ALL SAINTS: ⛪ Saint John Baptist de la Salle - Founder of the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools

John Baptist de La Salle entered the world on April 30, 1651, in Reims, a city in northeastern France famed for its cathedral and its wine-soaked fields. His father, Louis de La Salle, was a wealthy magistrate, his hands ink-stained from legal scrolls, while his mother, Nicolle Moët, came from a noble family tied to Champagne’s vineyards. Their home—a grand stone mansion near Reims’ Notre-Dame Cathedral—housed seven children, John the eldest, his cradle rocked by privilege. The 17th century swirled around them—France under Louis XIV glittered with Versailles’ pomp, yet peasants starved, and the Church wrestled with Jansenism’s gloom and Gallican meddling. John grew up amid velvet curtains and Latin hymns, his boyhood a mix of tutors and Mass. His parents aimed him for the priesthood, enrolling him at age 11, in 1662, as a canon at Reims Cathedral, a cushy post with a stipend. This whispers to us: God calls through plenty, and a rich start can lead to holy ends.

Young John—tall, pale, with a scholar’s brow—took to books fast. At 15, in 1666, he entered the Seminary of Saint-Sulpice in Paris, his mind sharp on theology, his heart stirred by Scripture’s call. Paris dazzled—its streets alive with carts, its churches echoing with debate—but he kept quiet, his eyes on the altar. By 1678, at 27, he was ordained a priest, his voice steady as he sang his first Mass in Reims, his family proud, his path set. Yet fate turned—both parents died within a year, 1671-1672, leaving him, at 20, to raise six siblings, his noble life now a tangle of duty. Readers, see this: loss tests the called, and God shifts plans in grief.

A Reluctant Teacher in a Poor World

John meant to settle—say Mass, manage estates, live as a gentleman priest. But in 1679, at 28, he met Adrien Nyel, a layman with a fire to teach poor boys, sent by a Reims widow to start a free school. Nyel knocked—shabby, earnest—asking John’s help. John hesitated; the poor smelled of dirt, not incense. Yet he housed Nyel’s ragtag teachers, his mansion’s polished floors scuffed by their boots. In 1680, he opened his first school, a drafty room for Reims’ urchins—boys with no shoes, no letters, only hunger. He paid from his pocket, his noble friends sneering—“You’re mad!”—but their faces haunted him, Christ’s own. This shouts: God pulls us past comfort, and the poor remake us.

France then split—nobles danced, peasants begged, and education was for the rich. Priests taught Latin to clerics; the rest rotted illiterate. John saw deeper—in 1681, he quit his canonry, sold his inheritance, and gave the gold to the starving, his siblings now grown. He moved among the teachers, eating their bread, sleeping on their straw, his silk swapped for coarse cloth. By 1683, at 32, he founded the Brothers of the Christian Schools, a band of laymen—not priests—vowed to teach the poor for free, their classrooms their cloister. Readers, grasp this: wealth can choke faith, and a saint trades it for souls.

A New Way in a Hard Fight

John’s vision grew—schools in Paris, Rouen, Chartres, all for boys with nothing. In 1684, he wrote a rule for his Brothers, simple but steel: no fees, no Latin for elites, just reading, writing, and God in the vernacular. He trained his men—rough lads themselves—teaching them patience, not paddles, his method a revolution: class by age, lessons in French, faith woven in. By 1690, at 39, his schools numbered dozens, their doors open when Jansenists shut theirs, their desks full when nobles scoffed. This cries: God blesses the bold, and learning lifts the low.

Foes rose—in 1691, Paris clergy sued him, claiming he stole their pupils; guilds raged, saying his free schools undercut their trade. John fought in courts, his voice calm, his purse empty. In 1694, his Brothers rebelled, some quitting for softer lives, others doubting his grit. He knelt longer, his rosary his rope, trusting God’s will. By 1700, at 49, he faced exile, fleeing Paris for Rouen when bailiffs seized Valdocco’s school, his health fraying—fevers, rheumatism. Yet he wrote—manuals for teachers, meditations for souls—his quill a lifeline. Readers, hear this: faith stands in ruin, and trials forge saints.

A Legacy in Dust and Grace

John softened with age—less lord, more father. In 1705, at 54, he settled in Rouen, his Brothers now a hundred strong, their schools a net for France’s lost. He lived lean—soup, a cot, his cassock patched—his days in prayer, his nights with the sick. In 1717, at 66, he resigned as superior, his body bent, his spirit bright, handing his order to Brother Barthélemy. The 18th century dawned—Louis XIV dead, wars bled Europe—but John’s work held, his Brothers teaching in slums, their chalk a quiet thunder. This tells us: humility crowns a life, and God builds slow.

On April 7, 1719, at 67, John died, Good Friday that year, in Rouen’s Saint-Yon house. His last words—“I adore God’s will”—slipped out as fever took him, his face peaceful, his hands crossed. Buried in Rouen’s church, his tomb drew the poor—knees bent, tears shed. In 1888, his relics moved to Rome, his order now global. Canonized on May 24, 1900, by Leo XIII, his feast is April 7, beatified first in 1888. Readers, hold this: death seals the faithful, and a saint’s dust sparks life.

Miracles and a Teacher’s Light

Wonders followed—a boy’s blindness healed in 1890, praying at John’s tomb, a miracle for his cause. His truest gift was education, free for all—Brothers in 80 lands today, their classrooms his echo. In a France of gold and grime—kings built palaces, poor died young—he taught Christ’s love through letters. He’s patron of teachers, his spirit urging: lift the least, readers. This sings: one man’s yes teaches millions, and holiness writes eternal.

For Your Faith’s Path

John’s tale calls us—his riches say drop your chains, comfort’s a trap; his schools say serve the small, God’s there. His fights urge grit—stand when foes press, faith your shield. His peace in pain pushes trust—pray through dark, He’ll light it. He died spent—give your all, and rest in Him. Step his way: teach a soul, share your loaf, let God grow it.

A Prayer to Saint John Baptist

O Saint John Baptist de La Salle, father of the poor’s learning, you left wealth for Christ’s little ones, your life a lesson in love. Guide me to see Him in the needy, the untaught, that I may lift them with your care. Teach me your steady trust, your fire for souls, your peace when all falls. Help me shed my pride, my ease, and walk simply with You, my hands open to the lost. Give me your heart to teach, your strength to stand, my days a chalk for Your truth. By your tomb, hear me, and through your holy plea, may I live bold, meek, and true, shining His light to my last line. Amen.

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Apr 7, 2024

⛪ Saint John Baptist de la Salle - Founder of the Institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools