much talk in the progressive circles in which I ran about how to navigate the clashing of political opinions at the Thanksgiving table. Many concluded that the most healthy response might be to simply not attend their family’s annual dinner to protect their own mental and emotional health. Of course, I didn’t know each person’s unique situation, but I was nonetheless stunned each time I heard about politics interfering with close relationships. 

I grew up west of Indianapolis with a cornfield in our backyard. I was surrounded by a loving extended family who were all from rural, conservative communities. I’d return home for the holidays and see our neighbor proudly flying his red and white “Make America Great Again” flag and smell the stench of nearby cattle, which I found strangely refreshing amid my city life in Charlotte, North Carolina. That same neighbor always brought us fruit and vegetables from his garden, and, in the years following the sudden passing of my mother, would check up constantly on my dad. But now I was supposed to look at him as morally inferior because of his political leanings? 

Ideas in my family were always treated as a playground, something for goofing around about at recess before getting back to class, which is to say learning to love more fully. Sometimes there’d be an occasional scuffle on the playground, but it was all in good fun, and then it was back to the classroom. What mattered was our hearts, not our minds; our commitment to each other, not our ideas; our experiences together, not our differing opinions. Ideas could not hurt us—they were for play, debate, sharpening each other. 

Now, however, it seemed the nation had entered an era in which political ideas were conflated with a person’s character and identity, leading to the rampant judgment of others who believed differently. Uncle Joe wasn’t just a hardworking, blue-collar lover and protector of his family who sometimes said some quirky or conspiratorial things around the dinner table; no, now Uncle Joe was ignorant or “complicit.” I noticed how progressives would correlate Trump voters with White supremacy or misogyny just as I had seen the religious Right characterize pro-choice liberals as murderous baby-killers in the ’90s and early 2000s. If I’m honest with myself, there was an appeal to this kind of moral conviction. I knew too well from my conservative evangelical background that the rush of moral certainty is addictive. 

Listening to live music one crisp November evening at a hole-in-the-wall blues venue in Charlotte, I remember contemplating the absurdity of this divisive rhetoric. I watched the mosaic of music lovers—Black, White, old, young, blue-collar, white-collar, people who likely could not have voted more differently the week before—lose themselves on the dance floor and become one again in the song, in the dance, in their mutual surrender to the beauty rising within the present moment. 

This was America, not cable news, not social media. How were we to get back to who we once were? 

Francis of Assisi: The Original Book Banner 

Our unprecedented access to information in the 21st century should have made us all more humble. Instead, it has made us more certain. This simple fact is at the crux of our society’s illness. 

There is an obscure story in the Franciscan tradition—reported by three of St. Francis’ earliest companions (Leo, Rufino, and Angelo)—about the saint’s hesitancy to allow his early brothers to own books. Their title of that story is apt: “The Dangers of Learning.” 

The story goes that one of the brothers who had just joined their ragtag bunch had the ability to read a Psalter and requested one. Twice he asked Francis, then a third time when he approached Francis one cold evening by the fire. This time, Francis had enough. “When you get a Psalter, you will start to yearn for a breviary. When you get a breviary, you will enthrone yourself on a chair like a grand prelate and say to your brother, ‘Bring me my breviary.’” Next we’re told that Francis “took a handful of ashes and poured them on his head” while shouting like a madman, “I want a breviary! I want a breviary!” 

What’s going on with this absurd story? Francis had a flair for theatrics, resulting in actions that today might lead to some kind of psychological diagnosis. But from the depth of his relationship with God and the perspective this gave him, he also intuited a profound understanding of the human ego (though he wouldn’t have used those terms). These words from St. Paul likely resonated with Francis: “Knowledge inflates with pride, but love builds up” (1 Cor 8:1). 

