I like churches, especially ones with big open doors that allow me to enter as I am. Here in Peru, they offer a rare opportunity for solitude, where I can escape speeding mototaxis and unwelcome glares. Once inside, I feel inexplicably safe, where I can pray in my own language, cry for no reason or every reason, and simply rest in the moment that is.One Friday morning, I entered la Iglesia San Sabastien, an imposing royal blue Colonial-style church whose twin steeples seem to compete with the surrounding mountains. I was initially intimidated by its size and remembered the various unresolved concerns I have about the Catholic Church. However, I was granted a bit of a miracle upon entering the giant wood doorway.
I was greeted by a friendly woman named Ana, who I understood to be the church secretary. Within moments she was leading me through the high-ceilinged sanctuary, pointing out the replicas of various saints and bringing me up to the front pulpit, where I was transfixed by a pair of life-sized plaster angels. A gentleman cleaning the pulpit area invited me to view the giant glass box housing a startlingly realistic figure of Christ on the Cross.
Ana then led me up the back staircase which led to an open balcony, three stories high, overlooking the sanctuary. The space below was so open and fresh, with rows of simple wooden pews and cloth banners. From this vantage point, I peered out the yellow stained glass window, which revealed a panoramic view of my neighborhood, including the familiar walking bridge over the river and the steady surrounding mountains.
I was incredibly moved by the welcome and was even more touched by Ana’s invitation to visit her adjacent apartment. A small door off of the pulpit led to a dusty storage room of wooden saints and ragged banners. We crept up the tight spiral staircase and arrived at her sunny kitchen. She offered me a piece of turron, a butter cake layered with honey and rainbow sprinkles.
It seemed as if Ana could’ve enjoyed having me as a guest for the entire day. I wondered if she was a bit lonely and in search of friendship. Moreover, I felt a true and refreshing hospitality that shook me to the core and touched my own need for friendship.
* * *
This encounter came to mind during the past week as all of Huánuco turned out for the procession of Senor de Burgos. Throughout the month of October, this particular image of Christ is honored with great piety among the Catholic community. Public processions are held throughout the city, passing even the quietest of side streets. A special market is held at the Plaza de Armas where Ana’s turron cake is sold, a traditional dessert to celebrate the festival.
On Wednesday of this week, I returned home for the afternoon siesta and observed students and store owners painting the street gravel with welcome signs reading “Bienvenidos Senor de Burgos." Beautiful religious images were decorated with flower petals and wet mud stained with bright colors.
My host sister informed me that the procession would be passing our house that evening. With little idea what to expect and somewhat confused by who exactly I was looking for, I left the office at dusk in search of Senor de Burgos.
I encountered crowds of onlookers in front of the Igesia San Sabastien, in a carnival atmosphere with cotton candy and carts selling pins and rosary beads, all purple and white. I backtracked toward another main street and soon found myself immersed in a sea of people, walking at a meditative pace.
A few blocks ahead was giant bed, the size of a billard pool table, progressing slowly down the street in a halo of light. Derived from a caoba tree, the wood was a deep red with ornate carvings along the side. Resting on top was a life-sized body of Christ, lying horizontal on a painted cross in a bed of purple gladiolas.
The structure rested on the shoulders of eighty men, divided into four rows, each dressed in identical purple robes. It was dusk and the flood lights attached to the bed highlighted the smoke of incense like beams of fog. Directly behind, an eerie droning melody was played by the municipal brass band.
The dramatic image was offset by the festive door fronts decorated with palm branches and purple and white balloons and ribbons. Every several feet, a giant arch stood waiting for the procession to cross underneath. Store owners pay ten soles for the privilege of hosting an archway. People hung out elevated balconies, tossing flower petals and waving banners to welcome their Savior.
I, on the other hand, stood stunned by the overwhelming smell of scented smoke and the purposeful movement of the crowd. I eventually tucked myself against a store front, letting the procession pass and just watched what was happening around me. I liked being there. I don’t know if I belonged or if my camera flash was too intrusive, but I felt part of pulse.
