Photo gallery: Los Varones, Holy Week in San Gregorio Atlapulco, Xochimilco, Mexico City © Joseph Sorrentino, 2023

Like virtually every pueblo in Mexico, residents of San Gregorio Atlapulco (in Xochimilco, Mexico City) celebrate Semana Santa (Holy Week) with processions, extra masses and a depiction of Christ’s crucifixion. But one thing sets San Gregorio apart from other pueblos: Holy Week is run by fourteen young men known as Los Varones. There’s no group like it anywhere else in the world.

Los Varones means “young men,” but here it has the deeper connotation of someone who is chaste and serious. There’s very little written about the the group’s origins, but there is some oral history. “The Franciscans arrived in San Gregorio in the late sixteenth century and they were really the first Varones,” said Arturo Carrasco, an ex-Varón. “Probably in the early seventeenth century, they started using young men from the pueblo.”

Members of the group dedicate a year or more to serving the Catholic Church. This includes cleaning the church atrium, caring for religious statues and helping with a variety of community and church functions. But their main work is during Holy Week.

Los Varones prepare physically for months before Holy Week because they’ll carry heavy statues for hours. “We will carry a heavy table, run, do push-ups,” said Octavio Flores. “We will put another person on our back and climb stairs.” Marcos Alberto Serralde González, an aspirante (a new member of the group) was selected to carry a special tray during the six-hour Good Friday procession.“During the training, a tray is loaded with rocks,” he said. “I have been carrying a tray one day a week for a year, carrying it for eight hours. At first, I carried 5 or 6 kg (11 to 13 lbs), now 12 to 18 kg (26 to 40 lbs).”

Because they’ll often forgo shoes during Holy Week, Los Varones will walk barefoot for weeks before to toughen their feet. Spiritually, they’ll attend more masses and bible studies.

During the Cuaresma, the 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday, Los Varones-—who must be unmarried—follow strict rules. “You cannot have contact with your girlfriend,” said Alberto Casas Garcia. “You cannot smoke, drink alcohol, dance or go to fiestas.” They’ll also shave their heads. “It is something symbolic to show we are all equal,” said Ricardo Castro. During Holy Week, Los Varones will be lucky to get two or three hours of sleep a night and there are nights when they’ll get none at all. They’ll also fast from Thursday night until early Saturday morning.

Being a Varon is a huge commitment, but one that young men in the pueblo willingly undertake. “It is an expression of my faith,” said Byron Morales González, another aspirante, “and for me it is to show the traditional things of my pueblo.”

After months of preparation, they’re ready for Holy Week.

Palm Sunday

The night before Palm Sunday, Los Varones carry a statue called Padre Jesús through the pueblo to the home of the síndico, who provides meals for the group and for the reenactment of the Last Supper. Uriel Avelino Avalos was the síndico in 2019. “I waited eight years [to be the síndico],” he said. “I want to do it for the Church, for God.”

On Palm Sunday, a statue of Jesus astride a donkey is carried through the pueblo, accompanied by 12 boys dressed as Apostles, and several hundred people. After the palms are blessed, the procession returns to the home of the síndico where there’s a meal for over 100 guests.

Wednesday

Altars in the church and in the pueblo’s 22 chapels are decorated with fruit, tied together with heavy string. “The fruit represent the tears of the Virgin, which becomes food for the people,” said Javier Márquez Juárez, who has written about ceremonies in San Gregorio. “Altars with fruit are only found in San Gregorio.” According to Carrasco, only seasonal fruit is used and have symbolic significance. “Apples represent sin, grapes represent wine or the blood of Christ. There is also bread, which represents the body of Christ.”

Holy Thursday

Late in the afternoon, people gather in the churchyard for a reenactment of the Last Supper. The 12 boys representing the Apostles sit at long tables under a large tent and are served a traditional Mexican meal of soup, fish, chile relleno and rice, while Los Varones, who have begun their fast and period of silence, stand nearby.

After the meal, the parish priest washes the Apostles’ feet. He is followed by the síndico, who places a crown of thorns on each Apostle’s head and hands them a coin which, Avalos said, “Represents the money that was given to Judas.”

That night, another procession leaves the churchyard. A white cloth covers the eyes of Padre Jesús. “This represents the fact that Jesus is in custody and will soon die,” said Castro. Padre Jesús is carried east while the the Virgen de Doloroso (Virgin of Sorrow) heads west. “In this way, Christ represents the sun and Mary the moon,” said Márquez Juárez. “They will meet at the Calvario Chapel and return together to the church.” There’s no mention of a meeting between Jesus and Mary on Holy Thursday in the Bible but, Carrasco said, “It is more a popular tradition.”

Good Friday

In the morning, there is a viacrusis. Padre Jesús is fitted with a large cross, making 14 stops in the pueblo, accompanied by cantantes—singers who sing mournful songs. At each stop, the procession walks on tapetes de aserrín, beautiful designs made from colored sawdust.

Later that afternoon, Los Varones, dressed in white shirts, signifying purity, and black pants, signifying sorrow and death, exit the church. They walk slowly, barefoot. Flanking them are two young women, representing Mary Magdalene and Veronica. Cantantes sing in an otherwise silent churchyard.

Two Varones climb the ladders to the top of Christ’s cross. “The steps of the ladder hurt your feet,” said Ricardo Enriquez Serralde. “There is the sun. But with devotion, you forget all that. I say a prayer to give us strength to continue.” Very slowly, Jesus’s crown, nails and other items are removed.

The Christ figure is lowered and carried into the church where people file pass, some touching the figure, some kissing it. It is then placed in a glass-enclosed coffin on which red rose petals are spread. That night, the final procession begins.

Six, and sometimes eight, barefoot Varones carry a coffin that weighs 400 pounds on their shoulders. To mitigate the pain, they’ll change sides and other Varones will replace them. The procession takes six hours and makes 14 stops. Finally, at Calvario Chapel, Los Varones are able to drink a glass or two of orange juice.

Saturday

The Fuego Nuevo (New Fire), is lit just before midnight. The síndico lights his candle from it and people light their candles off his. Then, all lights and candles are extinguished and a mass is conducted. When it’s over, candles are re-lit as the church bell rings, a conch shell is sounded and traditional Aztec drums are beaten.

Sunday

On Sunday morning, people line up for holy water, which contains rose petals that had adorned Christ’s coffin, and chamomile. Fruit that was used to decorate altars is distributed. Despite the rigors of Holy Week, Los Varones look rested and happy.

During Holy Week, Los Varones must find a way to continue through the hours-long long processions and the pain. “In those moments when I feel that I cannot continue… I look in front and I see my brothers,” said Castro. “They, too, are suffering but we depend on each other. I look around and see my pueblo, my family… and that motivates me, too. Above all, I look at heaven and see God and ask for strength… because without him it would not be possible… with him at our side, everything is possible.”

Note

Holy Week celebrations in San Gregorio Atlapulco were cancelled in 2020 and 2021. In 2022, masks were required and sanitizing gel was readily available. Some restrictions may also be in place this year.

Related articles on MexConnect

• Easter in Mexico: Semana Santa and Pascua — Resource Page

Joseph Sorrentino is a journalist, photographer and playwright. His website is www.sorrentinophotography.com. His book  Stinky Island Tales: Some Stories From An Italian-American Childhood (Amazon) is a collection of four stories in English and Spanish with 26 drawings. It’s available as both a paperback and Kindle version.

Published or Updated on: February 1, 2023 by Joseph Sorrentino © 2023

The post Holy Week in San Gregorio Atlapulco, Xochimilco, Mexico City appeared first on MexConnect.

Photo Gallery: Good Friday in Tuxpan, Jalisco

“The town of everlasting festivity.” That, we were told, is what is says on the Municipal coat of arms of Tuxpan, a town in the south of Jalisco almost on the boundary with the neighboring state of Colima, and relatively close to the Mexican Pacific coast.

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We arrived at Tuxpan in the morning of a sunny Good Friday. Our first stop was City Hall. We wanted to verify for ourselves the accuracy of the famous motto, which we had previously only read about. Where else to find it if not at the seat of the local government? To our good fortune, we stumbled across frontline police officer Heraclio Jiménez, who, with the best good humor in the world, answered all of our inquiries, starting with the coat of arms. A good-sized reproduction in limestone repeated to us the phrase we were looking for. I could not help but ask, “Excuse me, don Heraclio, are there any festivities today here in Tuxpan?” He answered with a smile, “Don’t you see, my friend, that here fiesta is eternal?”

We had left Guadalajara very early (Tuxpan is a little over an hour and a half from the city, via the toll road to Colima and Manzanillo), without having breakfast. On a recommendation from don Heraclio we headed towards the local market, a couple of blocks ahead. “Climb to the upper story by the side stairway. Ask for Carmelita. Clean and tasty.” On our way to the marketplace we passed across the plaza in front of the church. We passed by the Plump Cross. The morning light was perfect, so I asked my companions for time and patience to take a photo of this monument, a symbol of the evangelization of the Nahuatl peoples of the region. This cross, named “queen of all crosses,” was erected in the year 1536. Father Juan de Padilla, Guardian of the Convent in those days, managed to get some architects sent by order of the viceroy to bring the plan of a similar cross erected in Huejotzingo, Puebla. Based on that idea the Plump Cross was sculpted and placed here. After a couple of photos, the friendly pressure: “Hunger is in the air. Let’s go.”

