Aurora Campos brings us closer to the figure of Blessed Francisco de Jesús, one of the Augustinian Recollect martyrs of 17th-century Japan. A fellow missionary of Blessed Vicente de San Antonio, he spent years travelling through the mountains and hidden villages of Nagasaki, sustaining the faith of persecuted Christian communities. His life, marked by farewells, mission, and fidelity to the very end, culminated in martyrdom on September 3, 1632. His story is one of the brightest testimonies of Christian evangelization in Japan.
A missionary forged in renunciation and fidelity
Although Blesseds Vicente de San Antonio and Francisco de Jesús had set foot in Japan on the same missionary expedition, their paths soon had to diverge. That farewell, which seemed a simple requirement of prudence, was in fact the first chapter of a new trial that Providence had in store for them.
Circumstances demanded it. Francisco de Jesús was Spanish, and since 1623 the Japanese authorities had expelled from their domains all merchants from Spain, increasing surveillance over anyone who might be connected with them. But there was also an even more serious reason: the persecution of Christians had become fierce. Each month brought news of new arrests, of missing catechists, of entire families forced to hide their faith under threat of death. Priests and religious were pursued with particular determination, as if by tearing away the shepherds the flock could be scattered.
Thus, while Vicente de San Antonio remained in Nagasaki, discreetly protected by the Portuguese community, Francisco had to withdraw into the rugged mountains surrounding the city. There he began a wandering, silent existence. Along mist-covered paths, through forests of centuries-old cedars and villages hidden among the slopes, he learned Japanese while administering the sacraments and strengthening the faith of hidden Christians.
Nights were often spent in humble wooden huts. The smell of damp firewood permeated the rooms. The wind came down from the peaks, making the bamboo creak, and in the darkness—barely broken by the wavering light of an oil lamp—the young missionary heard the confessions of those faithful who risked their lives to follow Christ. The murmur of prayers mingled with the distant sound of mountain streams. At times, the unexpected bark of a dog was enough to sow fear of a raid.
However, persecution did not intimidate Blessed Francisco de Jesús. He had learned to live with danger during the years he spent in Zambales, in the Philippines, between 1620 and 1622. Those rugged lands, inhabited by peoples especially hostile to the presence of missionaries, had tempered his spirit. There he had seen the blood of some evangelizers spilled, and he had understood that the proclamation of the Gospel not infrequently flourishes watered by the sacrifice of those who preach it.
For three years he travelled through the mountains of Nagasaki, sowing the faith with patience and courage. But the net of persecution was tightening. Patrols increased, hiding places began to be discovered, and denunciations multiplied. Finally, convinced that his presence was becoming ever more dangerous for the Christian communities he served, he decided to depart for northern Japan together with other religious.
It was April 1626 when he set out on that long journey. Dusty roads, wind-battered ports, and endless days on foot carried him more than two thousand kilometres away from his brother in the habit, Vicente de San Antonio.
As he moved toward those remote regions, a strange melancholy began to fill his heart. That new farewell made him understand that his whole life had been woven with threads of separation and renunciation.
He then remembered his mother, who had died in Villamediana when he was barely two years old. He retained little of her beyond a faint shadow and some memories passed on by others, but that absence had silently accompanied his entire existence. He also recalled the death of his father when he was six, leaving him orphaned at an age when children are only just beginning to understand the world.
Then he remembered the two priest uncles who took him in and educated him during his childhood. They taught him his first prayers, showed him the path of faith, and cared for him as true parents. But he also had to say goodbye to them in order to go and study at the Jesuit school in Palencia. Later he left those teachers behind to continue his studies in Valladolid.
And it was precisely in Valladolid that he heard another call, deeper and definitive. Within the austere walls of the Augustinian Recollect convent, he discovered a beauty different from what the world offers. The silence of the cloisters, the sound of bells breaking the dawn, the scent of wax burning during the night offices, and the example of those religious kindled in him a fire that would never be extinguished. There he bade farewell forever to human ambitions and embraced religious life, professing as an Augustinian Recollect in 1615.
Now, as he crossed Japan persecuted for Christ’s sake, he understood that all those farewells had not been losses. God had been emptying his hands in order to fill them with Himself alone.
In the northern lands he found Christian communities hungry for consolation and hope. There, among scattered villages and barely traced paths, Blessed Francisco de Jesús continued to sow the Gospel. The Lord abundantly blessed his labours. Wherever he went, Christians regained courage; catechumens asked for baptism; persecuted families found strength to persevere. Yet the missionary knew that no apostolic work truly belonged to him. He was merely a sower who moved on, leaving the seed in God’s hands.
He remained in that region for about a year. Then letters, messages, and news arrived from Nagasaki. His brother in the habit, Blessed Vicente de San Antonio, requested his return. There were also, as he himself would discreetly write in one of his letters, “many other reasons.” Without hesitation, he set out once more on the road south.
On returning to Nagasaki, he plunged back into the very heart of the storm. The persecution had intensified. Spies multiplied. Searches were constant. Christians learned to recognize one another through discreet signs and to gather under the cover of night. More than once Francisco had to flee hastily from his pursuers. On one occasion he managed to save his life by disguising himself as a woman, passing through several checkpoints without being recognized.
That scene, which over the years would draw more than a smile from those who heard the story, awakened distant memories in him. He recalled the days spent in Salamanca in 1619, when he was still a young religious full of plans and enthusiasm. He remembered the students’ antics, the clever jokes, the endless debates in lecture halls and university corridors. There he had clearly heard God’s call to set out for the missions in the Philippines. He could never have imagined then that that voice would end up leading him to the far reaches of Japan.
Among the hidden Christians of Nagasaki
How remote those youthful days now seemed. Yet even those experiences had been discreet preparations of Providence, which had been shaping him to survive amid persecutions and dangers.
Life in Nagasaki then became a constant pilgrimage. He never stayed more than two days in the same place. One night he slept in a humble fishermen’s home amid the pungent smell of wet nets and the sound of waves striking the shore. Another night he found refuge in some hut lost among the woods, where the scent of pines and the song of insects filled the silence. He lived always on alert, ready to leave at any moment.
But precisely that precarious life gave even greater force to his witness. Christians saw in him a father who shared their sufferings and risks. Many found in his example the courage needed to remain faithful to Christ.
Among them stood out a young Japanese woman who would become one of the brightest figures of Japanese Christianity: Magdalena of Nagasaki. A fervent catechist and an Augustinian Recollect tertiary, she accompanied Blessed Francisco de Jesús on numerous apostolic journeys through the mountains. She knew the hidden paths, the safe houses, and the Christian families scattered throughout the region. She heard countless teachings from his lips and learned from him steadfastness in faith. Years later, when the missionary had already given his life for Christ, she would continue his evangelizing work until she too attained the glory of martyrdom.
Meanwhile, the persecution continued to grow like a threatening shadow. Even so, destiny wished to grant the two Recollect religious one last joy. On August 28, 1629, they were able to celebrate together the feast of Saint Augustine. Perhaps they shared memories of Spain, recalled their years of religious formation, or spoke of the challenges of the mission. Perhaps they prayed together the words of the saint of Hippo whom they loved so much. Neither of them imagined that this would be their last Augustinian feast in freedom.
Three months later, on November 18, 1629, Francisco was arrested in the mountains near Nagasaki. His hiding place had been discovered after a Christian, subjected to terrible torture, involuntarily revealed where he was.
The chains soon closed around his wrists.
He was taken to the prison in Nagasaki. There he found an old fellow missionary: the Augustinian Bartolomé Gutiérrez, the veteran missionary who had been evangelizing in Japan the longest and who had welcomed them when they arrived in the country six years earlier. Shortly afterwards Vicente de San Antonio was also imprisoned. They would be joined by Antonio Ygida and the Franciscan Friar Gabriel.
The narrow cells echoed with the metallic clank of chains and the groans of prisoners. Yet far from becoming a place of despair, that prison ended up being transformed into a kind of monastery of suffering. The religious prayed together, encouraged one another, and strengthened those who shared their captivity.
