One Light, Many Lamps
A Franciscan Clarean Journey Through the World’s Religions
Sister Abigail Hester, OFC
My Work is for the Greater Good of All
All works by Sister Abigail Hester, OFC are released under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (CC BY 4.0).
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Dedication
For the peacemakers, the bridge-builders, the pilgrims of every path.
And for the Great Love that welcomes us all home.
“The lamps are different, but the Light is the same.”
— Rumi
Introduction: The Franciscan Clarean Way of Interfaith Harmony
There is a deep and ancient yearning in the human heart to know the Sacred. From desert caves to mountaintop temples, from the rhythmic drumbeats of tribal ceremonies to the silent stillness of meditation halls, humanity has always reached toward the Holy—by many names and in many ways. The Franciscan Clarean tradition, rooted in the radical humility and expansive love of Saints Francis and Clare of Assisi, teaches us not to fear the diversity of these paths, but to honor them. We are called not to compete, but to commune.
This book is not a defense of Christianity over other religions. It is a love letter to the global human family. It is a journey into the soul of spiritual traditions that differ in form but resonate in essence. Like many lamps drawing from one light, each tradition casts its glow uniquely—and together, they illuminate the Sacred Whole.
As a Franciscan Clarean nun, I walk barefoot into the world’s pain and beauty with the Gospel in one hand and open palms in the other. I believe that Jesus did not come to create a monopoly on truth but to model a life of healing, humility, and holy disruption. In the spirit of St. Francis, who embraced the Sultan with reverence rather than violence, and St. Clare, who found contemplative clarity in simplicity and silence, this book seeks to live out their legacy: prophetic, peace-making, and deeply present to the Spirit at work everywhere.
Too often, religion is weaponized. It is used to divide, conquer, and colonize. This book resists that. It will not tell you one path is “right” and the others “wrong.” It will not try to convert you. Instead, it invites you—whatever your tradition, background, or belief—to walk with me through the sacred gardens of the world’s great religions, listening for the Divine heartbeat that pulses beneath them all.
We will sit with the wisdom of the Buddha and the Quran. We will sing the Psalms and chant Sanskrit mantras. We will bow to the Great Mystery and cradle the Earth as sacred. We will learn to speak in the dialect of reverence and live with the tenderness of understanding.
And all along the way, we will ask: What does it mean to be Franciscan in a pluralistic world? What does it mean to follow Jesus not as a conqueror but as a companion among many seekers? How can we be truth-tellers and bridge-builders at the same time?
This is not a textbook. It is a pilgrim’s journal. It is a prayer. It is a provocation to love more boldly and judge less quickly. It is a prophetic invitation to lay down our theological swords and lift up the cup of shared humanity.
Come, friend. Take off your shoes. This ground—everywhere—is holy.
Chapter One: The Many Faces of the Divine
“Wherever you turn, there is the face of God.”
—The Qur’an, Surah 2:115
A Kaleidoscope of Glory
In every land, in every time, humanity has sought to name the mystery that holds us. Some call it God. Others speak of Spirit, the Universe, the Great Mother, the Void, the Tao, or the Holy. Some refuse to name it at all, preferring awe to articulation. But across cultures and centuries, a central truth remains: we are not alone, and we are not the center. Something greater invites us to love, to listen, to live with purpose.
As a Franciscan Clarean, I see the Divine in all things and all things in the Divine. This is not mere poetic metaphor; it is a lived theology. St. Francis called the sun his brother, the moon his sister, and death his sibling. St. Clare saw Christ reflected in the flickering flame of a sanctuary lamp. Their spirituality was incarnational—not abstract and distant, but immediate and intimate.
So what happens when we look beyond our own religion? Not with suspicion, but with wonder?
We find the face of God wearing many masks.
From the Burning Bush to the Bodhi Tree
In the Hebrew Scriptures, God thunders from Sinai and whispers through prophets. In the Qur’an, Allah is infinitely merciful and just, nearer to us than our own veins. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna reveals divine truth in the midst of moral anguish. In Buddhist texts, enlightenment is a path of compassion and clarity. In Indigenous traditions, the Sacred may be found in rivers, ancestors, and the rhythm of the land.
Each of these faces is worthy of reverence—not because they agree with one another, but because they are honest, beautiful, and alive with human yearning.
It would be a mistake to reduce all religions to “basically the same.” They are not. Each carries unique stories, rituals, cosmologies, and communities. But beneath the surface differences, many share common questions: Who are we? Why are we here? How shall we live? What happens when we die? What does it mean to live a good life?
To be Franciscan Clarean in a multifaith world is to honor these questions wherever they arise. It is to look into another’s theology and not flinch or correct, but bow. It is to believe that Truth is too radiant to be contained in any single tradition—and that our differences are not obstacles, but openings.
A Jesus-Shaped Openness
Some might ask, “But don’t you follow Jesus?” Yes. And it is because I follow Jesus that I am compelled to love those who walk other paths. Jesus healed across boundaries. He praised the faith of outsiders. He told stories of Samaritans, Roman soldiers, and Syrophoenician women. His table was scandalously inclusive.
To follow him, then, is not to gatekeep God. It is to scatter seeds of grace far and wide.
Francis of Assisi understood this. When he met the Muslim Sultan Malik al-Kamil during the Fifth Crusade, he did not preach condemnation. He listened. He learned. He returned changed. Clare, in her cloister, saw the entire world in the face of Christ—not just her church, not just her gender, not just her faith.
So too must we expand our gaze.
God Beyond the Edges
What if the Divine is larger than doctrine, deeper than dogma, wider than worship styles?
What if God speaks in thunder and silence, in Torah and temple bells, in sacred fire and falling leaves?
What if, instead of asking, “Which path is right?” we asked, “How can I honor the path my neighbor walks?”
This does not mean abandoning our own tradition. It means deepening it. Like a tree nourished by rain from many skies, our roots grow stronger when we honor the whole ecosystem of faith.
For those of us shaped by the Christian story, the call is clear: to walk humbly, to love mercy, and to recognize Christ in the stranger, the seeker, the questioner, and even the one whose name for God is not “Jesus.” God is not threatened by pluralism. Only human pride is.
Reflection
What names for the Divine have spoken to you in your life?
How do you feel when you encounter someone with a very different faith than your own?
