ALL SAINTS: ⛪ Blessed Julian of Saint Augustine

A Boy of Spain’s Dusty Plains

Julian of Saint Augustine—born Julián Martinet Morales—was welcomed into the world around 1550, in Medellín, a small town in Extremadura, western Spain, not far from the rugged Sierra de Gredos. His father, likely a farmer or laborer, wrestled a living from the dry soil, his hands cracked from plowing or herding goats, while his mother spun wool and whispered prayers in a mud-brick home, its roof sagging under the sun’s glare. Medellín sat humble—its streets narrow, its church of San Martín a squat tower amid olive trees and sheep trails. The 16th century framed their world—Spain under Philip II basked in New World gold, its armadas sailed, and the Counter-Reformation burned bright, yet peasants like Julian’s kin toiled in shadow, their lives a weave of sweat and faith. Julian, a wiry boy with tangled hair and a crooked grin, roamed the fields, his childhood a blur of stones kicked and hymns hummed. His parents taught him prayer young, kneeling by a rough cross, his voice stumbling over the Ave Maria, his small hands clutching a twig as a rosary. This whispers to us: God sows grace in barren dust, and a child’s chant can reach high.

The Martinets scraped by—bread from millet, a single room their shelter, the wind howling through cracks. At six, around 1556, poverty bit, a drought or plague thinning their herd—records blur, but want marked them. Julian felt it—his belly growled, his tunic a rag—yet he turned odd. He’d talk to saints, chattering to roadside shrines, leaving pebbles as gifts, his mother scolding, “Foolish boy!” Once, he gave his crust to a beggar, trudging home hungry, his father grumbling, his heart glad. At 12, in 1562, he worked as a tailor’s apprentice, his fingers pricked by needles, his eyes squinting over thread, his wages a pittance to ease his kin’s load. Spain then swelled—Cortés, born in Medellín, had conquered Mexico decades before, his shadow looming, but Julian’s world was small, his soul whispering to God. Readers, see this: lack forges saints, and a boy’s quirks can hint at grace.

A Wanderer in a Golden Age

Julian’s spirit stirred—at 15, around 1565, he left home, his needle swapped for a pilgrim’s staff, his heart restless for God. He roamed Extremadura—Badajoz, Cáceres—his bare feet blistered, his tunic patched, begging bread from farmers, his laugh a spark in dusty hamlets. He tried the hermits, joining a group near Trujillo, their caves damp, their days prayer and roots—yet he chafed, their silence too still, his tongue itching to praise aloud. Spain pulsed—the Council of Trent closed in 1563, its reforms tightening the Church, Jesuits and Franciscans fanning zeal, while the Inquisition hunted heresy, its fires a grim glow. At 20, in 1570, he settled in Santorcaz, a village near Madrid, drawn by its Augustinian friary, his wanderings done. This shouts: youth seeks God’s road, and a tailor’s thread can lead to Him.

Santorcaz stood plain—its fields brown, its friary of San Torcuato a huddle of stone, the Augustinians living Augustine’s rule of prayer and toil. Julian begged to join, knocking in 1570, his rags a contrast to their black habits—at 20, he became a lay brother, his vows simple: poverty, chastity, obedience, no priesthood, just service. His name shifted—Julian of Saint Augustine—his heart a furnace for Christ. He scrubbed pots, his hands raw, his back bent hauling wood, the friary’s rhythm his forge: Matins at dawn, fields by noon. He struggled with rules, his voice loud in chapel, his steps skipping—brothers sighed, “Julian’s mad!”—but he grinned, his love a flame. Readers, grasp this: humility pairs with zeal, and a layman’s toil can sing to God.

