Maria De Guadalupe

On the other side of the world, just a few degrees latitude north of Arunachala, lies a barren rocky hill that was the ancient home of an Aztec shrine to the Goddess Tonantzin. Here the indigenous people of Mexico and Central America came from time immemorial to seek the help and protection of their Divine Mother. Following Columbus’s discovery of the route to the Americas in 1492 and the subsequent arrival of the Spanish with their weapons and diseases, all of that began to change. The Aztec temple of the Divine Mother on Tepeyac Hill was destroyed and with the swift collapse of the traditional Aztec world and the destruction of a way of life, the native peoples were stranded at a crossroads between their old ways and a completely foreign culture.

The outlines of this story have replayed themselves over and over in world history: the beliefs and culture of an ancient civilization overwhelmed and temporarily submerged by a foreign culture, only to revive in a new form with renewed vigour. In this case, however, the revival centered not on the appearance of a charismatic figure, but on an Image that originated because of an occurrence on Tepeyac Hill. This unique Image, now popularly called Maria de Guadalupe, was destined to illuminate a pathway for the indigenous peoples that incorporated the old Aztec ways with those of the Spanish conquistadors in a completely unpredictable manner.

The story begins simply enough. Almost five hundred years ago, on the morning of December 9th, 1531, a poor Indian named Juan Diego, a convert to the Catholic Faith, was walking past the hill when he heard beautiful music resembling bird song. He stopped to listen and heard someone call his name. Climbing the hill he was greeted by a radiant young Indian woman who told him that She was the Holy Virgin Mary and wanted the Spanish bishop, Juan de Zumárraga, to build a shrine for Her on the hill where She could comfort those who came to Her for help.

Unfortunately, when Juan delivered Her message the bishop was not receptive, and Juan hurried back to tell the Holy Virgin that it would be better if She found someone more reputable to deliver it. He said that he was, after all, only a poor ignorant Indian farmer. She demurred, insisting that he, Juan Diego, was exactly the person who should carry Her message, and She asked him to return to the bishop’s palace with Her request.

That night Juan’s uncle became very ill, and the next morning, in his haste to seek help, Juan went around the other side of the hill hoping to avoid the Holy Virgin. She was not to be put off, however, and came down to meet him on the other side assuring him that his uncle would recover; She then asked him to go to the top of the hill and cut the flowers he found there as a sign for the bishop. At the top of the hill Juan was astonished to find beautiful Castilian roses with their petals fully open, blossoming on the frosty ground amidst the thorns, thistles and agave. He gathered them up in his tilma, a long apron-like garment woven of rough hemp-like fibre, and brought them to Her; She arranged them and admonished him to show them only to the bishop.

Holding up the tilma with the roses inside, Juan made his way to the palace where he was again reluctantly admitted to the bishop’s presence. Humbly he told the bishop he had brought the required sign and as he unfurled the tilma the roses tumbled out before everyone’s astonished eyes and the Divine Image of the Virgin Mary was imprinted on the fabric of the cloak.

The Image that appeared on the coarse cloth of the cloak is of a young Indian woman with Her head bent slightly to the right; Her eyes are half closed and Her hands are joined in prayer. She is clad in a pink robe, and a blue-green mantle covers Her head and falls around Her body. Rays of gold resembling the leaves of maguey agave emanate like sunlight from behind Her form. The tenderness of Her face and the inward aspect of Her eyes are impossible to describe. The aura of subtle beauty imprinted on the coarse tilma convey to millions of people around the world unmeasured depths of motherly compassion and kindness. A Hindu friend of mine on seeing the picture for the first time remarked, “Look at those eyes! She’s in samadhi!” Over the centuries this Image has become a symbol of hope and comfort for hundreds of millions of people who flock from all over the world to seek Her intercession and help. It is especially a sign of succour for the poor and helpless, those who have no one to listen and extend a hand to relieve their suffering. Because of this Image, the indigenous people of Mexico and Central America converted to the Catholic Faith en masse. They undoubtedly saw and still see the Divine Mother as one of their own, a Mother who has always cared for them and cares for them still — a Being whose acceptance does not depend on hierarchical rules and conditions. Had She not told Juan Diego, “Here I will give people all my love, compassion, help, and comfort. Am I not the Mother of all who seek and place their trust in Me? Here I will hear their cries and listen to their complaints.

I will heal them in their anguish, their affliction and distress.” Ironically enough, the same Image that was to be such a source of comfort to the defeated indigenous peoples became a source of confusion and controversy for the Franciscan Friars at the mission. They could not reconcile the Image of an Indian woman clothed in garb replete with the Aztec symbols of Her Divinity with the more traditional Catholic idea of the Virgin Mary. Could this be, they asked themselves, not the Holy Virgin Mary, but the Aztec Goddess, Tonantzin?