Not unlike our age, Francis saw firsthand how “knowledge” led to division rather than connection and humility: in the spiritual and scriptural justification for the Crusades, in the widening disconnect between clergy and laity, and in academia in which the study of theology remained in the head and never became “incarnational” in a person’s life. In the Franciscan tradition, charity—which is rooted in love—arose from one’s connection to the “other.” Some scholars conclude Francis’ Christian conversion fundamentally unfolded as his relationship with lepers continued to deepen and grow. Lepers who were once “bitter” to Francis not only became “sweet,” but also held the key to his own continued conversion as a follower of Christ. 

Conspiracies on the Right and virtue-signaling on the Left are examples of how learning has “puffed up” and created division rather than openness to the other. Unfortunately, both journalism and academia—two of the most important institutions in a liberal democracy—have formed echo chambers instead of cultivating an openness to differing opinions, a dialectic that, in a complex society like ours, is ultimately the only route to a fuller understanding of the truth. 

Francis and the Sultan

Philosopher Peter Rollins once shared a parable about a mystic, an evangelical, and a fundamentalist dying and going to heaven. St. Peter greets them, then guides them into a waiting room where they will each be called to meet with Jesus himself. First, Jesus calls in the mystic. Five minutes later, the mystic leaves his meeting with Jesus, smiling and shaking his head, “I knew I got it all wrong.” Next, Jesus waves in the evangelical. Thirty minutes later, the evangelical leaves his meeting with Jesus, red-faced and sheepish, “I can’t believe I got it all wrong.” Next, Jesus calls the fundamentalist. Three hours later, Jesus himself leaves the meeting, disoriented and scratching his head, “How could I have been so wrong?” 

Rollins shares that when he first told that parable early in his career as a public intellectual, the point was to get listeners to identify more with the mystic. Now, however, he believes the parable ought to remind us how we are all, on some level, fundamentalists—ridiculously explaining all our answers about life to the author of life itself. 

Francis’ daring journey to meet with Sultan Malik al-Kamil during the Fifth Crusade is often discussed as a model for interfaith dialogue, diversity, and peace. But few emphasize the element that animated Francis’ journey at the start: indeed, his fundamentalism. His entire goal for the journey was to convert the sultan. If he could convert the sultan to Christianity, then perhaps other Muslims would become Christ-followers as well. Then, maybe the war would be over, as both sides united around one, true religion. Francis would be a hero. It is possible that Francis was not even seeking peace on his expedition, but rather glory. He had grown up wishing to be a knight; now, he was likely going to become a martyr. 

But, to Francis’ credit, his openness to experiencing the beauty of the human heart again ruptured his certainty. We’re told that Francis and the sultan spent many days together, likely debated with one another, learned from each other, formed a strong bond, and perhaps even prayed together. Remember, this was the leader of the Muslims, the man whom the pope had waged war against, the man who vindicated the killing of Christians. Not only that, but Francis returned to Assisi boldly affirming the beautiful aspects of the Islamic faith and Muslim way of life. Likely referencing Islam’s 99 Names of God, Francis shockingly wrote for his followers, “Wherever I find our Lord’s most holy names and written words in unbecoming places, I want to gather them up, and I beg that they be gathered up and placed in a becoming place.” 

Watermarks and Remnants

In his newfound friendship with the sultan, Francis found that war is not the peak of conflict but the absence of conflict. War was the inability to have meaningful dialogical disagreement and thus the need to kill and eliminate the other. Francis still likely disagreed with the sultan’s theological conclusions (or he would have become a Muslim), but he was simultaneously moved by the sultan’s devotion, faith, and, most of all, his heart. Francis realized that the sultan made him a better person and, yes, even a better Christian. As Rollins notes, “We call wars ‘conflicts,’ yet war manifests the inability of at least one party to face conflict, i.e., it shows the desire to annihilate the other rather than tarry with difference.” 

Today in America we are not yet seeking elimination of the other (or are we?), but the inability to have meaningful dialogical disagreement without labeling or demonizing indicates a slow spiraling into a type of war. Have we allowed our access to knowledge to “puff us up” rather than humble us? Has our fundamentalism, no matter what “side” we’re on, convinced us we’re the heroes in the story when in fact it’s heart-to-heart connection with the person who is different from us that has evolved our country—that indeed holds the key to our own conversion? Are we open to our certainty, in some way, being ruptured by the lived experience of another, as was the case with Francis and the sultan? 

