The second half of the 16th century, in Spain, was a difficult period of transition for our brothers and sisters involved in the emerging Discalced Carmelite Order. Whilst the names of the key “players” in the process of reforming the Order are well-known to us, it is easy to lose sight of other worthy individuals, who likewise played their part. I’d like to introduce you to an intriguing figure from that time, whose life of utter self-denial has tended to obscure his role in our history.

You have probably come across his name fleetingly: Padre Fray Juan Bautista, known by his peers as “El Remendado”. Certainly, there are a couple of brief references to him by Fr Crisógono de Jesús, in his excellent biography of St John of the Cross. These relate to the occasion when El Remendado stood in for Fray Juan de la Cruz at an important meeting of the definitory in Madrid, on August 13, 1586. The latter was delayed by ill-health and unable to attend the start of the meeting. They met to discuss such difficult issues as to whether, in future, the Order should stick to following the Jerusalem rite, or should they change to the Roman rite? Fr Crisógono de Jesús observes that, as soon as Fray Juan de la Cruz made it to the meeting, then El Remendado immediately departed. No doubt he was anxious to hurry back to his pressing duties as prior of Pastrana.

The use of nicknames, or soubriquets, was quite usual in the records at that time, as they were a means of distinguishing between individuals who had chosen the same name in religion. So, for example, you will find: “Fray Juan Bautista el Castellano” (the “Castilian”), who came from Old Castile; or “Fray Juan Bautista el de Ronda” who was from Andalusia – Ronda being a town in that province. That is simple enough, and in fact “El Castellano” is none other than El Remendado, who was born and bred in a small medieval town in the foothills of the Sierra de Guadarrama, in the centre of Spain. But his usual soubriquet: “El Remendado” is so distinctive and strong that in the example given above the writer could not resist from adding: “also known as El Remendado”.

So, what does it mean? It derives from the Spanish word “reméndar”, which means “to patch”, and it implies someone whose clothes are full of patches. By no means was El Remendado the only Carmelite to patch up his habit; I noticed, in passing, a reference to a nun called Madre Catalina Maria de la Santissima Trinidad, who also had lots of patches to the only two habits she’d ever owned. However, El Remendado clearly took his vows of poverty to quite a different level. It was said that “amongst the poor, he looked really poor.” His rosary beads were bulky and rough, and his belt was made from the leather of an ass – with its fur still on! – and this lasted for years.

At the age of twenty-six, when he hammered on the door of Pastrana, in 1574, asking to be admitted, what the brothers saw before them was a young man with a reserved, prickly, detached look about him, who was also weather-beaten by exposure to frost and sun, reminding them of an anchorite. But at the same time, they became aware of his prudent reasoning, and his gentle, benign temperament, and they accepted him with open arms.

There was a similar initial reaction to El Remendado many years later, when in June 1593 he was elected to be the Provincial of Andalusia, following the sudden death of Fr Fray Luis de San Gerónimo. The records relate that in the province, people were extremely unhappy about the appointment, because of his reputed appearance and his strict observance of the Rule. But then they add that when he took up his new post, and “they opened that rough-looking shell”, what they found in it, “forged by the dew of heaven”, was a pearl in which charity, prudence, love, humility and zeal coincided – and they, brothers and sisters alike, loved him tenderly, as a gift from on high.

Most of El Remendado’s postings were towards the centre and north of Spain. I mentioned earlier that he came from old Castile originally. I had the good fortune to visit his home town of Pedraza de la Sierra, in late March 1970.¹ Like his hero, St John the Baptist, El Remendado was born in an upland area, to the east of the main ridge of the beautiful Sierra de Guadarrama. On the day I went there, the snow-capped mountains sparkled in the warm sunshine, the sky a deep blue; a stork was busy tidying up her nest on the ruined tower of St Mary’s, and the magnificent romanesque square tower of the parish church of St John the Baptist completed the scene. I thought it was the most beautiful place in the whole of Spain. I still think so.

El Remendado was born there, in Pedraza de la Sierra,² in 1548, the son of the local doctor, Fabian de Vargas, and his wife, Juana de la Vega. As their son was growing up, his deep desire to become an ascetic mystic became obvious to his parents. I picture him at that time wandering all over the wild massive Sierra, in all kinds of conditions – and no doubt discussing matters of faith with the contemplative hermits he would come across during his restless meanderings. His parents wisely persuaded him that the best course would be to study theology at the University of Alcalá de Henares.