Can you see the image of God in a Buddhist monk, a Muslim mother, or a Pagan priestess?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
O God of a thousand faces,
You who dwell in temples and in trees,
In sacred texts and in silent tears—
Teach us to recognize You everywhere.
Break our idols of certainty,
And give us eyes of reverence.
That we may walk this world with open hearts,
And bow before every holy fire.
Amen.
Chapter Two: Walking with the Buddha — Compassion and Mindfulness
“Radiate boundless love toward the entire world.”
—The Buddha, Metta Sutta
Meeting the Buddha on the Road
It is said that if you meet the Buddha on the road, you should bow. As a Franciscan Clarean, I do. I bow not as one who has abandoned her Christian path, but as one who recognizes Christ in the gentle presence of a wandering teacher who taught suffering and its cessation, who gave the world not a creed, but a practice.
Buddhism is not about believing in God. It is about waking up. And when I study the life of Siddhartha Gautama—the historical Buddha—I find myself moved by a different kind of gospel: not one of salvation from sin, but one of liberation from illusion, fear, and attachment.
Francis and Clare understood this intuitively. Their voluntary poverty, silence, and detachment from possessions mirror many of the same truths found in the Buddhist path. When I sit in meditation with Buddhist teachers, I do not feel far from my own saints. I feel close—closer, even, to the Christ who went into the wilderness, who fasted, who prayed, and who emptied himself.
Four Noble Truths and Franciscan Poverty
Buddhism begins with a simple and profound observation: life includes suffering. This isn’t a cynical view—it’s an honest one. Like Jesus proclaiming, “Blessed are those who mourn,” the Buddha names the reality of suffering, not to glorify it, but to transform it.
The Four Noble Truths teach:
- There is suffering (dukkha).
- Suffering arises from craving (tanha).
- There is a way to end suffering.
- That way is the Noble Eightfold Path.
Franciscan spirituality resonates here. St. Francis embraced “Lady Poverty,” not because he hated the world, but because he knew that grasping—clinging to money, power, security—was a root of suffering. Clare found joy in a bare cell and a broken piece of bread. The Buddha would have understood.
The path out of suffering, for Buddhists, is not a divine rescue but a lived discipline. Right view, right speech, right action—these are not so different from the Sermon on the Mount. They are not so different from the Rule of Saint Francis.
Mindfulness and the Gospel of Attention
Buddhism’s great gift to the modern world may be its practice of mindfulness: the art of being fully present, without judgment, to the moment as it is.
Jesus practiced mindfulness when he knelt in the garden, sweating blood. Clare practiced it when she stared into the flickering flame. Francis practiced it as he listened to birdsong with reverent silence.
Mindfulness is not the opposite of Christian devotion—it may be its fulfillment.
As a Christian, I say “Here I am, Lord.” As a Buddhist, one might simply say, “Here I am.” Both are sacred acknowledgments.
In an age of noise, scrolling, and distraction, mindfulness is prophetic. It is a form of resistance. It teaches us to sit still, to listen deeply, to breathe through pain and joy. It teaches us to stop running from suffering and meet it with compassion.
And oh, how our world needs compassion.
The Bodhisattva and the Franciscan Fool
In Mahayana Buddhism, a bodhisattva is someone who delays their final enlightenment in order to remain in the world and help others be free. This is not so different from the Franciscan fool who stays with the lepers, who walks among the poor, who sings songs of joy in a suffering world.
Both the bodhisattva and the Franciscan know that salvation is not escape—it is solidarity.
Both laugh at prestige. Both embrace the lowly. Both are, in their own way, mirrors of the Christ who emptied himself and walked among us as a servant.
In Buddhism, compassion (karuna) is not optional—it is the heart of the path. And in Christianity, love of neighbor is the greatest commandment. In both paths, we are called to be present, open, tender, and fearless.
Not Two, Not One
To honor Buddhism is not to pretend it is Christianity in disguise. It is not. Buddhism is non-theistic. It has no creator God. It centers on inner transformation, not divine intervention. It carries its own beauty, its own discipline, its own insights.
But to honor Buddhism as a Christian is to recognize how its truth shines light on our own. It is to let another tradition help us see Jesus more clearly, and to hear our own Gospel with new ears.
In Buddhism, I have found a mirror for the contemplative heart of the Gospel. I have found friends and teachers. I have found silence and spaciousness. I have found a deeper way of loving.
And I am still a Christian.
This, I believe, is what interfaith journeying invites: not conversion, but communion. Not agreement, but respect. Not blending, but belonging.
We walk together. We learn. We bow. And the world becomes a little more whole.
Reflection
Have you ever sat in silence simply to be present?
What does suffering mean to you—and how have you responded to it?
How might the practice of mindfulness deepen your own spiritual path?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
Stillness of the morning,
Breath of mercy,
Teach us to be here.In each inhale, a gift.
In each exhale, a letting go.May we walk in compassion.
May we love without grasping.
May we see Your face in every quiet teacher,
And hear Your truth in unexpected places.Amen.
Chapter Three: Sitting with the Prophet — Justice and Surrender
“Do not let hatred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just: that is nearer to righteousness.”
—The Qur’an, Surah 5:8
Encounter at the Edge of Empire
It was during the Crusades, in the thirteenth century, that a barefoot man named Francis crossed enemy lines. He did not come with sword or shield. He came with peace in his eyes and love in his heart. He wanted to speak with the Sultan. He wanted to learn. He did not convert him. Nor was he converted. But what happened between them was far more revolutionary: they encountered one another in the presence of God.
To be Franciscan Clarean is to follow in the footsteps of that sacred encounter. To sit down, unarmed, with those we are taught to fear. To let curiosity be stronger than judgment. And to believe, stubbornly, that the Spirit speaks Arabic too.
Islam and the Rhythm of Surrender
The word Islam means “surrender.” A Muslim is “one who submits” to the will of God—Allah in Arabic, which simply means “The God.” It is not a different God. It is the same Divine Mystery, approached through different language, shaped by a different history.
The central pillar of Islam is the Shahada: There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God. This is not unlike our Christian confession that Jesus is Lord—not in the sense of empire, but in the sense of devotion, justice, and transformation.
In Islam, the rhythm of surrender is lived through five daily prayers, almsgiving, fasting, pilgrimage, and belief in God’s oneness. These are not hollow rituals. They are embodied reminders that we are not the center, that our lives belong to something greater, and that true peace (salaam) comes not from domination, but from humility.
