Mois : mai 2026

The archbishop also reflected on parallels between his own trajectory and that of Pope Leo XIV, citing their shared missionary experiences and commitment to what he calls a more outward-looking and global church. Discussing his first 100 days in New York, he described being struck by the city’s warmth and civic spirit, while acknowledging the growing secularization that is challenging religious institutions.

All of these challenges — to borrow the title of a song by his favorite New York singer Billy Joel, « We Didn’t Start the Fire » — were inherited by Hicks from a polarized church and city already ablaze with political, cultural and spiritual tensions.

Yet if Hicks inherited a church under pressure, he also inherited one searching for a different tone.

At 58, the Chicago-born missionary priest arrived in New York carrying a résumé that stood apart from many of the churchmen who previously occupied one of the most visible Catholic offices in the United States. Before becoming an auxiliary bishop in Chicago and later a bishop of Joliet, Hicks spent years working in Mexico and El Salvador, experiences that immersed him in migrant communities, poverty and the realities of life beyond the institutional church. Friends and colleagues often describe him less as a culture warrior than as a bridge builder.

That background now places him at the center of one of the country’s most complex Catholic landscapes.

The Archdiocese of New York remains both a spiritual powerhouse and an institution under strain. It oversees nearly 300 parishes, over 150 schools and many charities across a sprawling and culturally diverse region. It also faces declining church attendance, financial pressure, clergy shortages and the second largest proposed clergy abuse settlement in the nation.

The archdiocese’s internal divisions mirror broader fractures within American Catholicism itself, where debates over immigration, LGBTQ+ outreach, liturgy, political identity and the pope’s leadership have increasingly become proxy battles for competing visions of the church.

Hicks does not deny those tensions. But throughout the interview, he repeatedly returned to the language of encounter.

« I start with relationship first, » he said. « How do we see people? How do we see each other as neighbors? How do we see each other as brother and sister? And that becomes the lens that I look at every policy or decision or how we live it about in society. »

For Hicks, immigration should not be seen just as a policy dispute but also as a deeply personal subject.

« We are a country that needs laws and we’re also a country of immigrants, » he said. « Everyone knows that we need to look at some significant immigration reform and have good laws and continue to strive for that. At the same time, when we’re doing that, how do we see people? How do we treat people? Where is human dignity? »

This issue is not abstract for him. Long before he became archbishop, Hicks lived as an outsider himself. He spent time in Mexico before ordination and later served for five years in an orphanage in El Salvador while also working throughout Central America. Those years, he said, permanently changed how he understands both faith and society.

« It’s shaped me. It’s formed me in a certain way of, again, seeing everyone as my brother and sister, » he said.

« One of the practical things of going to live in another country, especially when you don’t speak the language, it’s a humbling experience, » Hicks said. « It’s humiliating from the real sense of the word. You could be as smart as you can be, but when you can’t communicate, and then you have to learn that day by day by day, it taught me to have some sympathy and empathy for those who are taking their first steps and struggling with it here. »

He paused before continuing. « How patient am I? How compassionate am I? How about we as a church? »

That missionary formation has become central to how observers interpret his rise within the church, especially under Leo. The parallels between the two men are striking. Both emerged from the same city of Chicago. Both spent formative years as missionaries in Latin America. Both emphasize pastoral presence, listening and a global understanding of Catholicism rather than a national or ideological approach.

« He and I have both been called to a missionary activity of the church, » Hicks said. « That missionary activity has invited us to minister locally, which is wonderful and enriching, and then to also go beyond our own borders and experience the global church. »

« I think as he’s calling more of us to leadership within the church, he’s looking for that global perspective, » Hicks said. « How do we all relate as a church to each other? A church that is a missionary church, not self focused, not self referential, but a church that sees all voices as important. »

The emphasis on synodality — Pope Francis’ signature process of listening and shared discernment that Leo said he intends to continue — is something Hicks similarly emphasizes. For supporters, synodality represents a more participatory and listening church while critics worry it can become vague, bureaucratic or doctrinally confusing. Hicks insists it means neither abandoning Catholic teaching nor ignoring disagreement.

« Under the Catholic umbrella, there are going to be different visions and different points of view, » he said. « We have to be a church of dialogue and realize that just my point of view might not be your point of view. »

At the same time, he added: « It doesn’t mean that everything’s just relevant and open to debate, but there’s something truly that we believe in, and that’s our core, that’s our belief. »

The challenge of balancing openness with clarity has become especially acute in New York, where internal church divisions often feel as politically charged as the city itself.

