Ablution on the go and a circus tent cathedral

In Mexico, anything is possible. Even a drive-up blessing.

During my parents’ recent visit, as a curious ex-Catholic is bound to be, my mother wanted to take a field trip to see the Tilma de Juan Diego with its miraculous image of the Virgin of Guadalupe on it.

I suppose miracles never lose their magic in our minds, especially ones we listen to reverently as children. Spend even a little time in Mexico and you will often hear the story of Juan Diego, so much so that I hesitate to write it down here for fear of overkill. But I will. This is for all of you non-Catholics who have never been to Mexico and have no idea why a star-spangled virgin with a moon at her feet is plastered all over hats, t-shirts, bumper stickers and birthday cakes.

According to the legend, in December of 1531, Juan Diego, a poor peasant, encountered a beautiful woman on the hill of Tepeyac, outside of Mexico City. She spoke to him in Nahuatl (the indigenous language of the Aztecs) and told him to build her a temple on the hill. When poor Juan Diego went to see the archbishop of Mexico City, Father Juan de Zumárraga, and told him about the apparition, the archbishop refused to believe him, asking for a sign if the virgin truly wanted her temple to be built there. When Juan went back to the hill, saw the virgin again and told her what the Father had said, she told him to go to the top of the hill and pick some Castillian roses (out of season and continent) and carry them to the archbishop in his cloak. He followed her instructions and as he lay the roses before the archbishop an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe appear on the front of his cloak.

And then there are other theories.

Mainly that this virgin, with her honey-colored skin and Nahuatl speech was the Catholic church’s peace offering to the indigenous converts of Mexico. The old, “give them their own virgin” ploy to win their loyalty. Historians say the devil is in the details. One hand of the virgin is darker and full, the other paler, clasped together to signify the Europeans and indigenous joining together to form a new race. She is standing on a half moon.

The origin of the word Mexico in náhuatl is metz-xic-co, which means “from the navel of the moon,” the virgin is therefore standing, literally in Mexico. Her cloak of stars represents the southern and northern constellations (on the right and left side respectively) which were extremely important to the native peoples of Mexico. I could go on, but you get the idea. She was a virgin people could relate to, one of them.

This miraculous cloak is housed in the Basílica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, just a short metro ride from my house. So naturally, we went to see it.

I didn’t know beforehand, of course, that this would be the ugliest cathedral I would ever set my eyes on. The basílica looks like a giant circus tent, with seventies wood paneling on the inside and a hideous front altar made with what looks like sharp spikes of gold. We wandered into a Mass and didn’t see the Virgin anywhere, so we decided the cloak must be in one of the other, older, more beautiful churches in the Virgin of Guadalupe complex.

There are five churches here and one up on the hill, none of which have clear information about them posted anywhere. Is this the temple built to Virgin or to Juan Diego, the parochial offices or the baptismal? The museum sign is nowhere near the museum entrance and two dark staircases announcing comedores were decidedly foreboding in nature.

Maybe a native speaker would have been able to sort it out easier or maybe growing up Mexican your mother or grandmother takes you to the basílica for the first time and explains the layout.

There is an Aztec Calendar in the back part of the courtyard along with a Roman Numeral clock, an astrological clock and a few other clocks thrown in for good measure.

Mexican Catholicism has always been a mix of official and not-so-official imagery and rituals. But an explanation or two would have been nice.

The original basílica (we figured that one out), in contrast to the new version, is gorgeously ancient and slightly off balance. The church is slowly sinking like so many other things in Mexico City, but still has the most charm of all the buildings on the square.

I finally asked a lady selling medals inside the old basílica where the original tilma was because I was pretty sure it wasn’t the one going virtually unnoticed as the midday prayer group chanted their prayers. She confirmed it was in the new basílica but that it was up front in a frame and that’s probably how we had missed it.

So back to the circus tent. By this time the Mass-goers were filtering out and we could get closer to the front altar, where a million miles away we could see a teeny, tiny framed image of the Virgin, who could have been Cher for all your could see of her from that distance. If with my zoom lens I couldn’t get a good shot of the Virg I could only imagine how people were faring with their iphones as they posed in front of the distant virgin for a snapshot souvenir. Suffice it to say, we were all disappointed.

I expected a continuous line of pilgrims slowly passing the virgin, pausing a moment to pray or light a candle, more solemnity, less iphone. This was the coldest expression of faith I had ever seen in Mexico – a place where people reenact the crucifixion, bloody Christ and all. It all seemed a little too hands-off.

Regardless of its sterility, this church is one of the most visited Marian sites in the world, and I am sure is number one in Mexico. It was definitely hopping when we were there.

If none of the five churches or a visit to the Virgin fulfill your need for sanctification you can always stop by the blessings booth on the way out, where a priest stands all day long with an extra-long aspergillum and sprinkles visitors with Holy Water. It’s amazingly quick and convenient.

@MexCityStreets

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