The audacity of Xavier

By Herman M. Lagon

It was a Monday morning of June 4, 2001, when I first heard the name Francis Xavier. I was a newbie in my fresh, checkered polo uniform and black slacks, nervously adjusting to the rhythm of a Jesuit school. We were in the chapel of what was then Santa Maria Catholic School, now known as Ateneo de Iloilo. They told us about three Jesuit companions: St. Ignatius of Loyola, St Peter Faber, and St. Francis Xavier. While I most admired Ignatius for his mysticism and vision and Peter for his quiet discernment and holy disposition, I found myself glued to the story of Xavier. Something in his restlessness called to me. Something in his audacity. Something in how he said yes.

Years later, I understand it more. Francis Xavier was, in many ways, the original out-of-the-box thinker. Not just because he baptized thousands across Asia or died trying to reach China. Not just because he was a noble-turned-missionary or because he wore Japanese robes to impress a daimyo. But because he had the guts to be different. To go against comfort. To question limits. He was not your safe, subtle, serene saint. He was a man who looked at maps the way children look at toys. To him, the unknown was not a threat. It was an invitation.

Reading and knowing about Xavier for the past 21 years in the Ateneo, I saw more of myself in his messy, passionate journey. I was a physics teacher turned school administrator trying to infuse Ignatian values into my system and the school’s. No vows. No robe. Just a quiet mission that felt bigger than me. When he said, “Many are not becoming Christians simply because there is no one to make them so,” I read it not just as a call to religious conversion, but to action. The kind of presence that dares to go where structures fail, where systems stagnate, where people are tired. It made sense why I was there then.

Xavier’s genius was not in flawless execution. It was in fearless presence. He would show up where he was not expected, often where he was not even wanted. He learned languages he would never master, stood before kings who barely acknowledged him, and still pressed on. He made mistakes. He changed tactics. He evolved. He failed forward. For a  person constantly shifting gears between outdated insights and overwhelming expectations, that is more than inspiring. That is solidarity.

What struck me most was his humility in transition. In India, he preached simply. In Japan, he adjusted to the refined culture. In China, he died waiting. But in all places, he adapted. He started with zeal but matured into wisdom. From his early obsession with baptizing thousands, he eventually embraced relationship-building, enculturation, and education. He was, as one Jesuit writer called him, a “madman of grace.” That brand of madness makes sense to anyone who has ever dared to teach under a mango tree, walk miles for a home visit, or defend the dignity of a child against a broken system.

When I decided to retire from the Ateneo and eventually explore the state university system in 2022 despite more lucrative offers, I asked myself: is this the right move? And then I remember Xavier. He, too, had easier paths. He, too, had doubts. He wrote letters full of loneliness, longing for news from Rome, and wondering if he was doing enough. But he stayed on course. He believed in the long game of love. And somehow, knowing that he also cried and felt forgotten made my struggles feel less absurd.

Some may argue that Xavier’s brand of mission was rooted in colonial structures. And yes, we should critique that. We must recognize the complexities. But what I take from him is not a blueprint for evangelization. It is a framework for presence. For me, Xavier is not a poster boy for Catholic expansion. He is the face of what it means to go anyway. To teach anyway. To try anyway. Even when you feel you are failing. Even when the results are invisible. Even when the system does not applaud you back.

Today, when I look at my students—some of them battling academic stress, physical hunger, grief, anxiety, or generational trauma—I try to channel that Xavier energy. Not just passion, but availability. Not just intellect, but courage. Not just strategy, but heart. Because that is what the world needs now. Not more experts. But more witnesses. People who show up. People who listen. People who stay. As the old Jesuit motto goes, “to go where the need is greatest.”

It is strange how someone who lived in the 16th century can still speak to a 21st-century classroom in Iloilo. But he does. Xavier, the saint who died on a faraway island, continues to breathe through those of us who choose to love beyond comfort. Who risk irrelevance for impact. Who stay curious, daring, and sometimes even a little mad. And maybe that is the point.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.