We went for breakfast. Carmelita was charming, her menu for Lent superb. Shrimp pancakes with prickly pears in mildly hot red sauce; huevos rancheros and güero (blond) beans, a traditional regional dish, accompanied by freshly handmade tortillas and homemade guava quencher. Delightful! As it was the time for Lent abstinence we weren’t able to enjoy coaxalas, a flavorful stew made with shredded chicken in purple tomato and guajillo pepper sauce, a dish that originated in Tuxpan; nor the pasilla moleso loved by locals and foreigners. Well, we’ll leave those for another day.

Stuffed, and with a song in our hearts, we resumed our visit. We went across the atrium and the square in front of the church again. At the far end, laid as a frize on a lateral building, we admired the retablos positioned there on the occasion of the Holy Week and Easter celebrations. A multitude of shapes, colors, fruits, bottles, flowers and figures reminded us of the important indigenous presence among Tuxpan residents.

We entered the church and asked for the events of the day. A very kind lady, seller of relics, images and other religious items at the entrance, informed us about the main happening: the procession of allegorical carriages which was to take place, starting at the atrium and then around town, between one and two o’clock in the afternoon. Relaxed, and with time on our side, we calmly explored all over the church and its annexes.

We found there, as it is now common in the Cristero areas of Jalisco and other central and western Mexican states, an image of San Toribio Romo, patron saint of migrants. Many stories travel around Mexican towns and villages about this saint, now dead for more than 90 years, who materializes to migrant workers in extreme situations in order to save them from mortal danger when illegally crossing the border. This has contributed to make this priest—cowardly murdered by federal soldiers in 1928 near Tequila, Jalisco—the most popular of the martyr saints from la Cristiada; he was canonized by Pope John Paul II in 1992. Many believe that the interest and the protection extended by the saint come from the abuse and persecution he suffered in life, something with which our frequently harassed and mistreated migrants can identify.

We invested our remaining time in a long walk up to the railway station, in part to get more acquainted with the town, in part to help us burn the generous breakfast offered by Carmelita. We didn’t find an interesting building anywhere. Solid architecture; broad, well traced paved streets and everything sharp and clean, but the harmony and beauty found in many Mexican towns were completely absent. Vivid colors abounded: intense reds, emerald greens, blues, pinks and yellows, the Nahuatl personality heralding itself in facades, walls, doors and windows.

We came back in time to the atrium. The multitude was already crammed around the allegorical carriages. On platforms installed on pick-up and heavy trucks, or on trailers towed by tractors, there were religious scenes in accordance with the holidays: staging of the Passion and representations of Stations of the Cross; actors gesticulating and speaking to the people through microphones and amplifiers conveniently installed for the occasion.

Pilate sentenced Jesus Christ at the top of his voice: “I, Pontius Pilate, president of Jerusalem, rule and decree Jesus Nazarene to be crucified for being a false prophet, deceiver of the people, disturber of the Republic, spreader of false doctrines and necromancer.” On top of a fine chestnut mare, a representative of the people, boasting a cowboy hat and dressed in rigorous black, scolded him: “Be afraid, Pilate. Live knowing that in the end you will pay with eternal punishment for your ambition and your injustice.”

One by one the carriages left the atrium, followed by their particular band of wind and percussion instruments, their Judas and crowds, to cover the streets of Tuxpan. The last one finally departed. That, for us, was also the sign to depart. It took us some time to find the exit to Guadalajara, because the processions filled the streets.

Back on the highway we took notice of the joyful and content state of our spirits. Surprised, we tried to understand the reason for our elation. We soon found the answer: the kind and agreeable people we had met and interacted with in Tuxpan. People, not buildings or monuments, is what gives a town the ability to maintain the flame of fiesta alive for ever.

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Photo Gallery: Toribio Romo: the patron saint of migrants

José de Jesús is a dark-skinned young man who wears cowboy boots and a Texan hat. He arrives to Santa Ana de Guadalupe in a pickup truck flashing US license plates. He drove all the way down from Colorado to greet the saint:

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“A friend and I left Jalos with the intention to work on the other side. We reached the border through the North of Sonora. When we were at the crossing, the pollero (human trafficker who carry out illegal crossings of the border from Mexico to the United States) who led us ran away and abandoned us in the middle of the desert,” recounts José.

“We got lost and drifted from here to there for several days. We ran out of food and water and were desperate and near collapse. All of a sudden a truck stopped to our side and the man who drove it gave us water and invited us to jump in. When we stepped down from the truck he gave us a few dollars and instructed us to ask for work in a nearby field, that they would hire us there.”

Gratefully, they then asked the man for his address, to repay the loan with their first wages.

“He said, ‘You are from Jalisco, are you not? When you earn enough money, go to Santa Ana and ask for Toribio Romo. That is my name.’ With the money he gave us we paid our lodgings and, for sure, we got jobs at the place he mentioned. Some time later we came to Santa Ana. When we entered the chapel and saw the image over the altar, we immediately recognized the man that had helped us. We inquired about him and they told us he had been dead for 70 years. Tears came to us and we gave our testimony.” Since then José visits at least once a year the temple dedicated to the one he worships as his protector.

These rescue stories, some of them in extreme danger situations when illegally crossing the border⁽¹⁾, are retold over and over in Mexican cities and towns, especially in those states – Jalisco, Zacatecas, Michoacán, Guanajuato – from where people in greater numbers head North as undocumented migrant workers  or mojados (“wet,” in reference to the fording of Río Grande).

Of all the saints from the time of the Cristeros war canonized by the Catholic Church, Saint Toribio is no doubt the most popular, unofficially baptized as “the patron saint of migrants.”

A martyr from the Cristiada

French historian Jean Meyer⁽²⁾ conducted research on the Cristiada in Mexico in the 1960s and 1970s. He worked with the most complete set of documents available regarding that period of Mexican history. He also had the opportunity to interview many people who actively participated in the conflict and survived to talk about it. As a result of that work, Jean Meyer published between 1973 and 1975 three volumes of a book considered to this day the best on the subject: La Cristiada.⁽³⁾ Convinced of the exclusively religious character of this war waged by the Mexican people to defend their Catholic faith, Meyer adopted Mexican nationality and stayed to live in Mexico, where he keeps developing his career as historian, researcher, author and brilliant columnist. In 2000 Jean Meyer was admitted as numerary member of the Mexican Academy of History.

The Cristero war or Cristiada (1926-1929) was an armed movement of the Mexican people against the religious repression unleashed in the country during the administration of General Plutarco Elías Calles. The name Cristiada, coming from the call ¡Viva Cristo Rey!, repeated by Cristero guerrillas, was imposed by the voice of the people itself, resented by the persecution and attacks against its Catholic faith;and then decided to go to arms to defend it.⁽⁴⁾

The fight took place in almost every corner of the country. There were uprisings to the North of the republic, in Sonora, Zacatecas and Coahuila, and also in the South, Chiapas, Guerrero, Puebla, Oaxaca; and in other regions as well, but with less intensity. It was in the states of Jalisco, Michoacán, Guanajuato, Zacatecas and Querétaro where the conflict exploded with the greatest violence.

The Cristero movement was not only about fighting the army that came to towns and villages to apprehend and murder priests; in the cities and many other parts of the country there were also large public protests, pilgrimages and processions to support the Cristeros, with thousands attending such gatherings. The government maintained that it was all “a reaction of Indians stupefied by the clergy and immersed in fanatism.”

Toribio Romo González was born in the small village of Santa Ana de Guadalupe, parish of Jalostotitlán, Jalisco, on 16^th April 1900. He was ordained on 23^rd December 1922. In September 1927 father Toribio was sent as vicar and acting parish priest to Tequila, Jalisco; a difficult and complex mission, as in that municipality civil and military authorities chased priests with special viciousness. Because of the grave danger, father Toribio was not able to live in the curacy of Tequila, so he stayed at the ravine of Agua Caliente in a house belonging to Mr. León Aguirre. Near there, in an abandoned tequila factory adapted as a refuge and ministry center, he officiated clandestine masses and tended to the spiritual needs of his flock. In December 1927, Toribio’s younger brother was ordained priest and also sent to Tequila as collaborating vicar; a few days later their sister, María, joined them to care for them and help them.

Being in Agua Caliente, his brother gone on an errand, he wanted to update the parish books. He worked Friday all day and night. At 5 a.m., Saturday the 25^th February 1928, he wished to celebrate mass, but he was too tired and decided to rest a while to better officiate. Barely asleep, a group of agrarians and soldiers jumped into his room; and when one of them pointed at him and yelled: “That one is the priest, kill him!” father Toribio woke up, scared, and stood up only to receive a burst of gunfire. Wounded and unsteady, he walked a little bit. Another burst, now on his back. His sister María took him in her arms and said to his ear: “Courage, father Toribio… Merciful Jesus, embrace him! ¡Viva Cristo Rey!” Toribio looked an instant at her with his light eyes and died.⁽⁶⁾

A visit to father Toribio

Years ago I was lucky enough to be in Sayula on Palm Sunday and in Tuxpan for Good Friday, in the heart of Jalisco Cristero land. I couldn’t help but notice, in and outside the churches we visited, images of a saint then unknown to me: a martyr priest from the Cristero wars, murdered because of his faith and his ministry close to the very famous and very Jaliscoan town of Tequila.