We may note here that, about that time, Fray Juan de la Cruz was involved in setting up the new Discalced Carmelite college at that university, and in April 1571 became its rector, and no doubt his teachings had a tremendous influence on the young man – so much so, that despite being an exemplary student, he left the college prematurely to seek admittance to Pastrana at once. He was professed there on June 26, 1575, whereupon they sent him back to Alcalá to complete his theology course, which he did with flying colours. Shortly after his return to Pastrana, Fr Fray Gerónimo de la Madre de Dios Gracián – who was on a visit there – having consulted with the fathers, appointed him as Novice Master. Subsequently, in 1583, at the Chapter of Almodóva, El Remendado was appointed prior of Mancera. Just two years later, he returned to Pastrana, this time as prior.

El Remendado’s role was further advanced in 1588, when the Order was partitioned into six Provinces, and he was elected to serve as the first provincial for the newly created Province of Old Castile, to which the title of St Elijah had been allocated. Whilst carrying out the additional duties involved, he still managed to summon up the energy and zeal to establish several new convents, without ever neglecting the severe fasts and self-disciplines that were an unremitting feature of his faith. And this was to be the case, even to the very end of his life.

There is a reference, in the records, to a manifestation which occurred whilst El Remendado was still prior of Pastrana, which was thought to be pleasing to him. Apparently on that occasion there was a lack of fish for the community to eat for that particular day. So as prior, he ordered that whatever small amount of fish had been left over from the previous day should be divided up and shared between them all. It was said that everyone ate, and everyone was satisfied… and moreover there was more of the fish left than had been left the previous day!

After his spell in Andalusia, referred to above, came to an end in 1597, El Remendado was despatched to Valladolid, a move which was to prove to be his last one. Once there, his most pressing task was to complete the construction of God’s church, which hitherto had been confined to a narrow, uncomfortable ground floor of a building bought for that purpose. Shortly afterwards, that city suffered a severe mortality rate, as a result of an awful outbreak of the plague, and we find El Remendado on his knees inside the new completed church, in earnest prayer: “Lord, in payment of our having built your Temple, we ask you to have mercy on us, and not to allow this House to suffer from the plague”.  And it was so: despite the heavy toll on the local population, the brothers were able to go about their business, confessing those afflicted and attending their services, whilst managing at the same time to stay free of the plague.

In the meantime, unbeknown to El Remendado at first, there was much speculation about who would be appointed as the new General of the Discalced Carmelite Order, once the current incumbent, Fr Fray Elias de San Martin, had fulfilled his term in that office during 1600. Some were saying that they thought it should be Fr Juan Bautista El Remendado; others were suggesting Fr Fray Gregorio Nacianceno. Both of them had been provincials; both had great prudence and maturity, and both were regarded as holy men. These two individuals were so far ahead of anyone else that no others were discussed.

On one occasion Fr Fray Tomás de Jesus, who was a provincial, and Fr Francisco de Santa Maria, who was a lector, were debating this issue whilst visiting the Venerable Mother Ana de Jesús (Lobera) at Salamanca, and from behind the grille she said to them that they needed to look for someone else to be the General, as neither of the two individuals mentioned by them was destined to do it. And in time, her prophecy proved to be right.

Ana de Jesús de Lobera, of course, was the same nun who went on to establish the Discalced Carmelite Order in France. I shall always remember her as the Carmelite nun who lifted her veil in The Little Flower’s dream,³ which for some reason affected me deeply when I first read that passage. Whilst still in her native Spain, she played a key role in developing the new Order. She was nicknamed “the Captain of the Prioresses”.

Inevitably the murmurings, rumours and speculations about his future role in the Order began to filter through to El Remendado, and he was not pleased. He knew, and those close to him would know, that his life’s purpose – like that of his spiritual mentor St John the Baptist – was to bring Our Lord Jesus Christ directly to the people. His peers would refer to him as a Jeremiah on account of the passion he would bring to his sermons, perhaps reminding them of the “Lamentations” which are associated with the Tenebrae services during Holy Week. Others called him the Apostle, for much the same reason. It was said that his words were like firebrands, and that tears of emotion would stream down his cheeks as he said Mass – which would regularly take a couple of hours, or so, to conclude. Clearly such a man as he would not seek high office: his sole ambition was to fully serve our Lord “at the sharp end” – by directly and simply caring for the spiritual needs of His flock, as well as he could.