Each heart, mind, and story is its own universe to explore. St. Bonaventure’s word for this myriad diversity within creation was “remnants,” watermarks from the ever-creating, ever-loving, self-diffusive “fountain fullness” (fontalis plenitudo) of the Trinity that continually “incarnates” itself in our reality, particularly in unexpected, unassuming places. Yes, that includes the beautiful uniqueness of a person’s heart and mind. In the Franciscan tradition it was the leper—the person who had been most overlooked and even cast out by society—in which Francis found the fountain bursting into his reality. 

Franciscan peace is a posture of openness and worship toward the diversity of the imago dei, borne in the hearts (and minds) of all people. This refusal to label, demonize, or cheapen someone’s divine identity to his or her political leanings also paradoxically makes room for conflict and debate, for without these ingredients what you have is war. As Thomas Merton wrote in his famous mystical encounter at the corner of 4th and Walnut in downtown Louisville, Kentucky, where he felt mysteriously connected to the passersby around him: “If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed. I suppose the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship each other.” 

Come November, people will have to make their own decisions at the ballot box. But, like Francis, might we allow our fundamentalism—and our addiction to certainty—to be ruptured along the way? Might we pursue charity over knowledge? Could the gift of our own listening ears be fundamental to our ever-evolving dance?

The life and message of St. Bonaventure can provide a framework for understanding both the world and your personal calling. 

When did “God” become more than a word to you? When, even for just a moment, did you glimpse the meaning of your life and personal vocation? When, in the midst of the challenges and complexities of adult responsibilities, did you regain the joy and passion you felt as a child? Or, in a time of trouble, struggling to find your way, how did God’s amazing grace become real to you and, though the path remained difficult, you knew that God was with you and trusted that you would find your true home? Perhaps it was the birth of your child or grandchild, a starry night in the Rockies, a sunrise at the beach, a time when you hit rock bottom and discovered the Rock, your child received a cancer diagnosis, or you felt Christ come alive in the bread and wine. 

At such moments, we are forever changed. Despite our imperfections and struggles, life becomes brighter and more colorful or perhaps more fragile, new energies emerge, and we discover, as did mystic-activist Dorothy Day, that each person we meet is holy, and that we should speak to all people as if they were angels. We know that we are in God’s hands, and God will never abandon us. 

These moments of spiritual transformation may not be dramatic but, when they occur, our lives are never the same. The world truly does become charged with God’s grandeur (as the Jesuit poet Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote), the heavens declare the glory of God, and we realize that nothing, not even our greatest fears, can separate us from the love of God. 

The Apostle Paul said that without love, “I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Cor 13:1). The same applies to philosophers and theologians. Without an experience of God’s loving presence, our words are dry, brittle, and unconvincing to ourselves and our readers. This was true for St. Bonaventure, and it has made all the difference in the world to me. 

In his early 40s, having been recently appointed as minister general of the Franciscan friars, the philosopher-priest Bonaventure, “under a divine impulse,” retreated to La Verna, Italy, the site of St. Francis’ vision of “the winged Seraph in the form of the Crucified.” Bonaventure had been “seeking peace with a panting spirit” to find a way to face his new responsibilities as the spiritual leader of the Franciscan Order. 

At La Verna, as he was reflecting on Francis’ vision, Bonaventure saw “all at once” the meaning of Francis’ vision and his guidance on the soul’s journey to God. Bonaventure felt spiritually uplifted as he meditated on Francis’ experience of the six-winged seraph. Now he knew firsthand the contours of Francis’ mysticism as he received in that moment the outline of The Soul’s Journey into God. His theology came alive, the words and stories of Francis and Jesus became flesh, and he experienced God’s inspiration mediated through the mystical experience of God’s humble servant, Francis of Assisi. Bonaventure the philosopher and administrator truly became a mystic. His words and meditations became electrified by God’s love. 

