The Quechua peasants, the campesinos, come to the Jesuit parish just outside the city of Cochabamba with sacks of dried cow manure. They use the manure to build small fires in the courtyard just outside of the parish church. The people also bring small statues which are strategically placed next to the fires. These images represent hopes and dreams for the coming year. I saw statues of cows, llamas, sheep, pigs, as well as images of small infants. In addition to the statues the campesinos put candles next to their fires, adding a mellow glow to the statues. They burn coca leaves and incense in the fires as further offerings. Very much like the Pachamama ritual, they pour alcohol on the flames and on the ground at the four corners of the fire. The fires and the rituals continue throughout the night and into the next morning. The Quechua then gather the burnt dung and the ashes and take them home to bury them in their fields and around their homes. They believe the remnants of the fire are holy and will bring fertility to their families, animals, and crops. As I watched the ritual I was reminded of our American practices of lighting votive candles or of burying statues of St. Joseph next to a house we want to sell.
The Jesuits have incorporated the Quechua rite into a Christian context and have bridged the ancient religious practices of the indigenous people with those of contemporary Catholicism. The old fertility rite is now called Sancta Vera Cruz, the Holy True Cross. In order to unite the rituals, the Jesuits erected a large temporary shrine of the crucified Jesus next to the Church. The life-sized cross and figure of Jesus face the courtyard where the campesinos tend their fertility fires. In addition, the campesinos stand in a long line, perhaps for an hour or more, to approach the cross and put flowers at its base. Similar to Pachamama, Mother Earth, Jesus brings a compassionate and attentive presence to the prayers of the people. A couple of the women from the parish church, wearing their communion distributors’ stoles, bless each person with holy water after he or she has kissed or touched the cross. Meanwhile, the priests and deacons from the parish, wearing their stoles over either white liturgical albs or bright colored ponchos, tend a larger ceremonial fire between the cross and the people gathered in the courtyard. Periodically, men with accordions, trumpets, or guitars add music to a family’s ritual.
The autumn sky was crisp, clear and filled with bright stars. Meanwhile, wisps of smoke laden with sweet smelling incense left a mystical haze over the entire courtyard. The sounds of hushed conversations were periodically interrupted by the music. Once in a while some hombre with a more volatile sense of ritual would light off a string of fire-crackers. Meanwhile the folks with flowers slowly moved forward in the line toward the crucified Jesus next to the church.
As I stood in the courtyard I was initially turned off by the superstitious practices I was witnessing. The external rituals seemed to manifest a bartering with some kind of negotiating deity. The agony and pain of daily life could somehow be tempered by a ritualistic immolation of cow dung, coca leaves, alcohol, and incense. I could understand the small step it would take to move into thinking that a blood sacrifice might be more valuable in the negotiating process. That idea intensified the thought that this was all nuts and that we really don’t understand anything of the nature and reality of the Creator God. But then it occurred to me, who am I to judge the mind or heart of anyone trying to communicate with a mysterious God who seems to be the only hope, the only ally in a world of uncertainty, struggle, and helplessness? Who am I to stand in my arrogance and say my concept of God is more elevated or morally astute than theirs? I have been the man standing in line with my offerings. I have been the woman kissing the cross. I have been the child mesmerized by the glow of vigil lights.
Standing in the courtyard with a hundred or more cow dung fires sending hopes and dreams skyward, I was aware of the judgmental nature I carry. It comes from roots that were passed on to me by immigrants trying to prove themselves as valuable members of a new society. I accepted that judgmental sense and have affirmed it throughout a lifetime. As I watched the Jesuit missionaries tending the community’s ritual fire, I silently commended their acceptance of a different ritual and the indigenous people who celebrated it.
If life is about living in the question; if life is about accepting uncertainty; if life is about trusting in the Creator’s mysterious but simple reality, then the missionaries who tend the fertility fires, who bless the people with water, who wear a poncho and stole and hug the people are the ones who get it. They are the ones who are living in the question.
Jesus said it; Jesus lived it – God is love. Love is not about distancing ourselves from superstitious ritual and negotiations with Pachamama. Love is about embracing the ritual, letting it be, and just living in the question.
Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.
Saludos,
Ray Spack
(Flickr photos by Jessie Reeder)