Priests and lay Catholics across ideological lines in the archdiocese spoke to NCR about their frustration over polarization. Some conservatives fear doctrinal ambiguity while progressives believe church power has remained overly centralized and insufficiently transparent over the past 20 years. Others simply feel exhausted by years of ecclesial conflict.

Hicks appeared keenly aware of that fatigue. « I don’t want us to all be a group of independent contractors out there, » he said when discussing his clergy and what he recently said to them. « I want us to form a presbyterate. We should learn how to relate to each other, pray with each other, talk with each other. … Not just independent shepherds out there, but those who are serving out there that we do come together, formed as a community, as a group. »

Still, Hicks also inherited hard institutional realities.

The archdiocese is currently negotiating a proposed $800 million settlement connected to clergy sexual abuse claims — the second largest of its kind after the archdiocese of Los Angeles’ $880 million settlement. Survivors continue demanding accountability and healing, while many Catholics fear the closure of churches, schools and ministries already struggling financially.

The 2024 closure of the Black Catholics archdiocesan office and ongoing concerns over historic parishes such as Most Holy Redeemer on the Lower East Side have intensified anxiety among many Catholics who worry that financial restructuring could come at the cost of local communities and cultural memory.

Founded by the Redemptorist Fathers in 1844, Most Holy Redeemer has long been regarded as one of the archdiocese’s historic landmarks. The parish was designated an official pilgrimage site by Cardinal Francis Spellman and houses a shrine containing 152 relics of saints, while the crypt below the church contains the remains of 85 Redemptorist priests.

The church — with a large Hispanic working class community — was closed on Sept. 1, 2025, after a small piece of plaster fell from the ceiling, but parishioners, a parish committee and their attorney have argued that no independent engineer or architect has publicly verified claims that the structure is unsafe. In fact, the church briefly reopened for a packed funeral Mass in January. Its future remains uncertain, with many parishioners fearing a permanent closure.

If shuttered permanently, Most Holy Redeemer would become the latest in a wave of roughly 100 parishes across the Archdiocese of New York that have been merged, closed or sold over the past 15-20 years. « Whatever decision will be made will not be made abruptly or just unilaterally, but all the different issues will be looked at, studied, listened to, and trying to get to the best solution and resolution possible, » Hicks said, about the parish.

Hicks referred to the multi-million dollar settlement announced on May 1 as « an obligation, a responsibility, at least in part, for the healing and the accompaniment of victim survivors. We can’t lose sight of that. » At the same time, he acknowledged the emotional weight behind parish closures.

« Any sort of loss to the mission, especially places of worship or engagement where people have a history, that’s more than a building, » Hicks said. « That’s like losing a family member almost. »

If Hicks sounds cautious, it may partly reflect the scale of the institution he now oversees.

The Archdiocese of New York is not only enormous but symbolically powerful. Its archbishops have historically occupied one of the most visible pulpits in American Catholicism. Figures such as Cardinals Francis Spellman, John O’Connor and Timothy Dolan each left sharply distinct marks on the office, shaping how New Yorkers understood both the church and its relationship to politics.

Hicks appears less interested in cultivating a singular public persona than in developing a style rooted in accessibility and presence.

« What I wasn’t expecting was the gracious welcome, » he said when reflecting on his first 100 days in New York.

« That welcome, I’ve done nothing to earn it. It’s just been given to me as a gift. »

He described encounters with ordinary New Yorkers —  a construction worker on the street, someone selling pizza by the slice  — who have greeted him warmly. The city’s civic energy appears to have surprised him almost as much as its complexity. « New Yorkers want the best for their society and for their church, » he said. « They’re looking to partnership and to roll up their sleeves and to work hard. »

At the same time, Hicks recognizes that the church can no longer assume cultural influence in an increasingly secular society. « We find ourselves in a world that we have to amplify our voice a little bit more and not assume that it’s just going to be received or even heard, » he said.

