The Miracle of Nazaré

It is said that in a certain place, in Nazareth of Galilee, on a day unknown but certainly two thousand years have passed since then, Joseph, known as “the carpenter,” was putting the final touches on a small statue. It was just over twenty-five centimeters tall and depicted his wife, Mary, sitting and nursing their son, Jesus.

That same Jesus was now sitting beside his father, watching closely as Joseph applied the wax that would bring out the grain of the wood, giving it life and color. “Is it ready?” asked Jesus. Joseph handed the small statue to his son and said, “Go, take it to your mother.” Jesus hurried out of the workshop, climbing the stairs to the main floor of the house where the family lived. “Mother, look what Father made,” said Jesus, delighted as he gazed at the statue in his hands. Mary took it, carefully observing the details of her own face, trying to discern how closely it resembled her. “Choose a place in the house to put it,” Mary said, handing the statue back. Jesus looked around the small house and found the perfect spot by the fireplace. He glanced at his mother for approval and received a smile and a nod that meant “perfect.”

The years passed, Joseph died, and many years later, so did Jesus, amid great controversy, accused of crimes he did not commit. John, one of his closest friends, took care of Mary, bringing her with him to Ephesus where they lived. Those were difficult times, Jesus’ friends and followers were persecuted and accused of the same crimes—sedition against the Roman Empire—so it was essential to leave Palestine. Among the few belongings Mary had brought with her, the statue was the most precious, simply because it held the memories of her beloved husband and son. Mary passed away, and a few years later, so did John, the last of those who had known Jesus personally.

The small statue, one of the few remaining artifacts connected to Jesus and his family, returned to Jerusalem in the hands of Luke, the physician, one of Paul’s companions. Paul, previously known as Saul, had been among those who persecuted Jesus’ followers until he had a vision in which Jesus himself appeared, asking, “Why do you persecute me?” From that day forward, Paul became one of the fiercest defenders of Jesus’ innocence, spreading the word everywhere. As Jesus’ fame grew, the small statue gained reverence as well, tied to figures shrouded in mystery, miracles, and other wondrous deeds. Jesus’ friends were now called Christians, for it was said he was the Christ, the anointed one of God.

Throughout various cities in Palestine and Asia Minor, letters circulated, telling the story of Jesus and sharing many of his teachings. People gathered in each other’s homes, often in secret, to read these letters aloud, and those in Jerusalem had the chance to see the small sculpture as well. As the years passed, the worship of Jesus grew, along with the number of his followers. Yet, the Roman Empire continued to persecute this growing group, who claimed that only God, not the emperor, should be worshiped, forcing them to flee Israel and seek refuge in Gentile lands. It was during one of these exoduses that the small statue found its way to Mérida, in Spanish Extremadura, where it was entrusted to a group of monks.

Years passed, and Christianity, once persecuted, became the official religion of the Roman Empire. The Visigothic kingdoms from northern Europe entered the Iberian Peninsula, and eventually, the Moors arrived, also from the north, but from Africa. Rodrigo, the Visigoth king, faced the Moors in Cádiz, at the Battle of Guadalete in 711 but was defeated. He was presumed dead, and perhaps that judgment was the beginning of the “miracle.”

Rodrigo, though covered by the death of the battlefield, still had life within him. Realizing it was impossible to resist the organized and disciplined force of invaders, he knew the north must be warned to seek shelter. He rose, like Ezekiel in the valley of dry bones, and made his way to Mérida as quickly as he could. Fearful of death, the monks gathered all they could carry and fled further north to the Asturias, but Rodrigo and his long-time friend, Friar Romano, headed west toward the Atlantic, seeking refuge in the Convent of São Gião, at a place known as Pederneira. Among their belongings were a few relics, none more important than the small statue of Mary nursing her son, Jesus.

They arrived safely at the convent, staying there for a few months, but news of the invasion continued to spread, brought by those fleeing from the south. Friar Romano feared for the statue more than for his own life. He had heard stories of churches being completely destroyed and turned into mosques, so it was crucial to hide the statue where it could not be found until help arrived. Rodrigo agreed with his friend but believed it was more useful for him to remain at the convent, helping those in flight, and perhaps even being part of the aid they so desperately hoped for. They couldn’t all flee... Friar Romano pointed to a promontory over 100 meters high, standing to the north, and said, “I will seek refuge there. Once a month, on this day, I will light a fire to signal that I am well.” Rodrigo replied, “I too will light a fire on the same day so you know I am aware of your well-being.” They parted with heavy hearts, uncertain if they would ever see each other again. Friar Romano’s belongings were few—a change of clothes, a blanket, enough food for just over two days, a knife, some manuscripts, paper and a pencil, but most important of all, the small statue carefully wrapped in cloth.

