Foundations of Beauty and Reckoning

The Story of Mission San Juan Capistrano and the Legacy of Memory

Jonathan Hite | Founder & Creative Director | HAUS of HITE

Sunlight spills over the weathered stone of Mission San Juan Capistrano’s ruins—a window into California’s layered past. Above, a lone palm rises defiantly, a symbol of resilience against time, memory, and the unfinished work of truth-telling.

There are few places in California that embody romance, reverence, and ruin quite like Mission San Juan Capistrano. With its sun-drenched arches, timeworn stonework, and sacred bell tower, it is a structure of undeniable beauty—one that tells a story not just of faith, but of power, artistry, and survival. For generations, it has stood as a symbol of early California, of Spanish influence, and of a community’s enduring spirit. But as with many beloved landmarks, its story is not as simple as it appears on a postcard.

Architecture is never neutral. It reflects the values of its time, the hands that built it, and the systems that demanded its creation. Mission San Juan Capistrano, like all of California’s 21 missions, was born from a colonial vision—a vision that sought to bring civilization, as defined by European standards, to the Indigenous peoples who already called this land home. For the Acjachemen Nation, whose lives, language, and culture predated the mission by thousands of years, this structure was not salvation—it was subjugation.

And yet, the beauty of the mission cannot be denied. The intricate craftsmanship, the serene courtyards, the now-ruined Great Stone Church with its soaring arches—it all speaks to a time of deep artistry and spiritual ambition. But it also whispers of forced labor, lost lives, and the silence that followed. These two truths must coexist. To celebrate the design without acknowledging the suffering is to build a house on hollow ground.

Details tell the deeper story—an ornate iron door handle, wild cactus against sunlit stucco, and a sculpted animal head, all tucked within the courtyard of Mission San Juan Capistrano. These quiet elements speak to the artistry, adaptation, and layered culture woven into every corner of the mission’s design.

As Americans, we are facing a cultural reckoning with how we remember. Across the country, monuments have become battlegrounds—no longer silent markers of a singular past, but flashpoints in a growing movement to demand truth, equity, and repair. From the first brick thrown at Stonewall to the statues of Confederate generals being pulled down in public squares, we’ve seen what happens when the pain of a people is ignored long enough to erupt. Anger, when unacknowledged, does not dissipate—it detonates.

This is not simply about rage; it’s about recognition. When a society refuses to acknowledge the pain it has caused, it severs the possibility of trust. That refusal becomes a threat to even the most beloved landmarks. The burning of Nottoway Plantation in Louisiana is one such symbol—not an act of revolution, but a moment that made clear just how tenuous historical preservation becomes when a community decides it no longer sees value in glorifying its oppression. The grandest mansion in the South can still fall when no one stands to protect it.

California missions are not exempt from this cultural shift. Having grown up in San Luis Obispo, the mission there—San Luis Obispo de Tolosa—was the cornerstone of my childhood hometown. I was enchanted by its beauty, its bells, its peaceful presence at the center of town. But as I’ve grown older and learned the fuller story, I can no longer separate that beauty from the trauma it contains. If that mission were to be torn down tomorrow in an act of rebellion against the ongoing dilution of history, I would mourn its loss—and I would understand it.

Because the truth is this: if we want these historical sites to endure, we must adapt how we present them. Acknowledgement is the bare minimum. We must concede that what we now cherish was not built without pain. We must incorporate the voices of those who were silenced. We must invite truth into the preservation process—not as an afterthought, but as the very foundation of what it means to honor history.

A bronze model stands in quiet contrast to the crumbled ruins of the Great Stone Church at Mission San Juan Capistrano—once the crown jewel of the mission, now a haunting reminder of the 1812 earthquake that brought it down. Even in ruin, its grandeur and gravity endure.

Mission San Juan Capistrano, in many ways, has already begun this process. Its architecture is not just maintained—it’s celebrated. The ruins of the Great Stone Church are not swept away but held as a visible reminder of natural disaster and human fragility. The manicured gardens and restored chapels offer spaces for reflection, peace, and even beauty. But beauty is not a substitute for honesty.

Too many missions still present a version of history that centers colonial ambition while diminishing Indigenous agency. Guided tours focus on the Spanish padres, the European influence, the agricultural “progress” brought by the mission system—while all but erasing the people who were here long before. This selective memory is no longer sustainable. Not in an era where information is abundant, where people are asking more, and where justice requires more than silence.

To preserve these sites is not just to keep them standing—it’s to make them relevant. History that cannot evolve will eventually fall. And if we hope to keep places like Mission San Juan Capistrano as living monuments, not relics of denial, then we must tell the whole story. The pain and the pride. The faith and the force. The bricks and the blood.

Because in the end, these spaces are not just about what was built. They’re about what we choose to remember. And in that choice lies the difference between a monument that stands in grace—and one that is pulled down in grief.

Framed by centuries-old stone, the courtyard at Mission San Juan Capistrano radiates serene beauty—towering palms, terracotta rooftops, and lush gardens create a scene of timeless grace. But beneath the stillness lies a complex legacy, asking us to admire the architecture while honoring the full history it holds.