Part of that strategy involves communication. Hicks has embraced media in ways some bishops avoid. He hosts a SiriusXM radio program and supports digital evangelization efforts through the archdiocese’s Good Newsroom platform — both outreaches he inherited from his predecessor — and he regularly emphasizes livestreamed liturgies that reach Catholics beyond parish walls. « There are many evils to social media and to the internet, » he said, « but one beautiful thing about it is it helps expand my capacity to get the message of Christ and the church out there. »

His commitment to bilingual ministry also reflects the demographic realities of modern New York. On Sundays, Hicks celebrates both English and Spanish liturgies at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. « To have their pastor, their shepherd, there with them, what a great joy, » he said of the Spanish-speaking community.

Hicks is not the only new public figure in town right now, the other is New York’s new mayor, Zohran Mamdani. And although Mamdani differs sharply from church leadership on several contentious issues, Hicks acknowledged those disagreements openly while insisting collaboration remains necessary. « Mayor Mamdani and I have already met, » he said. « We agree that there’s many things we disagree on. » And he quickly shifted toward areas of shared concern: housing and hunger relief, he suggested, offer immediate possibilities.

« The things that we do agree on, and if it can help the common good, let’s look for ways of collaboration, » he said.

That pragmatic willingness to work across divides also shapes how Hicks responds to recent national political tensions. The relationship between prominent Catholic leaders and President Donald Trump has grown increasingly strained, particularly over immigration policy, war rhetoric and Trump’s repeated social media posts and comments harshly criticizing the pope. Hicks’ response to this mirrors his broader pastoral style: calm, measured and institutionally grounded.

He did not address Trump directly but praised the November 2025 statements on immigration issued by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops and highlighted what he sees as Leo’s  disciplined approach.

« There’s a calmness and a peace and also a strength to him, » Hicks said of the pope. « He’s not lashing out wildly and he’s not taking the bait. » Instead, Hicks said, the pope responds by emphasizing the church’s core mission.

« ‘Listen, I’m not a politician. I’m here to preach the Gospel,' » Hicks said, paraphrasing Leo’s approach.

The archbishop said he clearly admires the pope’s ability to combine firmness with restraint. « His voice, while it’s not aggressively combative, it is strong and powerful. As the bishop here in the Archdiocese of New York, I want to be able to amplify his voice also, » he said.

That same tone emerged when discussing LGBTQ+ Catholics — an issue that remains deeply divisive within the U.S. Church but especially visible in New York, home to some of the world’s oldest LGBTQ+ Catholic communities. 

Asked whether he would meet directly with LGBTQ+ Catholic groups, Hicks framed the question within his broader understanding of synodality.

« From the very beginning, I’ve said it’s not only this group, it’s all groups, » he said.

« I want to have that spirit of synodality, the spirit of listening, the spirit of being open and then looking for the right ways and the forums to do it. »

He also appeared wary of turning such encounters into ideological battlegrounds. « When these questions are asked, it’s sometimes, ‘Do you want to really get into a fight?’  » Hicks said. « I’m not so much interested in picking a fight. » Instead, he returned once again to dialogue.

« I’m looking forward to listening, to dialogue, to grounding ourselves also in the truth, » he said. « Sometimes I think no matter what issue we’re talking about, we might not agree on everything that we’ve said, but at least somehow we can sit at the same table and be open to those conversations. »

That instinct — to lower the temperature rather than escalate conflict — may ultimately define Hicks’ tenure more than any single policy decision. Even his lighter answers reveal something about the image he hopes to project. His favorite neighborhood? « The one I live in, Midtown. » Favorite attraction? « Central Park. » Best food? « Pizza. Sliced. »

Those who know Hicks from his years in Chicago often describe him as unusually approachable for someone now occupying one of Catholicism’s most public American posts. That accessibility may prove valuable in a city where distrust of institutions — religious and political alike — runs high.

When asked what features his leadership style might differ from those who preceded him, he reflected on what he hopes people will eventually remember about him.

« My hope is that 20 years from now, when they’re saying, what kind of archbishop has Hicks been? » he said, pausing briefly. « I hope they can see that I’ve had a real love for Jesus and a desire to evangelize and to help bring his word and his message and his love, the salvation of souls, to as many people as possible. »

Americans have continued to debate the declaration’s claims. In recent decades, its few references to God have been especially polarizing, as Americans defend starkly contrasting views of the United States. Some say the country is a secular republic founded on 18th-century conceptions of human reason and natural law. Others suggest that it is a Christian nation, chosen by God and founded on biblical principles.

