What started as a routine weekend getaway for seminarians from the St. John Vianney Theological Seminary in 2024 took a hard turn into the surreal. The archdiocese of Denver confirmed that an exorcist was called in after a bizarre series of events involving a ceremonial dagger, a mysterious blood oath, and a man in a yeti costume.
As first reported in an extensive investigation by The Pillar, a publication covering the Catholic church, the incident is causing controversy and raising questions about the seminary's response, and why it took an exorcist to set things right.
The whole thing began in January 2024, deep in the Elk Mountains, when 15 Denver seminarians — students studying to be Catholic priests — were awoken in the middle of the night and told to sit silently and wait for their turn to take part in a "sacred tradition." Some of the students may have had their mouths gagged with tape, the Pillar reports.
One by one, the seminarians were ushered into a trailer, where they were met by two senior clergymen and a person dressed in a yeti costume, presiding over a bloody dollar bill. At least part of the ritual was captured on video, which was viewed by the Pillar.
"The way it works, the only way you can enter into this family, is you got to make a blood oath," one seminarian is told in the footage. "If you enter into this family, there's no going back."
Stoically, the priest-in-training agrees, and one of the clergymen, Friar John Nepil — a high ranking vice-rector in the archdiocese of Denver — is seen holding a bloody dagger as the seminarian places his arm on the table.
"This is going to hurt for a second, ready?" Nepil reportedly asks, followed by a countdown from three. Before the blade can draw blood, a mysterious voice interjects — possibly the yeti's — insisting that this is not the only way. Since the seminarian had "proven his bravery," he was being allowed to swap out his blood for that of a bear, with the caveat that he make the "most guttural scream you can possibly make," and to "make sure the other guys see you with the blood."
Anyone who's grown up with older siblings has probably figured out that the yeti blood oath was, shockingly, a prank. Though these are clearly just some ski trip antics, videos from the stunt soon made their way around the Catholic church, leading to rumors and some wild responses from the archdiocese.
"Good grief. What year is this?" asked one commentor under the Pillar's article. "Why would inviting a seminarian, by himself, in the middle of the night, to do anything 'secret,' with psychological peer pressure, be considered a good idea? It looks exactly like grooming except that it had a yeti prank instead of a foot massage."
For his part, Nepil was placed on temporary leave while the archdiocese conducted a canonical investigation. He was later reinstated as vice-rector to finish out the academic year, while also being relieved of some of his other duties related to the seminary's Parish house.
The man above Nepil on the rector ladder, however, Friar Daniel Leonard, wasn't so lucky. Though the Pillar reports Leonard was scheduled to depart for a new assignment midway through 2025, he was replaced as rector months ahead of schedule, "in response to his handling of the blood oath affair" — even as Nepil was allowed to work through the end of the semester.
Notably, Nepil was one of four Denver seminarians who founded the Companions of Christ in 2007, a clerical association fostering communal living with other priests — a specialized background which may give him some leeway within the seminary.
Equally odd, however, was the one-year suspension of a seminarian who had refused to participate in the ritual, though the school's leadership insists this had nothing to do with the yeti affair.
As all of this was going on, the archdiocese reportedly called in an exorcist to talk to the men involved in the ritual, just to be safe. All seminarians were required to make a "formal renunciation" of their yeti pledge to the exorcist — most likely Friar Chad Ripperger, a well-known Catholic official — out of what the archdiocese called an "abundance of caution, due to the potential spiritual harm from such oaths."
Nepil, for his part, has expressed his regrets for the incident, claiming he went along with a friend who owned the ski villa, a practicing Catholic who is not part of the seminary. That humility seemingly had a chilling effect on the whole debacle, with most folks seeming to agree it was an "imprudent" prank taken too far.
As one senior cleric put it: "there’s a difference between going along with something stupid and a vice-rector dreaming up yeti blood brotherhoods on his own."
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