Two weeks later they were transferred to the dreaded prison of Omura.
The martyrdom of Blessed Francisco de Jesús
The place seemed designed to break bodies and spirits. The air was heavy with humidity. The walls exhaled a sour smell of sickness and confinement. For nearly two years they remained locked in narrow wooden cages, barely able to move. In winter the cold seeped through the cracks, freezing them to the bone; in summer the heat became unbearable. Yet the martyrs continued to encourage the other prisoners to persevere.
In 1631 they were taken again to Nagasaki and then to the most feared place of all: Unzen, the so-called “hell of Arima.”
Even today the volcanic mountains of that region exhale sulphurous vapours. The acrid smell of sulphur saturates the air and makes breathing difficult. The ground boils beneath one’s feet. There the persecutors had found a particularly cruel instrument of torture.
Christians were repeatedly immersed in boiling waters laden with volcanic minerals. The purpose was not to kill them quickly, but to wrench from them a public apostasy.
Vicente de San Antonio was left virtually destroyed after five sessions. Bartolomé Gutiérrez was not even subjected to the torment, for his physical condition was so precarious that the executioners feared he would die too soon.
Francisco, by contrast, seemed strong. His robust constitution and his firmness in responding to the authorities provoked the fury of his judges. For that reason they subjected him to seven full sessions.
His flesh opened into countless wounds. Sores covered his arms, legs, and back. The pain was constant. Every movement tore the skin anew. Yet those who watched him were struck by his serenity.
From those wounds probably came the only physical relic of the martyr that has been preserved: a blood-soaked handkerchief that a Dominican managed to rescue and send to Manila to the provincial of the Augustinian Recollects. Over the centuries that relic, along with so many others from the Japanese martyrs, would end up disappearing when the historic Church of San Nicolás de Intramuros was destroyed during the Second World War.
After thirty-one days in that true hell, they were returned to Nagasaki.
For nine more months they remained in prison. The open wounds continued to fester. The pain granted no respite. Yet each dawn brought them a little closer to the longed-for goal.
At last the day arrived.
It was September 3, 1632.
The soldiers led the condemned to the hill of the martyrs. The path rose gently before the immense bay of Nagasaki. The sea shone under the sunlight. The boats looked like small shadows gliding over the water.
As he walked, Francisco lifted his gaze to the horizon.
Then he remembered another port, another ocean, and another journey. He remembered the day he embarked in Acapulco bound for the East. He again felt the immensity of the Pacific, the creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the roar of storms on the open sea.
For ten years he had travelled thousands of kilometres across that immense ocean.
Now he understood that all those journeys had been a single crossing.
The ship of his life was finally reaching its final harbour.
As he approached the place of execution, he knelt down. He kissed the wooden stake to which he would be bound and gave thanks to God for having deemed him worthy to share in the Passion of Christ.
The executioners followed precise orders. They bound the martyrs only by their thumbs, leaving open the possibility of recanting at any moment.
But those who had endured prisons, torments, and years of persecution were not willing to turn back.
When the wood was dampened and the torches began to draw near, the martyrs raised their voices in prayer.
The flames grew slowly.
The smoke rose, enveloping them.
Psalms, hymns, and praises to God could still be heard. The Christians watching from a distance wept and prayed. Those voices, weakened by the smoke, continued to urge them to remain faithful unto death.
Little by little, silence replaced the singing.
The bodies were consumed by the fire.
Afterwards the ashes were thrown into the sea, as if the authorities wished to erase forever any memory of those men.
But the sea does not keep what belongs to God.
Centuries later, in the parish church of Villamediana, his hometown, a painting still depicts him with arms outstretched, bound to the tree of execution as flames rise at his feet. It is the image of a man who spent his whole life bidding farewell to all he loved in order to remain with Christ alone.
On July 7, 1867, Pope Pius IX proclaimed him Blessed together with other martyrs of Japan. Since then, the Church has celebrated his memorial each September 28.
But his true feast had begun much earlier, on that bright morning in September 1632, when from the hill of Nagasaki he looked upon the ocean for the last time and understood that, after so many storms, the journey was over.
