Embodying the Prayer of St. Francis

The Prayer of St. Francis begins with a simple but profound request: “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.” It’s easy to recite the words, but far more powerful when we choose to live them. In a world that feels increasingly divided, tense, and reactive, these sacred lines offer us a way back—to each other, to love, and to who we really are.

To live this prayer is to show up differently. It’s choosing to respond to hatred with love, not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s hard. When someone lashes out in anger or fear, our instinct may be to shut down or fight back. But the prayer invites us to pause, to soften, and to sow something better—to become the presence of love where none seems to exist.

Where there is injury, we’re asked to bring pardon. Not because what happened didn’t matter, but because holding on to resentment only deepens the wound. Forgiveness is not weakness—it’s strength. It takes courage to let go of the story that keeps us stuck, and to open our hearts to healing—for ourselves, and for those who have hurt us.

When we see doubt, we’re called to offer faith—not necessarily religious belief, but a deeper trust. A trust that goodness still exists. That people can change. That light can emerge from even the darkest places. And when others feel despair, we’re asked to be the ones who hold hope—not by sugarcoating reality, but by reminding them (and ourselves) that we are not alone, and that tomorrow can bring something new.

The prayer also calls us to bring light where there is darkness. That doesn’t always mean fixing things. Sometimes it means simply being there—holding space, speaking truth, offering comfort. It means bringing our presence, our compassion, our attention, to places and people that are hurting. And in moments of sadness, we are asked to carry joy—not forced happiness, but a gentle reminder that beauty still exists. A child’s laugh, the warmth of the sun, a kind word—these are forms of joy that can help lift the heavy places inside us and around us.

But perhaps the most radical part of this prayer is in the second half. It flips the script on everything we’ve been taught about how to find fulfillment. Instead of asking to be consoled, it invites us to console. Instead of seeking to be understood, we’re invited to understand. Instead of trying to be loved, we are asked to love. It is in giving that we receive, in pardoning that we are pardoned, and in dying to the small self that we are born into something eternal.

Living the Prayer of St. Francis today means embodying love in action. It means becoming the answer to the prayer—not waiting for peace, but being peace. Not wishing for kindness, but offering it. Not hoping someone else will do better, but stepping forward ourselves. Every moment is a new chance to choose compassion over judgment, unity over division, love over fear.

This is not a passive path. It is a brave one. But when we walk it—when we truly live the prayer—we help to heal not only the world, but our own hearts in the process.

And so, with humility and grace, we ask again:“Make me an instrument of your peace.”

May we not just say the words—May we become them.