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Dear Brothers and Friends of the Friars,
As we approach the 800th anniversary of the 'Transitus' or death of St. Francis, we are invited to probe its meaning in the saint's life, the way he slowly and painfully embraced physical limitations and the eventuality of death, recognizing these not as obstacles to be avoided but as part of the human pilgrimage journey leading him and us back into the heart of God.
Our Br. Tom Nairn, OFM, has prepared a thoughtful reflection of St. Francis' Transitus journey, exploring how the saint moved by stages from treating illness as an interruption of his 'true' vocation and refusing medical assistance, to accepting his illness as a continuation of the path of conversion that God had laid before him.
At each stage of his reflection, Br. Tom modulates between the experience of St. Francis and our contemporary experience of illness and death. He suggests that we are invited to make a similar journey as Francis, refusing the illusion of absolute autonomy and limitless medical possibilities while facing the truth of our physical condition and our interdependence on one another and dependence on God. By embracing a similar journey as St. Francis, we might come to recognize "the possibility that illness itself may be the way that we are called to follow the poor, crucified Christ at the present time."
I highly recommend this insightful and practical reflection to all friars and to our friends.
Sincerely in Christ and St. Francis,
Br. Michael Perry, OFM
Minister Provincial and Servant
Reflecting Upon the 800th Anniversary of the Final Illness and Death of St. Francis of Assisi
By Br. Tom Nairn, OFM
The year 2026 commemorates the 800th anniversary of St. Francis of Assisi's death. The saint described early events of his life as God leading him to conversion. He writes at the beginning of his Testament:
"The Lord gave me, Brother Francis, thus to begin doing penance in this way: for when I was in sin, it seemed too bitter for me to see lepers. And the Lord Himself led me among them and I showed mercy to them. And when I left them, what had seemed bitter to me was turned into sweetness of soul and body. And afterwards I delayed a little and left the world."
God led St. Francis to conversion throughout his life, turning what had been bitter to him into sweetness. His final illness and death were important instances in this ongoing response to God's call. These moments can also lead us, his Franciscan family, to conversion as we try to understand our Franciscan spirituality and our responsibilities to our brothers and sisters who face serious illness and dying, as well as their caregivers.
Many stories about St. Francis are important touchstones for us, his followers. Our tradition is not based on abstract principles. We are shaped through narrative and the retelling of Francis and Clare's stories, and we can use these stories to illuminate and better understand our present moment.
The following is a reflection upon passages from a variety of early accounts of the last years of St. Francis' life. I hope that they can help us, his spiritual children, to understand better the place of sickness and death in our own lives and in the lives of those close to us, thereby articulating an authentic Franciscan response to serious illness and dying as we celebrate the 800th anniversary of the saint's death.
As I begin this reflection, I want to caution that I have chosen texts from several early sources that were written at different times for different audiences for a variety of purposes. It is not my intention to harmonize these disparate texts. Rather, I use a variety of sources (1) to show how our vast Franciscan spiritual tradition has understood the last serious illness and dying of St. Francis and (2) to raise questions regarding how we, the inheritors of this tradition, are called to witness in serious illness and dying, whether our own or that of brothers and sisters close to us. These sources portray in various ways what St. Francis was called to do at the end of his life. My hope is that these sources may also teach us what is ours to do.
* * * * *
"Francis, the herald of God, put his footprints on the ways of Christ through innumerable labors and serious diseases, and he did not retreat until he had more perfectly completed what he had perfectly begun. When he was exhausted and his whole body completely shattered, he never stopped on the race of his perfection and never allowed relaxing the rigor of discipline. For even when his body was already exhausted he could not grant it even slight relief without some grumbling of conscience. "
Francis's conversion began with illness as he returned from prison in Perugia. Illness was to be his fellow traveler throughout his life. At least from the time at Mount LaVerna two years before his death, and possibly even from his sojourn in Damietta, he experienced debilitating chronic illness. Yet, as Celano indicates, he tried not to let his illness "stop him on the road to perfection." Celano describes Francis as considering the extra needs he experienced as his body continued to fail not as part of his response to God's call but rather as a potential obstacle or distraction. Francis, like so many of us, seemed to see his illness as a interruption of his pilgrimage journey rather than the actual route that he might need to take in the last years of his life in responding to God's call. His brothers would later call him to reassess this attitude.