Can you imagine if Christians prayed five times a day—not for conquest, but for peace? Can you imagine if Christians fasted like our Muslim siblings during Ramadan—not to punish the body, but to awaken the soul?
There is much to admire. And even more to learn.
The Prophet and the Poor
Muhammad, peace be upon him, was not a warlord. He was a mystic, a merchant, an orphan, a husband, and a voice for the voiceless. He lived among the poor. He called for justice. He challenged corruption. He uplifted women, orphans, and the enslaved. He was not perfect—but he was faithful.
In many ways, he reminds me of Jesus. Not because they taught the same things word for word, but because they both stood with the marginalized, risked their lives for a vision of justice, and invited people into right relationship with the Sacred.
We do not need to erase our theological differences to say this. We only need to be honest—and humble.
The Qur’an speaks of God’s mercy more than 100 times. It names the same figures we know from Scripture: Abraham, Moses, Mary, Jesus. It invites humans to charity, to prayer, to mercy, to righteousness.
And yet, Muslims are still demonized—by Christians who have forgotten their own history of bloodshed, bigotry, and religious violence.
This must stop.
To be prophetic is to speak truth. And here is the truth: Islam is not our enemy. Ignorance is.
Sisters in the Mosque, Brothers in the Desert
Clare of Assisi never traveled to the Holy Land, but she prayed there in spirit. Her cloister became a cathedral of the world. She saw Christ in the poor, in the Eucharist, and in silence.
I believe she would have seen God in a veiled woman kneeling in prayer.
As a woman of faith, I see deep beauty in the ways Muslim women navigate devotion, modesty, agency, and cultural tradition. I see solidarity in their strength, in their resistance, in their spiritual depth.
And I see the Prophet’s courage reflected in every imam who preaches peace, in every family who breaks fast together, in every refugee who holds onto faith in a hostile land.
This is our kin.
This is our sacred inheritance—if we dare claim it.
Franciscan Surrender
Surrender is not weakness. It is the strongest thing a human being can do. It is the foundation of Islam. And it is the beating heart of the Franciscan life.
Francis surrendered to God when he stripped naked in the town square. Clare surrendered when she cut her hair and said goodbye to wealth. I surrender each day when I let go of judgment, control, and fear—and trust that God is bigger than me.
Islam reminds me of this. It calls me to bow. Not because I am less than others, but because we are all less than the One who made us.
And in that bowing, I find peace.
Reflection
What does “surrender” mean to you in your spiritual journey?
How has your understanding of Islam been shaped—by media, by relationships, by curiosity?
Can you find holiness in a path that is not your own?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
God of Abraham, God of Mary,
God of the desert winds and whispered prayers—
Teach us to surrender, not in fear but in faith.
Let our judgments fall silent.
Let our curiosity be holy.
Help us to pray with our Muslim siblings,
To fast with compassion,
To bow with awe.
You are One.
And we are many.
May our diversity reflect Your glory.
And may peace be upon us all.
Ameen.
Amen.
Chapter Four: Dancing with Krishna — Joy and Devotion
“Whenever there is a decline in righteousness, I manifest Myself.”
—Bhagavad Gita 4:7
Divine Play and Sacred Love
If Christianity has a tendency toward solemnity, Hinduism dances. It sings. It overflows with color, story, and play. Where the West often seeks clarity, the East embraces paradox. And nowhere is this more true than in the Hindu vision of Krishna: a flute-playing, mischievous, radiant incarnation of God who laughs with children, dances with lovers, and offers wisdom on the battlefield.
At first glance, Krishna may seem worlds apart from Jesus. But look again: both are divine in human form. Both speak of love, justice, and transformation. Both offer a way of being that is not merely about belief, but about bhakti—devotion.
As a Franciscan Clarean, I resonate deeply with this. Francis called himself the “jongleur of God”—a fool, a minstrel, a wandering lover. Clare spoke of being “wounded with love” for Christ. Their lives were not just theological—they were devotional, embodied, poetic. They, too, danced.
Many Gods, One Reality
Hinduism can seem bewildering to outsiders. There are gods with elephant heads, gods with blue skin, gods with many arms. But at its heart, Hinduism affirms something profoundly unifying: Brahman—the infinite, formless, eternal reality beyond all names and forms.
The many gods are not competitors. They are manifestations, metaphors, faces of the Divine. Much like Christian mystics speak of the Trinity—not three gods, but one God in three expressions—Hindus see the Sacred as simultaneously many and one.
And when I look at the multiplicity of Christian denominations, saints, symbols, and stories, I realize: perhaps we’re not so different. We, too, paint the Infinite with human brushstrokes.
Hinduism simply embraces that diversity more openly.
The Bhagavad Gita and the Battle Within
The Bhagavad Gita is one of Hinduism’s most beloved texts—a conversation between Krishna and the warrior Arjuna on the eve of battle. But the battle is not merely external. It is the battlefield of the soul.
Arjuna is torn between duty and despair. Krishna calls him to live with courage, selflessness, and spiritual insight. He speaks of karma (action), dharma (righteous duty), and moksha (liberation). He urges Arjuna to act—not for reward, but as an offering.
This is not unlike Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. Not my will, but Yours be done.
In both texts, the divine presence does not promise escape—it offers presence. Companionship. Courage. And clarity in the midst of chaos.
Bhakti and the Way of the Heart
Among the many spiritual paths within Hinduism, bhakti yoga—the path of loving devotion—is closest to my heart. It is not about logic or asceticism. It is about singing, weeping, yearning, and surrendering to the Beloved.
When I see devotees offering flowers to an image of Krishna, I am reminded of Clare gazing lovingly at the crucifix. When I hear chants of Hare Krishna, I feel the same holy ecstasy that Francis must have felt when he cried out “My God and my all!”
Love is the thread that connects these worlds. Not just love for a doctrine, but love for a Presence—mysterious, beautiful, intimate.
This is the kind of love that transforms.
Seeing God Everywhere
Hinduism teaches that all life is sacred. The cow is honored, the river is holy, the body is a vessel for the divine. Creation is not fallen—it is shimmering with satchitananda (being, consciousness, bliss).
Franciscans, too, see God in creation. In birds, in fire, in water, in the poor, in the leper. To be Franciscan Clarean is to live as if everything is a theophany—a manifestation of the Holy.