An Inspiring Example

As a writer and theologian, I can easily identify with Bonaventure. He was a holistic theologian who saw theology as a spiritual as well as an intellectual enterprise. Like Bonaventure, I first entered graduate studies to become a scholar, a philosopher of religion, and a theologian. But, as did the 13th-century saint, I felt called to ministry during my graduate studies. In the spirit of Bonaventure, I wanted to join heart, head, and hands. I wanted to live my theological vision intellectually, spiritually, relationally, emotionally, and practically in my daily life as a scholar, pastor, husband, and father. I wanted my writing, preaching, and pastoral care to come alive in ways that inspired others to embody God’s presence in their lives. I found that healthy and life-transforming theology is an act of love, grounded in prayer and the ongoing quest to experience God’s grace coursing through body, mind, spirit, and relationships. 

Bonaventure soared to the heavens in speculative theology and spirituality and then returned to earth to face the challenges of organizing a religious order, dealing with institutional controversies and potential schisms, and attempting to reconcile the Eastern and Western branches of Christianity. Following in the footsteps of the crucified Christ and Francis of Assisi, whom he saw as the embodiment of Christ’s mission, Bonaventure crafted a theological vision inspired by the spiritual virtues of grace, devotion, wonder, joy, piety, love, humility, wisdom, and inspiration. Some historians cite Bonaventure as one of the first theologians to craft a text on institutional leadership, unique in his counsel “about how to get the community to live up to its ideal.” 

Devoted Follower of St. Francis

Little is known of the details of Bonaventure’s life. Like Francis and Clare, he was born into privilege, most likely in 1217. Like Francis and Clare, he anticipated a life of material comfort, intellectual stimulation, and financial success during a time of great poverty and social unrest. 

His father, Giovanni di Fidanza, was a wealthy physician married to Maria di Ritello. He grew up in Bagnoregio, a village in central Italy located between Viterbo and Orvieto, 56 miles northwest of Rome. Bonaventure was baptized as Giovanni, or John, after his father, and he received the name Bonaventure upon entering the Franciscan Order. 

At age 17, he began studying theology at the University of Paris, where he encountered Franciscan friars whose integration of mind, heart, and hands transformed his life and mission. Some scholars speculate that Francis of Assisi may have stopped in Bagnoregio on his various pilgrimages, although there is no direct evidence that the child Bonaventure met the saint he came to love and follow. 

From his first years, Bonaventure was shaped by the spirit of Francis. Bonaventure places Francis at the heart of his miraculous recovery when he was ill as a child: “God’s numberless favors granted through Francis in various parts of the world do not cease to abound, as I myself who have written this life have verified. For as I lay seriously ill while still a child, I was snatched from the very jaws of death and restored to perfect health owed to a vow made by my mother to the blessed Father Francis.” 

As Bonaventure grew older, Francis’ teachings saved him theologically and spiritually. Bonaventure couldn’t help but give thanks for Francis’ impact on his life. “When I was a boy, as I vividly remember, I was snatched from the jaws of death by his [Francis’] invocation and merits. So if I remained silent and did not sing his praises, I fear that I would be rightly accused of the crime of ingratitude. I recognize that God saved my life through him, and I realized that I have experienced his power in my very person.” I suspect that that gratitude to Francis characterized his daily prayers. The spirit of Francis that first saved young Giovanni’s life later enlightened and enlivened his soul. 

At the University of Paris, Bonaventure studied with the renowned scholar Alexander of Hales (1185–1245), an Englishman who had entered the Franciscan Order later in life, at age 50. Alexander was the right person at the right time to teach young Bonaventure. Alexander spoke to Bonaventure’s spirit, recognized and encouraged his potential to become a spiritual leader, and opened the door to his lifetime integration of spirituality and theology in the Franciscan tradition. 

