Today the church celebrates one of the great mystics of history, St. Juan de Yepes y Alvarez, but you know him better as St. John of the Cross, Renewer of the Church and Visionary.

St. Juan was born in Fontiveros Spain, the third son of a Jewish silk merchant. His father died shortly after he was born, and his family placed little Juan in an institution for the poor.

St. Juan was extremely short of stature, even for his day, but showed great skill in craftsmanship from early on, and apprenticed at many places. He enrolled in college and worked his way through school striving to become an exemplary monk.

He was entranced in the Order of the Blessed Virgin (Carmelites), and was ordained. Soon after met St. Teresa of Avila, his spiritual cousin. She had begun to implement her reforms of the Carmelite order, and St. John promised himself to these reforms, adopting the name St. John of the Cross to embody his minimalist and mystic piety.

St. Teresa eventually helped get St. John appointed as Confessor to the Convent of the Incarnation, where she was a sister.

St. Teresa’s reforms were causing division within the Carmelite Order, and some monastics came and seized St. John, imprisoned him in a six foot by ten foot cell, beat him, and attempted to force him to renounce the austere reforms.

St. John refused and after nine months was able to escape, fleeing to a safe monastery in southern Spain.

This is where he began writing down his mystical visions and dreams, having had them in the confinement of his prison cell. His deeply spiritual writings often took the form of poetry. Most notable are The Ascent of Mt. Carmel-the Dark Night, and Living Flame of Love (which is more song than pure poetry).

In 1591 the controversy over the austere reforms rose again, and St. John was banished further south in Spain. It was there that he caught a fever and, though he sought medical care, was poorly treated because the prior of the monastery didn’t want the burden of another monk.

He died uttering the Psalms, saying, “Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my Spirit.” He was deeply beloved by the people, though he was rejected by much of the Church at the time, and was immediately heralded as a Saint.

You may not be too familiar with St. John of the Cross, but you’re certainly familiar with art that is based off of his mystical visions. Salvador Dali’s unique painting of the crucifixion was based on one of St. John’s poems.

St. John of the Cross is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church, that sometimes the most despised in our midst are the wisest.

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historical notes from Pfatteicher’s New Book of Festivals & Commemorations

-icon written by Br. Robert Lentz

On December 12th many Christians honor Our Lady Guadalupe.

I am not Roman Catholic, nor Latinx, but I do not and cannot underestimate the powerful connection to the Divine that Our Lady of Guadalupe provides for Christians who check both of those boxes. Arturo Perez says it best:

“Guadalupe’s significance is both word and symbol. She provides the answers to the prayers of the faithful people: ‘God is with you!’ Her very appearance, as one of the poor, aligns her with them. Guadalupe’s proclamation can be seen as God’s option for the poor.”

These two depictions, by artist Yolanda Lopez, flow not only from her heritage, but also from her work as a Mujerista Theologian. I find them both engaging and inspiring and, though they’re not traditional icons for this important Feast Day, they moved me.

Today the church remembers a more contemporary saint of fascinating and enduring legacy (though you’ve probably never heard of him): Saint Lars Olsen Skrefsrud, Apostle of the Santals and Patron Saint of Second Chances.

Born in mid-19th Century Norway, Lars grew up in poverty and was not really ever formally educated. He studied largely at his local parish and, after being Confirmed, took on an apprenticeship to be a coppersmith.

But St. Lars had more ambition.

He couldn’t afford to pay for an education, and though he took to writing poetry, all of his poems were rejected for publication. He then set his sights on becoming a drummer in the military, but his contemporaries made fun of this idea. All of this compounded together drove Lars to take comfort in the bottle and, after drinking and coercion from those around him, he robbed a bank.

Once arrested, Lars refused to name any accomplices and was sent to prison at the age of nineteen.

In jail, Lars took up the scholarship he was denied in the outside world. He became a model prisoner, and was sent to the sick ward to tend to the ill. Though rejected by his family and friends, one young woman, Anna Onsum, visited him in prison.

Once released (and absolutely without one cent), St. Lars worked as a traveling laborer and made his way to Berlin to the front steps of the Gossner Missionary Society. There he explained his history and his desire to be a missionary. He adopted a monastic way of life and devoted himself to his studies.

In the fall of 1863, St. Lars headed for India. He worked to pay for his passage, and even slept on the deck of the ship. On board he worked alongside people from all over the world, and began to learn the languages of his companions. In 1864 he arrived in Calcutta and was joined by two fellow missionaries and Anna (and they soon married).