Back from these excursions, itching with curiosity, I pledged myself to gather information on Toribio Romo. Curiosity soon turned itself into profound interest. On the first available weekend, an expedition was organized, along with a small group of friends, to visit Santa Ana de Guadalupe, a little village close to the town of Jalostotitlán, and cradle of our saint.

One sunny April Sunday we took off, early in the morning, to follow the highway that runs from Guadalajara to Los Altos de Jalisco and Guanajuato, heading for Jalostotitlán. When we arrived at the toll booth at Jalos we got the first evidence of the popularity enjoyed by Saint Toribio: beside the usual signs – indicating directions for San Juan de los Lagos, León and other cities of importance – was one, at least double in size, marking the way to Santa Ana de Guadalupe. Not bad for a small village of 390 inhabitants, lost in the middle of nowhere. A short and narrow paved road, brand new and in perfect shape, took us to a smart limestone semicircular arch guarding the entrance to the pueblito, with inscriptions referring to the saint in shiny golden characters. “Santo Toribio’s Route”, announced a metal sheet at the base of the monument.

The traffic on the tight road seemed to be way out of proportion for so small a settlement. We then learned that in a given weekend about 5,000 souls visit the village, with peaks of up to 10,000 pilgrims on special occasions. We didn’t want to imagine how things would be on 15th February, Saint Toribio’s anniversary. Buses, trucks and cars came and went in a continuous flow that forced us to a very slow advance and pay acute attention to the driving. This religious tourism has generated an important economic impact in Santa Ana. This boost is pretty evident on the street, in buildings and infrastructure of very recent development, and in the feverish activity that circles the visitor at all times.

We were able to find, at last, a spot to park our car, and then submerged ourselves in the tide of people to climb up to the chapel of La Mesita. Toribio himself participated in the construction of this sanctuary, and later, once ordained, he celebrated the first mass here. In this place, dominating all the panorama of the village, rests the remains of the saint.

This is the epicenter of all the movement in Santa Ana. Two long lines of people slowly walked from the atrium to the temple’s interior. We queued with everybody else. Finally, after a long while and in cramped tumult, we were able to reach the altar. Below, in a glass urn, a coffin: the remains and relics of Saint Toribio. We became overwhelmed by the faith surrounding us. People came to the urn and caressed the glass, praying and thanking and asking for favors received and to be received. Grannies and Grandpas, dads and moms carried their little ones so they too could pass their small fingers over the glass. Young and old united in their devotion to the martyr.

Back in the sunshine, we went around the building to enter the Annex, an ample space where there is a display, hanging from the walls, of retablos and exvotos: written and drawn testimonies of persons thanking received favors via the good offices of the saint. We paused to examine the walls covered by these documents. At the adjacent store I bought a booklet on Saint Toribio written by his brother, Román, also a priest and lucky survivor of the religious persecution.⁽⁶⁾

At one side of the Annex we took a long avenue going down to the plain and leading to another chapel, down below in the small valley. This one was built in 1978 over the site where Toribio Romo was born. On both sides of the avenue stand effigies of Cristiada martyrs canonized by the Catholic church. We strolled for a while over the Calzada de los Mártires, noticing the large number of people going up and down around us.

With this final walk we returned to our car. Driving back to Guadalajara we exchanged opinions about our experiences of the day in Santa Ana. An important piece of Mexican history traveled with us. A sign of the great faith of our people had also settled in our mood. As for me, I asked Saint Toribio to intercede on our behalf, migrants passing through this perilous world—tough and unjustly globalized—in which we happen to live.

I almost caught a glimpse of the limpid gaze in his light eyes, attentive to the road ahead, vigilant, waiting to assist us in case of need.

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Photo Gallery: Viernes Santo en Tuxpan, Jalisco

“El pueblo de la fiesta eterna.” Eso nos habían dicho que dice el escudo municipal de Tuxpan, población del sur de Jalisco casi en los límites con el vecino estado de Colima, ya relativamente cerca de las costas que baña el Pacífico mexicano.

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Llegamos a Tuxpan por la mañana de un Viernes Santo luminoso. Nuestro primer destino, la presidencia municipal. Queríamos constatar por nosotros mismos la exactitud del famoso lema, ya que solo lo conocíamos por referencias. ¿En qué otro lugar encontrarlo, sino en el edificio sede del poder público local? Para nuestra fortuna, nos tropezamos de primera intención con el Policía de Línea Heraclio Jiménez, quien con el mejor humor del mundo se prestó a contestar todas nuestras preguntas. Lo primero: el escudo. Una reproducción en cantera, de muy buen tamaño, nos repitió la frase detrás de la cual veníamos. No pude evitar preguntar, “Oiga, don Heraclio, ¿y hoy hay fiesta aquí en Tuxpan?” Contestó con una sonrisa: “¿Pos qué no ve, mi amigo, que aquí la fiesta es eterna?”

Habíamos salido de Guadalajara muy temprano (Tuxpan se encuentra a un poco más de hora y media de la ciudad por la autopista que va a Colima y Manzanillo), sin desayunar. Por recomendación de don Heraclio nos dirigimos hacia el mercado, un par de cuadras más allá. “Suban a la planta alta por la escalera del costado. Pregunten por Carmelita. Limpio y sabroso.” De camino hacia el mercado pasamos por la plaza frente a la iglesia. En el trayecto, la Cruz Gorda. La luz de la mañana, perfecta, por lo que pedí a mis acompañantes tiempo y paciencia para fotografiar este monumento, símbolo de la evangelización de los pueblos nahuas de la región. Esta cruz, nombrada “reina de todas la cruces,” fue levantada en el año de 1536. El padre Fray Juan de Padilla, Guardián del Convento por aquel entonces, logró que arquitectos venidos por orden del virrey trajesen los planos de otra cruz que existía en Huejotzingo, Puebla. Sobre esa idea se esculpió y erigió la Cruz Gorda. Después de un par de tomas, la presión amistosa: “Ya hace hambre: vámonos.”

Nos fuimos pues a desayunar. Carmelita, encantadora; su menú de cuaresma, soberbio. Tortitas de camarón con nopales en salsa roja; huevos rancheros y frijoles güeros, típicos de la región, acompañados de tortillas recién hechas y agua de guayaba. Maravilla. Como era vigilia no pudimos disfrutar de las coaxalas, sabroso guiso de pollo deshebrado en salsa de tomate morado y chile guajillo, platillooriginario de Tuxpan, ni el mole de pasillaque tanto gusta a propios y extraños. Bueno, otro día será.

Satisfechos y con una canción en el corazón reanudamos nuestra visita. Repasamos de nueva cuenta el atrio y la plaza frente a la iglesia. Al fondo, colocado como friso de un edificio lateral, admiramos los retablos puestos allí en ocasión de las fiestas de Semana Santa y Pascua. Multitud de formas, colores, frutas, botellas, flores y figuras nos recordaron el gran peso indígena entre la población tuxpense.

Entramos a la iglesia y preguntamos por las celebraciones del día. Una señora muy amable, de esas que venden reliquias, estampas y otros artículos religiosos a la entrada, nos informó acerca del evento importante: el paseo de carros alegóricos que tendría lugar, saliendo desde el atrio y después alrededor del pueblo, entre una y dos de la tarde. Tranquilos y con tiempo visitamos con calma la iglesia y sus anexos.

Nos encontramos allá adentro, como yava siendo común en las zonas cristeras de Jalisco y otros estados del centro y occidente de México, con una imagen de San Toribio Romo, el santro patrón de los migrantes. Muchas historias circulan entre los pueblos acerca del santo muerto hace más de 90 años, quien se aparece a trabajadores migrantes en situaciones extremas para salvarlos de mortales peligros al cruzar ilegalmente la frontera. Estoha contribuido a convertir a este sacerdote—cobardemente asesinado enTequila, Jalisco por tropas federales en 1928—en el más popular de los santos mártires de la Cristiada canonizados en 1992 por el Papa Juan Pablo II. Muchos piensan que el interés y la protección del santo se deben a los abusos y persecuciones que sufrió en vida, mismos con los que se identifican nuestros frecuentemente vejados y maltratadosmigrantes.

Invertimos el rato que nos quedaba en una larga caminata hasta la estación del ferrocarril, en parte para conocer más a fondo el pueblo, en parte para intentar bajar el generoso desayuno de Carmelita. No encontramos un solo edificio de interés por ningún lado. La arquitectura, sólida; las calles anchas, bien trazadas y pavimentadas y todo muy limpio, pero la armonía y belleza que se encuentran en muchos pueblos mexicanos brillaban aquí por su ausencia. Colores vivos: rojos intensos, verdes esmeraldas, azules, rosas y amarillos, eso sí. Otra vez la personalidad náhuatl anunciándose en fachadas, muros, puertas y ventanas.

Regresamos a tiempo al atrio. Ya la multitud se apiñaba alrededor de los carros alegóricos. Sobre plataformas de camiones y camionetas, o en remolques arrastrados por tractores, se habían montado cuadros religiosos alusivos al tiempo: representaciones de la Pasión y escenas del Viacrucis; actores gesticulando y hablando al pueblo a través de micrófonos y amplificadores habilitados al efecto.

Pilatos condenaba, a voz en cuello, al Cristo: “Poncio Pilatos, presidente de Jerusalén, mando y decreto que sea crucificado Jesús Nazareno, por falso profeta, engañador de las gentes, inquietador de la República, sembrador de doctrinas falsas y nigromántico.” Desde lo alto de una hermosa yegua alazana, un representante del pueblo, de sombrero vaquero y negro riguroso, lo increpaba: “Temed, Pilatos: vives entendido que al final pagarás con penas eternas tu ambición y tu injusticia.”