After days of walking, for he had to skirt around the Alcoa River, gathering fruit, roots, and plants he could eat, and collecting rainwater as a blessing from the sky, he finally reached the place where he could hide. There was no higher point, and the view over the ocean to the north and south was breathtaking. The place was desolate—a cave at the southern end of the cliff, whose entrance lay on the ground like a hole—surely a shelter for animals but now it had a new master. The cave twisted further inward, carved by rainwater, and seemed to lead to the base of the promontory through narrow passages that only small animals could navigate. Over time, he made the interior more livable. He built a small altar carved into the rock where he placed the small statue, feeling a sense of pride, which he immediately regretted, for having it all to himself.

The first month passed, and that night, Friar Romano lit the first fire. The response was almost immediate, as if Rodrigo had been waiting for the signal. Romano extinguished his fire at once; he didn’t want to draw attention to his location, but his heart was warmed, more by the knowledge that his friend was also well than by the heat of the flame itself. That night, he relived the moments of his recent past and wondered what his future would be, what the future of his people would be, and what the future of his faith would hold...

His daily routine was simple. Every morning, he dedicated at least an hour to prayer right after waking up, then he would go out to check the traps he had set in the nearby forest. Fortunately, there was an abundance of animals, especially rabbits and hares, along with wild fruits and plants, which his monastic training had taught him to recognize. Occasionally, he would catch a fox, but he always released them. He used every part of the rabbits and hares. After skinning them, he dried the pelts in the sun and ate the meat, but the long, strong bones were made into needles for sewing the pelts together. There was plenty of firewood, and he easily made fire, knowing how harsh the winters could be in that area. After eating, he would sit outside the cave in the sun and write down his memories. Perhaps calling them “memories” was too grand a term; his focus was merely to record the events of his escape and the need to preserve the memory of the statue.

The months passed without much change in routine, until winter arrived, bringing cold with it. The game became scarce, and fruits and roots became harder to find. Weak, malnourished, and frail, Friar Romano became ill. It had been 12 months since they left Mérida, and the year was now 712. On the beach, Rodrigo prepared the firewood, arranging it in a hole dug into the sand on a bed of dry straw to make it easier to light. Hours passed, but the fire on the promontory did not light. Not that day, nor in the following days. Rodrigo eventually made the decision to climb the hill. His friend could be injured or in danger. Early one morning, he loaded a donkey with food, some blankets, and strong wine, and set off. He knew well where to look for the fire’s location, having seen it eleven times in the same spot, so he reasoned that Friar Romano’s shelter wouldn’t be far away.

As he climbed higher, the fog thickened. It slowed his pace but didn’t obscure his sense of direction. After several hours of travel, Rodrigo thought he must be near the top of the promontory, but the fog made it impossible to see. He tightened the rope binding him to the donkey around his wrist, gripping it firmly with his calloused hand. Though no longer a king, he was no less a man for it. He felt the wind shift direction from the northwest, usually a sign of warmth and good weather, and turned to fill his lungs—any warmth, however little, would do his frozen chest some good. He inhaled again, thinking the fog would soon lift. He resumed his walk when his right foot stepped into nothingness, dragging the rest of his body into imbalance. The rope tethering him to the donkey stretched taut in his hand, twisting him to the left and slamming his back against the cliff as he dangled over the abyss. The donkey froze, planting its hooves to increase traction and stepping back from the precipice while shaking its head to free itself from the pulling rope. The donkey was stubborn, but not a fool.

Shaken from the shock, Rodrigo knew he had to get out of this position quickly. The rope was scraping against the cliff’s stones and could snap at any moment. Using his free hand, he grabbed a small ledge and pulled himself up. This was the moment to cooperate with the donkey, which, sensing the lighter load, took a step backward, raising Rodrigo slightly. He repeated this move twice more until he was able to grab the top of the rock and lift himself out. He lay on his back, panting, giving thanks to the Virgin, not forgetting the donkey, for such a great salvation. Still lying there, he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Romano!” but received no response. “Romano!” he yelled again, even louder this time. “Romano…” he finally whispered to himself in despair.

The fog dissipated, allowing the midday sun to pour in, warming his soul despite the winter’s chill. He rose and began searching for signs of a fire. He knew Romano would have tried to hide any evidence, but anyone who knows what to look for will always find something. He began identifying places in the rock that could shelter a fire from the wind. He found several but needed one with traces of burned stone. In his search, he came across the entrance to the cave, concealed by a large stone that could easily be removed by turning it westward. He lit a torch and entered. Inside, he found Romano’s body, curled up under a blanket, his beard and hair long, his face ashen. The cold had preserved him. Rodrigo sat on the cave floor, staring at his friend, and wept. To his right, he saw the statue embedded in the rock and wondered, “Was it worth it? After all, it was just a piece of wood.”

He carried Romano’s body out of the cave, like Jesus being taken down from the cross, and laid him across the donkey’s back. He covered the body completely with a blanket and returned to the cave to seal it. He would not take anything with him. He read the writings Romano had left behind, which recounted the story he already knew, along with details of his hermit’s life. Rodrigo carefully rolled them up in one of the rabbit pelts and hid them behind a stone next to the statue, sealing the cave afterward. “May it be what God wills,” he thought.