Without any aid from any church, the four took up the cause of the Santals, an oppressed tribe in northern India. St. Lars worked day and night to learn the Santali language and adopt their customs and way of living. They built a mission station there, “Ebenezer,” and while they went about their work St. Lars also went about creating a grammar book and dictionary in the Santali language, as well as textbooks, hymnals, and even a translation of Luther’s Catechism.

Most importantly, St. Lars and his companions defended the Santals physically and vocally against their oppressors, and lobbied the British government on their behalf. He aimed to assist them in raising their standard of living.

He said that his ultimate aim was an indigenous Santal church, noting, “We came to the Santals to bring Christianity, not take away their nationality.” In this he was an early adopter of the accompaniment method, rudimentary as it was, of mission work.

In 1873, after the death of his dear Anna, St. Lars took a return visit back to Europe and arrived to much acclaim. The Church of Norway at last ordained him.

At the age of sixty-nine, St. Lars had a massive stroke, but retained the use of his left hand. He continued to write and translate with his left hand until 1910 when he finally died. He was buried in the cemetery at Ebenezer.

The Santal Church continues on to this day, flourishing as a member of the Federation of Evangelical Lutheran Churches in India.

St. Lars is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that accompaniment is the best model for cross-cultural engagement and that everyone deserves a second (and third!) chance.

Today the church honors the contemporary Kentucky-dwelling theologian and poet: St. Thomas Merton, Mystic and Renewer of the Church.

Born in France (1915) to a New Zealand painter and American Quaker mother, the family came to America during World War I and settled with family in Queens, New York. His mother died of stomach cancer when he was just six years old and his father quickly fell in love with acclaimed novelist Evelyn Scott. Thomas never liked Scott, and at age eight chose to live with his mother’s family in Dougston, New York. Eventually his father came and moved the boys to France to live after the war (though the family traveled extensively throughout Europe in their youth, shaping Thomas in many ways).

In his early adulthood St. Thomas, like so many saints before him, had a wild streak. While at University in Cambridge, though, he became acquainted with great theological works through a few visiting professor-monks.

Early one morning in 1939, after a long night out at a jazz club, Merton told a few groggy friends over breakfast that he felt the call to become a priest. After fits and spurted attempts to join the Franciscan order, he was ultimately rejected from starting the process. He worked as an English professor at Saint Bonaventure University, believing that if he couldn’t be a friar, he would at least live with them. It was there that he began to practice a monastic way of life.

In 1941 Merton was invited to become an initiate at the Abbey of Gathsemeni in Bardstown, Kentucky, just as his brother was being sent off to war. It is here that Merton leaned into his writing and poetry, even dedicating a poem to his brother who died in World War II.

In 1949 Merton published what he considered to be his conversion story in the much acclaimed (and awesome!) The Seven Storey Mountain. In this work he introduced the greater world to the gifts he found in the monastic life. He continued to write and publish reflections, theological books, and poetry from a deeply mystical standpoint, moving many to explore their spirit and soul both within and without a formal religious tradition.

St. Thomas took up inter-religious experiences as part of his ministry and work, traveling to Asia to pray and study with Buddhist monks there. He saw the great “golden thread” running through the lives of the followers of the great religions, and though he always remained a dedicated and professed Roman Catholic, he sought to traverse religious boundaries, often in the name of world peace, which he fought hard for in his monastic life. In fact, many of his controversial political writings condemning war and militarism were censored by the Church for many years.

He is considered by many to be the one who ushered in a new, contemplative-activist monasticism.

In 1968 St. Thomas died mysteriously while on a speaking engagement in Thailand, but his writings and legacy live on in those mystics who still cling closely to his life and example.

St. Thomas is a reminder for me, and should be for the whole church, that not every religious leader and model wears a fancy clerical collar, and that contemplation and activism must hold hands in this world.

-historical pieces from Claiborne and Wilson-Hartgrove’s Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals and a life studying Merton.

-icon written by Marcy Hall at RabbitRoomArts (find her on Etsy)

Today many parts of the church remembers a 15th Century peasant and visionary who emboldened a people with Divine hope: Saint Juan Diego, Dreamer of Dreams and Hoper of Hopes.

In 1474 Saint Juan was born in Cuauhtitlan, Mexico. He was an ordinary person of his day, and though he had a family (his wife’s name was Maria and he had a sick uncle also named Juan), lore has confused and convoluted many of the details here. More than a few people, including a few nuns throughout history, claim to be descendants of this pivotal figure in traditional Catholicism. What is clear is that Saint Juan was profoundly impacted by visiting Franciscan monks who baptized him and encouraged him in his spiritual journey.

