St. Francis of Assisi: The Peacemaker of Gubbio

Fr. Scott Haynes

I. The Saint of Peace

Each year on October 4 the Church rejoices in the memory of St. Francis of Assisi, the Poverello, the little poor man who changed the world not by force or brilliance but by the radiance of love. Born into comfort and ambition, Francis renounced all to become a living image of Christ poor and crucified. He did not found his Order merely to reform the Church; he became himself a living Gospel, a second Christ.

Francis possessed a heart so transparent to grace that all creation seemed to recognize him as brother. The wind, the birds, the water, even fire—he called them by name. He saw in every creature the handiwork of the Father, and in every living thing a reflection of divine tenderness. His “Canticle of the Sun” sings not in abstraction but in communion—Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Brother Wind, Sister Water. For Francis, creation was a cathedral, and he was its joyful cantor.

Yet behind this radiant simplicity lay a man who bore the wounds of Christ in body and soul. He had tasted the bitterness of sin, the wounds of pride, the sting of human violence. When he spoke of peace, it was not sentiment; it was victory over hatred. Among the many stories that reveal his sanctity, none captures his spirit more vividly than the tale of the Wolf of Gubbio.

II. The Terror of Gubbio

In the early years of his preaching, Francis visited the Umbrian hill town of Gubbio. The people were living in fear, for a great gray wolf had appeared in the surrounding woods. It slaughtered sheep and cattle, but worse—it had begun to devour men. No one dared leave the city walls; the gates were shut at dusk, and the countryside lay silent beneath the shadow of terror.

The chronicles say that Francis, hearing of the wolf’s ravages, was moved to compassion. He pitied not only the townspeople but also the creature itself, which had become an image of sin run wild. “Brother Wolf,” he said, “has become the prisoner of his hunger.”

Ignoring the warnings of his companions, Francis set out toward the forest. Villagers followed at a distance, expecting to see him torn apart. Yet the saint advanced with calm step, making the sign of the Cross. Soon the wolf appeared—its eyes blazing, its jaws red from the last kill. It rushed forward, but Francis stood firm. Raising his hand, he cried,

“Come here, Brother Wolf. I command you in the name of Christ, who made you, to do no harm to me or to any man.”

To the astonishment of the crowd, the beast halted. Its head sank low, its ferocity melted into trembling. Slowly it padded forward and lay down at Francis’s feet like a dog before its master.

III. The Covenant of Peace

Then, before all, Francis spoke to the wolf as one speaks to a brother.

“Brother Wolf, you have done great evil in this land. You have destroyed God’s creatures without His leave, and you have slain men made in His image. All cry against you. Yet I would make peace between you and them. If you will promise never again to harm man or beast, they shall forgive you and see that you do not hunger.”

The wolf bent its head, wagging its tail as though to consent. Francis then turned to the trembling people of Gubbio who had gathered behind the walls and called out:

“Hear me, my brothers. Brother Wolf has pledged to end his killing. It is for you now to forgive and to feed him, for hunger drove him to this misery. Show mercy as you hope for mercy.”

The people opened the gates. The wolf followed Francis into the town, meek as a lamb. The citizens crowded the square, amazed to see the beast so gentle. Francis repeated the pact: the wolf would live in peace among them; the people would provide food; neither would harm the other. To seal the covenant, Francis extended his hand. The wolf raised its paw and placed it in his palm.

From that day forward, the wolf lived among the citizens as a creature tamed by grace. Children fed it scraps; townsfolk welcomed it at their doors. For two years it harmed no one, and when it finally died, the people mourned it as a sign of God’s mercy.

IV. The Symbolism of the Wolf

What are we to make of this story, told by the companions of Francis and recorded by the early chronicler Thomas of Celano? Whether the wolf of Gubbio was a literal animal or a symbolic legend, the meaning is luminous. The wolf represents the violence that lurks in every human heart—the lust for domination, the instinct to destroy what threatens us. Gubbio stands for the world paralyzed by fear, walled against the unknown. Francis enters as the image of Christ, the Mediator who brings reconciliation between creature and man, between man and God.

When Francis addressed the wolf as Brother, he shattered the barrier of fear. The world had known hunters and soldiers, but never had it seen a saint call a predator “brother.” By doing so, he restored the order of creation as it was in Eden, when Adam named the animals without dread.

The wolf’s conversion shows that even the most violent nature can be touched by grace. It kneels before sanctity not because Francis was strong, but because he was pure. In the presence of a soul wholly surrendered to God, evil loses its dominion.

The covenant of peace between the wolf and the townspeople mirrors the covenant of Christ and His Church. Through penance and mercy, enemies become family. St. Bonaventure, commenting on Francis’s miracles, wrote that such wonders were “the outward signs of an inward grace—the peace of Christ reigning in his heart.”¹

V. Francis as a New Adam

In Genesis, Adam was given lordship over creation, yet his sin brought disorder and hostility. “The fear and dread of you shall be upon every beast,” said God after the fall (Genesis 9:2). Francis, by contrast, lived in such harmony with God that creation once again recognized in him its friend and steward.