Bonaventure was also at first intellectually and then spiritually captivated by the humble Francis, whom he perceived to be the fullest embodiment of Christ. Bonaventure described Francis as the second Christ and the pinnacle of spiritual evolution. This description may sound intense, but in the simplicity of Francis’ life, Bonaventure experienced what it meant to live out Jesus’ spirit in a way similar to our Savior’s first followers. 

A Journey of Faith

Later, during a time of controversy in the Franciscan Order, Bonaventure affirmed the simplicity of the first Franciscans in contrast to those who sought to accommodate the Franciscan movement to the greater comforts and stability of academic and cultural life. 

“Do not be upset that in the beginning, friars were simple and unlettered. This ought rather to strengthen your faith in the order. For I acknowledge before God that what made me love the life of the blessed Francis so much was the fact that it resembled the beginning and growth of the Church. As the Church began with simple fishermen and afterward developed to include renowned and skilled doctors, so you will see it to be in the case of the Order of Blessed Francis. In this way, God shows that it was not founded by the prudence of men, but by Christ.” 

Bonaventure believed that, regardless of how much we grow intellectually, our faith is incomplete if we are cut off from the wellsprings of the simple Galilean and his apostles. Theology without experiencing God’s presence is harsh and uninspiring. This was true in the 13th century, and it is true for us today. Without love and grace, even our most erudite theological reflections cannot transform our lives and enable us to face life’s challenges and tragedies with hope and faith. Bonaventure shows us that the way of Francis provides a path to live out Christ’s spirituality of simplicity and compassion in our time and place. 

Bonaventure entered the Franciscan Order in 1243, in his mid-20s, under the direction of Alexander of Hales. In Franciscanism, the intellectual Bonaventure found a path for the heart. Pope Sixtus IV affirmed that Bonaventure was “great in learning, but no less great in humility and holiness. His innocence and dove-like simplicity were such that Alexander of Hales, the renowned doctor whose disciple Bonaventure became, used to say of him that it seemed as if Adam had never sinned in him.” 

Bonaventure progressed in the Franciscan Order and was appointed its chief minister and spiritual leader at age 40. As minister general, Bonaventure sought to maintain the spirit of Francis while ensuring the long-term health and survival of the order. He gracefully accomplished the difficult tasks of any administrator by being open to new ideas and fresh ways of seeing things, promoting changes to suit the demands of the times, and including friars as professors and domestics rather than just wandering preachers, yet honoring and preserving the foundational spirit that gave birth to the tradition. 

In my professional life as a seminary and university administrator, I have discovered, like Bonaventure, that healthy institutional life involves the creative synthesis of order and novelty, tradition and transformation, stability and change. A good administrator must preserve the wellsprings of the institution—in this case, the simpli-city of Francis and his mendicant lifestyle, committed to holy poverty—while supporting the growth of academic ministry attached to a particular institution. 

In his mid-50s, Bonaventure was appointed cardinal-bishop of Lyons by Pope Gregory X and asked to prepare for the Second Council of Lyons. The year was 1273. 

The council intended to reform the Western Church and integrate its various forms of ministry, ranging from the unsettledness and poverty of wandering friars to the relative stability and comfort of the secular clergy. 

Bonaventure also tried to heal the divisions between the Roman and Greek Churches. Although he and others nearly reconciled the Catholic and Orthodox communions, the quest for Christian unity eventually failed due to theological disagreements that still exist today. 

During the council, Bonaventure passed away. Some suggest that he died as a result of the stress involved in securing Christian unity. Others believe that he died of the plague, while some suspect that he was poisoned, perhaps by those who preferred schism to unity and the love of power to the power of love. He was praised by Orthodox and Catholic leaders, however, and Pope Sixtus IV canonized him in 1482. Bonaventure’s feast day is July 15. 

In 1588, Bonaventure was given the title Doctor Seraphicus (the Seraphic Doctor). Christ appeared as a seraph to Francis when he received the stigmata on Mount La Verna. Therefore, it is also fitting to use this term to describe the soaring mysticism of Bonaventure, who believed that Christ was his ever-present companion, healing him as a child through Francis, revealing his glory at La Verna, and guiding him as a spiritual leader and administrator. 