For many of us followers of St. Francis, this attitude may also describe us. We might feel that illness is a distraction from – or even an obstacle to – the work we believe God is calling us to do. We may be in a state of denial about our ill health. In both situations we may need to reflect upon the possibility that illness itself may be exactly the way in which we are called to follow the poor, crucified Christ at the present time. It may be a call to understand the place of illness – especially serious illness – in our life as members of the Franciscan family.
"The brothers often advised him, urging him to give some relief to his frail and weakened body through the help of doctors. But he absolutely refused to do this. . . . Day after day the disease grew worse and seemed to be aggravated daily from lack of treatment. Brother Elias, the one he chose for the mother to himself and had made the father of the other brothers, finally forced him not to refuse medicine but to accept it in the name of the Son of God. "Through Him it was created, as it is written: The Most High created medicine from the earth and the wise will not refuse it" (Sir 38:4). The holy father then gladly agreed with him and humbly accepted his direction."
Even surrounded by brothers who cared for him and urged him to care for his health through medicine, Francis continued to have a troubled conscience regarding the use of medical treatment for his weakened body. "He absolutely refused." Brother Elias, the Minister General of the Order, used both friendship and his personal authority to "force" the saint not to refuse medicine, reminding him that medicine itself was a creature and as a creature, it was created by God. Francis in turn seemed to change his mind and began using medicine to resist the onslaught of his illness.
Like St. Francis, some of us may need to be reminded – perhaps even forced – to take the medications necessary to resist illness and to care for our bodies. Others among us may need to hear Brother Elias' advice: that medicine is only a creature, that medical technology has its limits. Because of this inherent limitation, we cannot place all our hope in it. As members of the Franciscan family, we should use the medical means available when appropriate and recognize when we have reached the limits that medical technology can provide. Often, we cannot do this by ourselves but need the advice and encouragement of those who care for us to understand both the possibilities and limits of medical technology.
"With devotion and care, [Cardinal Hugolino] tried to find a way for the blessed father to regain the earlier health of his eyes, knowing he was a holy and just man, very much needed and useful to the Church of God. He shared in worrying about him with the whole assembly of brothers, pitying the sons because of their father. Then he advised the holy father to take care of himself and not to refuse the things needed to treat his illness, because neglecting them would not be considered praiseworthy but sinful. Saint Francis humbly observed what such a revered lord and beloved father told him. From then on, he more carefully and freely did what was needed for his treatment. But now the illness had grown so bad that any relief at all required greatest expertise and demanded the most bitter medicine. This is what was done: his head was cauterized in several places, his veins opened, poultices applied, and drops poured into his eyes. Yet he had no improvement but kept getting steadily worse."
St. Francis received counsel not only from the brothers, but also from authoritative figures who joined the chorus trying to convince him to receive medical treatment. Celano explains that an important intervention came from Cardinal Hugolino dei Conti di Segni, the Bishop of Ostia and Velletri, who later became Pope Gregory IX. He became the Cardinal Protector of the Franciscan Order in 1220. Not only was there a juridical relationship between him and St. Francis, but the two were friends. Thomas of Celano explained that the soul of each man was joined to the soul of the other (see, for example, I Celano, Book 1, Ch XXVII [Early Documents, I 247]). Because of this dual relationship, the Cardinal might have had more influence on St. Francis than even Brother Elias or other friars who were close to him. St. Francis reconsidered his behavior, accepted the Cardinal's guidance, and "carefully and freely" submitted himself to the medical treatment of the day.
Reflecting on the conversations between Francis and those close to him raises questions regarding how we relate to those who are close to us when health concerns arise. There may be times when even those closest to us cannot convince us to accept what they consider to be needed treatment. There may be times when caregivers feel uncomfortable raising questions with a sick brother, sister or spouse. This can become especially problematic in the United States with our respect for personal autonomy, especially concerning health and medicine.
However, an exaggerated respect for autonomy may result in medical abandonment. When dealing with serious illness, true respect for a sister or brother demands more than autonomy's insistence on non-interference. Our brothers and sisters' dignity can still be preserved if they choose to accept the advice of people they trust. We should not be averse to giving such advice – even raising the possibility that a sister's or brother's choice may not be praiseworthy – while nevertheless respecting their right to refuse our advice. A sick member's reliance on their Franciscan sisters or brothers can become a strong Franciscan witness to mutual responsibility and trust.