In July 2026, Americans will celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. As a historian who has written about the Revolutionary Era, I thought it might help to clarify what the declaration does and doesn’t say about God — and what the readings of 1776 add to our understanding.

4 references to God

The Second Continental Congress appointed a committee of five delegates to write the declaration. Jefferson, the main author, penned the first draft in his rented room in central Philadelphia. John Adams and Benjamin Franklin offered suggestions before they sent the document to Congress for further revision and approval. 

The document that delegates adopted listed 27 complaints against King George III and explained the reasons for revolt. It used four terms for God as it made its case.

In its opening paragraph, Jefferson proposed that « the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God » grant humans equal status and entitle Americans to dissolve « the political bands » with Britain. As historians have shown, Franklin added a phrase to suggest that those rights had been « endowed by their Creator. »

Congress then added two phrases to the final paragraph that portray God as a moral judge and a guiding hand. The delegates mention « the Supreme Judge of the world, » who punishes evil and rewards good — a description that almost all political and religious leaders would have agreed with.

They end by announcing that « with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor. »

Leaving room for disagreement

The reference to « Providence » doesn’t specify how divine influence works, however, leaving room for the founders’ diverging religious interpretations. The more conventionally Christian delegates, like John Witherspoon, believed that God intervenes directly in human history.

Others were less conventionally Christian. Rationalists like Jefferson, for example, believed in a creator but rejected biblical miracles and Jesus’ divinity. They thought that God’s influence can be seen indirectly, in nature’s order and humans’ capacity to discern God-given rights.

Generic theism

As I show in my 2025 book, Religion in the Lands That Became America, the declaration became one of the « sacred texts » of U.S. civil religion: the loosely linked beliefs, symbols and rituals that many American leaders use to interpret political life in spiritual terms. But the revered text affirmed a generic theism — belief in a creator god — without mentioning Jesus or Christianity.

Nor did the declaration cite the Bible as a source for government policy or say that America is a Christian nation. Its central purpose was to explain the reasons for separation from Britain, not to detail the new republic’s governing principles.

Governing principles came in 1789 with the U.S. Constitution, which did not mention God. In 1791, states then ratified the First Amendment, with its « establishment » clause rejecting an official state church and its « free exercise » clause protecting personal religious liberty.

What the public readings reveal

Eyewitness accounts offer a few more details about religious language heard at ceremonial public readings of the declaration in 1776.

Some sources show that the declaration was read in churches and discussed by the clergy. Massachusetts, for example, ordered that ministers read it in every congregation. And a soldier’s letter to his father noted that his brigade’s chaplain offered « an excellent prayer » after the declaration was read in New York on July 9, though he gave no other details.

After the second public reading in Philadelphia on July 8 at the State House, now called Independence Hall, eyewitnesses said the crowd gave « three cheers. » And, as the editor of Philadelphia’s German newspaper reported, those cheers were followed by « the cry ‘God bless the Free States of North America.’ « 

The pattern apparently repeated at other public readings. Abigail Adams wrote to her husband, John, one of the drafters of the declaration, to report that the official reading at Boston’s State House ended with the speaker proclaiming, « God Save our American States. » After a reading for soldiers in Ticonderoga, New York, on July 28, an officer added, « God save the Free, Independent States of America.« 

A prominent newspaper circulated a firsthand account from Savannah, Georgia, describing four public readings and a mock « funeral » for the king on Aug. 10. The presiding official ended by suggesting that « America is free and independent, that she is, and will be, with the blessing of the Almighty, great among the nations of the earth. »

In short, attendees at the public readings did hear mentions of God – but apparently didn’t hear the potentially divisive theological language of sermons or creeds.

1776 and 2026

During the 2026 anniversary celebrations, too, the declaration will be read aloud — including in a simultaneous reading on July 8 in Philadelphia and in every U.S. state, commonwealth and territory.

Today, Americans might be even more sharply divided about religion than the colonists of 1776. According to the General Social Survey, 14% of Americans say they don’t believe in God or aren’t sure if there is a God, and 25% have « no religion. » About 11% now embrace a non-Christian faith. When asked if the federal government should proclaim that the U.S. is a Christian nation, Americans are almost evenly divided, a Pew study found, with most evangelicals agreeing and most atheists disagreeing.