A Theologian for Our Time

Theological reflection is not restricted to academic scholars or ordained ministers. Healthy theology, grounded in our concrete experiences of God’s presence in worship, work, and daily life, helps us to experience God’s guidance and provides hope in times of challenge. Bonaventure’s writings give counsel and direction for 21st-century people seeking to follow Christ’s way. The Seraphic Doctor believed that God is a fountain of love flowing through the world—and, therefore, through our lives. 

Bonaventure experienced God’s love as revealed in the humility and suffering of Christ, whose cross enables us to experience God’s companionship and the power to change our lives. Bonaventure wanted to share the Franciscan experience of intimacy with God not only with monks and priests but with “ordinary” people who can embody this same love in the spiritual integration of head, heart, and hands. 

You can experience God’s love and embody God’s presence by integrating your faith with your daily responsibilities of work, citizenship, and family. You can discover spiritual practices that nurture your soul’s journey into God. Bonaventure’s message can provide a framework for understanding the world and your personal calling. 

This article was adapted from the book Head, Heart, and Hands: An Introduction to Saint Bonaventure.

As trust in our election system erodes, so does our sense of unity as American citizens. By looking to the Franciscan tradition and its emphasis on peace-building, we can find ways to heal and strengthen our divided society. 

In December 2021, Pope Francis was speaking in Athens, Greece, often referred to as the birthplace of democracy, and said: “Today, and not only in Europe, we are witnessing a retreat from democracy.” His statement came 11 months after January 6, 2021, when a violent, armed insurrection took place in Washington, DC, for the purpose of overthrowing our legally elected government. Pope Francis warned us that our society, ideally centered around the common good, is being threatened by skepticism of institutions, hyper-individualism, and partisanship. 

One of the most important components in a thriving democracy is the peaceful transfer of power. In the United States, we have almost always taken for granted that when an election is over, the loser accepts the results and congratulates the winner. History shows us that a democracy cannot and will not survive without citizens accepting the legitimacy of the process. 

A Dark Day in American History

Some people will argue that January 6 was nothing more than a spirited demonstration by people who felt the election was stolen. Leading up to the date, though, there were more than 60 lawsuits filed challenging the election results and claiming voter fraud. Every suit was thrown out of court or dismissed not only on technical grounds, but also because they were found to be false claims and presented no facts to prove voter fraud. 

Of those who participated in the so-called “peaceful demonstration,” more than 1,250 people were charged with a criminal offense. These charges include assaults on federal officers, obstructing law enforcement, and seditious conspiracy. Around 460 were sentenced to jail time. More than 700 people pleaded guilty, which points to a less-than-peaceful event. 

It is critically important that our elections are secure and that integrity is protected. To ensure this, it is necessary that election officials administer the election process in a way that is nonpartisan and professional. Election officials also should feel safe in carrying out their duties, yet this is not always the case. According to the Bipartisan Policy Center, one out of three election officials feels threatened, and many have reported actual threats of violence. Election officials are being deluged with hateful messages—just for doing their jobs. 

Freedom of religion thrives in a strong and vibrant democracy. Many of the first settlers came to the United States seeking freedom to practice their religion. But today, there are those who claim to support religious freedom only if it is for their particular brand of religion. They do not support a democratic form of government but an authoritarian government centered around White Christian nationalism. 

In order to maintain a strong democracy, it is important that every US citizen eligible to vote is given the opportunity to do so. Our fourth president, James Madison, insisted that the elections clause be stated in the Constitution. He argued: “[The] Elections Clause was needed to prevent self-interested partisans from twisting election rules to benefit their faction.” Madison believed that state legislatures could be corrupted easily and would be taken over by what he called “factions.” He thought that these factions would do things to prevent anyone who had different opinions from voting. What Madison was describing could today be referred to as gerrymandering and voter suppression. It is important to note that gerrymandering is not limited to one political party. 