Uno a uno abandonaron los carros el atrio, seguidos por su banda particular de alientos y percusiones, por sus Judas y multitudes, para recorrer las calles de Tuxpan. Por fin salió el último. Esa fue para nosotros la señal de partida. Nos costó trabajo encontrar la salida hacia la autopista a Guadalajara, porque las procesiones lo inundaban todo.

Ya en la carretera nos dimos cuenta de lo contentos que íbamos. Comentamos, sorprendidos, la razón de nuestra euforia. Pronto encontramos la respuesta: la simpática y agradable gente con la que convivimos en Tuxpan. La gente, no los edificios ni los monumentos, es lo que hace que un pueblo mantenga viva y eterna la llama de la fiesta.

The post Viernes Santo en Tuxpan, Jalisco appeared first on MexConnect.

Photo Gallery: Toribio Romo: the patron saint of migrants

José de Jesús es un joven moreno que viste botas vaqueras y sombrero tejano. Llega a Santa Ana de Guadalupe en una camioneta con placas de los Estados Unidos. Viene desde Colorado para saludar al santo.

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“Un amigo y yo nos fuimos de Jalos con la intención de trabajar al otro lado. Llegamos a la frontera por el norte de Sonora. Cuando ya estábamos por cruzar, el pollero (traficante que realiza cruces ilegales de personas desde México hacia los Estados Unidos) que nos guiaba huyó y nos dejó abandonados en medio del desierto”, cuenta José. “Nos perdimos y anduvimos de acá para allá varios días. Ya no teníamos agua ni comida y estábamos desesperados y a punto de desfallecer. De repente, una camioneta se detuvo a nuestro lado y elhombreque la manejaba nos dio agua y nos invitó a subir. Al bajar nos dio unos dólares y nos dijo que buscáramos trabajo en un campo cercano, que ahí nos iban a contratar”.

Muy agradecidos, le preguntaron entonces al hombre su dirección para pagarle el préstamo con su primer sueldo. “Nos dijo: ‘Ustedes son de Jalisco, ¿verdad? Cuando ganen lo suficiente, vayan a Santa Ana y pregunten por Toribio Romo. Ese es mi nombre’. Con el dinero pagamos el hospedaje yconseguimos trabajo en el lugar que nos mencionó. Tiempo después nos venimos a Santa Ana. Cuando entramos a la iglesia y vimos el retrato del altar, luego luego lo identificamos como el hombre que nos ayudó. Al preguntar por él nos dijeron que había muerto hacía 70 años. Nos pusimos a llorar y dimos nuestro testimonio”. Desde entonces, José visita por lo menos una vez al año el templo de quien se ha convertido en su protector.

Estas historias de salvamentos, algunos de ellos en condiciones de peligro extremo en el trance de cruzar ilegalmente la frontera,⁽¹⁾ pululan en ciudades y pueblos de México, especialmente en los estados en donde más personas se van de mojados (en referencia al vado del Río Bravo), trabajadores migrantes indocumentados, a los Estados Unidos: Jalisco, Zacatecas, Michoacán, Guanajuato.

De todos los santos de la época de la guerra cristera canonizados por la Iglesia Católica, San Toribio es sin duda el más popular, extraoficialmente reconocido como “el santo patrono de los migrantes”.

Un mártir de la Cristiada

El historiador francés Jean Meyer⁽²⁾ se trasladó a México entre los años sesenta y setenta del siglo pasado para investigar sobre la Cristiada. Trabajó con el conjunto de documentos más completo de que se dispone sobre esta época de la historia de México. Tuvo además la oportunidad de entrevistar a muchas personas que participaron de manera activa en el conflicto y que sobrevivieronpara contarlo. Como resultado de este trabajo, Jean Meyer publicó entre 1973 y 1975 los tres tomos de un libro que se considera el mejor de cuantos se han escrito sobre el tema: La Cristiada.⁽³⁾ Convencido del carácter exclusivamente religioso de esta guerra librada por el pueblo mexicano para defender su fe católica, Meyer adoptó la nacionalidad mexicana y se quedó a vivir en México, desde donde sigue desarrollando su carrera de historiador, investigador, autor de libros y brillante articulista. A partir del año 2000, Jean Meyer es miembro de número de la Academia Mexicana de la Historia.

La guerra cristera o Cristiada (1926-1929) fue un movimiento del pueblo mexicano en contra de la represión religiosa que se desató en el país durante el gobierno del general Plutarco Elías Calles. El nombre Cristiada, que proviene del grito ¡Viva Cristo Rey!, repetido por los guerrilleros cristeros, fue impuesto por la voz del propio pueblo, que se sintió perseguido y atacado en su fe católica y decidió entonces tomar las armas para defenderla.⁽⁴⁾

La lucha se dio en casi todo el país. Hubo levantamientos al norte de la república, en Sonora, Zacatecas y Coahuila, y también por el sur: Chiapas, Guerrero, Puebla, Oaxaca y con menor intensidad en otras regiones. Pero fue en los estados de Jalisco, Michoacán, Guanajuato, Zacatecas y Querétaro donde el conflicto se presentó con mayor violencia.

El movimiento cristero no sólo significó pelear contra el ejército que iba a las poblaciones a aprehender y asesinar a los sacerdotes: también en el país se dieron grandes manifestaciones, peregrinaciones y procesiones para apoyar a los cristeros, en donde se reunían miles de personas. El gobierno callista sostenía que todo esto era “una reacción de indios embrutecidos por el clero y sumidos en el fanatismo”.

Toribio Romo González nació en la ranchería de Santa Ana de Guadalupe, parroquia de Jalostotitlán, Jalisco, el 16 de abril de 1900. El 23 de diciembre de 1922 fue ordenado sacerdote. En septiembre de 1927 el padre Toribio fue enviado como vicario con funciones de párroco a Tequila, Jalisco, misión difícil y complicada, porque en ese municipio las autoridades civiles y militares perseguían con especial saña a los sacerdotes. Por los graves peligros el padre Toribio no podía vivir en el curato de Tequila, y se hospedó en la barranca de Agua Caliente, en la casa del señor León Aguirre. Por allí, en una fábrica de tequila abandonada y adaptada como refugio y centro de apostolado, oficiaba misas clandestinas y atendía a las necesidades espirituales de su grey. En diciembre de 1927, el hermano menor de Toribio fue ordenado sacerdote y enviado también a Tequila como vicario cooperador; a los pocos días llegó además su hermana María para atenderlos y ayudarlos.

Estando en Agua Caliente –su hermano en otro lugar atendiendo un asunto–, quiso poner al corriente los libros parroquiales. Trabajó el viernes todo el día y toda la noche. A las cinco de la mañana del sábado 25 de febrero de 1928 quiso celebrar la Misa, pero sintiéndose muy cansado y con sueño prefirió reposar un poco para oficiar mejor. Apenas se había quedado dormido cuando un grupo de agraristas y soldados entraron en la habitación y cuando uno de ellos le señaló gritando: “¡Ese es el cura, mátenlo!”, el padre Toribio se despertó asustado, se incorporó y recibió una descarga. Herido y vacilante caminó un poco: una nueva descarga, por la espalda. Su hermana María lo tomó en sus brazos y le dijo al oído: “Valor, padre Toribio… ¡Jesús misericordioso, recíbelo! ¡Viva Cristo Rey!” El padre Toribio le dirigió una mirada de sus ojos claros y murió.⁽⁶⁾

Una visita al padre Toribio

Hace unos años me tocó en suerte estar en Sayula para el Domingo de Ramos, y el Viernes Santo en Tuxpan, en el corazón de la tierra cristera de Jalisco. Me llamó la atención encontrarme, dentro y fuera de las iglesias que visitamos, con imágenes y estampas de un santo entonces desconocido para mí: un sacerdote mártir de las guerras cristeras, asesinado por causa de su fe y de su ministerio cerca de la muy afamada y muy jalisciense ciudad de Tequila.

Al regreso de estas excursiones, picado por la curiosidad, me puse a buscar información sobre Toribio Romo. La curiosidad pronto se transformó en profundo interés: el primer fin de semana disponible se organizó la expedición, junto con un pequeño grupo de amigos, a Santa Ana de Guadalupe, ranchería localizada cerca del poblado de Jalostotitlán y cuna de nuestro santo.

Un soleado domingo de abril salimos temprano por la mañana, por la autopista que corre de Guadalajara a Los Altos de Jalisco y a Guanajuato, rumbo a Jalostotitlán. Al llegar a la caseta de Jalos no pudimos dejar de notar la primera muestra de la popularidad de San Toribio: junto a los letreros de tamaño normal que indican las direcciones a San Juan de los Lagos, León y otras ciudades de importancia, uno por lo menos dos veces más grande que los demás: Santa Ana de Guadalupe. Nada mal para una ranchería de 390 habitantes, perdida enmedio de ningún lugar. Una carreterita corta, nueva y en perfecto estado, nos llevó hasta un flamante arco de cantera que marcaba la entrada al pueblito, con leyendas alusivas al santo en relucientes letras doradas. “Ruta de Santo Toribio,” anunciaba un cartel de lámina al pie del monumento.

