And We Thought We Knew Him. Who Was Father Slavko Barbarić?

It has been 25 years since the Blessed Virgin Mary told us:

“I rejoice with you and I desire to tell you that your brother Slavko has been born into Heaven and intercedes for you.” (November 25, 2000).

Father Slavko is in Heaven! Does that mean that the Virgin Mary declared him a saint? Personally, I believe so — but let us wait for the Church’s decision. Even though we must wait, that doesn’t mean we cannot remember him and pray that the Church may one day canonize him.
Mary not only told us that he is in Heaven, but also what he is doing there: “He intercedes for us.”

Father Slavko can be described in three words: a man for others — whether as a Franciscan, a priest, or, as Mary said, our brother. As he was on earth, so he is in Heaven. What he did on earth, he continues to do there.

It is not easy to describe our knowledge of Father Slavko in words. On one hand, he was extraordinarily simple; on the other, he was exceptional, complex, many-layered — a remarkable Franciscan. Simple and extraordinary. How, then, can he be described, except haltingly, humbly, in aphorisms?

Many said: “We know Father Slavko.” But that was only the first impression. At first sight, he seemed easy to read. But when I began to look deeper, his depth was bottomless — as if I were standing above an abyss. He was whole, complete. And through this wholeness, he embraced the entire human being.

With his mind, he was intelligent and thoughtful; with his heart, he was full of love and understanding; with his hands, a man of action. A contemporary of ours — and yet as if from another time. So close to everyone that one could not be closer, and yet always somehow eluding us. Ours — and at once everyone’s and no one’s.

Born in the village of Dragićina in Herzegovina, his spirit transcended all boundaries — as Heaven transcends the earth. He bore the burden of Medjugorje and the destinies of so many people, yet at the same time lifted burdens from their shoulders and souls.

Every morning he went up Apparition Hill or Mount Križevac — never alone. He always carried someone in his heart. And when he descended from those hills, again with a backpack on his shoulders — it was filled with a bag of collected rubbish.

He was marked by the virtues of moderation and balance, yet at the same time he exceeded all limits. He could not be confined within any mold. He prayed as if it were the most natural thing in the world — and yet in a way so profound and unusual that no one else could match it. He had his own way of praying and fasting, but he never recommended it to anyone, much less imposed it. He worked immensely hard and with devotion — as few others did.

He never stopped at what had to be done. His activity reached to the limits of human need. His day was filled with duties and meetings from early morning to late at night, and yet no one ever saw him rush or appear stressed. He neither distanced himself from people nor clung too close. He managed to be wherever he was needed — for exactly as long as he was needed. Present everywhere, but unobtrusively.

He loved people and wished good to all, but never tried to persuade or force anyone. He gave everyone freedom. He was full of love, but without exaggerated sentimentality. Gentle, and firm when needed — without the slightest desire to please.

He was available to everyone, regardless of age or status. He was attached to no one, and yet everyone who spoke with him felt that he was there for them alone. He had his own opinions, but never imposed them. He did not argue about tastes or differing views. He was serious, but also had an unbeatable sense of humor — never harsh, but elegant and tender, like a mother awakening her child.

He liked people who also had a sense of humor. He could listen — even when overburdened with work and cares, even when one might expect him to listen only to his own thoughts and plans. He could adapt to those “below” or “above” him, yet never abandoned his own level. He never wasted time. He was ready to listen to anyone, but also knew when to interrupt and guide the conversation, so that a person would not speak of irrelevant or empty things but go to the heart of the matter.

Those who sought advice from him were only guided — he never gave ready-made answers. He left people space to think and decide for themselves. He did not run away from people, but neither did he conform to them. In every event, he was fully present, as if nothing had happened before or would happen after. When it ended, he moved on to the next, as if the previous one had never been.

He led prayer programs — rosaries, adorations, seminars — yet no one felt that he was at the center. He always remained a disciple, though many recognized in him a teacher.

He spoke and wrote simply — because that is the hardest thing to do. He knew that simple, concrete language is best, because it comes from human closeness — from nature and experience — so that modern people could understand.

He understood the Virgin Mary because he knew the key to understanding: to be close to her heart. He was humble — but not falsely so; naturally and truthfully so, in every detail. Religious and spiritual, but without being sugary or intrusive — with both feet firmly on the ground. Disciplined and yet relaxed.

When he worked, he was completely immersed in work. When he prayed, he prayed with his whole being. When he met people, it was as if that were the most important thing for him. He did everything in a way appropriate to the act — work, prayer, encounters — and yet somehow, everything in the same way.

He strove greatly to acquire knowledge, but never clung to it rigidly. At every moment, he knew what he wanted. He was clear about life and about the human being, and yet no one ever felt he thought himself superior. He had his own ideas about people, but when someone stood before him, he set those ideas aside and opened himself to them.

He saw himself neither as small nor as great, but as a co-worker of God and Mary. He perfectly united theology and prayer — and likewise prayer and action. He did not push himself forward, but neither did he hide. He was a Franciscan like all the others — and yet different from all. For him, being a Franciscan and a priest meant the privilege of serving people and living for them. It is hard to find someone who lived the Gospel so literally.