Fr Gregorio Nacianceno was the first of the two favourite candidates for the post, as General, to pass away. El Remendado prayed that he too would be allowed to pass on, so when Fr Fray Sebastian de Jesús came over to him at the Provincial meeting, and went to hand him a document confirming that El Remendado was indeed expected to be the next General, his response was: “With God’s favour, there will be no need for Your Reverence to hand that to me.”

Pressure was put on him from all quarters to accept the new posting, but it soon became clear that he would rather die than do so. I find it impossible to read these final exchanges between all the parties concerned – each acting sincerely according to his conscience – without experiencing a deep sadness. Authority expected El Remendado to obey and do his duty. He replied on the lines that his first duty was to Our Lord, and that he would not risk letting Him down, and that in any case his negotiations in that direction had been concluded!

Although his health was clearly deteriorating fast, when the feast day of St Apollonia dawned, on February 9, 1600, El Remendado insisted on going to the parish of St Martin’s to celebrate Mass and deliver an impassioned sermon on this saint, for whom he had a particular affection. She is the saint whom one might invoke in the event of toothache, and it’s quite likely of course, due to his tendency towards self-neglect, that El Remendado would have had reason to remember her more than most! But this homily was to be his swan song. He was poorly protected against the severe weather conditions on the journey home, with the result that he was overcome by cold, and was totally depleted. It was to be the beginning of the end.

During his last days there was concern by his brothers and their superiors alike, that he would not give an inch as regards relaxing the requirements of the Order’s Rule to ease his condition. When the Father Superior Fray Elias de San Martin said to him, very gently: “If Reverend Father, you had done us the favour of eating some meat, when we asked you to, to alleviate your condition, we would not be in this difficult position now.” To which he replied: “But it’s my wish, Father, that when my days are over, it will be remembered, that by not eating meat, Fray Juan Bautista took ill and died, rather than give a poor example through poor observance of the Rule.”

As his end approached, he confounded his community many times by unexpectedly rallying temporarily, assuring them that he would not be leaving them that day. It was not until the afternoon of February 20, the first Sunday in Lent, that he gave up his spirit to the Lord. Several fellow Carmelites – notably Prioress Ana de Jesús – reported seeing his spirit rise straight up to heaven at that hour, to join the Order’s Holy Mother Teresa. As I look back at this man’s life, what strikes me in particular is that he took virtually nothing for himself, and left no footprints on the planet that humanity has abused so recklessly; he lived solely to serve our Lord, and to give his all for the spiritual welfare of his fellow beings. So little trace did he leave that it’s been almost impossible for me to track him.⁴ But what a joy to attempt to do so!

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1. I suspect that my comment above, that I visited Pedraza de la Sierra way back in 1970, may call for some explanation. There is certainly no current information to be had relating to the town’s illustrious son.  At the time of my visit, I had been sent from London to work temporarily in my employers’ Madrid office. I spent the night of my twenty-eighth birthday, until the early hours, in the cold, damp, draughty streets of Spain’s capital city – far away from my loved ones at home – as I waited to witness the amazing Good Friday grand procession. It was worth it, and it affected me much more deeply than I had expected.  After a few hours of shut-eye, I was whisked off by some kind colleagues, out of the damp city, and off to the bright Sierra, then over to Pedraza de la Sierra. But it was almost half a lifetime later before I began to sense there was something very special about my visit there, that I needed to discover. And my search began. ↩︎
2. The banner image depicts Pedraza as seen from the access road. Image credit: David Daguerro (Madrid), Trabajo propio, licensed under CC BY‑SA 4.0. ↩︎
3. Story of a Soul: The Autobiography of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, trans. John Clarke, OCD (Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1996). Chapter IX, pp. 190-91. See also St. Thérèse of Lisieux: Her Last Conversations (Washington, DC: ICS Publications, 1977), pp. 49-50. ↩︎
4. My main references for the historical contents of this article are the following Spanish sources: Monografía de Pedraza de la Sierra by Timoteo de Antonio (1936) and various volumes of Reforma de los Descalzos de Nuestra Señora del Carmen de la Primitiva Observancia (Biblioteca Digital de Castilla y León). ↩︎