The doctrine of incarnation is not exclusive. It is a lens. And in Hinduism, that lens is turned toward many forms—each one a glimpse of God.
In Krishna, I see not a rival Christ, but a holy relative.
In Shiva’s dance, I see creation and destruction in rhythm.
In Saraswati’s music, I hear the Logos echoing through time.
We are not called to flatten these differences, but to treasure them.
A Franciscan Kind of Bhakti
What would it mean for Christians to reclaim bhakti—to weep in worship, to sing without shame, to offer our lives as sacred gifts without needing certainty in return?
Francis kissed wounds. Clare cried tears of joy before the Blessed Sacrament. Their lives were not respectable. They were devotional.
Hinduism reminds us that theology must dance. That religion must overflow into art, into nature, into everyday acts of beauty. That God is not just to be obeyed—but adored.
Reflection
Have you ever experienced devotion as joy, play, or longing?
How do you relate to the idea of God having many forms?
In what ways do you see the Sacred shining through the natural world?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
O Divine Beloved,
You who wear many names,
Who dance through creation,
Who play the flute beneath the moonlight—
Teach us to love You in all Your forms.
May we offer flowers of kindness,
Chants of joy,
And lives of open-hearted devotion.
Let our faith not be stiff,
But tender and alive.
And let us, like Francis and Clare,
Fall in love with You again and again,
In every sacred song,
In every stranger’s eyes.
Amen.
Chapter Five: Listening with the Rabbis — Wisdom and Memory
“These words that I command you today shall be upon your heart. Teach them to your children. Speak them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the way.”
—Deuteronomy 6:6–7
Our Older Siblings in Faith
Before there were Christians, there were Jews. Before there was Eucharist, there was Passover. Before the Gospels, there were scrolls in a synagogue. We who follow Jesus forget, far too easily, that he never left Judaism. He was born, lived, prayed, taught, and died as a Jew. And when we forget that, we risk severing the roots of our own tree.
To be Franciscan Clarean is to be rooted in the Gospel—but also in humility. And humility demands that we listen to our elders. Judaism is not “half-complete Christianity.” It is a complete and beautiful tradition in its own right, brimming with resilience, creativity, and sacred memory.
The late Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote that faith is not clinging to a shrine but an endless pilgrimage of the heart. I believe St. Francis would have said the same.
The Sacredness of Story and Struggle
Judaism is a faith that tells stories. Not to escape history, but to wrestle with it. The God of Judaism is not abstract and cold—this God argues, grieves, remembers, liberates, and commands. This God led slaves out of Egypt and gave manna in the wilderness. This God makes covenants and keeps them.
Christians often spiritualize suffering. Judaism remembers it. It names the pain. It lights candles in the dark. It teaches that lament and protest can be holy, that God is big enough to handle our anger, and that redemption does not erase the scars—it blesses them.
This is why Jewish theology has so much to teach us, especially in times of political violence, persecution, and displacement. Jews know what it means to wander, to rebuild, to mourn what was lost and still dance at weddings.
They are not strangers to trauma. They are masters of survival.
Midrash and the Living Text
One of the most beautiful practices in Judaism is Midrash—a tradition of interpreting and reinterpreting sacred texts through questions, stories, and debate. The text is not frozen. It is alive. It is something to argue with, to wrestle like Jacob wrestled the angel.
As a Franciscan Clarean who believes in the radical reimagining of Scripture through the lenses of the poor, the queer, the disabled, and the excluded, Midrash feels like holy kinship.
What if Christians learned to ask questions of the Bible instead of demanding rigid answers?
What if we embraced multiple interpretations, honored community discernment, and welcomed mystery?
In the Jewish tradition, questioning is not a sign of doubt. It is a sign of love.
Sabbath and Sacred Time
The Jewish Shabbat (Sabbath) is more than a rest day. It is a radical act of resistance. In a world that values production over presence, efficiency over embodiment, and consumption over contemplation, the Sabbath declares: We are not machines. We are not slaves. We belong to God.
This is profoundly Franciscan. Clare insisted her sisters rest. Francis taught that joy and leisure were forms of praise. Sabbath is not an interruption to the holy life—it is the holy life.
What if we reclaimed the art of stopping, blessing, and simply being?
What if, instead of chasing God in activity, we found God in stillness?
Judaism reminds us that time itself can be sacred—especially when it is shared with others, wrapped in candles, bread, and blessing.
From Wounds to Wisdom
Too often, Christians have treated Judaism as obsolete or even condemned. This has led to centuries of anti-Semitism, violence, and theological arrogance. We must repent.
Francis and Clare may not have had Jewish teachers, but today we do. And we must listen.
We must remember that Jesus wept Jewish tears, sang Jewish psalms, and wore a prayer shawl.
We must remember that Mary was a Jewish mother, and Paul was a Jewish mystic.
And we must remember that Judaism did not end at the cross. It lives. It thrives. It continues to offer wisdom, justice, laughter, and light to the world.
To be a Christian is not to supersede the Jewish story. It is to honor it, and to graft ourselves humbly onto its tree.
Reflection
How does knowing Jesus was Jewish impact your view of him?
What stories from the Hebrew Scriptures have shaped your life?
How can you embrace Sabbath—not just as rest, but as sacred resistance?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
O God of Sarah and Abraham,
Of Miriam and Moses,
Of Ruth and Jeremiah,
You who dwell in the stories of survivors
And sing in the songs of your people—
Teach us to remember.
Teach us to listen.
Teach us to wrestle with sacred words,
And find You in the struggle.
Bless our Jewish siblings,
Who have walked through fire
And still light candles with joy.
May we never forget
That You speak in Hebrew, too.
Amen.
Chapter Six: Chanting with the Mystics — Silence and Fire
“The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me.”
—Meister Eckhart
Mystics at the Edge of Language
There comes a moment on every spiritual path when words begin to fail. When doctrines crumble in the face of wonder. When the sacred is no longer something we talk about—but something we touch. This is the realm of the mystics: those whose hearts burn with a love that defies language, whose vision is shaped not by certainty, but by intimacy.
Mysticism is not the property of one religion. It is a stream that runs through them all—sometimes hidden, sometimes persecuted, but always alive. It is the fire beneath the altar, the silence between the syllables, the longing that cannot be silenced.
To be Franciscan Clarean is to listen for the mystics—wherever they rise up. For their voices echo the same truth: that the Divine is not far away. God is here. God is now. God is within.
