In the 16th century, the line between holiness and heresy was finer than we imagine. After the trauma of the Protestant Reformation, Roman Catholicism militantly defended orthodoxy against any shadow of dissent. In this atmosphere of suspicion, mystics like Teresa of Jesús or Juan de la Cruz were moving on a slippery slope. They could arouse admiration as well as distrust.
The Church needed a leader like Teresa, for her apostolic drive, while fearing her, above all, for a charisma that seemed to threaten the monopoly of priests as religious mediators. Despite everything, she always remained faithful to the official doctrine, although her loyalty did not prevent her from problems with the Holy Office.
In one of his writings he made reference to the first of those encounters: “They came to me with great fear to tell me that times were tough and that they might pick something up from me and go to the inquisitors.” The rumors, it seems, must not have worried her too much. She felt more than certain of her adherence to the slightest Catholic rule. Or, perhaps, she proclaimed her orthodoxy to avoid trouble.
We know that, in practice, he deeply disagreed with the censorship imposed by the inquisitors. Without going any further, he did not welcome the fact that in 1559 the reading of the Bible in the Romance language was prohibited.
He tried to console himself by thinking that God, in the midst of so much closure, was going to provide him with a “living book,” with lessons that he would never forget. Thus, when addressing his nuns, he warned them that no one was going to take away the Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary. A perceptive censor noted that he seemed to be rebuking censors who banned prayer books.
Later, in 1574, his Book of Life was denounced. She was then subjected to a strict investigation from which she emerged victorious: the censors of the Holy Office examined her writing with a magnifying glass, but they did not find the slightest hint of heresy that could harm her.
The inquisitor general, Gaspar de Quiroga, would acknowledge in a letter to the author that the content of the work, which he had read in its entirety, was “very safe, true and very useful” doctrine.
Although the affair did not end badly, there was a real danger that Teresa’s adversaries would make her out to be unorthodox, in particular, enlightened, by presenting her supernatural ecstasies as a hoax. The Carmelite reformer was, from her perspective, one of many little women who claimed to experience something extraordinary, either because they were sincerely convinced or because they were performing comedy.
And, certainly, there was no shortage of reasons for distrust. There were and would be notorious cases of scammers like Magdalena de la Cruz, a Poor Clare who feigned ecstasy, exhibited fake sores, and claimed that her only food was the bread of the Eucharist.
For her part, Sister María de la Visitación managed to deceive personalities such as Brother Luis de Granada with her visions and levitations. The Inquisition also intervened and discovered that the stigmata of the “holy religious” were wounds that she caused herself.
For a theologian as relevant as Melchor Cano, it was necessary to flee from emotional explosions, because God could only be known from a faith illuminated by reason. If there were women obsessed with the Bible, they should be prevented from accessing it. Not everyone was capable of reading sacred texts without falling into dangerous doctrinal deviations. The interpretation of the word of God was to be left in the hands of professionals, that is, in the hands of the clergy.
Teresa agreed: throughout her life, she always relied on the criteria of those she called “literary.” Faith and intelligence should not be antagonistic, although reason, by itself, was not enough to understand the mystical experience.
However, in a climate marked by fear of heresy, where it was easy to see Lutherans everywhere, Teresa could not be entirely sure. The fear that her important autobiography would be burned prompted her admirers to make copies of it, lest that writing end up in the fire.
The clergyman Julián de Ávila participated in that rescue operation, as we know from his own words: “And I was one of those who gathered as many clerks as were necessary, so that in one day they could transport him, because it was considered certain that they would burn the originals.”
With the Inquisition, the Carmelite founder avoided a head-on collision. Aware of the danger of being denounced for her illumination, she gave every facility to the censors, and was the first to demand her intervention, so that her endorsement would protect her against any suspicion.
They could eliminate or correct any paragraph in which, by mistake, “out of ignorance and not malice,” the slightest thing had slipped against the faith. In this way, the Avila nun gained “doctrinal insurance”, essential in a time that demanded an unblemished orthodoxy. She, however, was very far from accepting with complete submission the corrections imposed on her.
On one occasion, she complained that her confessors wanted to force her to write words that she did not subscribe to and that, for that very reason, she erased the manuscript to restore her own.
There was no shortage of people who took up the pen to defend her. Fray Luis de León did so in 1589 in his Apology, at the same time that he harshly attacked the narrow-mindedness of his critics. One should not, for example, criticize the few obscure passages in his writings, because not even the great specialists could say that they understood everything in authors of the stature of Saint Augustine.
Regarding Teresa’s mystical revelations, Brother Luis proposed a forceful defense of freedom of expression. In his opinion, the doubts of some about the veracity of certain experiences could not justify the obstacles to their dissemination, “because they do not believe them, which is why they must be forbidden to others. It is intolerable presumption to become lords of everyone’s judgments.”
The great poet admired Teresa, above all, because it seemed to him an enormous merit that a woman, and also alone, led an entire religious order to perfection. An order that, if that were not enough, had experienced great growth in recent years.
Her foundations, as well as her writings, were so surprising because, in the words of Friar Luis, the characteristic of women was not to teach, but to be taught. Saint Paul stated this in the New Testament. Teresa’s case did not question that established truth, but rather made the work of “a thin woman, so courageous, who undertook such a great thing, and so wise and effective, more incredible.”
The interest of Brother Luis de León is one example, among many, of Teresa’s popularity after her death. The Empress Maria, sister of Philip II, read her works with great interest. Biographical books about her followed one another. The people and the elites were in agreement about his sanctity.
The bishop of Salamanca began the process for his beatification in 1591, just nine years after his death. He had the support of the monarchy. Thus began a process that culminated in 1614, amid popular fervor, great celebrations and even a sonnet by Cervantes and a romance by Góngora. Finally, canonization came in 1622.
Meanwhile, Philip III proclaimed her patron saint of the kingdoms of Spain, which sparked an arduous controversy between her supporters and those of the apostle Santiago. Among the first, we find such prominent figures as King Felipe IV or the Count-Duke of Olivares, very devoted to the saint of Ávila.
Francisco de Quevedo, on the other hand, published a pamphlet in which he defended “Matamoros” as the sole patron of “the Spains.” The country needed a warrior to intercede for its well-being before God, not a simple nun.
Teresa was, in many ways, a sum of opposites. She was rebellious when it came to questioning many stereotypes, such as those that placed women in a subordinate position. However, she did not challenge the system head-on. She did it cleverly, playing the card of persuasion rather than confrontation.
He starred, yes, in mystical experiences, but he was also very demanding when it came to validating anything with supernatural pretensions. The “raptures” had nothing to do with the “raptures.”
In this way, she led a movement of spiritual renewal that questioned gender taboos. Because… who said that big companies were not for female hands?