Knowing what the declaration actually says, and how its first listeners reacted, might not sway Americans at the extremes. But it provides evidence for less polarizing, more nuanced views about the founding generation’s convictions and compromises as Americans commemorate their nation’s 250th anniversary.

The Holy Spirit

Elusive, slippery, visions forming, changing, a Life of its own, a Life Divine, glimpsed in kaleidoscopic fragments, each in its own intricate pattern. And with a twist, a new whole, an aura, a persona, an aspect. The Spirit contained completely in each, yet each combined to form a greater whole. An energy rippling around all and through all, from quarks and hadrons to galaxies and star clusters and nebulas. And everything ⎯ all creation ⎯ in between. Effortless energy abounding, tendrils shooting off Divinity’s vine. 

Manifestations manifold, appearing as it will to human hearts and minds, touching bodies, touching souls. Never static, even when at rest.

A verb

A man who wore three watches said, « I am not a thing — a noun. I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process — an integral function of the universe. » This is us all, verbs of being, tiny and precious. In our being is the Spirit. Would that our eyes be open to our deeper selves, and to others, to see us all as verbs. Veils of illusion would flutter away.

The dove

Back with the patriarch in the morning of the day, a white dove glides from his hand, searching for dry land. And returning, exhausted, having found no place to perch. Seven days later, again released, away on the wind, the skies deep blue, white clouds puffy against the pink rays of dawn. In the evening, she reappears, olive leaf in beak, a sign of the land newly emergent, a sign of relief. And the next week, she is released, never to return to the ark. Bringing hope to the patriarch and his family, even as she is never seen again.

Years later, above the muddy Jordan, shallow and murky, descending on a man being baptized by his cousin, who pushes him down bodily into the water. And as he emerges, he sees the heavens part in clear and lucid glory. As a dove descending, he hears a voice proclaiming, « Beloved Son, you are my delight. » And then this dove, this Spirit drives ⎯ or does it guide? ⎯ the one into the desert, to pray, to fast, to be put to the test.

A light, silent sound

In a bleak and lonely cave, the prophet waits as he was commanded. He knows the Lord will come, the Lord will speak. But how? God’s voice was not in the violent, buffeting wind, or the earthquake, or the raging fire.

No, God’s voice was small and still, fine silence, gentle blowing, light stillness. 

A light, silent sound speaks to the man in the cave, giving him succor, strength and hope. And the man in the cave, refreshed, emboldened, goes forth renewed to serve his Lord.

Pentecost

Many years later, 120 gathered. This day, first the noise, mighty rushing wind, startling turbulence descending from the heavens, enveloping them all in a divine embrace.

Then the tongues of fire, flames licking the air, parting to rest upon each one of them.

Were the tongues hot? Did they burn? And the tongues too, not only fire, but tongues of speech, languages they never knew, but suddenly now could speak. Could the bearers of the tongues comprehend their own new speech? Those that heard them speak understood. 

New wine, some scoffed. No, too early for that, though drunks might disagree. No, it’s Spirit, holy and manifest, always approaching, always enveloping, always embracing.

And the Apostle proclaims God’s presence and many who hear repent and are baptized. And the Spirit falls upon them too, a gift from the Divine, not as wind or tongues of fire, but invisible, mysterious, present, quivering with new life.

Wild geese

Wild geese, a Celtic vision. Watch as they fly in V-formation, with boisterous honks as they fly overhead. The exhausted leader gives way to another who soars to the front of the V. The rest of the flock follows, and they too shift positions as they tire. Raucous calls of encouragement, let’s go, let’s fly, let’s make some noise. A collective spirit, a community flocking and flying together, compelling beauty in their harsh cries. Wake up. Fly with us.

Groups of geese have more than one name. On land, a gaggle. In the water, a plump. Flying in a V formation, a wedge. Flying not in a V, a skein. Casual flight, a team. Why all the names? Why all the fuss? Why not just a flock, generic, and be done with it.

This is how the Spirit presents itself, metaphors within metaphors, but each just a portion. In each portion is fullness, and beyond that a fuller fullness, a whole of a greater whole. Different descriptions, yet always wild geese. And why not? Isn’t water a liquid? A solid? A gas? So too, the Spirit appears in different forms, but always the Holy Spirit.

