If you spend any amount of time knee-deep in tales from the oddball corners of religious history, you learn to expect the unexpected. But even measured against centuries of eccentric clerical behavior, the recent events at Denver’s St. John Vianney Theological Seminary set a new standard: a nocturnal, dagger-laden “blood oath” involving a man in a yeti suit, priests in nightclothes, and not one but two official investigations. As explored by The Pillar Catholic, the incident has both divided the seminary community and served up the sort of headline that demands at least two reads before you believe it’s not a Mad Libs joke.

The Anatomy of a Seminary Ski Trip Gone… Abominable

According to detailed reporting in The Pillar, the story begins in January 2024 when then-vice rector Fr. John Nepil took about 15 seminarians on a ski trip to Crested Butte, staying at the home of a Catholic family known for a patron who dons a yeti costume for local events. The outing, which started as a seemingly straightforward retreat, took a surreal turn in the middle of the night. As The Pillar documents, the seminarians were each roused individually and ushered into a trailer, alone, where they encountered Fr. Nepil, a senior seminarian, and an individual costumed as a yeti.

Inside, the setup was designed for dramatic effect—dagger on the table, faux blood, a dollar bill on a paper—while seminarians were told they were about to enter a “sacred tradition.” In footage reviewed by the outlet, the young men were instructed to display bravery, warned there was “no going back,” and prompted to scream as if in pain after bear blood was poured on their hands. After the ordeal, they returned to the main house with mouths taped shut and bloodied cloths, leaving the others in suspense.

The Pillar notes that all of this was recorded, and the videos spread among the seminary community, fueling widespread debate and unease. To complete the litany of oddities, this was apparently the second year such an initiation had occurred, but only the first time video evidence emerged to stir controversy.

Good-Natured Prank or Something Much Stranger?

The Archdiocese of Denver, as described in its statements to The Pillar, characterized the night’s events as a poorly conceived prank—“a farce,” deeply “imprudent and inappropriate,” but without any real risk of harm or actual oaths being sworn. Fr. Nepil, for his part, told the outlet that the intention had been to inject some levity into the trip and that all props and actions were carefully staged, with no harm inflicted. He repeatedly expressed regret and emphasized to The Pillar that he would never again participate in such antics.

Despite this, interpretation within the seminary and among local clergy varied widely. Some, The Pillar notes, viewed it as “unacceptable hijinx” or an instance of “imprudence,” while others found it spiritually troubling and pointed to troubling undertones—especially since the entire episode involved secretive, high-pressure initiation rites performed in the dead of night, with mouth-taping and theatrical intimidation.

In a detail highlighted by The Pillar, the aftermath for one seminarian stands out: after refusing to participate, he was sent on a so-called “human year” sabbatical, described by some sources as an ill-defined, possibly punitive leave. While officials insisted to The Pillar that his removal was unrelated to the yeti ritual, several members of the community called this a “creative dismissal,” raising questions about the formation process and pressures to conform.

The Curious Case of the Yeti Exorcist

Adding to the surreal, The Pillar also reports that, out of an “abundance of caution,” the archdiocese enlisted its exorcist. Seminarians who had taken part in the ritual met with the exorcist, who prayed over them and led them in a formal renunciation of any blood oaths—however play-acted. As local clergy cited by the outlet point out, the event’s structure, even if a “joke,” was enough to warrant spiritual concern in some quarters.

In response to questions, the archdiocese explained to The Pillar that the exorcist’s involvement was proactive, not prompted by evidence of real occult activity but by the recognizable symbolism involved. As Fr. Nepil explained to the outlet, while the archbishop’s seriousness was respected, the prank was intended as farce and the investigation ultimately determined there were no genuine spiritual implications.

Still, the invocation of exorcism procedures for an “imprudent prank” remains a detail that is hard to file under normal seminary life. If a joke needs exorcising, what does that say about the wisdom—or unwisdom—of the whole exercise?

Institutional Aftershocks and Lingering Ironies

The Pillar’s reporting outlines the ripple effects: for months after the event, rumors and footage spread among students and clergy. Some dioceses considered cutting ties with the seminary, and there was particular scrutiny over leadership’s response. The rector, Fr. Daniel Leonard, was removed before the end of the 2024–25 academic year due in part to his handling of the affair, while Fr. Nepil, though relieved of certain positions, remained vice rector until the year’s end and continues as a professor.

The archdiocese, in a statement reviewed by The Pillar, claimed these personnel changes were not directly punitive or reactionary, but many seminarians and senior clergy cited in the article were unconvinced. Some, as the outlet also notes, questioned why the apparent architect of the night’s events retained a leadership role, while oversight fell most heavily on those handling the aftermath. According to several priests quoted in the piece, this led to speculation that institutional reputation management, fundraising efforts, or internal politics played a significant role in the pace and substance of the official response.

A particularly telling episode, described in The Pillar’s account, came in the form of a sermon delivered by Fr. Nepil after the incident, which centered on themes of being “falsely accused” rather than a direct public apology. This approach puzzled some of his peers, given the existence of footage that left little ambiguity as to what had taken place.

As a further complication, the matter reached beyond local boundaries; The Pillar confirmed that videos and images of the ritual were forwarded to the apostolic nunciature in Washington, D.C., and prompted some sending dioceses and religious orders to reconsider their involvement with St. John Vianney Seminary. While some concerns were allayed by subsequent leadership changes and explanations, the sense remains—captured in interviews throughout the outlet’s coverage—that the incident lingers as a cautionary tale.

The Takeaway: Pranks, Power, and Poor Judgment

In the final analysis, the tone-deafness of the incident is difficult to overlook. As detailed by The Pillar, seminary formation relies on careful trust-building, mature example, and an environment where levity doesn’t bleed into ritualized peer pressure or parody of solemn oaths. The lines between well-intentioned humor and questionable “tradition” are more brittle than some realize.

Adding a yeti costume, fake blood, and pseudo-secret society posturing to the mix doesn’t just muddle those lines—it also, unintentionally, exposes the potential for small actions to spiral into institutional headaches (and viral embarrassment). Even granting the absence of ill intent, the whole episode feels like a case study in what happens when authority, ritual, and inside jokes converge without adult supervision.

Is it all just a miscalculated joke? A peculiar attempt at camaraderie? An illustration of institutional blind spots and the consequences of unchecked “tradition”? However interpreted, as The Pillar’s long-form reporting makes clear, the Denver “yeti blood oath” instantly earned its place in the catalogue of religious oddities—a chapter destined to be retold in future cautionary briefings with just the right amount of head-shaking disbelief.