Of the numerous changes we have now made here at America within the last decade, amongst my favorites is the travel and pilgrimage program we launched for our readers, listeners and viewers. And of all of the places we journey to together, my favorite is the Basque region of Spain, where we follow the trail of St. Ignatius Loyola, a co-founder of the Jesuits. It’s one of the beautiful places on earth, imbued with old world charm and world-renowned hospitality. Though I knew the story of Ignatius long before I first visited Spain, it was not until I literally walked in his footsteps that I got here to essentially know the person.
Lots of you most likely know the story of St. Ignatius Loyola, whose feast day we celebrated in July—how an ambitious, vainglorious young man within the service of the king found himself in 1521 leading the defense of Pamplona against probably the most powerful army in Europe; how he refused to give up within the face of probably the most desperate odds; how a cannonball shattered his leg as his army collapsed. You might have heard about how Ignatius was carried back to Loyola—for 2 excruciating weeks over mountainous terrain—to his ancestral home, where, while recovering from his wounds, he had a “conversion” experience while reading the Lifetime of Christ and the Book of the Saints.
For many of us conversion is a process, a series of moments, of advance and setback, and the method lasts a lifetime.
You’ll be able to visit the room where it happened—it known as the Chapel of the Conversion. Except that name is a misnomer. True, Ignatius’ conversion began there, but it surely didn’t end there. Other Christians may describe their conversion experiences as having occurred at a selected moment. They might even pinpoint the precise date and time. But Catholics don’t generally give it some thought that way. For many of us conversion is a process, a series of moments, of advance and setback, and the method lasts a lifetime. That was actually true for Ignatius. He had resolved in his sickbed to serve his earthly king no more, but quite, to follow the King of Kings. So he got down to rival the best saints through extreme feats of prayer and fasting—and nearly killed himself in the method. Ignatius was sincere in his desire to turn into a latest man when he left Loyola, but he was still just about what he had at all times been—willful and ego-driven.
It was not until he reached Manresa, a small town on the River Cardoner—where he was so distraught from the dearth of progress in his latest life that he even contemplated suicide—that he finally gave up his will to a better power. On the banks of the Cardoner, he told God, in effect: “I quit. I actually have done all I can. I actually have tried all the things. I’m handing it over to you, to do with it what you’ll.” And that’s the moment things really began to alter. In the times that followed, Ignatius’ eyes were opened to mystical visions of God and creation that will nourish and encourage him for the remaining of his life. At Pamplona, he had refused to give up and lost the battle. At Manresa, he surrendered ultimately and won the war.
There may be an enormous lesson in that: We should not in ultimate control of our faith journeys, any greater than we control our ultimate destinies. It’s true that we have now to place within the effort and time—God can do little for us if we’re unwilling to cooperate. But Christianity shouldn’t be a self-help group; it’s a God-help group. So long as Ignatius continued to act out of his grandiosity—out of the idea that he was the origin and destination of all the things—then it didn’t matter which king he served. Yet when he finally began to act out of gratitude—out of the acknowledgement that God is the origin and destination of all the things—then all things became possible. Indeed, things got here to be that Ignatius could never have imagined—like a worldwide company of men and their lay colleagues laboring today to advance the dominion of God on nearly every continent and in every conceivable sort of good work, including the many faculties mentioned on this issue.
“Put to death, then, the parts of you which are earthly,” St. Paul told the Colossians. “Stop lying to 1 one other, since you may have taken off the old self with its practices and have placed on the brand new self, which is being renewed, for knowledge, within the image of its creator.” Ignatius surely loved those words and would have seen his own experience in them, just as surely he would have seen his younger self within the words “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”
To all that he may need added this admonition, a lesson forged within the crucible of his lifelong conversion: Stop lying to yourself too. The One who’s the best way and the life can be the reality. And the reality will set you free.