Faith Under the Sun

Reflections on an ancient (and continual) conversion

Summers in the Midwest are sticky, humid and very hot. When I moved here from New York, I would often joke with my new neighbors: what did you all do to make God so mad? Like summer in the Midwest was a punishment for some irredeemable sin. But the truth is there is something about the summer sun that reminds me of faith. Maybe it’s the way the light feels more alive, más vibrante, or how the warmth soaks deep into my skin, changing its color like faith changes the soul. Summer, for me, has always been a season of remembering — a time when faith and history converge under the same bright sky.

You can’t stare into the Midwest sun, you can only squint at it until it becomes diffused rays shining over everything. The same brilliant rays surround Our Lady of Guadalupe in her tilma. Those golden beams — so deliberate, so radiant — weren't just artistic flair. They spoke a language the indigenous peoples understood immediately: Dios más grande que el sol — a God greater than the sun.

Before the first missionaries ever set foot in the Americas, the Aztecs worshipped gods tied to the natural world. Chief among them was Huitzilopochtli, the sun god, believed to require human sacrifice to nourish him. Their rituals reflected a constant cycle of awe and fear.

When Our Lady appeared to San Juan Diego in 1531, and imprinted her message in his tilma, she was speaking the language of the Aztec. They were conversant in both the poetry and the power of pictographs to communicate. Standing before the sun, this woman del Cielo y la tierra, told the Aztecs of a God greater than even the mightiest force they could know. The Santa Madre’s message wasn’t one of domination, but of invitation — a mother’s invitation to love.

And under the Mexican sun, millions of indígena became Catholic. The sun didn't disappear from their lives. It was transformed. Its meaning deepened. It became a sign not of fear, but of the Light of the World.

So, every year, when the summer sun beats down and the days stretch long and slow, I find myself thinking of those first believers — and of my own story.

It was a summer not too long ago when my own heart, tired and restless, finally stopped running. Maybe it was the heat that stripped away the noise, maybe it was grace finally catching up to me. All I know is that one summer day, under the same burning sun, I realized I couldn’t live divided anymore. There was no tilma or roses for me, but there were signs — small ones — that pointed me back to the Church, to prayer, to confession, to the arms of a Savior I had almost forgotten.

The early Aztec converts must have felt the heat of the sun on their faces the same way we do. But with new hearts, the world itself must have seemed remade. The stars, the flowers, the mountains, the sun — all of it now proclaimed a Creator who loved them personally, who entered their story and spoke their language.

Our Lady of Guadalupe once wrapped a broken world in light and tenderness. That world is still broken — fractured by fear, injustice, and sin — but nos toca a nosotros now. It’s our turn. As we have been found, so we lead. As we have been loved, so we love.

Hearts are still aching for the love only Christ can bring — through us. So let’s go: Each one, teach one. Each one, reach one. Each one bring one to the Son.

This article was first published in The Catholic Key Magazine (Issued June/July 2025).