In Issue 106, we printed the edited transcript of a counseling session between Lou Salomone, one of our subscribers, and a spirit that calls itself Bartholomew.
Bartholomew speaks through a woman named Mary-Margaret Moore, who for the past seven years has given hundreds of readings in which Bartholomew eloquently addresses perennial questions about fear, relationship, death, spirituality, and so on. Twelve of those readings have now been put together in a book, I Come as a Brother — A Remembrance of Illusions (High Mesa Publishing, P.O. Box 2267, Taos, New Mexico, 87571).
You may be skeptical about real ghost writers, but Bartholomew, whoever he is, has won my heart. His words about Saint Francis are haunting and inspiring, and we’re thankful to Mary-Margaret Moore for permission to reprint them.
— Ed.
This is the time for the celebration of the coming of the Christ. But instead of speaking of the Christ today, I would like to bring forward another figure who is termed a “Christian,” because I feel that he may better exemplify your own dilemma. Now who, and why?
I would like to speak of the one whom you have come to call St. Francis of Assisi. The reason for that selection, rather than the Christ, is because we have been working in the past months on the idea that our beliefs bring about our reality. In the case of the Christ, there was very little need for him to change or modify his belief structure. He came from a plane of understanding where those kinds of structures had been taken care of long before. Whatever rudiments were left were so minor that I do not feel that they would make a good comparison with yours. That entity was of such stature that ground work was not needed. But in the case of St. Francis, we have a different situation. He can stand as a tremendous hope for many people. We have been working at length toward the understanding that the power of the vastness moves constantly through you, and into the world, creating the world as you see it. Before that power becomes form and matter, it moves through a structure that I have compared to grid work, which is your belief system, through which you create your world. When we speak of St. Francis, we are speaking about a man who was, in truth, very similar to many of you. He had unfinished business in the world — pools of desire, of anger, of lust, of all the things for which you so condemn yourselves. He also had, just as you have, infinite possibilities to become the person he became. I do not mean that you all should become St. Francis; but I do mean that there lies within you the same possibilities for moving and changing your belief structure, so that you can come into contact with the knowledge of God’s existence. This is the issue. The only difference between Francis and yourselves is that he knew that God was and he knew that he could be in touch with that reality at any time. He knew it, with all the power of his being. That potential you also have, and so you share a similarity with him.
Francis knew, as a youth, that he had tremendous desires in the world. He had the same lusts that you have, the same avarice, the same desires for popularity, for drink, for women, for fun, for excitement, for power. And when he became aware that these activities were not giving him the joy that he had thought they would, he became even more of what he had been. He began to drink more, he began to “sin” more, to carry all of his desires to the extreme. I am sorry if I seem to be desecrating one of your idols, but that was the case. But out of the overindulgence of his so-called “sinful” side, he became very aware of the obstacle that his human consciousness had to overcome before he could become what you now call a saint.
His reasoning was thus: “It is impossible for me to be a good person, for I have all of these imperfections, so I will become the perfect sinner. I will expand the areas of all of my deficiencies to vaster degrees, and perhaps out of that I will find some kind of joy and harmony in my life.” But he found that this also was not giving him that which he wanted, and so there arose in his mind a dilemma. I hope that the same dilemma arises in your mind. Many of you have tried to be good boys and good girls and it has not worked, because you keep failing, one way or another. So some of you also decide since you are imperfect, you might well bring out that imperfect aspect more fully. Then, when you see that none of this has brought you peace, there comes a dilemma. You cannot always be loving, or kind, and indulging your desires has not brought happiness. So where can you go to find the inner peace and joy you seek? Francis chose a very meaningful way. Again, I do not recommend it; I am only discussing the situation.
Francis decided at a very deep level, and I state this with assurance, to confront the reality of death. He chose a very strong and powerful illness, and when he became ill, almost unto death, the boundaries of his mind began to fall, and in the heat of his fever, he understood. He saw that he had tried to equate goodness with love of God, and they were not at all the same thing. You can love God without being good. And you can be very good, and have no love of God. Francis realized clearly that his love of God was not determined by his state of goodness; it was determined by his desire to love God. It was a tremendously important moment when he saw the fallacy of loving God by being good. You love God through love of God. And not from anything else. Then, in the midst of his fever, the question came, over and over: how can I love God? Remember that this man was brought up in the church, but also in a society which was only superficially religious. Certainly the men he knew were superficial. And his mother represented to him the need to love God, but not the manifestation of the love of God.