"It happened that, when the season conducive to healing of the eyes arrived, blessed Francis left [San Damiano], even though his eye disease was quite serious. . . . His companions led him on horseback to the hermitage of Fonte Colombo, near Rieti, to consult with a doctor of Rieti who knew how to treat eye diseases. When the doctor arrived, he told blessed Francis that he wanted to cauterize from the jaw to the eyebrow of the weaker eye. . . . The doctor arrived with the iron instrument used for cauterizing in eye diseases and placed the instrument in the fire. . . . To comfort his spirit so it would not become afraid, blessed Francis said to the fire: "My Brother Fire, noble and useful among all the creatures the Most High created, be courtly to me in this hour . . . . I pray our Creator who made you, to temper your heat now, so I may bear it." He made the sign of the cross over the fire. . . . When the cauterization was finished . . . the doctor was amazed, noting that blessed Francis did not even move. . . . The burning was a long one, extending from the ear to the eyebrow. . . . It did not help the saint at all. "
The medical field was still in its relative infancy during St. Francis' time. Standard medical knowledge and practice were based on surviving Greek and Roman medical texts preserved in monasteries, in turn based on the theory that human health is controlled by four bodily fluids or "humors": blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. Physicians believed that it was an imbalance among these humors that caused disease.
Cauterization was believed to remove or burn away "bad humors" or corrupt fluids. For example, the ancient Greek physician Hippocrates wrote: "Those diseases that medicines do not cure, iron cures; and those that iron cannot cure, fire cures; and those which fire cannot cure, are to be reckoned wholly incurable." (See Hippocrates, Aphorisms, Section VII, 87) In the absence of anesthesia, cauterization was quite painful. It obviously did not help the saint. One may think that this story simply describes an outmoded relic of the medieval world. The theory of medical humors, however, continued to be applied in medicine at least into the 18th century and was not disproven until the discovery of microbes in the 19th century. George Washington's death, for example, was attributed to bloodletting – also based on the theory of humors.
Even with the tremendous advances in the last several decades, medicine remains in many ways an inexact science. Although palliative medicine and pain control have lessened patients' suffering, many contemporary therapies continue to remain painful with uncertain results, toxic side effects and troublesome interactions. Patients undergo painful therapies that may offer little chance of success.
Confronted with these choices, the Vatican's Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith has given the following guidance: "If there are no other sufficient remedies, it is permitted, with the patient's consent, to offer techniques that may be . . . experimental in nature and not without a certain risk. . . . It is also permitted, with the patient's consent, to interrupt these means where results fall short expectations. . . . It is also permissible to make due with the normal means that medicine can offer." (See Declaration on Euthanasia, Part IV)
The document acknowledges that one makes these decisions by considering "the type of treatment used, its degree of complexity and risk, its cost and the possibilities of using it, and comparing these elements with the result that can be expected, taking into account the state of the sick person and his or her physical and moral resources." The use of medical treatments remains a prudential decision on the part of the patient and caregiver.
"During those days, a doctor from the city of Arezzo, named Good John, who was known and familiar to blessed Francis, came to visit him in the bishop's palace. Blessed Francis asked about his sickness, saying: "How does my illness of dropsy seem to you, Brother John?" For blessed Francis did not want to address anyone called "Good" by their name out of reverence for the Lord who said: "No one is good but God alone." Likewise, he did not want to call anyone "father" or "master," or write them in letters, out of reverence for the Lord, who said: "Call no one on earth your father nor be called masters." The doctor said to him, "Brother, by the grace of the Lord, it will be well with you." For he did not want to tell him that he would die in a little while. Again, blessed Francis said to him: "Tell me the truth. How does it look to you? Do not be afraid, for, by the grace of God, I am not a coward who fears death. With the Lord's help, by His mercy and grace, I am so united and joined with my Lord that I am equally as happy to die as to live." The doctor then told him frankly: "According to our assessment your illness is incurable, and you will die either at the end of September or early in October. Blessed Francis, while he was lying on his bed sick, with the greatest devotion and reverence for the Lord, stretched out his arms and hands with great joy of mind and body and said to his body and soul: "Welcome, my Sister Death!""
There is an interesting contrast between St. Francis and Doctor Good John. The physician did not want to tell Francis that he would soon die. There might have been several reasons for this, but it is likely that because of his closeness to Francis, the physician was grieving. Whatever the reason, he chose equivocation – seeming to give a prognosis while saying nothing at all. In contrast, Francis responded with courage, explaining that he was not a coward and demanding that his doctor – whom he needed to trust – tell him the truth.
