Today, April 14, we Franciscans honor Lady Pica, the mother of St. Francis of Assisi. Two bronze statues of the parents of St. Francis (pictured) by Roberto Joppolo stand in the piazza of the Chiesa Nuova, a small church built over the area where tradition says the parental home of St. Francis was located. Pietro, St. Francis’ father, and Lady Pica are portrayed holding hands. In the free hand, Pietro is holding the clothes St. Francis returned to him in the bishop’s residence; Pica is holding broken chains which symbolize St. Francis being a prisoner in his own home. Any biography of St. Francis will fully explain the events behind the symbols of the clothing and chains.

While we know little about St. Francis’ parents, there are some insights we can uncover about his mother, Lady Pica. It was Pica who would have taught the child Francis his prayers, Pica who would have taught him about Jesus’ mother, Mary. We know that St. Francis was fond of the use of the word “mother” because he uses it 24 times in his writings. For him, the word indicates one who is warm, delicate, sensitive, tender, and nurturing. The saint transfers these sentiments to the mother of Jesus to the point of urging us brothers to love one another as a mother loves the child that is born to her.

Before his conversion, Francis threw the best parties for his friends in Assisi, lavishly spending Pietro’s wealth. So, when Francis began to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, he returned all his clothing, literally, to Pietro. But his father was anxious about further drainage of his resources. So, when Pietro had to go to France on business, he locked his son in a dungeon in the basement of their home. While difficult to comprehend, fathers in Assisi legally had a right to deal with “recalcitrant” children in this manner. After he left for France, Lady Pica let him go free. Pica said “Yes” to her son Francis and freed him, thereby giving him spiritual birth – much like Mary’s “Yes” to the archangel Gabriel freed God of invisibility, literally giving birth to her Son Jesus.

Lady Pica then fades from historical sources. Imaginatively, the poet-laureate of the Franciscan family, Murray Bodo, O.F.M., reflects on her life at the beginning of her son’s conversion in the following poem (reprinted with permission):

Lady Pica

Francis, dear one
the empty rooms cry out for you
and under the chimney’s hood
the hearth fire burns untended
I sit in an upright chair

It is months now – your father
fusses with palfreys and war horses
while I shun linens and wool dresses
trimmed and lined with fur

And no one sees
I sit by the window
I hear rumors
I stay inside
I sit in an upright chair

There is no song here
except for the birds I hear
through the window’s oiled parchment
The days are long

Your father roars
at the dogs and servants
and we seldom sit by the fire
The night frightens our sleep

Francesco, my son
what have I done?
Tell me how it is with you
knock at the silent door
I wait in an upright chair

They say you’re now a leper –
Dear one, what has become of you?
Your father and I lie abed
stare at the ceiling’s wooden beams

Your dog whines mornings
He watches the door
He does not eat
I pat his matted coat

I give you to God, my son
I wait for death
The bells toll under the house
The wind laughs in the eaves
I sit in an upright chair

Recently, on a first Friday, I was in our Divine Mercy Chapel preparing to begin a day of adoration, which begins at 9 AM. At that hour, there was only one person besides me in the chapel. I felt rather sad and remained there for a while, until I was summoned to hear someone’s confession, and, afterwards, I prepared to preach at the noon Mass. The sadness was more a feeling of loneliness, not for me but for Jesus enthroned on the altar awaiting some of us to come visit with Him, to simply be with Him.

On occasion, you may have heard someone say: “I adore my grandchild.” Perhaps, you may have heard someone say something like: “I adore a certain food” or “I adore a certain singer,” which, of course, they mention specifically by name. Granted, these are colloquialisms, popular expressions, or someone’s manner of speaking. But when it comes to the use of the word “adoration” in the Catholic Church, it takes on a very special and pointed meaning. Let me explain.

In our Catholic tradition, there are good people put up before us for leading lives of virtue and holiness whom we call “Blessed” or “Saint,” such as the teenager who died of leukemia, Blessed Carlo Acutis, or the first naturalized US citizen canonized, Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini. When we Catholics approach one of God’s holy ones in prayer, reflection, or even the celebration of the Eucharist on their feast day, the Church teaches that we approach them in a spirit of “veneration.” When we venerate someone, we revere, esteem, honor, respect, and admire them. We look up to them. This is what the practice of “veneration” is about. Saints are venerated in the Catholic Church.

When we Catholics approach our Trinitarian God or the Father’s incarnate Son Jesus in prayer, reflection, or the celebration of the Eucharist, such as on a particular feast day like Pentecost or Corpus Christi, the Church teaches that we approach God in a spirit of “adoration.” When we adore a Person of the Trinity — the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit — we assume a stance of adulation, of worship, of holding God in the highest (superlative degree, nothing greater) regard. This approximates what the practice of “adoration” is about. The Trinity is “adored” in the Catholic Church. Adoration is the highest form of worship a human being can offer to God the Father, God the Son — the Word made flesh, Jesus the Christ — and God the Holy Spirit.

An opportunity for “adoration” of God’s Son, Jesus the Christ, is offered fives times monthly in our Divine Mercy Chapel — every Thursday from 9 AM to 3 PM and every First Friday during the same hours. Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament — the blessing of Jesus for us personally — concludes each day of adoration.

