The Mystified Mystic

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“The word of God,” Pope Leo extends his hands, awaiting the congregation’s response.

Glory to you, O Lord, they respond as one.

I’m seated at the very back of the old auditorium of St. Joseph’s Catholic School in Sea Isle City, New Jersey.

I watch in awe as Pope Leo leads a semi-full auditorium through Mass. Here I Am, Lord plays as the congregation lines up for communion, marking the near-conclusion of Mass.

I observe but don’t participate—a storm surges in my body, and I’m unsure how to navigate it.

As the hymn concludes, Pope Leo begins collecting the blessed golden communion dishes and chalices, praying over them once more before their return to the gilded tabernacle beyond the modest altar.

The auditorium was always meant for the larger crowds, especially in the summer, to accommodate the tourist population in search of salvation. It’s not nearly as ornate as the white church, but it serves its purpose.

I shift in my dark brown seat, and the worn plastic cushion crackles beneath my legs. My mind and heart enter a brief but intense battle over whether I should receive communion. I hesitate.

My spiritual confusion catches in my throat, and I feel mildly panicked and embarrassed.

Time is running out, as Pope Leo is walking to the tabernacle, and I make a choice, humbly and alone, walk up the aisle to the altar.

“Is it too late, Your Holiness?” I ask in a quiet, scared tone. My body is hot. Sweat rolls down my spine.

“It is never too late, my child,” Pope Leo says, as he gently rests his hand on my head in quiet prayer.

“The body of Christ,” he says as he raises the pale wafer and offers me communion.

“Amen,” I respond.

“Go in peace,” he commands, and I turn into clouding darkness; the floor beneath my feet disappears. I can no longer see.

And then I wake up.

It was just a dream.

But it wasn’t. It was a message.

Friend of the Spirits

Spiritual work doesn’t stop because I’m sleeping, just the opposite, actually. Oftentimes, necessary messages from Spirits are transmitted through what feel like dreams, but are actually messages.

It’s a skill like any other—you learn to use your discernment to make a determination: was it a dream or was it a message? Your body becomes your compass for navigation.

In my case, these dreams carry feeling. My body recognizes these sleepy vignettes as memories, and I understand them differently when I get up. Generally, I need to consider whether I’m remembering a past life or a recent memory, or whether something is being asked of me, often called to answer my next assignment in my spiritual growth.

I sat with this particular dream for days, replaying it in detail like a movie. I couldn’t shake it, understanding the call, and decided it was time to go to Mass.

Saints and Sinners

The Catholic Church may be an institution of great power, conflict, and a looming presence, but its role in my mystical education cannot be denied. It’s like a hum in the background. Try as I might, it never completely goes away.

Each Mass taught me lessons about the mystery of faith, ritual work, and the meaning of spiritual reverence. Last year, my spiritual education and practice expanded significantly. My gifts matured. My Spirit team recalibrated my direction.

There have been innumerable times when I have chosen a direction, only to have Spirit bring me back to my roots. A push and pull from the universe.

In consideration of attending Mass, the channels I received dialed up to an intense pitch.

I saw the image of crabs everywhere; the words crab, novena, reverence, and Spain became prominent. The numbers 123 and 47, and San Francisco, were all brought to my attention in various, interesting ways.

I channel a lot of information daily and don’t think much of it, especially since it rarely makes sense in the moment. It’s meant to be deciphered in divine timing.

In my carefully chosen heels and dress, I cautiously entered the intimately small room at the Jesuit Center. Reds, greens, blues, and deep purples settled into a kaleidoscope of color from a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass depiction of Jesus, who watched over and guarded the sacred altar.

His glossy eyes stared into mine as I uncomfortably shifted in the solid wooden chair.

The Mass was an unheard-of quick 30 minutes, which made it easier to focus on the priest’s words.

The date was 12/3, and the readings included a memorial of St. Francis Xavier, a prolific missionary and Spanish Jesuit known for his priestly enthusiasm for the Word. He was one of the first to travel to Singapore as a missionary and received approval from St. Ignatius of Loyola to continue his work throughout Asia. His Feast Day falls on Dec. 3.

I was enamored with the reading, which included the line

On this mountain, he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples

As if on the mountain itself, my perspective shifted; Spirit communicated the line to me as another channel. I understood.

As a mystic, it’s my job to see and hear what others cannot, and to carry the weight of the veil, and help people see beyond the confines of the physical world.

I received communion that day, and the spiritual weight I was carrying was now lighter.

Well, You’re a Mystic!

