Mystics, monks, and people who bricked themselves in for God.

Sweden's chief mining assessor spent thirty years cataloguing iron ore before dining alone in a London tavern, looking up, and being appointed by the Lord to survey heaven.

He was thrown out of a Trappist monastery with tuberculosis at thirty-five, and spent the next sixty years alone on a plot outside Madrid, building a cathedral with factory-reject bricks and pillars cast inside oil drums.

He walked into the North Sea at night until the water reached his neck, and sang psalms until dawn.

What happens when a monk so incompetent he nearly wasn't ordained starts doing something no one can explain or contain?

In 1220, when a wolf was eating the citizens of Gubbio, a barefoot friar walked out alone to negotiate terms.

In 1602 the Jesuits sent a former soldier to walk from India to China in disguise to settle a geography argument — what could possibly go wrong?

What does a 59-year-old Baptist preacher do when a face appears in a smudge of paint on his fingertip and tells him to start painting?

He fed three thousand people in an afternoon, banned the word "hello" because it contained "hell," and quietly let his followers know he was God.

What does a sixteen-year-old do when his mother hides his clothes to keep him from following his father to the executioner?

What does the wickedest man in the world order for breakfast when he's a sixty-nine-year-old pensioner in a Hastings boarding house?

A woman in a Manhattan parlor convinced the nineteenth century that Tibetan Masters were mailing her letters through the ceiling, and somehow we are all still speaking her language.

How does a woman who spent her whole life trying to vanish into the Sahara end up killed by it in the one way no one saw coming?