Ravished

Marilynne Robinson writes that John Keat’s poem « On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer » is an expression of « that old humanist privilege of being ‘ravished’ by a book. »

So why not be ravished by the Holy Spirit? Be overcome, overpowered, transported, delighted, entranced, enchanted, stunned, enraptured into a beguiling dance. To give oneself up, body and soul, mind and heart, to the power of the Holy Spirit, God dancing with us, urging us along, come, come, play, rejoice and sing. As Wisdom herself did at the dawn of the cosmos, let us be God’s delight. To play, to dance, like unfettered children in their delights, their shrieks of laughter, the feeling of sun and good sweat, the breathless breath that feels so fine, the world condensed to this moment, and this moment, this moment alone, is the only one that matters. The joy. The pure rapture. 

Like children, let’s run. Shriek and scream and sing. Shed the desire, the need for explanations, for understanding. The need, the desire, the understanding lives in the action, in the essence of the moment. 

And after we run, we rest. And just be.

That’s the Spirit!

The prayer rally is organized by Freedom 250, a public-private partnership the White House launched in December. On the event website, organizers say the jubilee has the aim of « solemnly rededicating our country as One Nation under God. »

« In speech, song, and storytelling, we will bear witness to the extraordinary story of how God has powerfully and wondrously shaped the United States of America—remembering the people, sacrifices, and defining moments in which God has powerfully manifested Himself in our history. »

The event will have a distinctly conservative Christian flavor. Of the nearly three dozen speakers listed on the website, about a quarter are evangelical Protestants. Participants include the Rev. Franklin Graham; Robert Jeffress, a Baptist pastor and Fox News contributor; and Paula White-Cain, the senior adviser to the White House Faith Office.

During a webinar last month, first reported by The Washington Post, White-Cain said the event « is about the history and the foundations of our nation, which was built on Christian values, on the Bible. » She also said that the jubilee would not include religious leaders « praying to all these different Gods. »

« For America to rededicate herself to Christ means I must rededicate myself to Christ. And that’s the angle that I’m going to take in my talk on the National Mall on May 17, » Jeffress told The Christian Post.

Jeffress, an ardent Trump supporter who recently suggested that the president has shown a greater understanding of the Bible than Pope Leo XIV, also said that Trump believes it’s time « for America to rededicate herself to God. »

Trump, who is not expected to appear in person, will send a recorded video message.

Several top U.S. officials will also speak, including Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, House Speaker Mike Johnson and Secretary of State Marco Rubio, who is Catholic and like others in  the administration often speaks in positive terms about Christianity’s contributions to the United States.

« The Catholic faith has always been part of the American story. The first Christian service on our soil was a Catholic Mass, » Rubio said during a virtual address on April 9 to a symposium organized by Catholic universities. 

« To look upon the history of this golden land is to see the face of God, » Rubio said.

Not everyone puts it that way. 

Faithful America, a network of progressive Christians, is circulating a petition that describes the Rededicate event as the « Trump regime’s attempt to rewrite a nationalistic pseudohistory and homogenize the country’s religious identity for its own purposes. »

Msgr. Arthur Holquin, a retired Catholic priest of the Diocese of Orange, California, wrote on his Substack that what Rededicate 250 « actually is, stripped of its anniversary bunting, is a Christian nationalist rally organized around the proposition that America must be reconsecrated to God under the presidency of Donald Trump. »

« The political roster tells the story, » said Holquin, who added that the U.S. officials who will speak at the rally « are political lieutenants of an administration that has waged war on immigrants, gutted Catholic Charities contracts, and treated the Holy Father as an adversary. »

The all-day event is organized around three « pillars » that the website lists as celebrating the « miracles » of God’s providence over the nation, « personal testimonies of God’s healing, » and « a unified moment of rededication. » Dolan, who offered an opening prayer at Trump’s inauguration and has maintained a friendly relationship with the president, will speak during the rededication part of the event.

The event is scheduled for 10:45 a.m. to 6 p.m. May 17 and can be livestreamed through partner churches and organizations

And we continue to tell these stories today.

Just as the origins of the Christian message and community are traced back to Jesus’ own preaching ministry, which is shaped by his storytelling, the origins of the Franciscan movement are similarly narrative in character. From the earliest days of the experimental Franciscan way of life, friars, sisters, ecclesiastical observers and various medieval chroniclers told striking stories about what was unfolding in the otherwise unremarkable town of Assisi in the Umbrian region of today’s Italy. The stories were necessary because what the narrators were describing exceeded what could merely be reported.

