Stained Glass

A New Mission for California

Beyond the aging wooden doors of the church, the scent of sanctity lingers. The sun shines through the purple-stained glass windows, guiding me to sit under its illumination. There’s a family of four at the front: the mother on her knees praying; the father sitting on the bench behind her and staring up at the ceiling, their two children fogging up the glass that partitions off the display of neatly preserved chalices and rosaries. The museum attached to the church is small, and a humble garden out back marks the boundaries of the structure’s entirety. 

“It’s a replica,” the secretary at the front desk explains to me, “The actual Mission Santa Cruz suffered from two earthquakes.” 

The self-guided tour pamphlet in my hands describes the atmosphere of Mission Santa Cruz as tranquil, meditative, and historically resonant — a striking contrast from its fight with the persistent forces of nature that rendered its initial ruin. Part of me wonders if the earthquakes that hit Santa Cruz were nature’s retaliation against the greater history the missions hold: Indigenous destruction by colonial powers disguised as religious triumph. As we embark on this trip, I acknowledge my presence within the legacy of the mission system; a physical timeline along the complicated road that is California’s colonial past.

Nearly three hours later, I am lost within the arcade corridors and lush gardens of Carmel Mission. Everything feels perfectly preserved — from the arched roof of the church with beams lined in gold to the browning pages of prayer books inscribed with Latin, held together by frayed bindings. Hanging portraits of Junipero Serra follow me at every corner as I search for any remnants of the mission’s Native past. Instead, I’m met with posters of Popes and glass displays of 1920s dresses; it is unmistakable that the museum chooses to conserve the history of its later settlers over the lives of the Indigenous people that first inhabited California.

Sewn in with every bead on these dresses is the illusion the missions sold to American settlers after the end of Spanish conquest had reduced them to ruins. Religious imagery and agricultural prosperity attracted land developers to early California, thus beginning the construction of the very highway we began this road trip on. This romanticized version of history persists today, manifesting in the reverence of Serra and enshrined Catholic figures.

In the 65 years that the mission system ruled California, the Indigenous population collapsed fifteen-fold, from around 300,000 to 20,000. Although most lost their lives to disease and brutal living conditions, it is said that many died of a broken heart. Nowhere in any church, any museum, or any corridor will this reality be revealed. 

I want to immerse myself in the architectural beauty that is Carmel Mission, but that proves to be impossible without the acknowledgement of the lives the Native Americans faced — something the landmark itself hardly admits. Indigenous history is told too matter-of-factly, embodied by displays of tightly woven bowls and rusty wagon wheels that omit centuries of erased culture.

When we arrive at Mission San Luis Obispo the next day, I am confronted with the mission’s 250-year anniversary. A celebration event is taking place, and I stop by a tent labeled “Everyday Indian Experience.” I stand before the tent for what feels like an eternity, listening to a supposed expert tell me how the missions gave the Native Americans “valuable work skills,” preparing them for the generations of conquest California would undergo. He says that for the “Indians,” assimilation to the missions was a choice between destruction and religious integration. The two sound the same to me. 

It should be incredible that the church bells have stood the test of time, that the adobe walls have remained intact. But for a monument that has survived for 250 years, the current history it portrays lacks depth, accountability, and awareness. Every visitor flows through the missions like a student on a field trip — into the chapels, back to the gardens, past the museums — without a fleeting thought given to the violent truths embedded within the tangled mess of California’s colonial roots. 

What began as my admiration of design and conservation turns into unrest for the erasure of history. I think about the insistent preservation of Mission Santa Cruz despite nature’s judgment, the stoic emblems of Carmel afforded by wealthy patrons, the questionable representation at San Luis Obispo’s anniversary. The farther we continue down the roads that once connected the missions, the more critical I become of those with the power to tell their history.

Still, the family of four could sit peacefully in the religiously sound environment of the first chapel. It’s a moment that reminds me of the services the missions provide today. Rather than masking their complicated past, the missions could foster a sense of community by celebrating Indigenous culture. They could acknowledge every aspect of the Native Americans whose bodies and souls made their construction possible in the first place. 

Maybe then I too can sit in peace, under the warm glow that shines through the chapel’s purple-stained glass. 

Words: Alexandra Jade Garcia

Photos: Emily Langton