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Session I

Session I

Our Transitus: Meeting Sister Death

Opening Prayer

(5 minutes)

Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no one living can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Blessed are those whom death will find in Your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give Him thanks,
and serve Him with great humility.

The original Italian begins:

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per sora nostra morte corporale,
da la quale nullo homo vivente pò skappare…
Canticle of the Creatures (Canticle of Brother Sun)
St Francis of Assisi (c. 1225–1226)

Sit in silence for a while and ponder the text

Personal Reflection

What is your instinctive reaction to the word death?
Write down the first three words, images, or feelings that come to mind.
Do not edit them. Just notice.

Introduction:

Why Talk about Death?

(10 minutes)

Most of us live in a culture that finds death difficult to face. We often speak about it in hushed tones or avoid speaking about it altogether. Many people reach adulthood without having seen someone who is dying or dead, or having had little opportunity to talk openly about mortality. Death has largely moved from the home into hospitals, hospices, and care settings. While these places offer skilled and compassionate care, they can also mean that death becomes something hidden from everyday life.

For much of human history it was different. People lived much closer to the realities of birth, illness, ageing, and death. Children grew up knowing elderly relatives. Families gathered around bedsides. Communities mourned together. Death was understood not simply as a medical event but as part of the shared journey of being human.

Into our often death-avoiding culture, St Francis of Assisi offers a strikingly different vision.

In his Canticle of the Creatures, written near the end of his life, Francis speaks of “our Sister Bodily Death.” These words are extraordinary. He does not call death an enemy to be defeated, a stranger to be feared, or a failure to be avoided. He calls death “sister.”

Francis was not being naïve. He knew suffering intimately. By the time he wrote the Canticle he was seriously ill, nearly blind, and living with chronic pain. He had experienced disappointment, conflict, and loss. He understood fear and vulnerability. Yet he had also come to trust deeply in the goodness and faithfulness of God.

For Francis, death belonged within the same family of creation as Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Fire, and Sister Water. It was not outside God’s care. Death was not something separate from God’s love but part of the mystery through which every human being passes.

This way of seeing does not remove grief. It does not make loss easier. It does not ask us to pretend that death is not painful. The death of those we love can leave us heartbroken, and we weep, just as Jesus wept. The thought of our own death can awaken anxiety and uncertainty. Francis would have understood all of this.

What he offers instead is a different relationship with mortality. Rather than treating death as a forbidden subject, he invites us to acknowledge it honestly. Rather than running from it, he encourages us to see it as part of the journey of life itself.

This changes the conversation. The most important question is no longer, “How can I avoid thinking about death?” but “How can I live well in the light of my mortality?”

If death is part of life, then learning how to die is also part of learning how to live. Francis invites us to reflect on what really matters, what we are holding onto, what we might need to let go of, and how we can live more fully, more gratefully, and more lovingly today.

Perhaps that is why Christians throughout the centuries have not simply spoken about preparing for death, but about learning the art of living well as preparation for death. For when we make peace with our mortality, life itself often becomes richer, deeper, and more precious.

As we begin this session, we are not seeking answers to every question about death. Instead, we are opening a conversation. We are learning to look gently and honestly at a reality that touches every human life. And we are exploring whether Francis might help us discover a way of meeting death, not as a stranger, but as a companion on the road that ultimately leads us home to God.

Wondering

  • What emotions arise when you hear Francis call death “sister”?
  • What has shaped your understanding of death?
  • How does your culture talk about death?
  • What might it mean to befriend our mortality?

Reflections

(10 minutes)

A student looks towards graduation.
An athlete looks towards a race or competition.
Parents look towards the day when their children will step into adulthood and find their own path.

Much of life involves looking towards things that lie ahead. Some we anticipate with excitement, some with uncertainty, and some with a mixture of both.
Francis invites us to recognise that death is also one of those realities towards which we are all travelling.

This is not a gloomy or pessimistic way of thinking. Nor is it an invitation to become preoccupied with death. Rather, it is an invitation to honesty. Death is part of the human story. To ignore it does not make it disappear. To acknowledge it may help us live more deeply.

