Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe

| Our Lady of Guadalupe, photo by G. Enns |

From La Villa/Basilica we merge onto the Calzada de Guadalupe, the main pilgrim’s causeway, with thousands of travelers headed toward the Basilica de Guadalupe. Hucksters with silver jewelry and cheap rosaries draped from their arms step into our paths to make their sales. 

We reach the main gate. A priest in crisp white alb is giving out blessings with hand to head.

Before us is the now-leaning Templo Expiatorio with its twin towers, sinking into the old lake bottom mud below it. To the left is the New Basilica of Guadalupe, a great tent-like structure with blue-green roof rising up to a single offset point topped with a cross. Crowds of joyous, expectant people, some in groups with matching white shirts, stand closely and mill about the entrance. We walk sideways through a clutch and slip into the Basilica where mass is being held. The expansive nave is full of the faithful. We stand at the back. Far up in front, behind the priest in vestments, behind the altar, behind bullet-proof glass, is the object of veneration that has brought so many people here—the tilma of Juan Diego and its imprinted image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The story is famous—on Tepeyac Hill, sacred place of the Aztec people and their forebears for thousands of years, the humble indigenous American convert Juan Diego meets the Virgin Mary, who instructs him to build a shrine for her on the sight. They meet several times, and each time, Diego reports the vision to the bishop who, unfortunately, remains skeptical of this poor peasant’s incredible story and asks for a sign of confirmation. On Diego’s fourth meeting with Mary, she provides proof of their encounter—roses unseasonably blooming in the cool climate of Tepeyac, and, more importantly, her image miraculously imprinted on his tilma, or cloak, which the bishop, upon seeing, immediately venerates. 

Many in the basilica are kneeling down now on the hard marble floor, taking part in the service. The tilma is so far away, so small behind the altar, and yet no one seems to mind, considering themselves in the presence of Our Lady. “Am I not here, I, who am your mother?” she supposedly said to Diego, and she continues to say this in the minds of all who encounter her. 

We step back outside. Those on the front steps are singing and chanting, waiting for their turn.

We begin our climb up the switchback stairways and ramps of Tepeyac Hill. An elderly gray-haired woman makes her way up slowly along the rail, assisted by a family member. At the peak, on the place where the miracle of the flowers supposedly occurred, is Tepeyac Cerrito Chapel, dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel, who, according to tradition, brought down to earth the image of Our Lady which was painted in the heavenly workshop. Inside, people gather around the altar, above which is a faithful reproduction of Our Lady. To each side of the chapel are frescoes telling the story of the Marian sightings and the ultimate presentation of the flowers and imprinted tilma to the disbelieving bishop.

Tepeyac was an important spiritual and cultural place for the Aztec and other indigenous peoples long before the Spanish colonizers arrived with their religion, long before Mary appeared to Diego. This image of Our Lady, a morenita, darker-skinned, in a belt and other markers such as the turquoise mantle indicative of an Aztec royal, bears strong resemblances to the Aztec earth goddess Tonantzin, a striking syncretization of the indigenous/American and colonial/European spiritual traditions.

Outside, for my daughter, I pay eleven pesos to run one peso through a flattening wheel. When it drops out of the bottom, the silver and brass coin has been transformed into an oval with the image of Our Lady imprinted on it. 

We wander back down from the top of Tepeyac and its chapel. Others leaving with us are joyous, some in white with colorful stitchwork along the fronts and collars of their blouses. Young teenagers have dressed nicely for the day’s service in the Basilica and now wander the rest of the grounds. The gardens along the path are beautiful, with stately trees, gray stone stairways, and vast fountains. In the stone wall of the cliff, the Aztec god Quetzelcoatl, lord of wind and rain and the creator of the world and humanity, signified by a dragon head, is now relegated to service as a water spout.