Silence in Every Language
In Christianity, mystics like Julian of Norwich, John of the Cross, Hildegard of Bingen, and Thomas Merton wrote of visions, darkness, union, and ineffable love. In Islam, the Sufi poet Rumi spun metaphors of divine intoxication. In Judaism, the Kabbalists mapped the hidden structure of God’s light. In Buddhism, Zen masters taught awakening through wordless stillness. In Hinduism, yogis sought union with Brahman through breath and meditation.
Different maps. Same terrain.
Different symbols. Same flame.
In every case, the mystic invites us to let go—of our ego, our need to control, our obsession with being right—and to step into a deeper knowing, where we are not separate from the Sacred, but part of it.
This is not about escaping the world. It is about inhabiting it fully—because we see it now as holy.
Francis and Clare: Mystics in Rags
St. Francis was not a systematic theologian. He was a mystic. He kissed lepers, wept at the Eucharist, spoke to birds, and saw Christ in every creature. His Canticle of the Creatures is not a doctrinal statement—it is a love poem to the world. Clare, in her stillness, saw more clearly than the powerful ever could. She called poverty her mother, Christ her mirror, and contemplation her home.
These are not tame saints. They are mystical revolutionaries.
To follow them is to live with our hearts open to the pain of the world and the beauty that pulses beneath it. It is to fall in love with the Beloved in every form.
And it is to know that the deepest truths are not shouted—they are whispered in silence.
Fire and Union
Mystics speak of union. In Christian terms, this is sometimes called theosis—becoming one with God. In Sufi Islam, it is called fana—the annihilation of the self in divine love. In Hinduism, it is called moksha. In Buddhism, nirvana. In each case, ego dissolves and the soul becomes spacious, luminous, free.
This is not abstract metaphysics. It is deeply practical. A mystic who sees God in all things cannot harm another without wounding the Divine. A mystic who lives from unity becomes a wellspring of compassion.
The fire of God is not destruction. It is purification. And the mystics burn not with zealotry—but with love.
The Way of the Contemplative
In our noisy world, mysticism feels subversive. It refuses performance. It honors stillness. It teaches us that our worth is not in doing, but in being.
Contemplative practice—be it Christian centering prayer, Buddhist mindfulness, Sufi whirling, or Hindu mantra chanting—anchors us in the present. It clears space for grace. It helps us hear the still, small voice that is always speaking.
As Franciscan Clareans, we are not called to withdraw from the world, but to engage it from a place of inner freedom. Contemplation fuels activism. Silence grounds resistance. Fire becomes light.
The Common Flame
What unites the mystics is not theology—it is experience. Direct, immediate, overwhelming experience of the Holy.
Mystics speak in poetry because prose cannot contain God.
Mystics are often marginalized by their own traditions because they threaten the status quo.
Mystics remind us that religion, at its best, is not about control—but communion.
Let us walk with them.
Let us chant with them.
Let us burn with the same holy fire.
Reflection
Have you ever experienced a moment of connection to something greater than yourself?
How do silence, poetry, or music open you to the Sacred?
Are there mystics—of any tradition—who speak to your soul?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
O Flame that burns without consuming,
O Silence that speaks beyond words,
Teach us to listen.
Teach us to open.
May we find You in the dark,
In the dance,
In the breath,
In the ache.
Unite us to Your heart—
Not through dogma,
But through love.
Set us ablaze
With the fire of the mystics.
Amen.
Chapter Seven: Earth Traditions and Sacred Ecology
“The land is not empty. It is full of memory.”
—Robin Wall Kimmerer
Listening to the Earth, Listening to the Elders
Before scripture was written, the Earth was already speaking. Before temples and churches, there were forests and fire circles. Before theology, there was relationship—between humans and animals, plants and stars, ancestors and unborn generations. Indigenous and earth-based traditions are among the oldest spiritual paths in the world, yet they are often the most misunderstood or dismissed.
To be Franciscan Clarean is to remember that the Earth is our sibling, not our servant. That spirituality must be rooted in soil. That God is not confined to pulpits and pages, but pulses through rivers, stones, wind, and sky.
In the presence of Indigenous wisdom-keepers, I take off my shoes. This is holy ground.
The Sacred Circle
While no single Indigenous tradition speaks for all, many share a common worldview: the Earth is alive, all beings are interconnected, and spiritual health is inseparable from ecological balance and communal justice. There is no separation between the spiritual and the material. The sacred is not above us—it is among us.
This resonates deeply with the Franciscan way. Francis sang to Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Clare gazed at the candle’s flame and saw the light of Christ. Their lives remind us that nature is not a backdrop—it is a teacher, a kin, a cathedral.
In Native American spirituality, the medicine wheel is a powerful symbol of balance, wholeness, and the cyclical nature of life. In Celtic paganism, the turning of the seasons is marked with ritual and reverence. In African spiritual traditions, ancestors are honored and the land is treated as a sacred trust.
These are not “primitive” beliefs. They are prophetic.
Colonization and the Theft of Spirit
Much of the world’s Indigenous spirituality has been trampled under the boots of empire. Christian missionaries—often with sincere but colonizing intentions—sought to erase native ways and replace them with Western theology. Sacred lands were stolen. Sacred stories were outlawed. Entire cultures were labeled “pagan” and stripped of dignity.
This history must be named and mourned. As followers of Christ, we must repent for the ways our faith has been weaponized.
And then—we must listen.
Because Indigenous wisdom may be what saves us.
In an age of climate collapse, spiritual emptiness, and cultural fragmentation, the traditions we once tried to silence now offer guidance we desperately need.
Creation as Scripture
Francis taught that creation is a “mirror of God.” Today’s earth-based traditions affirm this with power and poetry. The wind teaches impermanence. The river teaches flow. The tree teaches rootedness and growth.
Christianity, at its best, has always known this too. “The heavens declare the glory of God,” wrote the Psalmist. Jesus taught lessons with seeds, birds, and lilies. Early desert monks listened to the wisdom of wild places.
But we forgot. We paved over paradise and built shopping malls.
Now the Earth groans—and calls us back to the circle.
To learn from earth-based traditions is not to worship the Earth, but to honor it. To remember that the Divine is not separate from matter. To reweave ourselves into the web of life with gratitude, reverence, and responsibility.