El tráfico en la angosta vía resultaba desproporcionado para una población tan pequeña: en un fin de semana común y corriente se calcula que unas 5,000 personas visitan la ranchería, con picos de hasta ocho y diez mil peregrinos en fechas especiales. No quisimos imaginar lo que sería aquello un 25 de febrero, día de la fiesta de San Toribio. Autobuses, camionetas y automóviles iban y venían, en un flujo continuo que nos obligaba a manejar muy despacio y con todos los sentidos puestos en el camino. Este turismo religioso ha generado un importante impacto en Santa Ana. La economía del lugar ha dado un vuelco gracias a este fenómeno, bonanza que salta a la vista en calles, edificios e infraestructura de muy reciente construcción y en la actividad efervescente que rodea por todas partes al visitante.

Por fin pudimos encontrar un lugar en donde estacionar el auto. Nos sumergimos en la marea de gente para subir hasta la capilla de La Mesita, en cuya construcción participó el propio Toribio y en donde después, ya ordenado, ofició su primera Misa. En este lugar, que domina todo el panorama del poblado, es donde hoy reposan los restos del santo.

Este es el epicentro de todo el movimiento en Santa Ana. Dos largas filas de personas caminaban con lentitud desde el atrio hacia el interior del templo. Nos formamos, como todos los demás. Por fin, después de un buen rato, pudimos llegar en apretado tumulto hasta el altar. Debajo de este, en una urna de cristal, un féretro: los restos y reliquias de San Toribio. Nos contagiamos de la fe de la gente, que llegaba hasta la urna y acariciaba el cristal, rezando y agradeciendo y pidiendo favores recibidos y por recibir. Abuelitas y abuelitos, papás y mamás sostenían a sus pequeños para que también ellos pudieran pasar sus deditos por sobre el cristal: chicos y grandes unidos en su devoción por el mártir.

De vuelta al sol, rodeamos el edificio para entrar al Anexo, un espacio amplio en donde se exhiben, colgados de las paredes, retablos y exvotos: testimonios agradecidos de personas que han recibido favores por intermediación del santo. Nos detuvimos a examinar los muros cubiertos de estos documentos. En la tienda de al lado compré un librito sobre Santo Toribio escrito por su hermano Román, también sacerdote y superviviente, él sí, de las persecuciones religiosas.⁽⁶⁾

Por un costado del Anexo baja hacia la planicie una larga calzada que llega hasta otra capilla, allá abajo en el vallecito, construida en 1978 sobre el lugar en que nació Toribio Romo. A los lados se levantan efigies de los mártires de la Cristiada canonizados por la Iglesia. Paseamos un rato por la Calzada de los Mártires, observando la gran cantidad de gente que subía y bajaba alrededor nuestro.

Con esta última caminata regresamos a nuestro automóvil. De regreso a Guadalajara intercambiamos opiniones sobre nuestras experiencias de ese día en Santa Ana. Un trozo importante de la historia de México viajaba junto con nuestra comitiva. Una muestra de la fe grande de nuestro pueblo también se había instalado en nuestro ánimo. Por mi parte, pedí a Santo Toribio que intercediera por nosotros, migrantes de paso por este mundo peligroso, duro e injustamente globalizado en que nos ha tocado vivir.

Casi pude vislumbrar la mirada limpia de sus ojos claros, atentos al camino, vigilantes, a la espera de socorrernos en caso de necesidad.

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From A House in the Sun, by Dane Chandos

Lightning is with us all the summer. It forks and it shimmers and it zips, and sometimes it pulsates for seconds on end. It is white and yellow and greenish and bluish and carnation pink. It has given rise to legends. They say that, in the seventeenth century, the storms in Guadalajara were so severe that repeatedly bell ringers in the churches were killed, so that at last they brought into the city the most venerated virgin of the neighbourhood, she of Zapopan, who is one of three similar images brought to Jalisco by the first settlers from Spain. Her sisters are at Talpa and San Juan de los Lagos, and all three wear much wealth in jewels.

Ever since that first summer, centuries ago, she has passed the whole rainy season in Guadalajara, from June through September, staying two weeks in each church. Since she began to make her sojourn the storms have never again been so violent, and when, in the first days of October every year, she is taken back to her own shrine outside the city, a great pilgrimage goes with her in thanksgiving.

There is nothing like a pilgrimage for displaying on a small canvas the character of a whole people, and when a Mexican makes a vow he sets about it in his own way. Not for him the crowded pilgrim trains and busy boarding houses of middleclass Lourdes, nor the remote intensity and rain-washed faith of misty Croaghpatrick. His own faith came from sunnier lands, and his romerías recall, rather, the splendid church pageants of Seville, Montserrat, and Loreto, or the autumn pilgrimage to Montevergine when Naples spills its vivid multitudes in murmuring thousands across the corn fields of Campania.

Clearly much of the spirit of the Mexican romería was imported by the conquistadors, yet generations before the day’s of Cortez, Indios were traveling in their thousands from all over Anahuac to the shrine of the air god, Quetzalcoatl, on the summit of his forty-acre pyramid at Cholula, where later the Spaniards installed the Virgen de los Remedios. To this day, they answer the clangor of her bells as once they obeyed the summons of Teponaztli, the sacred drum of ancient Mexico. The change has, perhaps, been less fundamental than Prescott would have us believe, for Remedios too understand warriors and has witnessed the shedding of blood, and, like her rival Guadalupe, patron of the revolution, she held general’s rank during the struggle for independence.

Our Lady of Zapopan wears a jewelled sword, for she too is a General, and her progress is as much a triumph as any enjoyed by Caesar or Pompey. Of course, the journey is a matter of only four or five miles, and the ardour and enthusiasm of the crowds are therefore unabated through fatigue or exposure. She is very renowned, for she has often crowned prayer with fulfillment, and this, coupled with her accessibility, has brought her numerous ex-voto pictures, little oil paintings on metal illustrating incidents in which her help was besought or recognized. So many has she received that they are stolen in quantities and sold to those interested in such things. I once saw a suitcase containing hundreds, all from Zapopan, two of which I have before me as I write.

One of them depicts a she-ass with the Virgin of Zapopan hovering in one corner and a legend stating that by her aid the animal, which had been lost, was found again, The other shows an improbable green hill over which a man in white pajamas is walking with a leisurely gait, while a yard or two behind him, three soldiers are in hot pursuit with red and yellow flames darting from the muzzles of their guns. We are told the man was not hurt!

“In the house of my aunt who lives in Zapopan there are many such pictures,” Candelaria told me, “but they do not call my attention. My aunt is pious and rich; I have seen where she hides her centavos under the floor. But I shall not make the struggle this year. You see, when I stay with her I cannot sleep, for, imagine to yourself, Señor, though her bed is of the finest iron, little animals attack it all night.”

Many Ajijic folk go to Zapopan every year, those who travel afoot or on donkey back setting out three or four days in advance, for though it is no great distance and the fiesta lasts officially one day only, the whole jaunt takes a week. This year Venustiano had taken a vow to make the pilgrimage, goaded as usual, I think, by his wife. I took Verna round to see him, and we found him in his yard pruning a castor-oil tree so as to let in the sunlight to a small, tired-looking begonia cutting.

“Oh yes, I’m going,” he said, swinging his serape around him with the air of a Roman senator. “They say it’s a very fine fiesta, if you care for things of that sort.” Verna is keen on folklore in the same way that she is keen on antiques, lectures, local handicrafts, psychology, and most of those other subjects suitably close to the heart of the average well-to-do New England lady. She fell hard for the idea of attending Our Lady to Zapopan.

“I can’t wait to see those quaint old dances and all the cunning costumes,” she said. “And I still have a roll of Kodachrome. We could stop over in Guadalajara on our way to the border, Eliot, and then we could all go together. Couldn’t we, Eliot?”

I have to go to Guadalajara every week to buy those things for the inn that Ajijic and Chapala do not provide, so it was decided that we meet in the city on the eve of the feast of Zapopan. I made an early start and spent the morning going about my various chores. At a little before two o’clock I called round at the hotel and found Verna and Eliot in the bar, arguing about something, and the air was such that I thought I wouldn’t get myself involved.

“Look,” I said, “I’m going to the market now. I can’t do any more shopping round here because all the shops are closed until four.”

“Isn’t that crazy!” said Verna. Her fingers were pulling at the big emerald engagement ring on her left hand, and her bright blue eyes snapped critically round the bar, taking everything in.

“No, Verna,” I said. “It isn’t crazy. The Mexicans like it that way’, and what you have just said implies, in a nutshell, why Mexicans fear economic control from the United States. They dread the intrusion into their private life and habits.”

“Exactly,” said Eliot, chomping on his cigar and not agreeing with me in the very least. “It’s all a question of individual liberty, Verna. Free people don’t like someone else telling them what they must do, and that is why I won’t go all the way to Zapopan on foot.”

We went to bed early that night and left word to be called at four o’clock in the morning. At half past, Verna and I met for a thermos of coffee downstairs in the lobby. Eliot had complained of a headache and refused to get up, and from the expression on Verna’s face I decided it was prudent to let the subject drop.

Together we went out into the street. All night the crowds had made merry. The bars had been filled till a late hour, and the jingle of music had permeated every quiet plaza and patio in the city. Now began the drift northward, out of town. Up the fashionable Avenida Vallarta the people moved, an endless tide of variegated colour in the headlights of a thousand cars, which slowly nosed their way through the press. We joined them at once, for you must go early to see the best of the ceremony.

