The Spirit Moves Differently in San Cristobal, Chiapas

 

                                                                                       

El Templo de Santo Domingo

     In a corner of the church just beyond the altar, two Indians pray, their voices echoing, reverential and melodic, more a sacred chant than a recitation. One calls out and the other answers, like a priest and choir. The sounds of their voices rise up towards the rafters and pull me away from my thoughts, like something inside me is rising along with their song. I listen. In front of them they’ve set up their own shrine, five or six tall candles and sticks of incense, the smoke rising and a pungent odor filling the air. The shorter man takes two small glasses from a pouch at his side. He fills them with a dark liquid.

     Behind me, a group of European and Asian tourists enter the church. They look around, as if browsing in a store, ignoring the intricate detail in the architecture, the sculptures, and the paintings. Instead, they watch the two men. To them, the dark, the light, the cavernous temple, and the indigenous ritual must appear superstitious, perhaps barbaric, something prehistoric. To me, a wanderer, a sojourner, their ceremony appears magical, mystical, yet deeply religious. 

     I can see why protestant ministers are convincing Mexicans to turn from the religions of their fathers, and conquerors, to evangelical churches, convincing them Indo-Catholic rites are performative mumbo-jumbo, spiritual smoke and mirrors, yet these two men move as if they are in a trance.

     The tourists turn and leave, as if they’ve interrupted a private exorcism. The smoke reaches me. The chanting fills each crevice of the church. I lose track of time. It’s getting late. I want to leave, but I can’t move. I listen. Something stirs inside me. Nothing exists except these two men dressed in ragged clothes, and the thin, worn soles of their sandals, more like extensions of their feet. They pray, moving closer to the candles and incense. They drink the dark liquid from their small glasses. The prayers begin again, exotic but lush, like a mediation.

                                                                                              

Tzotzil women selling their wares

          There is an invisible tug at my side, something forcing me to stand, but there’s no one, only me. I resist the invisible energy until I’m on my feet, feeling levitated. I go automatically to the woman selling religious items from a cart. I see myself buy a rosary, small hand-carved wood beads, fifty pesos, about $2.50. I return to my seat. The two men, still chanting, swaying slowly. They stop. It’s like the quiet after a storm. The church is silent. Another group of tourists enters, looks around and leaves. The men raise their drinks, say another prayer and empty their glasses.

     Before I leave, I want to tell them how deeply their prayers affected me, but I don’t want to intrude. I stand to leave, but I’m pulled toward them, like a magnet. They watch as I approach. It is him, the man I saw this morning, in the church of St. Nicholas, the man who wouldn’t accept my money. He'd told me he wasn't begging and didn't accept charity. He had said something strange, like we would meet again.

     He smiles. My legs seem to weaken at the coincidence, like I need to sit down, but I don’t. “Hello, again,” I say, in Spanish. He nods. “You are right,” I add, “one never knows.”

     I ask, in Spanish, if he is a deacon, or priest. His face is old and weathered. He smiles, shyly, and says, “No, an ilol.” He sees my confusion and clarifies. “My people call me a healer.”

     Though, I am more spiritual than religious, my religion a part of my culture. I tell them both how much their prayers moved me. I have no idea how, but I hear myself asking for their blessing. I hold out my rosary. I ask if they will pray for me. It’s as if someone else is speaking, but I hear my voice. The man who led the prayers asks my name and from where I come. He tells me his name is Epifanio but is called Pablo, and his friend is Pedro. I offer a slight smile at the symbolism, Peter and Paul, he Rock and the Epiphany, enlightenment and strength. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for both of them, so familiar yet complete strangers.

     As if he has done this before, Epifanio places his hand over mine, the one holding the rosary. He places the other hand over my head. Pedro puts one hand on my shoulder. They begin to pray in their native tongue. They raise their eyes upward. I stand, immoveable. Faces pass through my mind, friends and relatives, strangers I've encountered on my journey. Epifanio switches to Spanish, a smooth transition, as if the two languages are one. 

     He prays for my family. He asks the virgin of Caridad to protect me and accompany me on my travels. He says my kamel is carrying a heavy burden, my chulel is lost, and he asks the Holy Spirit to return it. I don’t’ understand the two words I take as Tzotzil. If things are incongruent in my life, he prays that I learn to find order and understanding. He goes deeper, saying other unfamiliar words, chulmetic, chulotic, and nichmonil.

     He calls me his brother and my family his family, all one in God’s love. I wonder if our Gods are the same, some in the church not happy with Tzotzil blending religious practices. He prays for my wife and me, a partnership to last forever, and no matter what, we will remain friends in God’s love. I am startled. I open my eyes and look at him. His eyes are closed. I didn’t tell him I was married. I no longer hear his words. I think I hear him say my wife's name. I can't recall telling him, or I can’t remember. Or maybe I misunderstood, and he used the word in his prayer. 

     When they finish, I wipe moisture from my eyes. I give Pedro two-hundred pesos, about $20.00, a lot in Chiapas in 2013.

     “It’s not necessary,” Epifanio says. 

     “This time you provided a service.”

     He bows, picks up his glass, refills it, sips the liquid, and hands it to me. I drink. It tastes strong, bitter. He whispers, “Pox,” pronouncing it “posh.” It is not easy to make, so I have heard. Coke has cornered the market, even in Tzotzil ceremonies. The two men gather the cups, candles, and incense container, and leave the church through a side entrance. The woman selling religious items is gone.

     I sit alone. I hear the echoes of people on the street outside. The church is empty. I stay seated. I open my hand. The rosary is not there. I look around me, up and down the pew. I rush out the side entrance to see if Epifanio or Pedro has taken my rosary, but they are gone. I return to the pew. The rosary is there, a tiny heap of wooden beads.