The relationship between a patient and physician can be complicated. Prognosis is a delicate prediction and is often influenced by human factors. A study published in 2000 indicated that 63% of physicians' prognoses were overly optimistic. ("Extent and Determinants of Error in Doctors' Prognoses in Terminally Ill Patients: Prospective Cohort Study," BMJ, February 19, 2000) Doctor Good John's prognosis, however, was a lie. Even though prognoses will never be 100% accurate, a physician's truthfulness is important both for the patient's informed consent and for the physician-patient relationship. The "Ethical and Religious Directives for Health Care Services," developed by the Catholic Bishops of the United States, explain that this relationship must be based on "mutual respect, trust, honesty and appropriate confidentiality" and further "must avoid manipulation, intimidation, or condescension." (ERDs, 7th Edition, 2025, Introduction to Part Three) The text continues, "neither the health care professional nor the patient acts independently of the other; both participate in the healing process."
In his classic book, We Die, Dr. Sherwin Nuland decried the fact that physicians continue to give false assurances to terminally ill patients: "Too often, physicians misunderstand the ingredients of hope, thinking it only refers to remission or cure. They feel it necessary to transmit to a patient . . . the erroneous message that it is still possible to attain months or years of symptom-free life. When an otherwise totally honest and beneficent physician is asked why he does this, his answer is likely to be some variation of "I did not want to take away his only hope" . . . Those good intentions become too often the hell of suffering through which a misled person must pass before he succumbs to inevitable death." (Sherwin B. Nuland, How We Die: Reflections on Life's Final Chapter, p. 223)
Unlike Doctor Good John, St. Francis faced dying with courage. Members of the Franciscan family are likewise called to face serious illness and the end of life with the same courage. It takes courage to thoughtfully prepare for dying, and our culture often mitigates against this. People tend to move toward either of two extremes – (1) attempting to preserve a person's physical life at all costs without any reasonable hope for benefit or (2) intentionally seeking to end one's life. (See the ERDs, Introduction to Part Five)
While seemingly opposites, in both extremes, the person is trying to keep control. It takes courage to accept that we are not in control and to place our living and our dying into God's hands. Such courage is based on trust – trust in the physician, trust in one's caregivers, but most importantly trust in the graciousness of God.
Francis's embracing death as a sister can serve as an example that enables us to see as a sister our own dying and that of those who are close to us. We should not let the ambiguities of end-of-life decisions paralyze us. As members of the Franciscan family, we can make emotionally laden decisions in a way that reflects our true Franciscan values.
"When even against his will it was necessary to smear medical remedies on his body, which exceeded his strength, he spoke kindly one day with a brother whom he knew was ready to give him advice: "What do you think of this, dear son? My conscience often grumbles about the care of my body. It fears I am indulging it too much in this illness, and that I am eager for fine lotions to help it. Actually, none of this gives it any pleasure, since it is worn out by long sickness, and the urge for any savoring is gone"
The son replied attentively to his father, realizing that the words of his answer were given to him by the Lord. "Tell me, father, if you please, how attentively did your body obey your commands while it was able?" And Francis said: "I will bear witness to it, my son, for it was obedient in all things, it did not spare itself in anything but almost rushed headlong to carry out every order. It evaded no labor, it turned down no discomfort, if only it could carry out commands. In this it and I were in complete agreement; that we should serve the Lord Christ without any objection."
The brother said: "Well, then, my father, where is your generosity? Where is your piety and your great discernment? Is this a repayment worthy of faithful friends: to accept favors gladly but then not give anything in return in time of need, who risked himself and all that he had for you, even to the point of death? Far be it from you, father, you who are the help and support of the afflicted; far be it from you to sin against the Lord in such a way!"
"Blessed are you also, son," St. Francis said, "you have wisely given me a drink of healing medicine for my disquiet." And he began to say jokingly to his body: "Cheer up, Brother Body, and forgive me, and gladly hurry to relieve your complaints.""
In his sickness, St. Francis asked his brothers for their counsel regarding how he should care for himself. He was concerned that by taking the medicine, he was pampering his body. Nevertheless, he relied on his brothers' guidance. Conversely, his brothers were not shy in telling Francis that his body was a most faithful friend that had endured much hardship for him and should not be ill-treated. This advice caused Francis to ask forgiveness from his body and to take the course of medical treatment needed.
