Four Blocks, Four Churches

| Templo de Oratorio, photo by G. Enns |

San Miguel de Allende is a city of Catholic churches, of tall spires, grand domes, cavernous naves, bell towers and bells ringing on the hour, of cupolas, of Jesuses with shining hearts and open hands and with ashen faces and bloodied brows. This is a city of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow and of Perpetual Health, the Virgen del Carmen, Santa Ana, San Isidro of Labrador, San Felipe de Neri, a city of shaded cloisters, small chapels, and the whispers of padres and monjas saying prayers for the lost souls in purgatory.

So thoroughly expressed is the Catholicism here that it is easy to forget it is also a city of ancient indigenous spiritual and cultural sites long since razed and built over, of stepped pyramids, sunken cantera patios, grand squares, esplanades, and ceremonial roads. How many millions of Otomi and related people lived and died and were forgotten underneath the sunken crypts of Catholic churches?

| Photo by G. Enns |

Yet it is the Catholic churches we now see. Early morning we visit the sanctuaries less traveled, a chain of four within four city blocks in the center of town, Templo de Santa Ana, Templo de Oratoria, Templo de Nuestra Señora de la Salud, and Templo de San Francisco de Asís. 

We step across wooden thresholds and into cool narthexes and naves, smell the remains of the morning’s incense still in the air, hear the echoes of kneelers set down by cleaning ladies. We see a little statue of baby Ann in a glass box, wax figures of children surrounded by toy trucks and dolls, pink churrigueresque facades, and carved scrolls of indigenous plants climbing church columns. We gaze up into high lit domes, at massive crystal chandeliers, we study a gory Jesus seated in a glass box, the bones of his knees exposed from crawling through the streets. We find San Juan Capistrano armed with his sword, and a fairy-like Virgen del Pueblito in dazzling blue and gold, floating above the clouds.

| Photo by G. Enns |

Across the street we enter an old cafe that serves churros and chocolate, the one with the baskets hanging from the ceiling. We take our fresh churros and find a cool iron bench under the green laurels of the square of Saint Francis. We watch the people come and go. The children find a swarm of bees in a trash can.

Then we make our way to the Jardín and wander through an artisan’s craft fair under white canopies. We buy yarn stitchwork from the local lady’s club. Finally, we make our way back home on stone sidewalks polished smooth by centuries of use.

This is our morning.