Ritual, Relationship, and the Sacred Everyday
In many Indigenous traditions, ritual is not a rare event—it is a way of life. Lighting a fire, preparing food, speaking to the ancestors, tending to the land—these are acts of devotion. Everything has spirit. Everything deserves respect.
Franciscans, too, are called to simplicity, rhythm, and attention to the everyday. Clare taught her sisters to sweep the floor as an act of praise. Francis sang while walking. Prayer was not confined to hours or buildings—it was constant, embodied, and woven into life.
Earth-based traditions teach us to slow down. To mark the seasons. To know where our food comes from. To bless the rain. To honor birth, death, and the in-between.
They teach us to be human again.
Standing with the Earth and Its Peoples
To walk this path is not just about spirituality—it is about justice.
Land back.
Water rights.
Environmental reparations.
Preserving endangered languages and cultures.
Being Franciscan Clarean means we do not extract wisdom from Indigenous peoples while ignoring their cries for freedom and dignity. We cannot claim their rituals without standing beside them in solidarity.
Our reverence must become action. Our gratitude must become partnership.
Anything less is theft.
Reflection
What is your relationship with the natural world? Is it reverent, rushed, or estranged?
How might your faith deepen by honoring the land you live on—and the peoples who have stewarded it?
What rituals of reconnection can you practice in your daily life?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
O Spirit who speaks in rustling leaves and thunderclouds,
In drumbeats and raindrops,
Forgive us for forgetting.
Forgive us for wounding what is sacred.
Teach us again to walk gently,
To listen deeply,
To honor what we do not understand.
May we return to the circle.
May we bless the land.
May we rise with the ancestors
And dance with the stars.
This is holy ground.
Amen.
Chapter Eight: A Franciscan at the Interfaith Table
“Let us build a house where love can dwell and all can safely live.”
—Marty Haugen, All Are Welcome
The Table Is Round
If the Kingdom of God is a banquet, as Jesus often taught, then the table must be wide. And if we take that image seriously—if we believe the Divine invites every tribe, tongue, and nation to feast—then interfaith dialogue is not a threat to the Gospel. It is the Gospel in action.
At the interfaith table, no one owns the truth. No one speaks for all. We come not to conquer, but to commune. Not to convert, but to connect.
Francis of Assisi sat at this kind of table when he entered the Sultan’s camp. Clare set this table when she blessed the world from behind cloistered walls. We, too, are called to pull up a chair—and to bring bread, not boundaries.
What Does It Mean to Be Franciscan in a Multifaith World?
It means being radically rooted in Christ and radically open to the Spirit wherever she blows.
It means practicing what St. Francis modeled: meeting others with humility, curiosity, and love.
It means not demanding sameness, but celebrating sacred difference.
It means understanding that Jesus does not need exclusivity to be beautiful. His way of love, healing, and justice is not diminished by the light in other traditions. It is enhanced by our ability to see Christ mirrored in the compassion of others.
To be Franciscan at the interfaith table is to remember that the world is not divided into insiders and outsiders—but kin.
Sharing Stories, Not Slogans
Too often, interfaith spaces get stuck in abstract theology or polite silence. But the real magic happens in the sharing of stories: the Sikh grandmother who prays over her chai, the Buddhist monk who gardens in silence, the Muslim father who sings to his baby during Ramadan, the Jewish artist who weaves trauma into hope.
When we meet people as people—not as theological puzzles—we begin to see the face of God in new and dazzling forms.
This is not relativism. It is reverence.
We do not have to water down our faith to honor another’s. We simply need to let go of the lie that we can know everything—and embrace the deeper truth that love is always bigger than our categories.
Building Bridges Without Erasure
The interfaith table is not a place where we all become the same. It’s a place where we stay ourselves, fully and honestly, while honoring the holiness in others.
Some Christians fear that dialogue means compromise. That listening to a Hindu or a Pagan or an Atheist means betraying Christ. But what if it’s the opposite? What if not listening is the betrayal?
Jesus didn’t stay in one village. He crossed borders. He told stories that confused the religious elites and comforted the heretics. He praised the faith of outsiders. He made the interfaith table wherever he went.
And he made it round.
No head. No hierarchy. Just people, food, stories, and love.
The Gifts of Other Traditions
Every faith brings a dish to the table.
From Judaism, we receive sacred memory and righteous lament.
From Islam, deep surrender and rhythmic prayer.
From Hinduism, joyful devotion and the embrace of paradox.
From Buddhism, mindfulness and nonattachment.
From Indigenous traditions, the wisdom of land, ancestors, and balance.
And from Christianity? The radical vision of love incarnate, vulnerable, broken, and risen.
We do not come to the table empty-handed. But we do come with open hands—ready to receive.
Interfaith as Spiritual Practice
Interfaith dialogue is not just about diplomacy or politics. It is a spiritual practice. It stretches our compassion. It disrupts our assumptions. It breaks our hearts open to the many ways the Divine whispers in the world.
It teaches us that God is not Christian. God is not Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or Buddhist. God is not even religious in the way we understand it. God is Love.
And Love is always multilingual.
Reflection
Have you ever sat down with someone of a different faith simply to listen?
What fears come up for you in interfaith spaces? What excites you?
What dish might your tradition bring to the shared spiritual table?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
Holy One of Many Names,
Thank you for the round table,
For the bread that nourishes all,
For the stories that reveal Your face in every culture,
For the silences between our words.
Make us humble in our knowing,
Courageous in our loving,
And open in our listening.
Let us sit together,
Not to debate—
But to bless.
For we are pilgrims,
Walking different roads,
But journeying toward the same Light.
Amen.
Chapter Nine: Encounter, Not Erasure — Deep Dialogue Without Assimilation
“Difference is not the enemy of unity. Domination is.”
—Rev. Dr. Jacqui Lewis
The Temptation to Flatten
Interfaith work is beautiful—and dangerous. Beautiful, because it invites us to open our hearts and expand our worldview. Dangerous, because in our eagerness to connect, we may erase the very differences that make each tradition sacred.
It is tempting to say, “All religions are the same.” But that’s not true—and it’s not respectful. Religions are not interchangeable flavors of ice cream. They are living, breathing ecosystems of meaning. They arise from history, culture, geography, trauma, and revelation. To pretend they are all the same is not harmony—it is colonization wrapped in kindness.
Franciscan Clarean spirituality teaches us to embrace paradox, not erase it. To stand in the holy tension. To honor what is not ours without needing to claim or explain it. To bow without grasping.
