Return to Kinship
The life of St. Francis has long been an inspiration for countless hearts. His conscious embrace of poverty, simplicity, humility, and compassion, along with his choice to walk gently in the footprints of Christ, continues to influence how many live their lives today.
This year, we celebrate the 800th Anniversary of St. Francis’ beloved Canticle of the Creatures. As I read this tender poem—an exquisite expression of love for God and all creation—I am deeply moved by Francis’ profound sense of kinship with the entire cosmos. He names the sun, moon, wind, water, fire, and earth as brother, sister, and mother, inviting us to recognize our familial connection to all of creation. In this, we are reminded that the words we choose shape our hearts and deepen our awareness.
With this spirit, I offer a reflection from Chris Jeffcoat, OFS, who thoughtfully explores these themes.
Before Francis could sing to Brother Sun, Sister Moon, and Sister Water, he had to see them—not as objects or resources, but as family. His Canticle is not simply poetry; it is the fruit of a profound way of seeing. And what we know shapes what we see. The words we use shape how we see the world—and how we treat it.
But even more, as Robin Wall Kimmerer reminds us in Braiding Sweetgrass, our very thoughts are limited by our language. What we are able to think is constrained by the words we have been given.
She explains that in the Potawatomi language, 70% of words are verbs, in contrast to English which is 70% nouns. A bay is not a thing, but an action: “to be a bay.” Trees, rivers, stones—these are not static objects, but dynamic beings, alive in their own right. In contrast, English—and most modern languages—are structured around nouns and objects. This linguistic structure encourages us to see the world as made up of “things.” And when the world is reduced to things, it becomes easier to exploit.
Kimmerer writes: “When we call a maple tree ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ we might be less ready to reach for the chainsaw.”
Kimmerer calls for a return to what she names a “grammar of animacy”—a way of speaking that recognizes the world as alive. As participating in existence. As possessing agency, value, and presence.
This grammar of animacy is not optional. It is essential. Because the words we speak shape the thoughts we think. If our language teaches us that rivers are “it,” we will think of rivers as objects. If our language teaches us that trees are “who,” we will begin to think of them as kin.
From language flows thought. From thought flows action.
This is what Saint Francis understood long before modern linguistics. His Canticle of the Creatures does not address “the sun.” He sings to Brother Sun. Not “the water,” but Sister Water. Not “the earth,” but Sister Mother Earth.
Creation, in itself, is good. Not because of what it can give us. But because it exists. And yet, over centuries, as the language of objectification took hold, we began to forget. Today, much of our modern speech reflects this forgetting. We speak of “nature” as if “it” were something separate from us. We speak of “natural resources.” We speak of “the environment.” We speak of “it.”
And from that language flows thought. And from that thought flows exploitation.
Francis offers us another way. A language of intimacy. A grammar of animacy. A return to kinship.
Peace,
Joseph Krans, Executive Director
