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Pilgrimage
to Guadalupe
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Excerpted
from The Road to Guadalupe: A Modern Pilgrimage to the
Goddess of the Americas. (c) 2001 by Eryk Hanut. Reprinted
with permission of Tarcher/Putnam.
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The
Road to Guadalupe: A Modern Pilgrimage to the Goddess of the Americas
December 9, 1531
Juan
Diego carries on walking. Today is December 9; yesterday was the
Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Is he aware of it? Almost certainly
not. As he reaches the top of the hill, he hears a strange sound,
a kind of music, the Nican Mopohua tells us, "as if different
precious birds were singing and their song would alternate, as if
the hill was answering them." It must have been astounding to this
simple man. The text has him exclaiming in wonder, "By chance do
I deserve this? Am I worthy of what I am hearing? Maybe I am dreaming?
Maybe I only see this in my dreams? Maybe I am in the land of my
ancestors, of the elders, of our grandparents? In the Land of Flower,
in the earth of our flesh? Maybe over there inside of heaven?
From somewhere he hears a voice calling him, "Dignified Juan Diego."
A voice that calls him "dignified"? He, whose race has been massacred
in the name of a blond god of love? He, whose people now wander aimlessly
in alcoholism and depression? He, of the race whose raped women have
no other solution but to kill their children to avoid watching them
starve? How could he be dignified?
The strange "thing" is now only a few steps away. During the first
apparitions in Lourdes, Bernadette would call the Lady aguerro,
"thing" in Pyrenean dialect.
It's
a young, very young woman. She seems to be fourteen or fifteen. Her
skin is dark. Her face, even though lovely, is swollen, a sign that
she is about to give birth. She shows, under her breasts, the cinta,
a black ribbon with which she is saying, "Estoy encinta" (I
am pregnant). She wears an emerald coat covered with gold stars and,
underneath, a pale pink dress.
The light is so blinding that Juan Diego cannot decide if it's
coming from her or from a second sun rising behind her.
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When
he arrived in her presence, he marveled at her perfect beauty. Her
clothing appeared like the sun, and it gave forth rays. And the
rock and the cliffs where she was standing, upon receiving the rays
like arrows of light, appeared like precious emeralds, appeared
like jewels: The earth glowed with the splendors of the rainbow.
The mesquites, the cacti, and the weeds that were all around appeared
like feathers of the quetzal, and the stems looked like turquoise;
the branches, the foliage, and even the thorns sparkled like gold.
The light is so blinding that Juan Diego cannot decide if it's
coming from her or from a second sun rising behind her. No, it's
coming from her, from underneath her skin. She says, "Listen, my
most abandoned, dignified Juan. Where are you going?" And here,
it's certain, Juan Diego falls to his knees.
Mexico City, April 1998
"This one, ten pesos, better." I remark that, on the table next
to him, the same statues are four pesos. "Yes," he says, "but
mine are blessed by the bishop. Much better."
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Unconsciously, Andrew
and I are hesitant to walk inside the basilica. We've been turning
around the building for half an hour now. We've gone outside the
orange grilles, the border that limits the Villa's territory. A
symbolic border, because the misery and number of beggars is the
same in and out.
I hold a small statue of Guadalupe in my hand. "Eight pesos."
The dark bearded man shows me other models. "This one, ten pesos,
better." The ten-peso version has a glittering red dress. The glitter
sticks to my hand after I put it back. I remark that, on the table
next to him, the same statues are four pesos.
"Yes," he says, "but mine are blessed by the bishop. Much better."
We
finally penetrate the new basilica, arms bull of votives, which
are already melting. The inside of the building is a covered arena.
If it weren't for the large crucifix in the center, it could be
a rock concert stadium, or a massive surgical amphitheater, or a
convention center. Women in gray aprons with yellow badges on their
breasts are mopping the immense floors with towels much bigger than
themselves. Like the Golden Gate Bridge, the Basilica of Guadalupe
is washed and cared for all day long, all year long. One of the
cleaning women close to us sings a rock song, and between lyrics,
mumbles amens to the priests who celebrate mass.
The new sanctuary was built in the mid seventies and inaugurated
in 1976. It can hold up to ten thousand seated pilgrims; not that
many, if you think of the three to four million people who come
here for the big pilgrimage in December.
This morning, there are around two thousand people, mostly women,
of all ages and classes. Bejeweled old Maria Felix types sit next
to white-haired, raisin-faced peasant women with hands gnarled by
work. And young mothers. Hundreds of young mothers and hundreds
of babies, many of them newborn, wrapped in flowing white shawls.
As we walk in, two women are getting ready for the first ritual
of their pilgrimage. They kneel at the door and walk forward on
their knees to the first row of chairs, holding lighted candles
and rocking to and fro. It's about one hundred yards. I get to my
knees too and follow themñthe hardest one hundred yards of my life.
A little girl is with them, extremely agitated and determined to
have her mother (or her sisterñmothers in Mexico can be very young
or old) in her normal standing position. She starts to scream. No
one cares. Her voice joins the priests' and the "Pesopesopeso"
chant that follows you everywhere around the La Villa, and sweeps
into the immense vessel with the waves of hot air, carrying smells
of frying gorditas, car fumes, and dust.
If there weren't so many people on line to the relic, I would
walk with my eyes closed and open them just in front of her.
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The Tilma is at the end of the basilica, framed in gold and silver.
I've been trying to avoid looking in its direction. If there weren't
so many people on line to the relic, I would walk with my eyes closed
and open them just in front of her.
The Tilma (it's feminine; it's La Tilma) hangs on the central
walls of the building at the base of an enormous wooden structure
shaped like a large lung in the center of the basilica. Enormous
silver chandeliers, looking like jellyfish, seem to float around
it.
I am still quite far away, but the Tilma appears smaller than in
my expectations, as if things that change the course of history
should be gigantic in size.
The mass is ending; another will start immediately. This goes on
all day long, just like the church cleaning. The faithful swarm
against a wood fence around the choir to receive blessing and holy
water spread by a hawk-faced, pimply young priest who seems stunned
with boredom. The booming organ stops for a moment, the human tide
ebbs, and spreading in all directions is another almost pleasant
smell: a mixture of frankincense, armpits, and ripe cut flowers.
The perfume of the Basilica of Guadalupe.
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