A few hours later, I received a text from my friend Michael Wear, the CEO of The Center for Christianity and Public Life — on whose board I serve. He texted me that the organization had applied for a grant to send their small staff and board to Assisi.

Sometimes God is not in the mood for subtlety.

Months later, as our van climbed the mountainside in Assisi, I felt like a kid on their way to Disney World. The feeling heightened as we walked through the medieval streets of Assisi and arrived at the Basilica where Francis is entombed.

Our tour guide gave us a wonderful reflection as we walked down the sloped floor of the lower church. He invited us to imagine walking into the waters of spirituality; to feel ourselves getting deeper into communion with God as we walked. He pointed out the way in which the paintings on one wall focused on Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, and the other wall mirrored these events with moments in Francis’s own life. We examined the ceiling paintings that reflect the three virtues of the Franciscan tradition: Chastity, poverty, and obedience.

Then it was time: We walked to the steps that would take us down to the crypt of the church where St. Francis is buried. I wondered again how I would react. In truth, I was hoping for something profound: To break down crying like I did at Our Lady of Guadalupe, or some similar outward experience. Maybe I’d be overcome, and prostrate myself right at the tomb. My focus was very much on my reaction.

Something different happened, no less profound. When I knelt down and put my hands on the stone that holds Francis’s tomb, I felt a strong sense of connection. But the feeling was more one of determination than emotion. At first, I felt disappointed. I’m an emotional guy — where were the waterworks?

The Holy Spirit was calling me to a different posture, no doubt through some intercession of the man in this tomb.

A Bible verse came to my mind as if from nowhere, “He is not here, for he has been raised just as he said.” (Matthew 28:6).

Who was not here? Francis? … No, Jesus.

I felt as though I was receiving fraternal correction — at the very least, from the example of St. Francis himself, if not from something even spiritually deeper. I was not going to have some emotional reaction at this tomb because the tomb, the basilica, the saint himself, all point beyond the tomb in which Francis lies — toward the empty tomb of Jesus.

Sometimes, I can get really interested in a saint’s life, or a book, or a practice, or a form of liturgy. These are helpful. But ultimately, these things only lead us deeper in our faith if they are leading us closer to Jesus. If we focus too much on the nonessentials, we miss the whole point.

We face a particular temptation to do this with St. Francis.

He preached to the birds!

He befriended a wolf!

He loved to walk through and commune with nature!

But we need to be careful not to turn Francis into Eliza Thornberry in a robe.

Francis was close to nature because he was close to God. He had a deep understanding not only of the natural world but of the supernatural one.

He loved the birds because he loved Jesus.

He gave up all that he had because he loved Jesus.

He lived in a cave because he loved Jesus.

He rebuilt the church because he loved Jesus.

He received the stigmata like Jesus because he reached a level of love for Christ that few people ever have.

St. Francis is the saint we need in our time not just because of who he was, but because of where he points us: Jesus, killed on the cross and risen up in glory.

Later in the day, I knelt before the San Damiano cross in Santa Chiara. This is the cross from which Francis heard Jesus say, “Rebuild my church, which you can see has fallen into ruin.”

The cross is where we are headed. It is where we are needed. From there, we will find our vocation. And in a way, our vocation brings us back to it.

As I knelt there, I asked God, “Lord, tell me where you want me to go. Tell me what you want me to do. You spoke so clearly from this place to St. Francis, and he followed you until the very end. Help me to listen to you, and help me to accept your call to go wherever you want me to go, and to build whatever you want me to build. Lead me, and I will follow.”

Afterward, I lit four candles — one for my son Joseph, one for my son on the way, and one for each of my friend Michael’s children. I asked God to show them the path clearly, and to help them to follow it, too.

In the end, I did not have the big tear-filled moment at the tomb of St. Francis that I had expected. But I felt like God was calling me to something deeper and giving me a reminder of where I ultimately need to go. As the Gospel reading told us the Sunday before our visit, Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. May we each grow in our understanding of this truth and open our hearts to it more fully.

Where he leads, let us follow.

Where he calls, let us go.

What he’s asking us to build, let’s build — together.