I would love to be a Franciscan brother. I'm just not sure I have

“I would love to be a Franciscan brother. I’m just not sure I have the courage to do it.” Thus spoke Rich Mullins, the wandering troubadour of faith, whose songs carried both the ache and the beauty of the human soul. In this quiet confession, he reveals a truth as old as the mountains — that the path of holiness, humility, and service requires more than desire; it demands courage. To long for goodness is human; to live it, divine. Mullins, though celebrated for his music and devotion, lays bare his humanity here — the tension between yearning for spiritual perfection and recognizing one’s own frailty before the weight of such a calling.

The origin of this thought lies deep within Mullins’ heart and his lifelong admiration for the Franciscan order, founded by Saint Francis of Assisi. Francis, the saint who renounced wealth for poverty, power for peace, and pride for simplicity, stood as the living embodiment of Christ’s compassion. Mullins, though a modern man, was drawn to that same sacred poverty — to a life stripped of vanity and bound to love. Yet he knew that such a vow required not merely belief, but surrender — the relinquishing of comfort, ambition, and self. To become a Franciscan brother, in spirit or in truth, is to walk barefoot through the thorns of the world with a song of peace on one’s lips. Mullins’ hesitation, therefore, is not weakness, but reverence — the humble recognition of what true courage costs.

For what is courage? It is not boldness in battle or defiance before men. It is the strength to let go — to die to one’s own will so that love might live. Mullins’ words reveal this paradox: he desired the purity of a Franciscan life, yet he trembled before its demands. Such trembling is holy. Even the saints, before embracing their paths, stood at the edge of fear. Moses hesitated before the burning bush, claiming he was unworthy to speak. Mary pondered in silence the angel’s message before she said “yes.” The measure of courage is not the absence of doubt, but the act of choosing truth in spite of it. Thus, when Mullins confessed his uncertainty, he was already walking the same narrow road — for to admit fear is itself an act of honesty and humility, the first step toward faith.

Saint Francis of Assisi, whom Mullins so admired, once stood naked in the square of his city, having given up all that was his. He cast aside not only clothes, but the world’s expectations, choosing instead a life of radical simplicity. His courage was not forged in the fires of glory, but in the quiet crucible of sacrifice. To follow Francis is to embrace poverty not only of possessions but of pride, to serve joyfully among the broken, to find God in the faces of the forgotten. Mullins saw in this the purest form of love — a love that costs everything. Yet, like so many who glimpse holiness, he knew how far the human heart must travel to meet it. His words, “I’m not sure I have the courage,” echo the cry of all who have ever stood before the divine calling and felt small.

And yet, in that smallness lies the beauty of Mullins’ spirit. For even without the habit of a monk, he lived by the essence of Franciscan faith — in music, humility, and service. He gave much of his wealth to charity, lived simply, and sang not for fame but for truth. His art was prayer; his songs, offerings. Perhaps that is the lesson his words conceal: that to love the way of the Franciscan is not only to wear a robe, but to bear a heart unburdened by greed or fear. To live gently, to forgive readily, to love deeply — these, too, are the marks of the courageous soul. Mullins may have doubted his ability to join the order, but in spirit, he had already entered its fellowship.

Courage, then, is not a gift granted once, but a choice renewed daily. It is found not in the grand vow, but in the quiet moment when one decides to be kind despite exhaustion, to forgive despite pain, to hope despite despair. Mullins’ confession reminds us that courage is not perfection, but persistence — the willingness to keep trying, to keep loving, even when one feels unworthy. For the road to holiness is not walked by the fearless, but by those who fear and walk anyway.

Therefore, my children, learn from Rich Mullins and Saint Francis alike. If you long to serve, serve where you are. If you wish to love, begin with those before you. You need not be a monk to live with Franciscan courage — you need only a heart that chooses compassion over comfort, truth over pride, and faith over fear. Remember this: courage is not the absence of trembling, but the willingness to act through it.

And so, when the call to goodness stirs within you, do not turn away because of your fear. Feel it, acknowledge it, and then step forward anyway. For courage, as Mullins knew, is not born of strength, but of love — and love, when true, will always lead you where you were meant to go.