A Conversation with St. Jude: The laying on of hands
The year 2023 came upon me inlike a tempest, tearing through the very foundations of my life with an unforgiving force. On the day my daughter was born, my brother passed away—life and death converging in a single breath. The joy of new life was marred by the sorrow of loss. As if grief were not heavy enough, I soon lost my job, and the ground beneath me—once familiar—became a foreign and unstable terrain.
Having spent my entire life in Illinois, the streets of my childhood were once a place of comfort, but now they felt like exile. The very land that had shaped me now seemed to suffocate me, and I longed to escape. I was a man adrift, without direction, without certainty. In the depths of this darkness, I turned to St. Jude—the patron of impossible causes, the saint of the desperate and forgotten.
In 2024, when winter’s chill still clung to the earth, an invitation came unexpectedly: Bishop Chandler Holder Jones, whom I had reached out to in October after confiding the struggles of my life, called me to his cathedral. He offered the guidance I had so desperately sought, and on January 28, I stepped into a sanctuary that felt like providence itself. Within weeks, a job appeared—not just any job, but a path forward. And so, I left the place where I had been born, stepping into a future unknown, yet cradled in the hands of God. But as life often does, more trials followed. On September 14, 2024, I was struck by a drunk driver, leaving me with four herniated discs, a torn labrum, spinal whiplash, and the unrelenting grip of spinal canal stenosis. Pain became my constant companion. Amidst this suffering, my wife was pregnant with our third child. Once again, life gave me both sorrow and joy in a single breath.
By October 28, the feast day of St. Jude, I was battered but unbroken. Yet, on that very day, another blow fell: I was let go from my job. Crippled by injury, burdened by the responsibility of a growing family, I found myself unable to see a way forward. The words of my termination echoed in my ears as I walked into Mass that evening, arriving thirty minutes early. In the quiet of the chapel, I knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Walsingham, my body weary, my mind overwhelmed by uncertainty. In that moment, I called upon St. Jude—my intercessor, my companion in the communion of saints.
As the words left my lips, I felt it—two hands, firm and steady, pressing upon my shoulders. A warmth, not of flesh and blood, but of the Holy Spirit, surged through me. A profound calm settled over my soul, lifting the weight I could no longer bear. When I rose from my knees, I was no longer crushed by despair, but upheld by something greater than myself. That moment, when St. Jude’s intercession became tangible in my life, was not just a release from despair but a reminder that suffering, when offered to Christ, becomes a means of grace. I realized that the pain I had been carrying, physical and emotional, was not meaningless. It was part of the sacred mystery where Christ’s suffering and mine meet. In the hands of the saints and the Body of Christ, our suffering becomes an avenue through which God works in the world
Within a week, a new job found me—one that was better-paying and more flexible, a providential bridge until something permanent would come. But before I could accept the offer, my vehicle needed repairs, and my finances, strained by my injuries and inability to work, were low. When I arrived at the repair shop, I was told that the work would be done for free. When I asked why, the mechanic smiled and said that my presence had brought an atmosphere of blessing, and they wished to bless me in return. Once again, St. Jude had answered.
The world often dismisses the Communion of Saints as mere abstractions, relics of a bygone era. But experience has taught me otherwise. The saints are not distant figures confined to paintings or statues. They walk among us, unseen yet present, interceding before the throne of God. St. Jude is not merely a saint of history—he is a companion in suffering, a hand upon the shoulder when the weight becomes too much to bear. I had prayed, and he had answered—not with flashes of light or thunderous voices, but with the quiet force of divine providence, weaving through time and circumstance.
The Veil Between Worlds
What happened that night in the chapel was not an isolated moment, not a fleeting consolation meant only to ease my immediate distress. It was something deeper—a revelation, a pulling back of the veil between heaven and earth. The Communion of Saints is not a distant theological concept, but a living reality, an invisible thread binding time and eternity, suffering and glory, the seen and unseen.
St. Jude had not simply interceded from afar; he had drawn near, reminding me that I was not alone in my trials. But the mystery of this encounter extended beyond my own circumstances. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had stepped outside of time and glimpsed the intricate weaving of divine providence—a tapestry too vast for human eyes to perceive in its fullness.
Perhaps that is what true mysticism is—not an escape from the world, but an awakening to the truth that heaven is far closer than we think. We do not walk alone; the saints walk with us. Their prayers are not echoes lost in eternity, but living intercessions shaping the course of our lives in ways we may never fully comprehend. The veil between heaven and earth is not only pulled back in moments of joy but also in suffering. For the Christian, suffering is not an interruption to life; it is a profound participation in the life of Christ, who bore all our sorrows on the Cross. When we suffer, we are not cast away or forgotten but are drawn closer to Christ, whose suffering brings healing and redemption to the world. In this way, the saints, who have gone before us, walk with us in our suffering, reminding us that we are never alone.
After mass that morning, I carried no certainty about the future, no roadmap to ease my anxieties. Yet, I carried something greater: the knowledge that my life, my suffering, my hope—none of it was unseen. The saints had walked this path before me, and now, they walked beside me.
The Catholic vs. Charismatic Protestant Approach to Mysticism
Mysticism is often misunderstood. In modern Christianity, two dominant approaches have emerged—one found within the depths of Catholic tradition and the other shaped by the fervor of Protestant charismatic experience. Both seek an encounter with the Divine, yet they differ in how that encounter is understood, sustained, and participated in.
For the Catholic, mysticism is not an isolated experience, nor is it dependent on emotional intensity. It is a participation in the divine life through Christ, a reality that is sacramental, communal, and enduring. It is the unfolding of grace, not just in extraordinary moments, but in the quiet, steady transformation of the soul.
While charismatic mysticism often seeks moments of spiritual ecstasy, Catholic mysticism teaches us to embrace suffering as a means of transformation. Through the sacraments, prayer, and the intercession of the saints, our suffering becomes a participation in Christ’s own suffering—an offering that, like His, brings new life. It is through the Cross that Christ brought redemption, and it is through the daily crosses we bear that we are conformed more fully to His image.
For the charismatic Protestant, mysticism is often sought in immediate spiritual experiences, in moments of emotional fervor—speaking in tongues, receiving “words from the Lord,” or feeling sudden waves of spiritual ecstasy. These experiences are not necessarily false, but they often lack the theological depth and sacramental foundation that make an encounter with God more than just a fleeting moment.
A Mysticism Rooted in Christ’s Incarnation
Catholic mysticism is not about chasing feelings or spiritual highs—it is about entering into the mystery of Christ Himself. The saints do not stand alone in their glory, nor do they act apart from Christ. Their intercession is not a distraction from God but a deeper participation in His life. When we turn to them, we are not turning away from Christ—we are encountering Christ through them, because they live in Him.
This is what Protestant charismatic spirituality often lacks: a full understanding of how grace is mediated. In Catholicism, our mystical encounters are not left to the unpredictability of personal emotion but are given a structure, a rhythm, a sacramental foundation. We do not have to wonder when or if God will speak—we know He speaks through the Eucharist, through Confession, through the presence of the Church, through the prayers of the saints. Our mysticism is not an experience we must create; it is a reality we are invited to enter.
Read it all in the Way of Walsingham