Francis felt that if he could not find a way to love God, even in the extremity of illness in which he placed himself, then his wish was to die. He could not live without loving God — but he didn’t know how. I would suggest that this is a very fortunate state to be in: to see clearly the paradox of wanting to love, but not knowing how. I suspect that most of you have asked this question in one form or another.
Day after day this struggle went on. The fever, the anxiety, the frustration, and the hopelessness increased. Finally, early one morning as the dawn began to break, when all was very quiet and still, Francis heard a bird outside his window — but he heard it in a totally new way! In the power of the song of that bird, he understood, and what he understood is that the way to love God, and the only way, is to hear his voice in everything — in the song of a bird, in the cry of the dying, in the scream of the mad, in the despair of the leper, in the embrace of the lovers, in the rattle of the hooves of horses on the street. That is the only way to love God. He knew, absolutely, that there was no separation between those sounds and the voice of God, that they are the voice of God speaking. He had been mistaken in placing God outside of the created world, outside of the sounds of life, outside of himself. In truth, it was going on all the time, in every place, in every way, at every moment. Never again in his life did he fail to remember that.
When he moved out of his illness, he knew. If we were to speak of Francis as enlightened, his enlightenment would come from the fact that he was so very ordinary — and out of that he became so totally extraordinary. From that moment on, he could never again separate any call for help from the source.
There have been some misconceptions about Francis, and one of them concerns his relationship with his father. It has been said that there was much hostility between Francis and his father. But in his new awareness he knew that every sound was God speaking, so it was not possible for him to reject the sound of his father’s voice. When his father told Francis to leave his house, Francis said, “Yes, father, I hear you. Thank you for telling me my next step.” It was not, “How dare you?” but “I hear you.” And so he went.
When he began his life alone, and heard the voice command, “Rebuild my church!” he knew that it spoke to more than one level. This man was a was not a fool. But when he heard the words, the only obvious thing to do was to rebuild a physical church, and trust that in the building of it, something else would come — the building of another “church,” on another level. Francis did not consult anyone else, nor did he ask the Pope for permission; he decided to do what was before him. I would ask you to think about that for own lives. If you wish to know what God wants of you, and you have asked, you will know. And when you do, please do not wait, but act today on what you know now. There is not one of you who cannot begin today, to build, or to rebuild, some kind of church. There is no one who does not have some part of them that is in need of repair. But instead of doing that which is before you, you wait until you can do something more spectacular. Please, the lesson is simple. You have something to rebuild, so start there; no matter how unglamorous it may seem, no matter how mundane or how difficult, start now. And if you want to know what your unfinished church is, just ask.
So Francis leaves his home, and he goes alone, with the knowledge that there is no longer any of the separation which had kept him so confused. He seems strange to many because of this one great realization: God is in everything. He went about talking of “Brother Wind, Brother Sky”; he talked to birds, animals, insects, everything. He appeared to many as a lunatic, but when you understand his new belief, you can understand why he chose to personify it that way. He knew all was the same, not intellectually, but in reality. When the wind blew, he knew that it was God caressing him; when he felt the sun, he knew it was God’s breath upon him; he knew that the rain and the mud were the God of his being. And when he heard the chattering of the animals, he knew he was hearing the one voice, and there was no separation, nor could there ever be. He embraced the leper, not because he was courageous, but because he saw no difference.
From this point on, Francis is not courageous; there is no Francis left to be courageous! Just God meeting God, in all the many aspects of life. People thought him very humble when he told them it was not hard. It is not hard to be cold, when you know that the cold is God. It is not hard to be struck by a stone when you know that the stone is God. For the rest of his life, he moved with this deepest understanding that nothing is separate. There were many anxieties in those days, among them the anxiety of poverty. And people would remark how courageous it was of Francis not to be afraid of death, or starvation. His response was, “How can there be fear of death, when death and I are one?” People thought him very exalted and very holy to be so humble. But he denied it all. He did not see himself as holy or humble; he perceived himself as everything — and, at the same time, as nothing.