The Lady herself starts before dawn from the Church of San Felipe, riding in a carriage whose roof is surmounted by a huge crown of fresh flowers. Behind the carriage walk the plumed, caparisoned black horses, for they are never allowed to draw the Lady’s coach, but are always replaced by pious human muscle.

For months now, in church after church throughout the city, she has stood in splendour, stiff and jewelled and adored, a flame of flowers and candles tiered in worship beneath her pedestal. Now she was going home to her white church amid the quiet groves of Zapopan. And she did not go alone. Around her and after her came the pilgrims, and before her they streamed in their thousands down the dark road: poor women muffled in shawls, some praying as they went, some kneeling down every ten paces; rich girls, with hair elaborately arranged under the black chiffon veil, with mother and aunts hovering at their sides to help them over rough places, for they were barefoot, having taken a vow; Indios lying down, rising, lying down again, measuring the whole road out from the city with their bodies; others, half naked, their flesh pierced by cactus thorns.

“They’re cuckoo,” said Verna,

A well-dressed city boy went by, his face, in the flare of a torch, long and yellow and solemn, out of a Spanish picture, his eyes fixed ahead high up in the darkness and his bare feet bleeding. Then there were the dancers.

All the way down the road the groups were scattered, thirty or forty strong, unearthly under the fire of torches, magic under the rainbow-coloured umbrellas of rocket-borne stars, each group in a different fancy dress, each doing a different step, each with its little band of musicians, fiddling, blowing horns and fifes, and drumming out on rattles its sharp, individual rhythm. The firecrackers snapped; the metal disks clattered. Nightmare faces appeared and vanished in the gloom – here, broad, mongoloid features smothered in lipstick and glittering sequins; there, a flour-white vacuous mask, glassy-eyed, whose long black beard rippled over its wearer’s gnarled brown chest. All the way, amid gusts of incense and garlic, dancing and prancing, in faith and folly, wondrous and infantile and pathetic; all the way, out from the city to the wide gracious church in its great court among the cypresses; each year the lndios came dancing.

For centuries they have come stamping tum-ta-tóm-tum to a Christian shrine, and nobody knows whether they had been coming year-by-year long before that, long before the conquest. They were gallant and noble and dedicated, and yet they were a little sickening too, with their dressing up and their ritual air beating and their glad, profitless penance. And we too walked along with the pilgrims, Verna and I, upheld by no faith, dedicated to no penance, sightseers come to see a show.

“Look,” said Verna. “Those are tight already.”

The group of dancing lndios, aglitter in the torchlight with murky red and peacock, swayed and tottered as they stamped along, tum-ta-tóm-tum. Their faces were tense black masks, and only out of the shadow between brow and cheekbone there shone wild gleams that were their eyes. Yes, Verna, they are tight. But with what? With drink, or with exhaustion, or with fervour? For months now, in distant villages, they have practiced their steps, and here they are, those with Vow’s to fulfill, and those who have come to buy, and sell, and cheat, and worship, and steal, and get drunk, and whore. A foot-high image, a satin puppet all be-diamonded, is a splendid pretext for a binge.

We were now more than halfway to Zapopan, and we climbed the high bank by the roadside to rest a little and watch the crowd go by. Already the eastern sky was smudged with the first streaks of tawny light. Behind us, sleek and green from the rains, calm and empty of people, stretched the most fashionable golf course in western Mexico. Before us, down the road, like a mountain river in spate, foamed and boiled the multitude of pilgrims. As the sun came up, the dark, sweaty Indio faces that had seemed masks became faces again, and the weird dresses – tinsel-banded trousers, shiny robes clasped on one shoulder, tinfoil crowns – seized real colours from the sunrise and stopped being momentary murky glitters. The twin spikes of turquoise light to our left, which had served as a beacon for the last two hours, faded into the ornate and silvery mass of Zapopan’s domed and fretted towers.

It was now seven o’clock, some said the Lady would pass soon after nine. Verna and I walked on into the little town. Here the streets were crammed; the roofs were lined; every window was thickset with people. The crowd became almost impassable for a moment as we turned the last bend into the main street. By the side of the road was a cart that, judging from the leaves around it, had recently been full of sugar cane, and its enterprising owner, his pouch already stuffed with silver pesos, was earning a bonus by turning the empty vehicle into a miniature grandstand. Opposite, a loudspeaker blared out news, instructions, advertisements and rumbas in an unceasing flow. As we moved into the straight avenue that led up to the Lady’s church, our footsteps were momentarily deadened. We kicked up some damp sawdust, and there was a smell of disinfectant. In spite of the festivities, the authorities had not neglected the precautions to be taken against the hoof-and-mouth epidemic.

“I suppose they’ll make Our Lady get out of her carriage and walk through this,” said Verna.

And now we were at the end of our journey. Between our selves and the massive carved portal milled ten or fifteen thousand people. All the way the road was lined with trophies of giant golden sunflowers bound up with sky-blue and white ribbons, the Lady’s colours. On the sidewalk innumerable stall keepers traded in soup, candles, ice cream, balloons, coffee, nuts, coloured waters, tortillas, and confetti. Presently I was hailed from a rooftop by some Mexican friends. The door of the house was open, and the people were drifting in and out with the greatest self-possession in order to avail themselves of the drinking fountain, washbasins, and toilet. We went in and, finding a ladder, climbed up to the roof, where we were greeted by a number of kind people we had never seen. Verna fell silent, and we settled down to wait for the coming of the Lady.

From moment to moment the street presented scenes of ever increasing animation. Fresh bands of dancers continually passed. Our host told us there were about sixty groups in all. Now, in daylight, it could be seen that for the most part the costumes followed the traditional patterns of Indio and conquistador, in endless permutations, though here and there was a Roman soldier, and once Verna pointed out a small party of what we took to be imps. Still the crowd came pouring through. Little girls offered us streamers, flowers, and confetti to throw when the procession should arrive. A man with no legs went by, wielding his crutches with the utmost speed and agility, followed by his family of seven children, whose mother carried on her head a basket such as Tippet uses for a bed, in which reposed a mountain of tortillas and a very small baby.

By now the sun stood high and it began to get hot. For a while I found a little shade below one of the outspread branches of a tall araucaria that grew in the patio, but it was not easy to resist the lure of the street, and I was soon back again, sitting on the roof balustrade. Below me was a man in a costume trimmed with hundreds of wooden bobbins. I think he must have been a deserter from a group of dancers, for he was evidently feeling the heat more than his neighbours and had made an improvised parasol out of two sticks of sugar cane and a banana leaf.

Behind him came one of the more devoted pilgrims, a darkly clad middle-aged woman progressing very slowly, on her knees. It was clear she had come a long way like this, for she was tired to the point of exhaustion. Her face was gray and furrowed with tears of sheer fatigue, and after every two or three steps she would sit back on her heels and rest. A man held either hand, and friendly bystanders spread blankets and serapes before her as she shuffled painfully along. Presently she drew abreast of a party of dancers, and from the center of the group darted a cavalier in white and lilac satin with plumed hat and rapier at his hip. With a flamboyant, yet somehow reverent, obeisance he spread his glistening rayon cloak in her path, and in a second, I was transported from the sunny dust of Mexico to the cool turf of an English cathedral close, to the climax of a pageant, where as a small boy I had gaped in unstinted admiration as Sir Walter Raleigh tendered his humble duty to Queen Elizabeth.

“Here they come,” said Verna, as a series of violent explosions interrupted my thoughts.

Smoke puffs filled the sky around us, and into the main street rode the first of the Charros. They came in single file along either side of the street, horsemen of every age, and from every town in the state, their jackets frogged and embroidered, their sombreros laced with silver, whips in hand and lariats at the saddle bow, joking with the crowd and slowly closing their ranks to clear the center of the road for the procession that was to follow. Their horses were plump and glossy: blacks, chestnuts, bays, roans, and skewbalds, with here and there an elegant blond palomino. One or two women rode with the men, dressed mostly in the wide skirt and flower-embroidered blouse of the china poblana costume. They faced inward and dressed their ranks smartly. All the spectators on foot were now excluded from the center of the road, though at one moment, when the mayor’s car edged its way through the barrier, it was followed amid shouts of laughter, by a ragged urchin who capered gaily up the street, putting out his tongue at the dignified cavaliers to right and left.

Then came the procession. First a company of uniformed women – nurses perhaps – came marching up the street followed by two bands and cars containing officials. When the bands had passed, we heard the singing, the stately solemn measure sung by the Lady’s escort as they bore her through the kneeling crowds up the last slope into the town. Dancers preceded her, and a great company of singing Zapopanos bearing her blue and white flags; and these were followed by a concourse of women carrying baskets of every sort of flower, small bunches and huge trophies alike.

Then came the Lady herself. She rode in a modest four-wheeler, but two hundred youths drew her along with ropes of Mexican sisal. The carriage was almost hidden by banks of white flowers – camellias, roses, and gardenias – and a brightly jewelled crown of many-coloured flowers adorned the roof. We could hear the clapping and the cheers down the street, and, as the carriage passed, the watchers crossed themselves and bared their heads. And now we had a brief glance through the open window at the Lady herself. She was wearing no high coronet of diamonds, she was encased in no gemmed stomacher, and they had girt her with no jewelled sword. She wore a pilgrim’s cloak and a little traveling hat tied beneath the chin with ribbons. So she journeyed home – gray clad among her flowers, drawn by four hundred hands – home to the cool nave between the long columns that were fingers raised, not in admonition, but in triumphant thanksgiving for mercy, majesty, and glory.