Two hundred years passed after these events. No one remembered Rodrigo or Friar Romano anymore. But one day, some shepherds in the area stumbled upon the cave by accident. A stray sheep fell into a hole, and when the shepherd went to rescue it, he came face to face with the cave’s entrance. He removed the stone to retrieve the sheep and was astonished to find the statue of the Virgin nursing the Child inside. No one knew its origin or its story, but the statue became a target of popular devotion. Fishermen, in particular, made it a habit to visit the cave and pray to the Virgin before heading out to sea. The struggles against the Moors continued in what was now called Portugal, and its first king, Afonso Henriques, championed this cause...

In 1147, Afonso Henriques conquered the city of Santarém, and as part of a vow, he gifted the entire territory of this western Estremadura to the Cistercian monks in 1153, asking them to cultivate the land. The monks built a monastery and the Church of Santa Maria de Alcobaça at the confluence of the Alcoa and Baça rivers. The region prospered, and the population settled and developed. However, foreign incursions continued along the Atlantic coast, through the mouth of the Alcoa, whether by Moors, pirates, or Galicians.

Fernão Gonçalves Churrichão, a Templar knight in the service of King Afonso Henriques, was named the first admiral of the still-nascent Portuguese navy, tasked with defending these territories. He was based at Leiria Castle, while the king resided in the city of Coimbra, the capital of the Kingdom of Portugal. When news of an incursion led by the Moorish king Gamir reached him, Churrichão set out with his troops to confront the threat and captured Gamir. As a reward for his service, the king appointed him the mayor of Porto de Mós, where Churrichão—also known as Fuas Roupinho—established his residence.

One day, while hunting in the Pederneira area, Fuas Roupinho spotted a large stag and gave chase on horseback. Both he and the stag were soon enveloped in thick fog as they climbed the promontory. Fuas lost sight of the stag but knew its direction and urged his horse forward. In a split second, he saw the stag in mid-air, and as he raised his spear to throw before the animal touched the ground again, he suddenly realized there was no ground beneath them—only a vast abyss and the stench of death. In a solitary, anguished cry, he shouted, “Help me, Our Lady!” And, as if by miracle, the horse planted its hooves into the earth, rearing up and preventing both their fall into the abyss.

Back on solid ground, Fuas knelt in prayer and saw before him the entrance to the cave of the image, which he had heard of but never visited. Entering the cave, he knelt before the statue and offered his prayers, vowing to build a chapel in her honor. A special request was made to the monks of the Alcobaça Monastery, and they fulfilled the knight’s wish. During the construction, the monks uncovered a stone, behind which they found a set of writings wrapped in a rabbit skin. The monk in charge was astonished by the content of the writings and, taking both the small statue and the documents, went directly to Alcobaça to present them at the monastery. A secret meeting was quickly convened, involving the knights Afonso Henriques, Gualdim Pais, Mem Ramires, Afonso Viegas, and Dom Martinho III, the abbot of Alcobaça.

The monk recounted the events and read the content of the writings, revealing the story that had been forgotten. Upon seeing the statue of the Virgin holding the Child, the knights knelt before it, laying their swords on the ground. A swift decision was made: the relic must be kept in the custody of the order, in a safe and secret place, along with other relics. A replica of the statue would be made and placed in the chapel once it was completed.

Meanwhile, the miracle of Fuas Roupinho spread rapidly, and devotion to the image grew. In 1377, King Fernando I, recognizing the great devotion to the statue and the increasing number of pilgrims, ordered the construction of a larger, more dignified church where the image, or rather its replica, was transferred. Another copy was placed in the original chapel. By the 15th century, Pederneira had become the most significant Marian devotion site in Portugal, surpassing all other places of worship. Vasco da Gama, before embarking on his voyage to India, came to Pederneira to seek the Virgin’s protection, as did Jesuit priest Francisco Xavier and many other figures from both the clergy and nobility of Portugal and abroad.

In 1595, a monk from the Alcobaça Monastery, named Bernardo de Brito, who later became the kingdom’s chronicler with many renowned works, claimed to have discovered a text in the monastery that told the story of the image from Pederneira. Eager to spread his discovery, despite it being already known, the monk reported that the statue had been carved in the city of Nazareth by none other than Saint Joseph, the father of Jesus. This infamous rumor and falsehood quickly spread, further increasing the devotion to the statue. The statue came to be known as Our Lady of Nazaré, and the place became the Sítio da Nazaré. Copies of the statue were location, however, the chalice from the Last Supper of Jesus, the sword Peter used to cut off the soldier’s ear, the shroud—not the one in the Vatican, but the true one that wrapped Jesus in the tomb—the lance that pierced him, the nails from the cross, along with many other relics, and now also the statue carved by Saint Joseph, remained safely guarded by the Knights of the Temple.