Several of the early sources describe St. Francis as referring to his body as "Brother Ass." For example, St. Bonaventure's Major Legend states: "He used to call his body Brother Ass, for he felt it should be subjected to heavy labor, beaten frequently with whips, and fed with the poorest food." (See Major Legend, V, 6 [Early Documents II, 564]) The translation from The Remembrance of the Desire of a Soul quoted above states that St. Francis "jokingly" asked forgiveness from his body. This is a translation of the Latin word hilariter [coepit hilariter loqui ad corpus]. The Latin word might be better translated as "cheerfully" or "gladly" – "he began to say cheerfully to his body." Commentators have suggested that this statement was not a joke but rather a change of attitude, another step along his path of conversion. Francis could finally cheerfully accept the faithful service that his own body had given him.
Francis also finally accepted his body's materiality. Franciscan spirituality is incarnational – embodied. The body is important. With the miracle of the stigmata, the crucified Christ's very wounds were imprinted upon Francis' body. "Brother Ass" became an icon of Christ crucified. In his conversion, God led Francis to understand the importance of his body in his movement to Christ and to finally give it the respect and care it deserved.
Furthermore, Francis made his choices regarding end-of-life care with his brothers. The culture of the United States places great value on autonomy and individual choice. Yet, even when St. Francis personally thought otherwise, he accepted the guidance of those whom he trusted. The saint thus teaches us that it is not always best to make these decisions on our own but rather with others whom we trust. Absolute autonomy is an illusion. Illness and physical disability limit our true autonomy and require that we rely more upon others. Illness can force us to move from an insistence on personal autonomy to trust – trust in God, in our caregivers and in those who are concerned about us. Illness can be a time of faithful witness to a life of interdependence and trust rather than self-sufficiency.
One example of such communal interdependence is the use of advance directives, such as a healthcare proxy or durable power of attorney – documents that name a trusted person as an agent if the sick person can no longer express his or her wishes. For such documents to be effective, people need to share with their agent their values and desires regarding the decisions that need to be made at the end of life. Such documents – and the discussions they occasion – can be powerful witnesses to Franciscan trust, faithfulness and responsibility. Unfortunately, too often these discussions are postponed until the patient is too ill to enter the conversation.
In his book, The Rights of the Dying, David Kessler suggests that instead of insisting on a "right to die," we need to articulate "rights of the dying." He lists approximately 18 such rights. (In subsequent editions, he changed the term "rights" to "needs.") The list is rather Franciscan in its articulation. Some of the rights include:
The right to participate in decisions concerning one's care.
The right to be cared for by those who can maintain a sense of hopefulness, however changing this may be. (The qualification in this sentence reflects the concern mentioned above by Sherwin Nuland.)
The right to expect continuing medical care, even though the goal may change from "cure" to "comfort."
The right to have one's questions answered honestly and fully.
The right to be free of physical pain and to express feelings and emotions about pain in one's own way.
The right to understand the process of dying.
The right to die in peace and dignity.
The right not to die alone.
It is important for members of the Franciscan family to understand that our body is not something separate from who we are as persons. As already mentioned, our understanding of the Incarnation leads us to a profound respect for our own bodily existence, especially as we face the end of life.
"For nearly two years he endured these things with complete patience and humility, in all things giving thanks to God. But in order to be able to devote his attention to God more freely, he entrusted his own care to certain brothers, who with good reason were very dear to him. . . . These men vigilantly, zealously, and eagerly protected the peace of mind of the blessed father, cared for him in his illness, and spared no pain or labor in offering themselves completely to the saint's service."
Chapter Six of the Rule of 1223 states: "Let each [brother] confidently make known his need to the other, for if a mother loves and cares for her son according to the flesh, how much more diligently must someone love and care for his brother according to the Spirit! When any brother falls sick, the other brothers must serve him as they would wish to be served themselves." (Early Documents I, 103) Both Chapter Eight of St. Clare's Rule of Life for the Poor Clares (See Clare of Assisi: Early Documents, 120-121) and Paragraph 23 of the Rule of the Third Order Regular use similar language. Celano demonstrates the spirit behind these Rules by describing the brothers who cared for St. Francis as "vigilant, zealous, and eager to protect his peace of mind."
If our sisters and brothers in the Franciscan family are to face serious illness and even death with the courage and faithfulness mentioned above, they should be able to expect that others in the community (however "community" is understood) will truly be caregivers. If our sick brothers and sisters are to witness a spirit of dependence, our communities must be dependable; if they are to give an example of holy surrender, our communities need to give witness to faithfulness and care. All in the Franciscan family need to be vigilant, zealous and eager to protect our sick sisters and brothers' peace of mind.