“Just a doll,” said Verna. “Of course, it’s an antique.”

Then we saw the American soldier. Among the drab clothes of the pilgrims and the gaudy costumes of the dancers, his uniform was the most exotic fancy dress of all. He stood there staring, and as the Lady went by, he gave her a military salute as if he knew she were a General. Maybe he should have bared his head like the rest. But he didn’t. He saluted. Then, as the carriage rolled on and those who had lined the sidewalks swarmed to join the pilgrims, we lost sight of him.

We struggled down into the street. It wasn’t easy to get near the courtyard of the church or through the gates in the iron railed wall. Above the mob, the leaves of the cypresses and eucalyptus trees stirred in a little wind, and the towers of the church were silver filigree against a sky of blue glass. All over the courtyard were groups of dancers, arranged in oblongs, half a group watching while half danced. Individuals who had vowed to dance all day stamped back and forth, stopping sometimes for a glass of lemonade or tequila. Hundreds of rattles banged; the church bells clanged. The dancers melted in their bright costumes, worn over sweatshirts and denim trousers. All to the glory of the Lady, they spun and belched and sweated; they stamped and burped and spat. Through the gates streamed the pilgrims, rich and poor, plenty of them people I knew. I saw the Governor and his staff go by. And then Venustiano came. He came with his free stride, this reader of Carlos Marx, and at the gate he knelt down, for that was the vow he had made, to go on his knees from the gates to the church doors.

Even on his knees he did not look humble, and his wrinkled face gave no window to his thoughts. I looked at the turquoise-clad group nearest me, where a man in a violet mantle of cheap satin was dancing alone, and suddenly his gestures were significant and his face was noble. After all, why not? All dedication is the same, and the nostrils of heaven snuff impartially burnt offerings and incense, sweat and gardenia. I saw the American soldier watching, the dancers parrot bright beneath his khaki shoulders. He was tall and golden as a god, a fair-haired Quetzalcoatl among his Indios, intent and solemn as they. It was as though this were something he understood, this striving and this dedication, as though the man in the violet mantle, and the Indio there kneeling his way along, and he himself were all pilgrims.

By now, inside the church, the Lady was enthroned again in a misty glitter of prayer and diamonds. She was a high symbol, a flag, and outside in her honour danced the lndios in their garish, gaudy uniforms, and the American boy watching in his khaki dress stared at them, and his eyes were huge as the ocean, solemn and lucid as the eyes of Quetzalcoatl, the god from across the sea.

A dancer fainted; they threw water at him, and he got up and went on dancing. I had forgotten all about Verna, but now I suddenly saw her. She was staring at them, at the man who had fainted and the man with the thorns in his palms and the American boy, and her face was no longer a fashionable face. It was intent as theirs. She looked at me.

“This is something,” she said. “I guess I hadn’t realized -“.

And then, suddenly, she was gone. I followed her through the crowds to the church doors and into the church. The floor was thick with kneeling pilgrims, and up by the altar, amid the swinging tides of incense, moved priests in capes glittering like seashells.

I saw Verna threading her way between the Indios, stepping over them. She reached the great bank of flowers that hemmed the altar steps. The Indios were staring; the acolytes gaped at the foreign woman, with only a scarf tied crookedly across her hair; and one or two junior priests gathered in a little knot, as bouncers do. Verna passed between the banked flowers and up the steps.

Nobody stopped her. At the altar’s foot, below the high place of the Lady, between the snowy flowers and the serried white shafts of the candles, whose flames shone all together as one flame in a vague haze of gold, she stopped. Her head was bowed, but she did not kneel. I saw her hands fumbling. And then there was a glittering in her fingers, and a ray of green flashed from her square emerald as she laid it on the altar.

Reproduced by Special Permission to MexConnect.

• For more information about this book
• For more information about Las Vírgenes de México.

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Photo Gallery: The Virgin of Guadalupe celebration in Oaxaca

• Map of Oaxaca
• Map of Central Oaxaca

She is the mother of all Mexicans, the savior and succor of the indigenous spirit, protectress of the poor, dark, ailing and humble. She is the Dark Madonna of Indian features, who appeared just after the invasion by the white-skinned Europeans. She is miraculous and comforting, the emotional support to a conquered nation, orphaned from their pantheon of gods and spirits of nature.

Today, across the country, the shrines to her are numberless. Her images smile behind glass in saloons, gleam on tin in the kitchen, hang in taxis, and are carved into cradle-boards. They are fashioned in plaster, marble, wood, stone, clay, cake, candy, cloth, tissue-paper, beads and embroidery. Her figure adorned the flag of Don Miguel Hidalgo, father of the movement for Independence. She was declared Empress of America by a Papal Bull in 1754. Pope Leo XII crowned her Queen of the Mexican people in 1895. The title Celestial Patron of Latin America was given to her in 1910. And in 1945, she was crowned queen of Wisdom and of the Americas. Named Patron Saint of the Americas by Pope John Paul II, she is a beloved manifestation of the Catholic faith.

Every city in Mexico has a church consecrated to her name. Near the place of her appearance, north of Mexico City, is the original Basilica of Guadalupe (completed in 1709 and holding, according to tradition, the original tilma (a rectangle of muslin worn as a cape) of Juan Diego) next to the huge modern church built in 1976. There is a shrine at the very place of her apparition, and a well, decorated in talavera tiles, holds the miraculous waters of the spring that gushed forth at her feet. At this place, and at all the churches with her name, thousands of the faithful gather on December 11th and 12th, to give tribute to her, to petition for a miracle, or to give thanks for one already received.

In Oaxaca, on the eve of the feast of the Virgen of Guadalupe, babies and toddlers are dressed in representation of the many Indian tribes of Mexico. The procession begins at La Catedral on the zócalo and fills the streets, accompanied by singing and punctuated by firecrackers. It ends at her church on the Llano Park, for the mass of thanksgiving for her protection and grace.

On the following day, the children are brought again. In the hot Mexican sun, blue-black hair gleams, deep facial shadows contrast with brilliant highlights on the copper skin of children. Colored ribbons in the babies’ hair and strands of glass beads glisten and shine. The children are patient, as they wait in the long line to pass through the church, to leave their baskets of roses or poinsettias, to light the candles and to pray. They sometimes fuss when their parents rearrange the tilmas or re-paint their smudged moustaches. But they seem to understand that this is an important affair, and quietly wait their turn to revere the Holy Mother.

Costumes of all kinds reflect the variety of Mexican traditions. As in other human clothing, the females have more choices in finery. The boys are usually dressed in white muslin, red belts and huaraches. The brims of their woven palm hats are turned up in the front, framing a paper image of the Virgin. This arrangement gives them an endearing, slightly comical look. The moustache drawn on with eyebrow pencil transforms the round-faced baby into Juan Diego. On the tilma the image of Guadalupe appears as she did on the cloth of Juan Diego, centuries ago. Some of the youngsters carry a costalito, equipped with a forehead strap and decorated with miniature articles like a petate and kitchen instruments, necessary for a long pilgrimage. They will bring offerings of flowers, the poinsettia of the season, or roses like the ones Guadalupe sent to the bishop, as proof of her apparition.

While most boys are in white, you will meet the occasional charro (Mexican cowboy) with his huge hat, flashy bandana, and silver coins down the sides of his pant-legs. But the little girls steal the show. From the tiniest baby to the most demure teenager, each one is delightful. The traditional costume is a puff-sleeved embroidered blouse, multicoloured rebozo and a gathered flowered skirt. They wear strands of brightly coloured beads and long braids (often made from dark yarn, ingeniously attached to their shorter hair) and carry baskets of flowers. But especially in Oaxaca, with its 16 official ethnic groups, the costumes are varied. You can see little Tehuanas, Yalaltecas, Mazatecas, a rebozo gracefully wrapping the head, wearing huipiles, both sumptuous and austere.

Of course, it’s not all serious. The Llano Park is taken over by secular pleasures as well — mechanical rides, marble-rolling for prizes, and balloons that manage to dodge the menacing darts, for that elusive plaster eagle or authentic image of Pokeman. Oh, and the food! Children delight in the flavoured ices, popsicles, cups of gelatines and cotton candy; and the smells of little fried gorditas Guadalupanas, and all the other antojitos of Oaxacan cuisine fill the air.

And then, the commemorative photograph. Not as common in years past, nowadays the ingenuity for photo-ops is delightful. They will pose the children on the traditional burro, dressed up with crepe paper and flowers with the image of the virgin up on top. If sitting on a burro is too distressing for the little one, there are peaceful grottoes, with the figure of Juan Diego kneeling before the Blessed Mother, that can serve as a background. The mujercitas demonstrate crushing corn on a metate (look up at the camera and smile, mi hija), or cooking the tortillas on the comal. (First let’s straighten up the bows, and braids to the front, please.)

Mexicans adore their children. They are their delights, each one a gift from heaven. On December 12th, Mexicans celebrate their spiritual indigenous roots by bringing them to the Virgin of Guadalupe. She sees all of the nation, rich and poor, exalted and humble, as her children, and holds them in her protective grace.

The Appearance of Guadalupe

The story goes like this.