If we can move beyond his early life, we will come to a subject I would most like to talk about, which is, of course, the stigmata. Your belief creates your reality. Francis spent many moments of his life praying for one thing only: to be able to share, totally, in the life of his beloved — and his beloved was the crucified Christ. Inside himself he knew that his life would not be complete until he, too, had suffered like that. He knew that the stigmata would be not only physically painful but also very difficult to carry in a world of such tremendous confusion. Nonetheless, every day he prayed, “Let me share that, too!” Be aware that had he prayed for something different, the stigmata would not have come to him. His yearning was for the stigmata, not as an outward sign of his holiness, but as the final blending of his heart with that of Christ. Had he yearned for something other, that is what would have manifested. That which you put your awareness upon, you get. If Francis stands for anything, he demonstrates the power of mind over matter. He stands as an example of the power of belief over the material world. Think about it. Here is a man with an ordinary body, no different from yours, but one day, upon a mountain, in response to days and nights of prayer and fasting and crying and waiting, there appears what you have now called the stigmata. It is energy moving from the vastness onto the mountain, and as it approaches, he knows without question that when the light enters him, he will never be the same. And he has no way of knowing what the results will be. He might go insane, or be blinded, or deafened, or seared so badly that he will never move again. He knows the chance he is taking. What is not recorded is that, in the last, as that power came, there is a communication, and a voice asks, “Will you enter totally into my heart?” and he answers, “I will!” Remember, he knows that in an instant everything can be utterly transformed — into darkness and pain, or into light and freedom. And he says, “Yes, take me! I cannot live without You! Do with me as you will!”
It is at this point, not before, that Francis demonstrates his courage. This is real courage, because Francis is the only one who knows the power of this energy. For years, he had been experiencing that energy, slowly at first, but always gathering momentum, and now when he sees this vortex of power, he knows that it can do anything. The power enters, and the marks are made.
God does not move without purpose, so why ask this beloved one (and he was beloved, as are you) to carry these bleeding wounds with him for the rest of his days? They were very painful wounds, especially in the unsanitary world of his time. So, why? It is the same symbol, then and now. You believe that you are the body, and that the body has a life of its own; and you do not believe in the power of spiritual thought. Francis would tell you that what you dwell upon, you will receive. If he had the power to call to him the signs of the stigmata, is it not possible that you have the power, within you, to call to you the light for which you are looking? If he was able to transform even the dense matter of his cellular structure, can you not also create your reality? One of the most powerful forces that you have is your mind. And this is what I would ask you to hear from Francis.
It is not necessary for you to duplicate the externals of his life, but it is important that you understand the amazing power that you have, and are not using. Please dwell upon what happened to this man. One ordinary man, with one extraordinary desire. You, too, have an extraordinary desire — and whatever that desire is, is what is now manifesting in your life. If you wish to know God, then Francis is a most helpful example for you. You can follow his way, for it is the inner way. What he did on the outside is not important; what he did on the inside is infinitely important. And that, you can also do. If you wish to know God, you can — but you will have to make it an extraordinary desire. One way is to know that every moment you are speaking, you are not speaking to others, you are speaking to God. Is this required of you? If you wish to know God in the way that Francis did, then perhaps so. Perhaps so.
Remember what it was that Francis learned from the song of the bird: God’s voice speaks through everyone and everything — and that included the townspeople. They were upset because their finest sons were following this ruffian. Understand that Francis was not a glamorous man. In fact, there are many homes today where he would not be welcome at the back door, let alone the front. He probably smelled badly and didn’t speak rationally. And when he did speak, the townspeople could not understand him. It is hard to understand someone when they say that God is speaking in the birds or talking through the wind. And when their sons, upon whom they had placed all their future hopes, go to follow this strange man, to laugh, to pray, to sing, to talk, what are they to do? However much Francis is loved now, they certainly did not love him then. People saw him as a danger to their lives. Something that has not been sufficiently recorded is the threat of physical danger to Francis, with angry families coming to repossess their children. “This lunatic Francis has been out in the sun too long. Put some money on your head, my son, it will cool you off. Come home!” Francis realized his position, and decided to lay the problem before the Pope. His concern was for the safety of his brothers.
Of his travels to see the Pope, there has been much nonsense written. But one thing did happen. Before Francis entered what is now known as the Vatican, the Pope began to have strange dreams, and strange feelings about a person who turned out to be Francis. Why? Since Francis was not separate from the Pope, and he was on his way to speak to the Father, like all good Fathers the Pope knew that his son was coming. However negative you might feel about those Popes, the fact remains that they had some degree of true spiritual understanding, and one of the main understandings of that time was of the “power of the vision.” In those days, dreams and visions were sought and respected. And so the Pope and those around him listened, and the message was clear: someone is coming with a request; you aren’t going to like it, but please, pay attention. No more than that, but that was enough. Understand that there was no way in the world that Francis could have approached the Pope, had not others allowed him. Whatever your fantasies may be, you do not just walk in the door, ask to see the Pope, and get ushered into his presence. Especially in those days.