When asked whether he was happy as a Franciscan, he used to reply that he did not become a Franciscan to be happy. He knew that happiness is not sought — it comes on its own, as the fruit of service to life, goodness, peace, and the liberation of others. He used to say: “Love people, but be free from expectations.” He knew that expectations easily lead to disappointment.

He helped in such a way that his left hand did not know what his right was doing. Even during the war, he found ways to get medicine to those in need, without discrimination. He thought of others and helped them. He refused to let others celebrate him (for example, his birthdays). He neither praised nor criticized others, but always invited them to become better. When he did praise or criticize, he knew how to do it — like a mother. He said that one should not become proud when praised, nor collapse when criticized; in all things, one must listen to the truth.

He knew several world languages, but never gave the impression that he did. He loved his Croatian nation, but never emphasized it. All nations felt he belonged to them. He was a Herzegovinian, and at the same time, a citizen of the world. In his eyes, others were simply human beings, regardless of nationality or skin color. He knew how to approach adults, youth, and children alike.

He disliked formalities, especially when revolving around trivial or empty things. Whatever he did — even the smallest task — he did with great love and dignity. When faced with a choice between law and mercy, he sided with mercy. When it seemed that there was no longer any hope for someone — that he himself had given up on them — the next morning we would see him talking with that very person. He respected authority, both ecclesiastical and political, but bowed to no one. No authority or human consideration could stand before truth.

He loved the Church as few do. He was obedient, yet able to sense what lay behind a command. He knew, too, what grace and kairos mean — the moment that must not be wasted — even if some, including those in authority, did not understand.

He cared not only about what people thought and said, but above all about what the Virgin Mary wanted. He knew the human being — body and soul — and therefore knew what each needed. When someone said it was hard to live the Gospel and follow Christ, he knew where the real difficulty lay: deep down, all of us long to be loved completely, respected, forgiven when we sin, accepted as we are, and understood — and the only problem is that others expect the same from us.

He had the courage to launch great projects (for example, Mladifest), because he did not act on his own initiative but turned Mary’s words from paper into reality. He lived Mary’s messages literally, in every detail. Those who did not know or understand them could read them in his life. He did not fight against the spirit of the age, but offered youth an alternative — New Year’s vigils, Mladifest…

He never stopped at criticizing society or politics or what was forbidden; instead, he put his own back into helping the wounded rise and walk toward healing and freedom. For him, the problem was not drugs or dealers, but the lack of Sister Elviras. While others merely shrugged and wondered how someone could stray so far, he was troubled. While others asked whether something should be done, who would do it, and why — he knew that everything depended on love.

While others sought the causes of personal or family breakdowns, quarrels, and wars, he knew the answer: lack of love. And the solution: active love. Others complained, talking for hours about what did not work and how it should be — he took a sack and began collecting trash. When he heard people say they wanted the best doctor, lawyer, professor, he founded a fund for talented and poor students. He cared for order and rules, but creating a good atmosphere, good spirit, and relaxed mood at a fasting seminar or Mladifest was far more important to him. He knew everything depends on preparing the soil. For him, laws and rules were not an end to cling to, but a starting point. The spirit and the concrete person mattered more than the letter of the law.

When he preached, he knew how to listen to his listeners. He had opinions, but he could hear and accept others’ views. When he got an idea, he shared it — “sending it into the air,” as he said — because he knew every coin has two sides. Sometimes he spoke so that people had to read between the lines — giving them space to think for themselves. He never led anyone to a final solution but encouraged them to continue on their own. He liked to “throw small bombs,” as he said — to awaken desire in people.

He accepted everyone as a co-worker; if someone gave up, he continued on. He preferred to take the risk of being misused than to let someone feel they never had a chance. He preferred to suffer himself than make others suffer for him. When he made a mistake, he returned and asked forgiveness. He valued more those who worked and tried, even if they fell or failed, than those who did nothing out of fear of falling. He encouraged people to “jump into the water,” because only then can one learn to swim — inviting, for example, people to interpret adoration or catecheses even if they had never translated before.

He worked constantly on himself and grew — always in hiddenness. He prayed and fasted, but never spoke of it, knowing it was not an end but a training of readiness for encounters — with God and with people. Whoever saw him in civilian clothes or entered his room saw that he lived in poverty. Yet his poverty was not an end but a form of freedom. Though modest in dress, he was always clean. He was attached to nothing. He never spoke about himself. He was careful when others were discussed.

He bore many crosses, but never placed them on another’s shoulders. He was like bread, broken for others — without knowing it or explaining it. He never entered a day unprepared. Everything he planned or did, he first placed into prayer. Prayer was like a filter, cleansing his mind and heart for the new day — for whatever it would bring. He knew how to gain experience — and how to let go of it, whether it was beautiful or hard. If someone told him how wonderful Mladifest had been just days ago, he would reply: “That’s already the past.”

It was as if he lived three lives — yet he lived only fifty-four years. A life without rest, intense and full. Always completely awake and attentive to everything he met and did. He lived in the today — here and now. One of us, and yet so different from all of us. Even in death.

Source: Fr. Marinko Šakota, Medjugorje, Glasnik mira, No. 9, 2025