"Blessed Francis lay gravely ill in the palace of the Bishop of Assisi. . . . Although he was gravely ill, to comfort his soul and ward off discouragement in his severe and serious infirmities, he often asked his companions during the day to sing the "Praises of the Lord" which he had composed a long time before his illness. . . . When Brother Elias reflected that blessed Francis was so comforting himself and rejoicing in the Lord in such illness, he said to him, "Dearest brother, I am greatly consoled and edified by all the joy which you show for yourself and your companions in such affliction and infirmity. Although the people of this city venerate you as a saint in life and in death, nevertheless, because they firmly believe that you are near death due to your serious and incurable sickness, they can say to themselves: "How can he show such joy when he is so near death? He should be thinking about death."
Francis [answered] with great intensity of spirit: "Allow me to rejoice in the Lord, Brother, and to sing His praises in my infirmities, because, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, I am so closely united and joined to my Lord, that, through His mercy, I can well rejoice in the Most High Himself.""
As St. Francis approached his last days, Brother Elias became concerned that the saint's behavior was not edifying enough to serve as an appropriate example of someone preparing for death. Elias had a preconception regarding what the death of a saint ought to look like.
In St. Francis' time, preparation for death was heavily influenced by an 11th century work attributed to St. Anselm called the Admonitio morienti. The text suggested that dying persons should prepare for death by somberly contemplating the passion which Our Lord endured for the salvation of sinners and putting their trust in Christ's mercy. It was believed that at the last hours of life, the devil was present to tempt the dying person to despair. The person was encouraged to face such spiritual agony by meditating on his or her sins and the redemption offered by the crucified Christ. Within this context, Francis' joy did not seem to fit with the accepted manner of preparing for death. St. Francis countered Brother Elias by speaking of God's mercy and joy. In doing so, Francis gave his followers a different perspective regarding how to welcome Sister Death.
Members of the Franciscan family bring their total life experience to serious illness and dying. Meeting Sister Death can be a truly graced moment. However, dying can also be a time of physical, emotional and spiritual suffering. The dying of each person is unique. The expectations of others can add to a brother or sister's emotional suffering rather than alleviate it. Franciscan caregivers are called to support their dying brother or sister in the way the sick person needs and not add to the burden by imposing their own ideas regarding how they ought to face dying.
"One day blessed Francis called his companions to himself: "You know how faithful and devoted Lady Jacoba dei Settesoli was and is to me and our religion. Therefore I believe she would consider it a great favor and consolation if you notified her about my condition. Above all, tell her to send you a tunic of religious cloth. Have her also send some of that confection which she often made for me when I was in the City."
After the letter was written, while one brother was looking for another one to deliver the letter, there was a knock at the door. . . . It was amazing: she brought with her shroud-cloth for a tunic and the other things written in the letter. . . . The lady made that confection the holy father wanted to eat. He ate only a little of it, however, since he was near death. . . . It happened, as it pleased God, that during the same week that Lady Jacoba arrived, blessed Francis passed to the Lord."
As he was dying, Francis wanted not only his brothers present but also others who were close to him, both men and women. This was especially true regarding his dear friend Lady Jacoba. Her presence was more important than even the rule regarding cloister. He wanted her near him in his last days. He also saw her as one who could help with the items needed for his burial. As a final wish, he wanted to taste one last time a special confection she made – an almond cookie!
Over 70% of all deaths in the United States are the result of chronic illness. There is usually time to show support to our sisters and brothers who are seriously ill and dying. It is likely that they may have last requests. We need to ask how we can be present to them. They may want us to pray with them or have communion brought to them. They may want to have extended family or special friends present. They may want a priest to visit them. They may want to be surrounded by important pictures or have certain music played. Or they may want to spend their last days quietly with select family or friends. They may want to die at home. Like Francis, they may want a certain treat. We may not be able to fulfill all our loved ones' last wishes, but it is important that we make their last days as comfortable and fulfilled as possible.
"In that grave illness that would end all suffering, [St. Francis] threw himself in fervor of spirit totally naked on the naked ground so that in that final hour, when the enemy could still rage, he might wrestle naked with the naked enemy. Lying like this on the ground stripped of his sackcloth garment, he lifted up his face to heaven in his accustomed way, and wholly intent upon that glory, he covered with his left hand the wound on his right side, so that no one would see it. And he said to his brothers, "I have done what is mine; may Christ teach you what is yours."
