The monk with the white sneakers

It is a peculiar Saturday morning. I just arrived in the lecture hall next to the San Damiano monastery. The vaulted hall smells of wet stone and is decorated with Fransciscan iconography. St. Francis conferring with the birds, St. Francis praying with his palms up to the sky, St. Francis revealing his Rule to his brothers. I stand at the bar, sipping my coffee in silence next to two Fransciscan brothers, dressed in brown robes, cinched at the waist with white rope. The older brother is wearing sandals, while the younger one sports white sneakers. The discrepancy amuses me.

We are invited into the hall. The room is furnished with cheap office furniture, set up to face the front of the room. The faint smell of linoleum mixed with stale coffee takes me back to a short-lived affair with office life. A candle is lit next to a wooden statute of St. Francis and we observe a moment of silence.

The older brother walks up to the front, fires up the beamer and starts unpacking his bag. He pulls out a laptop, a bright green mouse, some papers, a notebook, a pen. His movements are slow, and every item is handled with great reverence and care. He is in no hurry, and as he sits down behind his computer he starts flipping his notebook, page by page, until he reaches a blank spread. Finally, he carefully places his pen on top of the blank page. I am starting to understand why he is a Fransciscan. I jot down in my notebook: ``Uphold great reverence for all of creation as an expression of love by the divine source of all things.’’ While I am contemplating this sentence and whether I should not have taken that third cup of coffee, the monk looks up from his papers, begins to speak, and I understand why I am here.

The brother outlines two paths to a happy and fulfilled life. I either try to become what I already am or I am what I try to become. The second option birthed in the minds of Jean-Paul Sartre and his contemporaries, who asserted there is no meaning to life lest I make it myself. God is dead and I am solely responsible if I fail to be happy.

I live in the heritage of existentialist thought when I believe everything is possible as long as I make an effort, including my sense of purpose and fulfillment. The danger here is to get caught up in an existentialist freeze, charmingly called fobo, or fear of better options. If I am incessantly trying to become something that will make me happy, what path do I choose? And how am I absolutely sure I am making the right choice? For I alone am responsible for my happiness, and it is my fault if I mess it up.

The brother continues to explain how St. Francis illuminated the first path. The alternative is to accept that my purpose is the same as everyone else’s: to attempt to become a perfect expression of love and, in the process, to become a caring and forgiving human being. When I walk this path, the primary relationship in my life is with love. And whenever I am trying to possess anything, even who I think I am, I am removing myself from the experience of that love.

This essentialist path is by no means the easier route, for it demands giving up that part of me that thinks it is control and knows best what is good for me. It involves accepting my defeat and submitting to a higher power, accepting that if it is up to me alone, I tend to make a mess of my happiness and fulfillment. When I try to become what I already am, I become of love, faking it until I make it.

The Rule of St. Francis, it turns out, is pretty straightforward and self-evident, but in practice incredibly hard to perfect. It encourages the practice of selflessness and forgiveness, even towards those that hurt us. We are asked to stay humble and meek, helping others when the need arises. And when we ourselves are in need of help, to never take advantage or ask too much. We should resist the tempation to own any part of our identity, always keeping a little distance to ourselves, so we remain open and receptive to that greater power.

Choosing the first path invites you to welcome the lack of choice as your freedom. Knowing that a purpose is already laid out for you takes away a lot of ruminating whether the choices you make are the absolute best ones. The Fransciscans believe there are only two options: to keep going at it alone or to submit your defeat. And with the Summer Solstice fast approaching, we are again nearing the perfect moment to ask ourselves this question.