While my attendance at Mass was both comforting and necessary in this instance, I still do not consider myself a religious person. I’m squarely not religious.

My internal battle comes from the patriarchal hierarchy of it all. Especially when women are the bearers of souls, spiritual cultivators, compassionate caretakers, and natural leaders. Spiritual work comes naturally because it is a natural disposition. My discomfort lives in the shadows of this patriarchal structure, to put it simply.

After Mass, I approached the priest to thank him. I mentioned I hadn’t been in quite some time and felt conflicted about attending. I told him about the dream I had about Pope Leo.

His eyes widened with delight as I recounted the details.

I mentioned my confusion at Pope Leo leading mass at the altar, “Spirits I dream of are generally the departed,” I said, my heart pounding.

Father gently rested his hand on my shoulder, “That was God speaking to you. You’re a mystic,” he said.

Decades worth of institutional shame unknotted in my chest, and the imposter syndrome melted away.

What the Shell

After Mass, I couldn’t shake the name St. Francis Xavier; it kept replaying like a song, another prompt from Spirit.

The beautiful thing about spiritual communication is deciphering the prompts. Sometimes it’s as silly as a nursery rhyme, and other times it’s piecing together a series of words that sync up with an experience. Other times, it’s a flight number or a daydream. Sometimes, it’s so direct, it’s comical.

In this case, I connected the dots with the help of St. Francis Xavier, who, in a daydream, urged me to review the reading from Mass and, once again, showed me a crab.

Things might always be weird, but they’re never boring.

I dug into my notes app to start connecting dots and found incessant repeats of 123 or 12/3, which is his feast day; Spain, St. Francis Xavier was born in the Basque region of Spain, San Francisco, which means Saint Francis in Spanish, and 47 or April 7, which is his birthdate.

The only thing left was the crab detail. I didn’t get it. I reluctantly searched for “St. Francis Xavier Crab,” expecting nothing, and lo and behold, the story of the crab solidified the connection.

The legend goes that St. Francis Xavier was sailing to Malaysia when his ship was caught in a terrible storm. In an act of faith, St. Francis Xavier cast his crucifix into the sea, hoping to calm the storm and ensure that those traveling with him arrived safely.

Standing on the beach, overlooking the once-raging sea, the saint watched as a crab carrying a crucifix approached. It wasn’t any crucifix—it was the cross he sacrificed to the sea for protection. He blessed the crustacean and retrieved his crucifix.

The miracle lives on in the Charybdis feriata—a species of crab in the Indo-Pacific region born with a crucifix in its shell.

It was thrilling to connect all the dots, I won’t lie. It’s one of the most rewarding aspects of this gift.

St. Francis Xavier reached out to get me to that Mass and see my gifts in a new, sacred, and accepting light. I was fearful of judgment from an institution that has loudly rejected witches or mystics, only to be accepted and welcomed once again.

I assumed acceptance was what I was seeking, but I left with the confidence and clarity that I am exactly who I am. Spirit makes no mistakes; the messages sent to me are real and accurate. I left with a clearer understanding of my spiritual purpose, even without all the answers.

I have no plans to return to weekly Mass or turn my devotions to the Church. It’s only necessary when prompted by Spirit—otherwise, my practice is devoted to the matriarchal goddesses and saints who compassionately guide my practice.

Mystic Mysteries Persist

It’s been a tough few months since December. I’ve been stagnant, feeling generally lost about my purpose and calling, and uninspired. I’m in a reading slump. In short, my communion left me confused and needing more answers. It was only recently that its purpose made sense.

The first of the month marked my birthday, celebrated under the full moon in Leo, the very same full moon I was born under. It reignited my fire, revealing my purpose and reminding me of exactly who I am.

The path I walk lately is reminiscent of the Two of Swords—the woman is confidently wielding two perfectly balanced swords, unafraid of their danger. She is the High Priestess, though expected to carry on blindfolded. She sits before a calm sea; a crescent moon hangs above, shining through the darkness.

She patiently contemplates, expecting to choose a path, but which one?

She’s not meant to see with her eyes—she must listen to the spirits, and choose to believe the universe has her back, even though she can’t prove it.

Anointed anew, I, too, am asked to walk the path of spiritual faithfulness blindfolded and confident in my skills. The swords I carry do not intimidate me, and I trust Spirit’s plan for me, wherever it takes me. I’m decidedly not meant to understand, only listen, communicate, and share. And so I shall.

I’m choosing the path divined for me.

Shannon is an independent writer, spiritual communicator, creator, artist, and friend of the spirits.