This is deep dialogue—not assimilation.
The Gospel Without a Gun
Throughout history, Christians have too often approached other religions not with open hands, but with clenched fists or conversion scripts. Colonizers came with Bibles and bullets. Missionaries replaced sacred rituals with hymns and shame. Entire cosmologies were dismissed as demonic simply because they were different.
But Jesus never forced belief. He never demanded theological agreement as a prerequisite for compassion. He healed Roman servants. He spoke with Samaritan women. He praised the faith of outsiders. The one time his disciples tried to call down fire on those who didn’t belong, he rebuked them.
The Gospel is not a gun. It’s a garment of healing.
To follow Christ is not to convert everyone to our language of faith—it is to become love in every language.
Staying Grounded in Our Own Tradition
There is a fear among some that engaging deeply with other religions will water down our own. But in my experience, it strengthens it.
When I pray with Muslims, I am reminded to pray more often.
When I sit with Buddhists, I am reminded to be still.
When I walk the land with Indigenous elders, I feel Christ in creation more vividly.
When I listen to Jewish rabbis, I hear Jesus’ voice with new ears.
This is not dilution. It is depth.
Being firmly rooted allows us to branch out without losing ourselves. We can sit at the table as Christians—not to dominate or disappear, but to show up fully and lovingly.
Francis and Clare did not erase their Christian identity in their encounters. They expanded it. They let love stretch them into new shapes.
So can we.
Spiritual Boundaries as Holy Integrity
Just as in any relationship, boundaries are essential. Deep dialogue does not mean appropriation. We must not co-opt rituals we do not understand, borrow words from languages we have not studied, or mimic prayers meant for sacred contexts without permission.
To honor another tradition is to treat it as sacred—not as a spiritual buffet.
The difference between interfaith solidarity and spiritual tourism is humility.
Franciscan Clarean values call us to approach others not as resources, but as revelations. Not as tools for our growth, but as beloved neighbors with truths of their own.
Respect requires restraint.
Love requires listening.
Dialogue requires dignity.
Difference as Divine Design
If God had wanted only one way to seek the Holy, there would be only one landscape, one language, one song.
But the world is not one color. The sky is not one shape. The human heart beats in rhythms both ancient and new.
Our differences are not a mistake. They are a mystery—a reflection of the Divine kaleidoscope.
Let us meet one another not with the goal of merging, but of mutual transformation.
Let us encounter without erasing.
Let us listen without needing to fix.
Let us stand in the sacred middle—where our feet are grounded, our hands are open, and our hearts are wide.
Reflection
Have you ever felt pressure to minimize your beliefs to “fit in” spiritually?
How do you balance honoring your own tradition while remaining open to others?
What practices help you sit with difference without fear?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
Holy One,
You are not sameness.
You are wild diversity,
Spiraling stars and fingerprints,
Countless paths toward the same Love.
Teach us to see without stealing.
To love without flattening.
To listen without erasing.
May we come to the sacred table,
With hearts rooted and hands open.
Help us to encounter deeply,
And to walk away transformed—
Not because we made others like us,
But because we saw You in them.
Amen.
Chapter Ten: Beyond Conversion — Love Without an Agenda
“Preach the Gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.”
—(Often attributed to St. Francis of Assisi)
Love That Doesn’t Manipulate
In many religious traditions—especially among Christians—there is a deeply ingrained assumption: that love leads to conversion. That to truly care about someone of another faith means to eventually persuade them to join ours. This mindset may be sincere, but it can be deeply harmful.
It reduces relationships to strategies.
It turns holy conversations into recruitment pitches.
It makes trust impossible.
To love someone with an agenda is not love. It is manipulation wrapped in a smile.
Franciscan Clarean spirituality invites us to a better way: love that is unconditional, reverent, and free. A love that listens for the Spirit’s movement in every soul—and doesn’t presume we are the only vessel of salvation.
The False God of Certainty
Behind the drive to convert others is often a deeper fear: What if we’re wrong? What if their path has value too?
We cling to certainty like a lifeboat. We are afraid that honoring another’s faith means diminishing our own.
But Francis and Clare teach us something far more courageous: we do not need to be certain to be faithful. We need only to be present, humble, and loving.
Certainty divides.
Compassion unites.
In a multifaith world, we do not need fewer questions—we need better ones. We need to ask: How is the Spirit already at work in this person’s life? What does their joy, their grief, their devotion reveal about God?
And then—can we bless it without needing to rename it?
The Myth of the Empty Soul
Christian supremacy often assumes that people of other religions are missing something. That without Jesus, their souls are empty, their worship is wasted, their prayers go unheard.
But this is not the Gospel. It is imperialism dressed as evangelism.
The Gospel is good news—not domination.
And Jesus himself constantly affirmed the dignity and faith of those outside his religious framework. He marveled at the faith of a Roman centurion. He forgave a Samaritan woman. He told stories where the heroes were heretics.
He loved without needing to label.
So can we.
Love as Witness
Francis famously told his friars to preach always—but with actions, not just words. His love of creation, his embrace of lepers, his peace-making presence in the midst of war—that was his sermon.
Clare’s witness was even more quiet: a life of prayer, simplicity, sisterhood, and solidarity with the poor. She did not write theological treatises. She lived one.
When we show up for others—not to change them, but to walk with them—we become that kind of Gospel.
When we defend a mosque from vandalism, when we grieve with Jewish neighbors after a hate crime, when we stand with Indigenous leaders protecting sacred land—we proclaim good news.
Not with pamphlets.
With presence.
Conversion to What?
Even if we do use the word “conversion,” we must ask: What are we converting people to? A system? A set of beliefs? A brand?
True conversion is not switching religions. It is opening the heart. It is turning away from ego and toward love.
And that can happen in any tradition.
If a Buddhist becomes more compassionate, that is conversion.
If a Muslim becomes more just, that is conversion.
If a Christian becomes less proud and more humble, that is conversion.
We must stop confusing membership with transformation.
Our job is not to count converts. Our call is to live lives so rooted in Christ’s love that others feel freer in their own skin, more whole in their own tradition, more open to the Holy in their own way.
That is enough.
That is everything.
Reflection
Have you ever felt loved with an agenda? What did it feel like?
How might your relationships with those of other faiths deepen if you released the need to “convert” them?