Ensuring Free and Fair Elections

Though the attempted coup on January 6 failed, the goal of undermining our election process and our democracy continues. Since the 2020 election, we have heard continued false claims of a stolen election, which has led to attempts to restrict voting and/or undermine confidence in the election process. States are passing new laws that make it more difficult for many to vote, marginalizing the young, the impoverished, and people of color. A recent report from the Brennan Center for Justice found that legislatures in 27 states are considering more than 250 bills with restrictive provisions. 

In 2021, inspired by the “big lie” of a stolen election, 19 states passed 34 new laws that, in one way or another, made it harder for some people to vote. Some of these laws may seem benign and even appear to be a good idea to help protect the integrity of elections. As an example, legislation was passed in Texas requiring a form of ID to vote. On its face, that does not seem to be unfair. However, students could not use their University of Texas ID as a valid ID to vote, but a concealed carry gun permit was acceptable. This is just one example of picking and choosing rules that clearly benefit one group while making it more difficult for another group to vote. The implication of who benefits is pretty clear. 

People of faith are in a unique position within their communities to encourage an environment of informed, engaged, and peaceful participation in the electoral process. This is especially true for Franciscans. Inspired by St. Francis, St. Clare, and others, Franciscans are called to be agents of change in the larger community and, through the centuries, have been engaged in building peace among warring factions. Our nation is deeply divided. We must follow in the footsteps of St. Francis and continue to strengthen the commitment to the common good. We are peacemakers, and, as such, we have to stand with those who work to repair our democracy. We should follow the example of organizations like Franciscan Action Network, which have joined with other faith organizations partnering with Faiths United to Save Democracy, in the spirit of Franciscan peacekeeping, to promote an effort to train peace-builders who will serve as “poll chaplains.” They will work with other faith leaders to be a peaceful and de-escalating presence at polling places on Election Day. 

Free and fair elections are a foundational concept of the United States of America. It is only through the peaceful transfer of power that our republic will continue to be a successful democracy. 

But the Olympics shouldn’t be political. On the contrary: The games are a distraction from it. The Summer Olympics always fall during a presidential election year, and the two-week reprieve from that noise is a blessing. The Olympics is an arena that showcases the best of athleticism and performance—and there are athletes throughout its history, alongside Jesse Owens, who can inspire us armchair spectators. 

Here are three others. 

Dan O’Brien

Decathlon/Track and Field, 1996, Atlanta 

Dan O’Brien is a living lesson in focus and ignoring a world of deafening naysayers. Favored to win decathlon gold in 1992 but failing to even qualify, O’Brien faced an unkind world press. But credit to this athlete for shaking off one battle while keeping his eyes on the war. O’Brien recentered and shifted his gaze to Atlanta, 1996. His road to it was paved in gold, winning in Stuttgart and Toronto in 1993 and Gothenburg in 1995. Then, in Atlanta, winning the decathlon forever quieted his critics. O’Brien is a role model for anyone who has been knocked down. 

Cathy Freeman

400-meters/Track and Field, 2000, Sydney 

Imagine the pressure: an Indigenous Australian touted as the favorite to win the 400-meter on her home turf. That level of stress can rattle even the most stalwart athlete, but Cathy Freeman was cool and calculated when it counted. Her Indigenous brothers and sisters had fought for representation long before Freeman was born, so there was more at stake in 2000 than a medal: One got the sense that she was carrying the weight of Aboriginal Australians when she crossed the finish line. She is considered, still today, one the greatest Olympians in track and field history. 

Mallory Weggemann 

50-meters/Swimming, 2012, London 

Olympians are conditioned to push through adversity. And few athletes exemplify that better than Mallory Weggemann. After a botched epidural in 2008 left the swimmer paralyzed from the waist down, within four months she was back in the pool. Competing in the 2012 Paralympics, Weggemann not only won gold in the 50-meter freestyle, but she set a record time. For her efforts, USA Swimming named her Disabled Athlete of the Year three times in a row (2009–2011). 

