In grade school, we had an assignment to write our own Eulogy. It was a little dark, and for those of us who took it seriously, incredibly trying. These were the words we would leave to the world; a summary of who we were and what we hoped, and maybe even a glimpse of whatever wisdom we had acquired in our decade of life. It was nearly impossible, even with an entire week to ponder and an entire page to fill.

Blessed Miguel Augustin Pro may not have had such an assignment in the course of his studies as he grew up at the turn of the 20th century, yet when the time came for his sudden and unexpected last words, he used them with power and purpose.

Born in Guadalupe, Mexico, in 1891, Miguel was a jovial child with 10 siblings and devoted parents. He joined two of his sisters in religious life when he began his journey as a Jesuit at 20 years old, just as the Mexican Revolution was starting, and out of its turmoil, a strong government opposition to Catholicism. By 1914, Miguel and the other Jesuit novitiates were forced to flee to California and eventually continue their studies in Granada, Spain. Miguel prepared for his ordination and final theological studies in Belgium, where he was ordained on August 31, 1925.

Meanwhile, in his homeland, laws had been passed making any religious service outside of a church illegal. Clerical garb was banned for priests, and the government forced them to carry a license to preach. Missionaries were prohibited from coming into the country, and local men were forbidden from joining the seminaries, with the intent of snuffing out the priesthood in Mexico altogether. President Plutarco Elías Callas was in power and seemed to be on a mission to slowly suffocate Catholicism in his country, one priest and parish at a time.

The faithful pushed back against these governmental oppressions, and the Cristero War (Cristero referring to “soldiers of Christ”) erupted in a rebellion among the people in 1926. This was the same year that Miguel returned to Mexico, after only a short time serving the people of Belgium as an ordained Jesuit due to health struggles. Ulcers and operations left him unable to regain his full health, and doctors advised him to return home to his country in an effort to complete his healing. Whether or not they understood the implications of returning to Mexico during this religious war, Miguel certainly knew and accepted it as his mission.

Upon his return, he used the laws forbidding priests to wear clerics to his advantage, taking on a variety of clothing to disguise his mission of carrying Communion to parishioners. He performed the Corporal Works of Mercy and, despite illness and threat of imprisonment, went about his priestly duties to the utmost of his abilities. His continued secret service to the church made him famous among Catholics in the area.

Being a famous priest in a time of persecution was a dangerous endeavor. In 1927, an assassination attempt was made on President Calles. Despite Miguel’s innocence, he and two of his brothers were imprisoned in connection with the crime. His brother had recently sold a car to the perpetrators, and even as they awaited the trial to which they were entitled, the brothers were certain that a judge would see the error and recognize their innocence. President Calles had other plans. He wanted to send a clear message of intolerance to the Catholic community, and on November 23, 1927, guards came to the cell where Miguel and his brothers were kept. Unaware of what lay before him even as he walked toward the execution grounds, it was only when he saw the crowd and the firing squad that he realized there would be no trial. There would be no acquittal. There was only the imminent end. He was given a final request.

He asked to pray.

Kneeling down, one can only imagine the words and feelings that became his final prayer. When he had finished, he stood up. With a rosary in one hand and a crucifix in the other, Miguel spread his arms wide to accept his martyrdom.

He had no time to reflect on his epitaph or imagine what might be said in his eulogy, which is why the strength and simplicity of Blessed Miguel Augustin Pro’s final words are so striking. In his last moments before an unjust execution, without preparation (save for a life devoted to prayer and purpose), he gave the rallying cry that could only come from one who was full of faith and devotion: “¡Viva Cristo Rey!” “Long Live Christ the King!”

Immediately following his words, the shots were fired.

The president miscalculated the effect of Miguel’s execution on the Cristero War, as people often do when they come from a paradigm of fear rather than faith. Instead of quieting the Catholic presence in Mexico, Miguel’s death ignited the courage of Catholics and played a significant role in the eventual concessions made by the Mexican government when the war ended in 1929.

It is estimated that of the 4,500 Catholic priests in Mexico in 1926, only about 330 remained as registered priests by 1934. TIME Magazine interviewed Monsignor Leopoldo Ruiz y Flores, Apostolic Delegate to Mexico, about the drastic decrease in a 1935 article. He replied: “…Twenty-seven hundred priests now live in hiding in Mexico…The people bring them chickens, eggs, and potatoes to eat, so that they exist like the apostles of the first Christian days…They say Mass in secret chapels and keep the Holy Eucharist in private houses. Several months ago, a law was passed confiscating any private dwelling where religious services were known to be carried on. And yet I learned in the past week that in one State where not a priest is allowed, 83 priests are working in secret, and there, in one day, 30,000 people recently received Communion.”

It would seem as though the Mexican government at the time had successfully dimmed, if not extinguished, the light of the church in their part of the world. However, faith finds a way, and today approximately 16,234 Catholic priests serve Mexico (according to a 2020 survey by the USCCB).

Through his martyrdom, Blessed Miguel Augustin Pro gives us a beautiful reminder that the priesthood is not passive. Faith is not safe. And if there is anything worth being remembered for, it is the courage to point back to our Creator in front of the crowds who do not yet know Him and declare: “¡Viva Cristo Rey!”