What would it look like to live your faith so beautifully that it doesn’t need to be argued?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
Jesus of Nazareth,
You never forced belief.
You invited, healed, blessed, and walked away.
Teach us to love like that.
Free us from the fear that others’ beauty diminishes our own.
Free us from the need to be right.
Free us from using Your name to manipulate.
Help us love boldly—without agenda,
Serve humbly—without reward,
And bless others—without needing them to become us.
Let our lives be a Gospel of grace.
Amen.
Chapter Eleven: Walking Each Other Home — The Future of Interfaith Friendship
“We’re all just walking each other home.”
—Ram Dass
Companions on the Way
In every generation, there are voices that cry out for division. They shout across fences. They weaponize scripture. They build walls in the name of holiness.
But in every generation, there are also pilgrims. Peacemakers. Bridge-builders. Gardeners of goodwill.
These are the ones who walk beside others—not to lead, not to fix, not to persuade, but to accompany. These are the ones who understand that the journey of faith is not a competition, but a shared road. They do not race toward heaven; they walk each other home.
To be Franciscan Clarean in an interfaith world is to be that kind of companion.
To befriend without agenda.
To journey without judgment.
To love without conditions.
Friendship as Sacred Practice
Too often, interfaith engagement is framed as something official: panel discussions, prayer breakfasts, strategic alliances. These things are good. But real transformation begins not in policy—but in friendship.
It happens over shared meals and quiet hospital visits. In walking neighborhoods together. In laughing at each other’s jokes and grieving each other’s losses. It happens when our lives become interwoven, not just our mission statements.
Jesus called his disciples “friends.” Francis wrote letters to “beloved brothers and sisters.” Clare referred to her community as her “little plantings.”
This is the language of intimacy, not institution.
Let us reclaim friendship as a sacred act of resistance in a divided world.
Radical Hospitality
The future of interfaith friendship depends on radical hospitality—not just inviting others in, but being willing to go out. Not just hosting dialogues, but being vulnerable in unfamiliar spaces.
Will we sit in a mosque, not as observers, but as guests?
Will we attend a Shabbat dinner, not to compare, but to honor?
Will we walk the land with Indigenous elders, letting their stories guide our steps?
This kind of hospitality is mutual. It is about creating spaces where difference is not feared but revered. Where no one has to become someone else to belong.
In the Franciscan Clarean way, hospitality is not a program. It is a way of life. We welcome others because Christ welcomed us. We share what we have—bread, time, presence—because it is not ours to hoard.
Friendship begins when we stop guarding the door and start opening it from both sides.
Beyond Tolerance: Toward Kinship
The language of “tolerance” is too small. It implies that we are putting up with one another. It is fragile, conditional, and patronizing.
What we need is kinship.
Kinship says: Your story matters to me.
Kinship says: I will show up for you, even when it costs me.
Kinship says: We may not pray the same way, but we weep the same tears and hope for the same healing.
This is not easy. It requires discomfort. Unlearning. The willingness to be changed.
But if we truly believe that God is Love, then every step toward kinship is a step toward the heart of God.
Imagining a Shared Future
What if the future of faith is not about dominance, but mutual flourishing?
What if Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Sikhs, Pagans, and seekers of all kinds could live not in isolated enclaves—but in interwoven circles of care?
What if we raised our children not to be afraid of others’ beliefs—but to see them as beautiful expressions of the same longing for truth and wholeness?
What if we built communities where worship is diverse, dialogue is ongoing, and justice is shared?
The world doesn’t need more walls. It needs more tables. More gardens. More sacred walks.
We’re not here to win. We’re here to walk each other home.
Together.
Reflection
Who in your life walks a different spiritual path? How can you deepen that friendship?
What does radical hospitality look like in your context?
Are there interfaith friendships you’ve neglected or feared? What small step could you take toward them?
A Franciscan Clarean Prayer
Beloved Mystery,
You walk beside the Christian, the Jew, the Muslim,
The Buddhist, the Pagan, the seeker, and the doubter.
You are the breath that animates every prayer,
The silence between our songs,
The longing behind every ritual.
Teach us to walk each other home.
When we tire, let another’s faith carry us.
When we stumble, let shared compassion catch us.
May we walk in circles, not lines.
May our friendships become altars.
And may our journey be filled with wonder, laughter,
And the sacred joy of discovering You—
Again and again,
In every companion we meet.
Amen.
Conclusion: Many Lamps, One Light
“There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”
—Rumi
As we come to the end of this journey, we arrive not at a final answer, but at a deeper reverence.
We have wandered through temples and synagogues, forests and mosques. We have knelt beside Buddhists in silence, sung with Hindus in joy, prayed with Muslims in surrender, and listened to Jewish teachers sing the song of survival. We have touched the soil of Indigenous wisdom and heard the heartbeat of the mystics.
And now, standing amid the stained glass of the world’s faiths, we do not see a fractured truth. We see a mosaic.
The lamps are many. The Light is One.
As Franciscan Clareans, we are called to walk in this light—not as owners, but as bearers. Not to extinguish the lamps of others, but to tend the fire of friendship, humility, and holy curiosity.
The future of our faith is not isolation. It is interconnection.
The hope of our world is not purity. It is plurality in peace.
Let us go forth as companions—bold and barefoot, humble and hopeful. Let us bless every path that seeks the Holy, and trust that Love will gather us all in the end.
One light.
Many lamps.
Still one home.
Acknowledgments
To all my friends and teachers of other faiths—you have shown me the face of God in your prayers, your rituals, your courage, and your love. Thank you for inviting me to your tables and teaching me to listen.
To the saints Francis and Clare of Assisi, whose wild love made space for every living thing.
To those who build bridges in a time of walls, who refuse to choose between conviction and compassion—you are prophets in disguise.
And to the Divine Mystery, who walks every path with us and welcomes us all home—thank you for being so much bigger than we ever imagined.
About the Author
Sister Abigail Hester, OFC is a contemplative nun, writer, and founder of the Order of Franciscan Clareans—a progressive Christian community devoted to love, justice, simplicity, and interfaith harmony. A transgender woman, spiritual caregiver, and prophetic voice for the marginalized, Sister Abigail writes at the intersection of queer theology, liberation spirituality, and radical Franciscan practice. She is the author of numerous books, devotionals, and theological works aimed at creating a more loving and inclusive world.
Sister Abigail Hester 