Eventually Saint Juan began to study to become a Franciscan himself, and early one morning on this day in 1531 it is said that Juan encountered the Virgin Mary herself asking Juan to petition the Bishop to erect a chapel in her honor.

Saint Juan, though startled by the vision, did as he was asked. The Bishop gave him a basic non-answer and invited him to exit his office.

Later that same day on his walk Saint Juan encountered the Virgin Mary again. He told her that he had made the request, but was denied. He suggested that the Bishop wouldn’t listen to him because he was a “nobody,” and pleaded with the Virgin Mary to ask someone else to do the work so that the Bishop would take it seriously.

Mary would, apparently, have none of it. “You,” she said, “are the one who will speak my desire.”

On December 10th Saint Juan once again returned to the Bishop, but the Bishop demanded proof that the Blessed Virgin visited him, perhaps also believing that a Divine request would be made to a more suitable emissary. Saint Juan returned back to the site of the previous apparitions at Tepeyac, Mexico, and the Blessed Virgin promised she would provide another sign.

That night, though, Saint Juan’s uncle became gravely ill, and Saint Juan could not return to the site on December 11th as he had to care for his uncle. By the morning of December 12th Juan’s uncle was fading fast. Saint Juan set out to find a priest to come hear his uncle’s final confession and perform the Rite of Extreme Unction (Last Rites). He intentionally did not pass by Tepeyac in order to avoid the Virgin Mary, embarrassed that he had ghosted her the previous day to care for his uncle.

But along that way he once again encountered the Virgin Mary a fourth time and she asked where he was going. Shocked and sad at his failure to meet her the previous day he told the whole story. She gently chided him in these very famous words, “¿No estoy yo aquí que soy tu madre?” (“Am I not here, I who am your mother?”).

She assured him that his uncle was healed and asked him to go collect her flowers on the nearby hill. Finding flowers unseasonably growing there, Saint Juan collected a handful and brought them to the Virgin Mary. She sorted and arranged them and told him to take the flowers to the Bishop as proof of her appearance. When Saint Juan arrived at Mexico City to have an audience with the bishop, he dropped the flowers from his mantle at the Bishops feet and lo, they arranged themselves into the outline of the Blessed Virgin.

Saint Juan returned to his uncle, now recovered, who told Saint Juan that he, too, had seen the Blessed Virgin at his bedside and that she asked to be known by the name Guadalupe.

These visions cascaded into a movement within the Mexican expression of Catholicism, and in 1986 Juan Diego himself was beatified by Pope John Paul II.

So, now for all the Protestants out there, why does this even matter at all?

Well, first we must recognize that whether you think this story is “real” or not, it’s movement through history is not only quite real, but quite important. To have the Blessed Virgin appear not to a Roman prelate, and not to some imported Bishop, but rather to a townsperson from the backroads of the hillside said something clear and unequivocal to an indigenous population enduring genocide and forced conversion: God stands with you.

Secondly, finding hope in broken places has always given humanity the will to continue on. In times of illness and despair, we all long to be visited by a Divine presence. If it can happen to Saint Juan, it can happen to any of us, you know?

Saint Juan Diego is a reminder for me, and it should be for the whole church, that the stories of Divine encounters rarely happen in the halls of power, but rather take place in the back alleys of humanity’s longing. We’d do well to remember this and continue to ask ourselves why, then, do we keep seeking power?

Let those with ears to hear, hear.

-historic bits from public sources

-icon by Gracie at “The Modern Saints”

On December 8th many Christian sisters and brothers mark the Immaculate Conception, the day when lore says St. Anne was miraculously “great with child” in the form of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, said to be “born without original sin.”

It’s a relatively recent Feast Day in the festivals of the church, and while there are many traditions who not only don’t honor it, but really wonder why it’s necessary at all, in solidarity with those of different traditions, the theological importance is worth noting despite the biological impossibilities.

I don’t note it as a way to lend credence to its veracity, but more-so to highlight the often overlooked fact that women have played not just an important role in understanding the Divine, but an integral role.

Or, well, perhaps St. Sojourner Truth said it best::

“That man say we can’t have as much rights as a man ’cause Christ wasn’t a woman. Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman. Man had nothing to do with it.”

(art by Vik Muniz)