When Francis came, the Pope understood something. The Pope had the power of observations, not only of the physical, but the ability to observe energy. The Popes in those days prayed, and they prayed a lot. They prayed a lot more than they do now, for they had less work, less red tape, and one of the ways of observation is through prayer. This Pope was not a fool. Please do not make these people into stereotypes. This was an amazingly prayerful man, and he did not carry the weight of his office lightly. When he was in the presence of Francis and his followers, he felt something, and what he felt was their power, and he understood that Francis was the man of his visions. And no, he did not like it. The petition to become a true Order is presented for his approval. Inwardly, the Pope is afraid, because the powers around his throne are against this. And this is where he becomes courageous. He says, “I will do it. I will make you a real arm of God. I will do it.”
The most important part of this decision is not the building of the Franciscan Order, but the fact that, from that moment on, Francis does not have to worry about his brothers, because he knows they are safe. He is free now to totally immerse himself in his inner prayer. His concern was never for himself, but for what they would have had to undergo. He is ready to begin the walk that ended on the mountain.
What, then, does all this have to do with you? Perhaps to ask you to look deeply at those things that are causing you anguish, and realize that they stand as the barrier to your walk up your mountain of freedom. Once you know and recognize the areas that produce your anxieties, and once you see that the time you spend agonizing over these matters does not help you walk up the mountain, you may be moved to put those affairs in order, to resolve them and silence them. Until you do that, the part of your mind that is in anguish will continue to move in anguish, and you will not be wholehearted.
Let us join Francis again as he moves through the last phase of his life. The stigmata is embarrassing to him, but he cannot hide it. He does his best to keep it to himself, but the news travels fast, and soon everyone knows. Wherever he goes, even to the smallest villages, people would come — not to hear him talk about God, which he had hoped, but to touch the stigmata. It was well known that if one could but touch the stigmata, one’s dearest wishes would be satisfied. At this stage of his life, he is not well — but he does not care, for health and illness are the same. But, day after day, the crowds grab the bleeding wounds.
The choice to withdraw, to isolate himself, to hide from the lay people of this world, to care for himself, to make things easier, was a constant temptation directed at him by the pleadings of his brothers. His answer was always the same: “God did not give this to me for myself alone. Either I share it with all, or it has no meaning.” And so, if you will look carefully at your lives, you will see there is not one of you who has not been given a gift. Not one. If you choose to use your gift to keep yourself safe, secure, and comfortable, that is one choice. But every time you share your gift — whether it be nursing, therapy, teaching, painting, child-rearing, or whatever — every time you share it wholeheartedly, no matter how inconvenient, you will touch God. The gift was given to you so that it could be shared. Not only at your convenience, but because you know that when you share this gift, you live your life not for yourself, but for other people. Those of you who see no purpose in life, please look to this. Your life will not be worth anything until you learn to serve others. A life lived selfishly will never make you happy.
So the end comes, and while it may be true that the brothers sorrowed, I can assure you that Francis did not. And even in his death, there was something to learn. In his passing, the brothers weep, and they who had traveled for so long together beg Francis to stay. And he asked them why. “Because we love you. We love you. We will miss you.” And he replies, “You haven’t learned very much, have you?” They are taken aback, especially the few arrogant ones, and they ask him what he means. He replies, “I thought you knew. It is all one. The death and the life are all one. I thought you knew. If God be in the wind, is he not also in death? If all space be full, will you ever be empty? If you are a part of everything, how can anything ever be taken from you? How could anything ever be taken from you?” But they did not understand.
When he had gone, those few of the brothers that were closest to him began to understand, because as they sat under the trees and heard the wind, they remembered him, and knew that the sound of the wind was not separate from Francis. And they felt better. When they sat in the sun and felt its warmth, they remembered his song, and they knew that the sun was not separate from Francis, and they felt better. When they cared for the sick, they knew that he was there, and they felt better. So perhaps in his dying, the deepest teaching was given — which is that you can never be separated, that no matter what your eyes might tell you, or what your pain might say, you can never be separated from that which you love. So just love totally, and in loving, nothing can ever be taken from you again.
In Issue 115, we published another excerpt from I Come as a Brother — A Remembrance of Illusions, “The Gift of Sexual Energy.”
© Copyright 1984 by High Mesa Publishing