In 1531, a scant ten years after the fall of the Aztec nation, a humble Indian named Juan Diego was walking over the hills just north of Mexico City (built on the razed Azctec capital of Tenochtitlan). Land there is dry and rocky, favoring only cactus and lizards under a blistering sun. He passed by the hill of Tepeyac, once the site of the temple to Tonantzín, the gentle goddess of earth and corn, whose name means “our mother.” The conquering Spaniards had destroyed this and most of the other sacred places of the indigenous people, forbidding them to pray to their protecting spirits. They were spiritual orphans then, not yet embracing, as foster-mother, the Catholic church. They had to hide small idols and talismans, to worship and pray in secret.

As he passed this once-revered place, Juan Diego stopped and stood still, disbelieving the heavenly fragrance and celestial music that surrounded the spot. Before him shone a radiance, like a glowing cloud surrounded by rainbows. Then the blessed Mother Mary emerged, robed in blue and gold and rose. She calmed his fears, calling him “little son,” and urging him to return to the city and request the bishop to build a shrine to her, on the very place of the fallen goddess.

Of course the bishop did not believe the peasant and sent him on his way. Ashamed that he had failed her bidding, he avoided the spot, passing the next day on the other side of the hill. But she was not to be denied. She found him and urged him once again. It was not until the third time she appeared to him, that she sent proof of this miracle. She told Juan Diego to pick the Castillian roses, impossible to exist in that climate, but growing in abundance on that place. He gathered them in his tilma, a rectangle of muslin worn as a cape. She told him not to put them down until he was in the presence of the church dignitary. When he did this, in the cathedral of Tlatelolco, they saw that the front of his tilma was emblazoned with the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe and the miraculous blossoms lay at her feet.

The Dark Madonna was immediately embraced by the indigenous people, and other miracles quickly followed, in which floods and pestilence were overcome and the personal prayers and needs of her many believers were answered. The symbols of her miraculous presence are the Castillian roses found in the desert and Juan Diego’s tilma bearing her image.

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Photo gallery: Paying tribute to Our Lady of Guadalupe in Oaxaca

The Mestiza Madonna. La Virgen Ranchera. The Queen of the Americas. Mystical Rose… no matter what name she is called, one thing is for sure: the beloved Virgin of Guadalupe is the mother of all Mexicans.

Legend has it that she first appeared on December 9th in 1531 to an indigenous widower by the name of Cuauhtlatoatzin, who was baptized as Juan Diego.

According to belief, a beautiful dark woman dressed in a blue-green mantle and rose coloured dress declared herself as the Holy Mother, speaking to Juan Diego in his native language of Nahuatl. She instructed him to go to the bishop of Mexico and ask that a teocalla or shrine be constructed in her name. Cuauhtlatoatzin went to the church and told of his experience and the Virgin’s request. The bishop discounted his story and sent him away.

Undeterred, he returned a few days later on December 12th with Castilian roses that La Morenita had urged him to gather. Upon receiving the flowers, which were out of season and not grown in that region, the bishop was astounded to see that the roses, wrapped loosely in Juan Diego’s cloak, had turned into the image of the Immaculate Virgin right before his eyes and imprinted onto the cloth. This was proof enough. Lady Guadalupe’s shrine was built and she became the patroness of Mexico.

To the Nahua people who had recently been conquered by the Spanish and were in the process of being converted to Catholicism, Guadalupe was a literal Godsend. Feeling orphaned and disoriented by the destruction of their own beliefs and sacred places, they embraced her with open arms. Her arrival on the very site of the fallen Aztec temple of Tonantzin (the goddess known as Mother Earth) was a true miracle. Her presence renewed the spirit of the indigenous people and her physical characteristics, which seemed to be a mix of the Virgin Mary and the Aztec Goddess Tonantzin, symbolized a new beginning for the emerging Mexican mestizo race. She was neither European nor Aztec but a divine combination of the two.

In modern day Mexico, not only is Our Lady of Guadalupe omnipresent in spirit, but her likeness is seen in nearly every aspect of daily life. Reproduced on tile, tin, paper, clay, glass, candy and clothing, her image is deeply incorporated into Mexican life.

In cantinas she watches over the inebriated; smiling patiently, nestled amongst bottles of mescal and tequila. She overlooks the kitchens, taking in the scents of fresh mole and chocolate, and listens openly to the dreams and penas of the cocineras. She is the co-pilot in cars, trucks, airplanes, boats and bicycles, dangling good naturedly from rearview mirrors, steering wheels and handlebars like a sacred acrobat. School children carry her with them on their backpacks and notebooks; she is their virgencita, the one they whisper their childish hopes and heartaches to.

On the anniversary of her miraculous entry into Mexico, devout followers flock to the cathedrals of her namesake, located in nearly every city. Thousands upon thousands of devotees, arriving by bicycle, by foot and some even on their knees, make their way to the Basilica of Guadalupe just north of Mexico City. This is near the original spot where Juan Diego and the Virgin had their first meeting. These pilgrims bring her flowers and gifts, and ask for personal miracles, thank her for ones already granted, or just pay homage.

In Oaxaca, on the morning of December 12th, the faithful take their most beloved treasures, their children, and adorn them in the traditional dress of the various indigenous groups of Mexico. The processon begins at the cathedral in the zócalo, or main square, and winds its way through the cobbled streets, accompanied by singing, prayers and firecrackers. When it reaches the entrance of the cathedral dedicated to Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Llano Park, the procession lines up to introduce their niños and niñas to the Lady herself.

Llano Park is a clutter of burros, roses, poinsettias and statues. Trinkets of all kind, graced with the image of the beautiful Virgin, shine in the hot Mexican sun, waiting to be taken home as a memento of the special day.

Photographers have impromptu stalls set up complete with fruit-laden donkey carts and, of course, some form of the Virgin of Guadalupe, whether it is a sculpture, a framed painting or even a real woman dressed in costume. The commemorative photos taken will likely still be on display when the babes are in their 30s, so every ribbon-laced braid and palm-brimmed hat must be in place.

Most of the tiny pilgrims — many under the age of five — seem to understand the importance of the day. The little girls calmly follow their parents’ lead, shimmering in their beads and bows and gleaming braids. Little boys push back their Juan Diego-esque sombreros to wipe droplets of sweat off their tiny copper brows. Their painted-on moustaches, a little off kilter and smudged, give a comical air to their serious expressions. For some, however, the sudden complaining bray of a long suffering donkey proves to be too much when the tot happens to be on its back! The cries of burros and babies mix periodically in the park, mingling with amused chuckles.

Meanwhile, La Virgen de Guadalupe; the dark Queen of the Americas; the Compassionate Mother to All, in statuesque elegance, continues to patiently receive each child and parent with her Mona Lisa smile, filling their lives with hope, security and peace for another year.

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Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexican art

The Virgin of Guadalupe first appeared in Mexico in 1531 to Juan Diego and, as proof of her visit, caused roses to bloom at the site. Because church leaders did not believe he had seen her, she instructed Juan Diego to gather a bouquet in his cloak, or tilma, and take them back with him. When the bishops opened the cloak, the Virgin’s portrait appeared. The original tilma is on display in her Basilica in Mexico City.

The Virgin who appeared on Tepeyac hill on a frosty morning in 1531 was a different one than the majestic images that adorned churches and cathedrals in Europe. Her skin was the coppery brown of Mexico’s indigenous peoples, and her language was their native tongue.

She spoke to Juan Diego softly, gently, with the loving tone of a mother. More importantly, her miraculous image on his tilma vindicated the Indian man before the Bishop.

A beloved manifestation of the Christian faith, Our Lady of Guadalupe is a champion of the oppressed everywhere. She is queen of the heavens — she stands on the moon and her cloak holds the stars.

Named Patron Saint of the Americas by Pope John Paul II in 1992, Guadalupe’s image can be seen almost everywhere in Mexico in fine art and folk art. Darian Day and Michael Fitzpatrick share glimpses of La Virgin Morena — the dark complected Mexican Madonna.

Their original photographs form part of the Olden Mexico collection

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Photo gallery: Paying tribute to Our Lady of Guadalupe in Oaxaca

The Virgin Guadalupe – Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

• • La Virgen de Guadalupe – Mother of all Mexico

• • Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

• • The Virgin Guadalupe “La Reina de México”, “La Virgen Indígena”

• • Fiesta de Guadalupe in Puerto Vallarta
  • Paying tribute to Our Lady of Guadalupe in Oaxaca

• • The Virgen of Guadalupe – Celebration in Oaxaca

• • The Virgin of Guadalupe: Tonantzin or Mary?

The Other Virgins

• • Our Lady of Sorrows, Nuestra Señora de los Dolores
  • Our Lady of Sorrows: Viernes de Dolores in Oaxaca

• • The Virgin of Zapopan – & Her Visit to Lake Chapala.

• • Pilgrimage – Excerpt from Dane Chandos’ “House in the Sun.”

• • The Virgin “Rosario of Talpa”

The Special Saints of or to Mexico

• • The Day of the Holy Cross – May 3rd.

• • Santa Elena – Discoverer of the Holy Cross

Galleries – a visual pilgrimage

• The Virgin of Guadalupe in Oaxaca
• Pilgrimage from San Miguel de Allende to San Juan de los Lagos in 1967

Published or Updated on: May 15, 2011 by Index Page © 2009

The post The Religious Virgins and Saints of Mexico: las Virgenes y santos de Mexico appeared first on MexConnect.