Like Christianity more broadly, the Franciscan tradition cannot be reduced to simple bullet points or easy slogans. Part of what makes that an impossible task is that St. Francis of Assisi rooted his style of Christian life in one simple, direct aim: to live the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ. And if the mission of the Franciscan movement is, as St. Francis would say, to « walk in the footprints of Christ, » then the means of expressing what that looks like in practice can only be genuinely conveyed in narrative form.

In a way modeled after Jesus before him, St. Francis answered important questions with stories that conveyed layers of meaning and insight. When Jesus was asked, « Who is my neighbor? », he didn’t respond with a checklist or diagram of concentric circles but answered with stories about care for the vulnerable, misunderstood and ostracized.

Likewise, when asked about what « true joy » looks like, or what characteristics make up the « ideal Franciscan brother, » or how his journey of lifelong conversion began, St. Francis told stories that were retold and passed down across generations. They invited hearers to place themselves within the narratives and imagine themselves living in a way more aligned with the Gospel in everyday life.

The narrative character of the Franciscan tradition is one of the most distinctive and yet underappreciated aspects of the legacy of St. Francis of Assisi. Sure, every religious community in the church has their favorite hagiographic stories about their congregation’s founder or earliest members. But what typically orients and governs the charism and spiritualities of those traditions are texts like rules of life and canonical constitutions; letters, prayers, treatises and other writings by founders; and explicit guidebooks for spiritual practices, such as St. Ignatius Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises or St. Francis de Sales’ Introduction to the Devout Life.

For St. Francis of Assisi and those who came after him, it was the medium of storytelling that became the primary way to form community and identity. It was and remains the case that narrative explanation about the themes and principles of the Franciscan movement is the key to understanding the enduring legibility and relevance of the tradition. In addressing topics like joy, poverty, preaching the Gospel, living in fraternity, and prayer, among others, telling a story is the Franciscan way.

In the span of two generations after St. Francis’ death in 1226 there were nearly a dozen formal biographies of the poverello, which contained numerous stories about the saint as well as reminiscences of his own storytelling. 

In 1244, the minister general at the time, Crescentius of Jesi, put out a call for the Franciscan Order to gather any recollections of the life and legacy of St. Francis as remembered by early followers who identified as « we who were with him. » These narratives reveal telling insights about the character and ministry of St. Francis and the early followers from firsthand witnesses.

It should come as no surprise that one of the most well-known collections of Franciscan stories is called The Little Flowers of St. Francis, which has enjoyed widespread distribution for centuries. Dated to the mid-14th century, this popular text is a redacted Italian translation of an earlier Latin text known as The Deeds of Blessed Francis and His Brothers.

The immense popularity of The Little Flowers accounts for the widespread recognition of certain common stories about the saint, such as his preaching to the birds (Chapter 16), how he brokered peace between the villagers and the wolf of Gubbio (Chapter 21), and how he converted « three murderous robbers » to the faith and then to the Franciscan Order (Chapter 26), among others. 

While admittedly a late document, the power of storytelling to convey the substance and meaning of the person and figure of Francis, as well as the spirit of the Franciscan movement, is not to be easily dismissed.

When we think of the figure of St. Francis 800 years after his death, we cannot avoid the many stories that carry forward his personality, priorities and legacy. These narratives relay to us who he was and, more importantly, what he stood for — living the Gospel of Jesus Christ as sincerely as possible. 

We cannot understand St. Francis without immersing ourselves in the rich narrative tradition of Franciscan storytelling. To seek shortcuts in understanding or explaining St. Francis will inevitably lead to caricature and a misreading of this multidimensional and truly complex Christian figure.

What this teaches us today is that those who want easy, quick, static and universal short answers to some of life’s most meaningful questions are going about it all wrong. To understand those things that matter most and to answer life’s most profound and impactful questions — Who am I? How should I live? What is God like? What am I meant to do? — requires storytelling. 

But we should be careful to avoid the temptation to tell false tales or reframe those things we find uncomfortable. And we should attend carefully not only to the stories we tell about ourselves, but also those we tell about others, including those who have gone before us. The example of St. Francis’ storytelling and the narrative tradition that follows from him can help us to do just that.