In fact, the ambiguity of the Image was so troubling that it was not until the Franciscan Bishop, Juan de Zumárraga, was succeeded by the Dominican Archbishop, Alonso de Montúfar, that a chapel was constructed on the site and devotion to it sanctioned.

A gold crown that is no longer seen was added atop Her head. Ironically, in an unexpected turn, all these subsequent additions have begun to peel off, flake and fade away while the stunningly beautiful original Image so venerated by the indigenous people remains completely intact radiating compassion and protection to all Her devotees.

There is still debate about the true origin of this wonderful Image. Could an Indian artist have painted it? Infrared photographic studies have shown no sign of a preliminary sketch beneath the original painting so this seems unlikely; then too experts maintain that the rough fabric upon which the Image is painted should have disintegrated hundreds of years ago. Perhaps most controversial of all are the photographic studies of the pupils of the Virgin’s eyes; magnified 2500 times, they purportedly reveal images of Bishop de Zumárraga and those standing beside him when the tilma was unfurled and the painting appeared.

Fifty years ago, as a very young man, I travelled to Mexico City to see for myself the mysterious Image that I had revered as a boy. I arrived the evening before Easter just before midnight when the purple shroud covering it was removed for the Easter celebration. The old Basilica where it resided was huge, shadowy and lit by the thousands of candles held by the Divine Mother’s devotees. Children sprawled asleep in the aisles. The hum of low excited voices filled the nave. All the seats were taken. Unexpectedly, a young Mestizo family hugged me, made room for me and welcomed me into their midst. I was exhausted and grubby from the 48 hour bus ride, my clothing was rumpled, my hair too long; I spoke no Spanish but instantly felt at home and was enthralled to be in the presence of the sacred Image of Guadalupe with so many of Her devotees. From where I stood, I could clearly see Her tender face and feel the love and compassion, the sense of protection, radiating from Her divine eyes. Here rich and poor crowded together shoulder to shoulder before the Divine Mother of the Universe. Here we were all equal. Here was a place for all of us, even the poor, the abandoned, the disinherited, perhaps especially, the so-called sinners. Here it was impossible not to feel the waves of Her unconditional love.

“Am I not here who am your Mother?” She had said to Juan Diego, “Are you not under the shadow of my protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms?” We could not but understand in the core of our beings that our lives, however chaotic, miserable and uncertain, are always reflected in the eyes of the Divine. It no longer mattered where the Image had originated or why the fabric had not disintegrated or whether the images in the pupils of her eyes were real or not. The real miracle of the Image of Guadalupe is the unquestionable tenderness, compassion and sense of protection that it conveys.

Many things have changed since my visit more than fifty years ago. A new Basilica has been built to accommodate the millions of pilgrims who come each year. The shrine of Maria de Guadalupe is the most visited Catholic pilgrimage site in the world and it is by no means only Catholics who journey there to ask for Her help. I have not returned but I do attend the celebration of Her appearance at Tepeyac Hill in the midwestern town in the United States where I live. There are usually two celebrations, one that begins about 10 o’clock on the eve of the appearance and one the next day. The Mass on the day of the feast itself is usually a quiet affair in our town; the regular daily Mass attenders are present but frequently I have noticed no special celebration or excitement.

The evening celebration on the eve of the feast is different; it breathes all the excitement and devotion of the Mass I attended at the Basilica itself. Hundreds of Hispanic people of all generations and income levels crowd the church hall. There are performances and music, and the excitement level is high as we proceed to the church just before midnight. There, children bring bouquets of roses and lay them before the Image; a small band including a guitar, a violin and some horns serenades us from the balcony. The church is lit by candles. Young families crowd the pews. Spanish hymns to the Virgin throb with emotion. Babies cry. Grandmas pat their hands. Many of the people who attend this celebration are poor and unappreciated; many are descendants of the indigenous peoples of Mexico and Central America. Some people look down on them for having so many children. They have come into the United States, some illegally, to harvest our crops, work in our restaurants, take care of our lawns. As Mass begins I look around with a sense of wonder, in front and behind, at the young families, the old people and the children I have worked with in the school system. As the priest begins to make his way down the aisle amidst clouds of incense and clumps of little children carrying bouquets of roses, the music swells and we all stand. The Image of Maria de Guadalupe with Her tender face and inward turned eyes fills our hearts. We know we have come home.