‘Run So As to Win’ 

While collegiate and professional sports are big business in this country, the Olympics feel like a purer celebration of sport somehow. Athletics, in fact, have roots in the New Testament. “Do you not know that the runners in the stadium all run in the race, but only one wins the prize? Run so as to win” (1 Cor 9:24) is but one example. God loves a good contest. 

Truly, there is something noble about athletes who gather every four years to represent their countries. Sports, at its best, is an equalizer: Athletes are judged by how they compete—irrespective of skin color, political party, religion, net worth, or nationality. And as spectators, we are very much a part of this time-honored celebration. Let’s play.

For some reason, we seem to forget this when it comes to our spiritual lives. Instead, we tend to want to jump right in by heaping upon ourselves all sorts of spiritual practices and rigorous disciplines. Thus, we overwhelm ourselves with things we cannot possibly absorb into the fabric of our lives and thereby lie crumpled beneath the weight of the burdens we have heaped upon ourselves. This is precisely the reason so many of us end up feeling like failures and concluding we are simply incapable of praying and growing closer to God. Unchecked, these feelings too often lead to resentment against God. 

I think in the face of the resentments we may harbor, God says: “Wait a minute! I did not tell you to do all those things you wanted to do, to punch a holy hour time clock, or put on a prayer Fitbit. You chose all of that, so do not blame me. All I’ve ever wanted is you!” 

Perhaps you have felt crushed by the burdens you have placed upon yourself. Maybe you resent not living up to what you think you should be doing when it comes to prayer and having a spiritual life. Well, I have good news for you. Those days are over! You can have a spiritual life. You can truly live your life through, with, and in Christ! 

It begins with remembering that God created you. Thus, having a relationship with God should not be fraught with difficulties. Within the recesses of every human heart is a longing that only God can satisfy. True, our relationship with God does not happen all at once. Like all the relationships that genuinely matter, the effort we put into them is worth it and certainly not a burden. 

Coming to know God takes time, and it should. After all, it is supposed to last for all eternity. When it comes to our relationship with God, we should be in it for the long haul. So do not rush it, and do not push yourself to unrealistic extremes. Settle in and remind yourself often that this is forever. So, take a breath and continue—as my sister would tell you from heaven—slow and steady. 

Be Bold

Our hearts are restless and can be fickle; nonetheless, they yearn for God “like a deer for running streams” (see Psalm 42). Concupiscence is merely a residue of original sin that exists within each one of us, even after Baptism. It is the tension we experience between wanting to do what we want as opposed to doing what we ought to do. 

We should not, however, overdramatize it or give it any more attention than it deserves. Yes, there are certainly going to be times when I am going to want to do what I want and may even follow through with it. However, this does not mean my heart stops yearning for God. It just means I am weak, fragile, vulnerable, and sometimes selfish. 

The tension within each of us is not necessarily bad and is not sinful. Like our human emotions, the tension our longing causes is neutral. Those who play stringed instruments know the importance of tension with respect to producing a desired note. Those who are skilled with a bow and arrow (by the way, in Hebrew the word sin comes from archery) understand the importance of having the correct amount of tension to hit the target. Some of the greatest music our lives play before the Lord flows from our willingness to strike the right chord even when we do not really want to. 

Hitting the bull’s-eye in terms of living our humanity rightly also rests upon the proper amount of tension. Imagine the music your life and mine can make before the Lord. I think this is a much more positive way to think about those moments that seem to test us. 

As you prepare to more intentionally live your life with Christ, make a mental note (or an actual one) to remind yourself as often as needed that what you are about corresponds exactly to how you have been created. Getting started is as easy as saying to yourself, and meaning it, “This alone is the fullness of life, and I want it!” 

Remember, those who asked Jesus for something received what they asked for: Be bold! 

Prayer

God of love, 
Like a timid child, I often come to you 
in prayer with a cautious spirit. 
But I know you welcome me where I am, as I am. 
Let me not fear your company 
but seek it boldly, openly, and with a pure heart. 
Give me the grace to enjoy this holy space with you, 
my God and my all. 
Amen.