When the hour of his passing was approaching, he had all of the brothers staying in the place called to him, and, comforting them about his death in words of consolation, he exhorted them to divine life with fatherly affection. . . . As all the brothers sat around him, he stretched his hand over them, crossing his arms in the form of a cross, for he always loved this sign. And he blessed all the brothers, both present and absent, in the name and power of the Crucified.
At last, when all of the mysteries were fulfilled in him, and that most holy soul was released from the flesh and absorbed into the abyss of the divine light, the blessed man fell asleep in the Lord. One of his brothers and followers saw that blessed soul under the appearance of a radiant star carried up on a shining cloud to be borne aloft straight to heaven."
The Franciscan family celebrates St. Francis' death by means of a ritual called the Transitus. Members gather during the evening of October 3 to celebrate the "passing over" (the meaning of the Latin word "transitus") of St. Francis from this life to the next. During this celebration, the community may sing a traditional hymn, the "O sanctissima anima" which states: "O most holy soul, at whose passing heaven's citizens welcome you, the angelic hosts acclaim you, and the Holy Trinity declares to you, 'Stay with us forever!'"
In his theological writings, St. Bonaventure used the term transitus multiple times. The term emphasizes that the very core of Franciscan life and spirituality is union with Christ's passion and resurrection. Sister Death continues to be a transitus, not only for St. Francis, but for all members of the Franciscan family. It continues to be for us a passing over from the transitory to the unchanging, from this imperfect life to that glory that is the Reign of God. Transitus is the realization of our deepest desire: union with God. Death becomes triumph.
Nevertheless, every member of the Franciscan family will experience dying in his or her own way. Conflicts and tensions may occur. There may be ethnic or cultural differences that need to be resolved. Issues that our brothers and sisters have wrestled with during their lives may become more acute as they reach the end of life. For each of us, our transitus into glory will be very personal.
"There was a brother there whom the holy man loved with great affection. Seeing what was happening, he grew very concerned about all the brothers and said: "Oh, kind father, your sons will now be without a father and will be deprived of the true light of their eyes! Remember the orphans you are leaving behind." "
"A letter attributed to Brother Elias announcing St. Francis’ death (although the authenticity of the letter is dubious), speaks about the friars’ reaction to Francis’ death: “He who was a beloved of God . . . has been received into the most resplendent dwellings. . . . Mourn with me, brothers, for I am in great sorrow and with you in pain. For we are orphans without our father and bereaved of the light of our eyes. . . . Sons and brothers, do not mourn beyond measure. God, the Father of orphans, will give us comfort by His holy consolation. And if you weep, brothers, weep for yourselves and not for him. For ‘in the midst of life, we are caught in death,’ (cf. Jn 5:24) while he has passed from death to life.” "
A member's death brings the numerical diminishment of the community. Many friars, sisters or Secular Franciscans may feel like orphans as we are forced to confront impermanence, both individually and as a community. We may grieve not only a sister or brother's death but also the dying of our community. We may take personally the fact that new members are not joining the community. We may feel guilt that we have not done enough to energize our communities. Or, we may be tempted to disregard or deny these issues. However, unless we can recognize this fact of diminishment, we will not be able to be present to our brothers and sisters as they encounter sickness and death.
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Francis ended his life by blessing his brothers and the others around him. He left them with the words: "I have done what is mine to do; may Christ teach you what is yours to do." As we reflect on St. Francis' last illness and death during this 800th anniversary of his Transitus, may these words continue to be our guide, whether we are accompanying our sick or dying sisters and brothers or whether we ourselves need to prepare to welcome Sister Death.
Our father Francis accomplished what was his to do as he entered the last days of his life. As I wrote at the beginning of this reflection, I hope that this consideration of our father St. Francis' last illness and death can help us, his family, understand better what is ours to do.
Fr. Tom Nairn, OFM, holds a Ph.D. from the Divinity School of the University of Chicago. He has published four books and many academic, professional, and popular articles on moral theology and health care ethics. Fr. Tom served as the senior director of ethics and theology at the Catholic Health Association for nine years and as the ecclesiastical advisor to the International Catholic Committee for Nurses and Health Care Workers from 2014 to 2022. He was Minister Provincial of the legacy Sacred Heart Province from 2017 to 2023.