He spoke to the birds and they listened; he tamed the wolf; even fish gathered around his boat when he preached by the shore. He wore no crown, yet nature obeyed him, because he obeyed God.

In Francis the prophecy of Isaiah seems fulfilled: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid… for the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the Lord” (Isaiah 11:6–9). Francis’s peace with creation was not naïve romanticism—it was the fruit of redemption. Having crucified his own passions, he restored the peace broken by sin.

VI. The Gospel in Action

The story of the wolf of Gubbio is not only charming folklore; it is the Gospel in miniature. Christ came into a world enslaved by fear. Humanity was both the victim and the predator, trapped in a cycle of violence. On the Cross, Christ faced the wolf of sin and disarmed it with forgiveness. “Peace I leave with you,” He said, “not as the world gives do I give to you” (John 14:27).

Francis lived that peace so intensely that it radiated outward. He did not preach from pulpits but from the streets, the forests, the marketplaces. He went to the Sultan of Egypt during the Crusades, not with sword but with the word of Christ. He reconciled warring cities, brought back bandits, and mended families. To him, the Gospel was not an idea but a fire to set the world ablaze.

As one of his early followers said, “He carried peace in his heart and gave it to others.” The wolf of Gubbio became a parable that even simple people could grasp: holiness conquers fear, love conquers violence.

VII. Lessons for Our Time

In our age, wolves still prowl—not in the forests, but in hearts and systems. There are the wolves of greed that devour the poor, the wolves of anger that divide families, the wolves of despair that consume souls. Our towns, too, live behind walls of fear—political, cultural, spiritual. We speak of “us” and “them,” forgetting that all are creatures of the same Creator.

St. Francis shows another way. He does not deny evil, but he confronts it with faith. He steps outside the safety of the city walls, makes the sign of the Cross, and calls the enemy “brother.” This is the heart of Christian peace: not the absence of conflict, but the presence of love stronger than fear.

When Francis made the wolf promise to change, he also demanded conversion from the people. Peace requires both sides to turn from violence. The wolf had to cease devouring, and the townsfolk had to cease hating. Without that mutual conversion, there could be no covenant.

How often do we, like the citizens of Gubbio, prefer the safety of walls to the risk of mercy? Yet until someone walks out to meet the wolf, the world remains enslaved by fear.

VIII. The Saint’s Hidden Strength

Where did Francis find such power? Not in himself, but in Christ. His courage came from prayer. Before confronting the wolf, he would have spent long hours before the Crucifix, gazing upon the wounded love of Jesus. From that gaze he learned that perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18).

When he blessed the wolf with the sign of the Cross, he was invoking the victory of Calvary. The Cross is the only force that can tame sin. It reconciles heaven and earth, God and man, man and beast. Every disciple of Christ is called to make that same sign over the wolves of our world—to face hatred with mercy, violence with forgiveness, chaos with trust.

IX. The Death of Francis

Two years before his death, Francis received the stigmata on Mount La Verna—the visible wounds of Christ impressed upon his body. The man who once tamed the wolf now bore within himself the marks of the Lamb. His life had become a living sermon of peace through sacrifice.

When he died in 1226, lying naked upon the ground in imitation of Christ’s poverty, the bells of Assisi rang on their own. The friars and townspeople, the birds and the wind seemed to join in mourning. Thomas of Celano records that even “the very wolves of the hills appeared sorrowful.” The peace he had given the world seemed to settle upon the earth itself.

X. The Wolf Remembered

In Gubbio they built a small shrine to the wolf. When the creature died, the people buried it near the church where Francis had preached. They kept its memory not out of superstition, but as a sign of what grace can do. The wolf’s skull, preserved for centuries, became a relic of reconciliation.

Pilgrims still visit Gubbio today. The city’s medieval walls remain, but the legend has outlived the stones. It speaks across the centuries, reminding every Christian that the path of peace begins not with others but within oneself. As Francis prayed,

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love.”

The wolf at Gubbio was but one of many Francis tamed. There are other wolves—within our ambitions, our grudges, our fears—that await the same gentle hand. Each time we forgive, feed the hungry, or risk love, we too make peace with the wolf.

XI. Conclusion: The Gospel of Peace

St. Francis of Assisi remains one of the most beloved saints because he lived the Gospel without compromise. His poverty was radical, his joy unfeigned, his compassion boundless. The story of the wolf of Gubbio captures the essence of his mission: to restore harmony where sin had sown division, to see every creature as brother or sister, and to make peace through holiness.

In a world still scarred by violence and fear, Francis’s example calls us to believe again in the power of goodness. Peace is not the dream of the weak; it is the strength of the saints. When we dare to leave the city walls and call the wolf “brother,” we too become instruments of Christ’s peace.

Notes:

¹ St. Bonaventure, Legenda Maior S. Francisci, VIII, 1.