An Eccentric in a Rigid Time

Julian’s life deepened—in 1575, at 25, he took to the streets, a sack over his shoulder, begging alms for the friary, his cry, “For God’s love!” ringing through Santorcaz. Villagers knew him—he’d dance for joy, his feet shuffling, his voice praising Mary, children trailing, dogs barking. Visions came—Christ bleeding, a voice soft: “Serve Me in all.” He’d fall to his knees, his face wet, his soul leaping—he’d preach to passersby, his words wild: “Love Him, or burn!”—some laughed, others knelt, his fervor a draw. Spain then churned—Philip II fought the Dutch in 1571, the Armada loomed in 1588, and mystics like Teresa of Ávila lit the land with prayer. Julian faced scorn, peasants jeering, “Fool!” a friar snarling, “Quiet!”—yet he forgave, his sack his shield, his calm a rock. This cries: God lifts the odd, and taunts test the true.

The friary held him—in 1580, at 30, he worked miracles, tales spreading: a sick child healed, his hand on her brow, a drought broken, his prayers a rain. He’d shrug—“God, not me”—his sack heavier, his steps lighter. He lived lean, a straw mat his bed, broth his meal—he’d give his share, slipping bread to beggars, his hunger a gift. In 1590, at 40, he faced trial, a priest accusing, “He’s mad, lock him!”—Julian knelt, his peace a wall, the charge dropped when a boy’s fever broke at his touch. The 17th century neared—Philip III took the throne in 1598, Spain’s gold waned, plague crept—but Julian danced, his life a chord in a stern age. Readers, hear this: wonders crown the meek, and a brother’s joy defies the dark.

By 1600, at 50, sickness gnawed, fevers from years barefoot, his frame a wisp, his eyes bright. He kept on—alms at dawn, prayers by dusk—his cough a rasp, his grin a sun. He’d sit with the poor, his voice a balm, his tales of Mary a lift—villagers called him “santo vivo”, a living saint, his sack a sign. Spain shifted—the Golden Age faded, wars bled coffers, and faith wrestled doubt—Julian stayed small, his love a thread in Augustine’s weave. This tells us: frailty bears light, and a beggar’s dance sings eternal.

A Death and a Lasting Echo

On April 8, 1606, at 56, Julian died, in Santorcaz’s friary, his end a whisper in a bare cell. Age had worn him—hair gray, legs weak—yet he’d begged that morn, his sack light, his heart full. Laid on his mat, he sighed, “Jesus, Mary, take me,” his breath fading as spring stirred outside. Buried in San Torcuato’s yard, his grave a mound, a cross of sticks—a scent of roses rose, untraced, lingering days, though no flowers grew near. Pilgrims came—a lame man walked, a fever broke, his tomb a glow, dust from it a balm. Beatified in 1825 by Leo XII, his feast is April 8 locally, his cultus alive in Santorcaz. Readers, hold this: death crowns the pure, and a saint’s dust blooms grace.

A Legacy of Holy Folly

Julian’s Augustinians remembered—his alms fed their work, his spirit a spur, Santorcaz a shrine. He’s patron of beggars and the eccentric, his memory guarding those who love loud and live low. In a Spain of conquest and creed—Armada sank in 1588, Teresa died in 1582—he chose a sack over glory. Today, he says: dance for God, readers, let joy lead. This sings: one soul’s oddity echoes far, and simplicity outshines steel.

For Your Faith’s Path

Julian’s tale tugs us—his gifts say give your crumbs, God takes them; his dance says praise loud, He’s near. His scorn urges trust—stand when mocked, faith your rock. His frailty pushes glee—smile through wear, it’s His. He died fragrant—live so your end sings, and rest in Him. Walk his trail: share a crust, hum a hymn, let God lift you.

A Prayer to Blessed Julian of Saint Augustine

O Blessed Julian of Saint Augustine, beggar of God’s love, you danced with a fool’s joy, your life a cry for Christ. Draw me to Your gladness, that I may serve with your wild fire. Teach me your simple trust, your song in scorn, your peace when legs fail. Help me shed my weight, my fears, and leap free with You, my hands open to the least. Give me your heart to give, your voice to praise, my days a tune for His glory. By your grave, hear me, and through your holy plea, may I live odd, bold, and true, blooming His light to my last step. Amen.

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Apr 8, 2024

⛪ Blessed Julian of Saint Augustine