Looking towards death reminds us that life is precious because it is finite. The days we have are gifts, not possessions. They are entrusted to us for a time.

Francis came to understand this through his commitment to holy poverty. Poverty, for him, was never simply about owning fewer things. It was about learning how to receive life gratefully rather than grasping it possessively. It was about recognising that everything—our possessions, our achievements, our relationships, even our own bodies—is ultimately gift.

Francis realised that the opposite of poverty is not wealth. The opposite of poverty is entitlement: the belief that life belongs to us, that we are completely in control, that we can secure ourselves against every loss and every uncertainty.

Yet sooner or later, life teaches us otherwise.

Every goodbye, every ending, every change of season, every relinquished dream, every experience of loss, reminds us that we cannot hold onto everything forever. Much of life involves learning how to let go with grace.

Seen in this light, looking towards death is not about dwelling on an ending. It is about learning what it means to live with open hands rather than clenched fists. It is about discovering that our security lies not in our ability to control life, but in God’s faithfulness that accompanies us through every stage of the journey.

Perhaps this is why Francis could eventually call death “Sister.” He had spent a lifetime learning to trust the One who held his life from beginning to end. Death was no longer something to fear. It became another step in the journey home to God.

Personal Reflection

(not for sharing)

Complete the sentence:
If I am honest, the things I most struggle to let go of are…

Spend a few minutes writing

(10 minutes)

One of the great Franciscan theologians, St Bonaventure, saw the whole of creation as a great movement of love. Everything begins in God, everything is sustained by God, and everything is ultimately drawn back into God.

He described this movement using the Latin phrase exitus et reditus — “going forth and returning.”

For Bonaventure, creation is not something separate from God. The world is not an accident, nor are we isolated individuals making our way through a meaningless universe. Rather, all things come forth from the overflowing goodness and love of God. We are created by love, sustained by love, and called back into love.

This means that our lives are best understood not as possessions but as gifts.

We do not create ourselves. We do not ultimately belong to ourselves. Our lives, our relationships, our talents, our bodies, and even the breath within us, are gifts received from God for a season.

Modern culture often encourages us to think of life as something we own, control, or achieve. We are encouraged to build, accumulate, manage, and secure our future. Yet Bonaventure reminds us that life is not a possession to cling to but a gift to receive with gratitude and eventually to return with trust.

Seen from this perspective, death takes on a different meaning.

Death remains painful. It remains a real loss. It separates us from those we love and confronts us with mystery. Bonaventure never romanticises death or pretends that grief does not exist. Christians mourn because love is real. Tears are a sign of love, not a failure of faith.

Yet death is not the final word.

If our lives have come from God, then death becomes part of the movement of returning to God. The God who gave us life is the same God who receives us at the end of our earthly journey.

For Bonaventure, this is not simply a philosophical idea. It is rooted in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Christ has travelled the road before us. He entered fully into human suffering, human vulnerability, and human death. On the cross he experienced abandonment, pain, and loss. In the resurrection he transformed death from a wall into a doorway, from an ending into a passage.

Because Christ has gone before us, Christians need not face death alone. The road we travel is a road already marked by his footsteps.

This is why Francis could eventually speak of “Sister Death” with such peace. He understood that death was not taking him somewhere unknown. Rather, it was leading him towards the One whom he had loved and served throughout his life.
Bonaventure invites us to see our whole lives in the same way. We are pilgrims. We have come from God, we journey with God, and we are travelling towards God.

Every stage of life is part of that sacred pilgrimage.

Perhaps this understanding changes not only how we think about death, but also how we think about life itself. If we know that our destination is God, we may be less anxious about holding tightly to everything along the way. We may become more grateful, more generous, and more attentive to the people and moments entrusted to us.

For Bonaventure, the deepest truth about human existence is not that we are dying. It is that we are returning home.

And home is where God has been waiting for us all along.

 

Wondering

  • What changes when I think of my life as something entrusted to me rather than owned by me?
  • Where do I glimpse God drawing me home?
  • What does it mean to see my life as something that comes from God and returns to God?

(10 minutes)

One of the most striking things Francis does in the Canticle of the Creatures is to call death “our Sister Bodily Death.” At first hearing, the phrase can sound surprising, even unsettling. Many of us might have expected him to call death an enemy, a thief, or a shadow. Yet Francis deliberately chooses the language of family.

Why a sister?

A sister is someone who belongs. She is part of the family story. She may not always be easy to understand. She may challenge us, frustrate us, or even frighten us at times. Yet she is not a stranger. Her presence is woven into the fabric of our lives.
By calling death “sister,” Francis is inviting us to see mortality differently. He is suggesting that death is not an intruder arriving unexpectedly from outside of life. Rather, death has been accompanying us from the very beginning.

This is not because we are constantly dying, but because life itself contains countless experiences of ending and beginning again. Long before our physical death, we encounter smaller deaths throughout our lives.

We experience the death of childhood as we grow into adulthood. We leave behind schools, homes, friendships, jobs, and seasons of life that once shaped us. Relationships change. Dreams evolve. Some hopes are fulfilled, while others quietly fade away–or are crushed. We discover that life is a continual process of receiving and relinquishing.

We encounter death whenever we say goodbye to someone we love. We encounter it when illness changes what we can do. We encounter it as our bodies age and remind us that we are not as strong or as independent as we once were. We encounter it when plans fail, when disappointments come, when cherished chapters of life draw to a close.

In this sense, death is not waiting only at the end of life. It walks quietly beside us throughout the journey.

The Franciscan tradition sometimes speaks of these experiences as “little transitus moments”—small passings over. Just as Francis’ final passage from this life to the next is known as his Transitus, so each experience of letting go becomes a rehearsal for the greater surrender that awaits us all.

This does not mean we must welcome every loss or pretend that change is easy. Some endings wound us deeply. Some losses leave scars that remain for years. Grief is real because love is real. Francis never asks us to deny the pain of loss.

Yet he does suggest that these experiences can teach us something important. They teach us that life is always moving. They teach us that we are pilgrims rather than owners. They teach us that love often involves letting go. Above all, they teach us trust.

Perhaps this is why Francis places Sister Death alongside Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Fire, and Sister Water. Death is not outside creation but part of it. It belongs within the great family of God. It is one of the realities through which every creature must pass.

To call death “sister” is not to remove its mystery. It is not to eliminate fear. Rather, it is to refuse to make death into a monster. It is to acknowledge that mortality is part of being human and that God is present even there.

As Francis approached the end of his life, he no longer saw death as a stranger waiting in the darkness. He saw her as a familiar companion, one who had walked beside him through every season of life and who would finally lead him into the presence of the God he loved.

Perhaps the invitation for us is not to stop fearing death altogether, but to become a little more familiar with our mortality. To notice the many ways life teaches us to let go. To recognise the small endings that shape us. And to trust that, beyond every ending, God remains faithful.

For if death is truly our sister, then she has not come to take us away from God, but to accompany us on the final stage of the journey home.

Wondering

  • Where have I already encountered “small deaths” in my life?
  • What did they teach me?
  • What new life emerged from them?

 

Reflective Action

(10 minutes)

Choose one thing you need to release. It might be:

  • A worry
  • A resentment
  • A fear
  • A disappointment
  • A need for control
  • A need to be right

Write it down. Hold it before God. Pray quietly:

Lord, I release this into your hands.

Spend a few moments in silence.

Closing Prayer

God of our beginnings and endings,
You hold all things in your love.
When we cling too tightly,
gently loosen our grasp.
When we are afraid,
draw near.
Teach us to recognise Sister Death,
not as a stranger,
but as one held within your mercy.
Help us to live with open hands,
to trust more deeply,
and to walk more freely.
Through Christ our Lord.
Amen.

Final wondering

  • What is one small thing I sense I am being invited to release today?

  • Sister Death

Introduction

Five Franciscan Study Reflections on Death, Dying, and Trust in God

Session III

Living Toward Death: Daily Kenosis and the many Transitus Experiences

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