Try to take this as a call, an invitation from Jesus Himself to personally spend some time with Him. The hours are spent in silence, but a powerhouse of prayer is unfolding in this silence whenever any of us sit before our Blessed Sacrament praying the rosary, some personal devotion, reading Sacred Scripture (Bibles are available), or as St. John M. Vianney said: “I just look at Him and He looks at me!” St. Clare urges us to “gaze upon Christ.” Gazing is more than sufficient for prayer. Come and gaze upon Christ in humble adoration!

I was invited to Hawaiʽi to conduct a retreat for the Franciscan Sisters of Syracuse, NY. Not eager to go due to the long journey, I discovered upon arrival that the sisters had arranged another flight for me to Molokaʽi. The island of Molokaʽi is usually associated with a leper colony and with St. Damien de Veuster. I had certainly heard of Damien as well as the name Molokaʽi, but it was only on this trip that I learned that Molokaʽi has a large area referred to as “topside” where all the “clean” people once lived and “the flat plain” — Kalaupapa — an isolated peninsula at the base of a steep cliff (2,215 feet) on the north side of the island where the lepers were exiled.

We drove immediately to the tomb of Mother Marianne Cope about whom I knew nothing. We approached her grave, and I read the inscription in silence. After a few minutes, Sr. Frances Therese suggested that we move on, but I could not and remained there because this sacred place was impacting me. I felt spiritual energies begin to flow within, connecting me with a Franciscan forebear. I experienced the energies of this great woman, St. Marianne, who herself drew on the energies of St. Francis for the same work of love that she did for 30 years on Molokaʽi. She and her sisters literally replicated the primitive thrust of the Franciscan charism: ministry among the lepers. I felt the power of St. Marianne in that sacred place.

Richard Rohr, O.F.M., has defined power as:

1. the ability to act from the fullness of who I am;
2. the capacity to establish and maintain a relationship with people and things;
3. the freedom to give myself away (“Mending the Breach,” 1993).

Reflecting on power as the ability to act from the fullness of who I am, I saw Mother Marianne’s power stemming from the fullness of being a woman, and, from this, she accepted the challenges she encountered. Even her title of “Mother” is instructive. St. Francis was very fond of this term because it expresses an attitude that is tender, sensitive, warm, delicate, nurturing. That became St. Marianne’s stance with the lepers as she tended their bodies, souls, and spirits. Moreover, St. Marianne was a woman of faith, open to the risk that faith sustains when challenged. From her response to the request for sisters to go to Hawaiʽi, her faith was manifest when she wrote: “I am hungry for the work, and I wish with all my heart to be one of the chosen ones. […] I am not afraid of any disease” (Hanley & Bushnell, A Song of Pilgrimage and Exile: The Life and Spirit of Mother Marianne of Molokaʽi, 1980). After establishing a successful home for young girls and boys with leprosy, her faith-response was: “[…] my heart has bled for them, and I was anxious and hungry to help put a little more sunshine into their dreary lives.” Her power as a woman of faith risking all was most evident in her encouragement to Sr. Leopoldina in 1889: “You will never be a leper nor will any Sister of our Order.” Sr. Leopoldina later wrote: “It was wonderful what power there was in Mother’s words to banish every fear.” St. Marianne’s promise has been realized because no sister has ever contracted leprosy.

A second dimension of the word power is the capacity to establish and maintain a relationship with people and things. Before the arrival of the sisters, the patients lived in squalor. So, St. Marianne and her sisters swept, washed, and scrubbed the entire facility and planted trees, flowers, shrubs, and vegetables wherever they could. Observing this, the patients warmed up to them, trusting and cherishing the care they received from St. Marianne and her sisters. The power of relationship took root from the beginning, and St. Marianne began to speak of the lepers as her “children.” Nevertheless, the sight and odor of leprosy was a constant challenge to the senses. We glimpse Marianne’s thoughts when she wrote: “I suffer when I go to church, the smell and the sight of lepers everywhere is disagreeable. […] How glad I was to get outside to breathe again the fresh clean air. We met many of our old patients outside. All were anxious to shake hands, something that makes one shudder, yet we did it.” Her words echo those of St. Francis, who wrote in his Testament: “It seemed very bitter to me to see lepers. And the Lord Himself led me among them, and I had mercy upon them. And when I left them that which seemed bitter to me was changed into sweetness of soul and body.” St. Marianne never outwardly displayed this conflict.

A third aspect of power is the freedom to give oneself away. As provincial, Mother Marianne accompanied the first sisters by train and steamer to Hawaiʽi, intent on establishing the new mission and then returning to Syracuse. As she embarked upon her work, it became clear to her sisters, to the King and Queen, to government and church officials, to the lepers, and finally to herself that God brought her to Hawaiʽi to stay. And by giving herself away fully to this new place and work, she was empowered by God to root this mission in the original Franciscan charism.

Being with the lepers seems to give flesh to the words of Jesus: “I have come that they may have life” (John 10:10). When St. Francis found himself among lepers, I am convinced he experienced this “life” Jesus promised because he proclaimed that “that which seemed bitter to me was changed into sweetness of soul and body.” I am certain St. Marianne Cope knew this sweetness in her loving care for the lepers of Molokaʽi.