Santuario de Jesús Nazareno de Atotonilco

| Capilla del Santo Sepulcro, photo by C. Enns |

We drive down the bumpy cobbled lanes, through an arid landscape like Jerusalem’s, to the center of the little pueblo of Atoltonilco. Dominating a tiny main square is the Santuario de Jesús Nazareno, a humble, gray-white plastered edifice that from the outside resembles a fortress more than a church. An arch of paper flags the colors of the rainbow, possibly to commemorate the three rainbows Father Luis Felipe Neri saw in a vision to guide him in the layout of the church, creates for visitors and pilgrims a cheery entrance to an otherwise somber facade.

Inside, this sanctuary tells a different story; it is a jewel box of Mexican Baroque frescoes, statues, and life-size dioramas, all depicting the life and gory death of Jesus. In the 18th century Neri had a vision: Jesus, in crown of thorns, who instructed the padre to create a place of penance and prayer for the people of the region. Neri followed through, blessing the first stone in 1740. 

I turn left, drop some coins into the slit of a metal donation box, and enter a grand side chapel, the Capilla del Santo Sepulcro, devoted to the story of Jesus’ crucifixion and death. The altar is dominated by a life-size diorama of Jesus’ crucifixion on Golgotha. To his right is the one thief who, in his hour of death, trusted God. The other who mocked Jesus is conspicuously absent in the scene. On the right of the chapel is an oil panel of Veronica holding her kerchief with the image of Jesus imprinted in its threads.

Back in the main chapel, my eyes follow the story of ceiling frescoes. There is Judas, with demon on his back, betraying Jesus with a kiss and taking his silver. There is Peter, lopping off the ear of a soldier, and there is Jesus returning the ear to its owner. 

 | Santuario de Atotonilco, photo by C. Enns |

Dominating the main altar is full-sized Jesus, ashen face and hands, crown of thorns, in royal blue robe and white lace, carrying the cross on his shoulder. Three golden flames of divinity emanate from his head. His expression is terrible, of one resigned to great suffering. I study his face, the open downturned mouth, the heavy brow.

I am aware of someone behind me. I turn. Three women in black travelers’ clothes, on their knees, hands together in prayer over their hearts, move slowly, knee by knee, toward the altar. Their faces, too, are heavy with the burden of the story. Knee by knee, one slow moment to the next, they make their way to the front of the altar where they remain kneeling and praying. The youngest of them, fifteen or sixteen, the age of Mary, begins to cry.

I leave them to the end of their pilgrimage. Outside, I walk down the side of the sanctuary, the sun brightening the plaster to a blinding white. Behind the chapels I find an abandoned rubble heap of dilapidated arches, ruins, and mounds, all strewn with trash and debris, broken bottles, straws, and feces, a former garden or later chapel long since razed to allow more light into the original capilla. Thistles, gnarly mesquite, and sweet acacia grow like weeds throughout the broken stones and trash. Crumbling archways frame the dome of the Santo Sepulcro like a capriccio painting.

| Behind the Santuario, photo by G. Enns |

I walk back down the main street cobbles and leave the santuario behind, past vendors selling faux relics, polished wood items, and bronze figures for a few pesos a piece. Little gordita shops spill their tables out into porticoes. A small elderly woman barbecues corn in the husk.

Beyond the rainbow paper flags of the pilgrim’s way the rows of houses look poorer and poorer. From out of a tiny side street an old hunched-over woman emerges, pushing a wheelchair across the bumpy cobblestones. Hunched over in the chair is an emaciated figure draped from ankle to face with a thin blanket. The body bounces back and forth from the rough ride. The woman moves with purposefulness and surprising speed. Later, I will see them begging for alms at the entrance of the sanctuary.

Yesterday at this same time, I meandered through the Fabrica Aurora, the posh, upscale mall full of overpriced cafes, multi-thousand dollar modern art paintings, antiques, and religious relics some business-savvy collector had salvaged from a dying church. Now I walk by a health clinic with a mother and young daughter sitting on a rock in the sun, the mother trying to read a prescription. On the other side of the street the sun is so bright that the lightless shops within their open doorways are cast in dark shadow. A few people sit at an outdoor table, eating grilled meat and gorditas and drinking cervezas. 

On my way back to the sanctuary I stop at a little stall. On a shelf a small brass jaguar catches my eye. I talk to the woman and hand over what she asks without haggling. She puts the figurine in a small brown paper bag and hands it to me. She lives here, she says. I ask her how it is. “Muy tranquilo,” she says. I thank her and make my way back to the church to catch a ride back to the city.