For la Semana Santa (Holy Week) I left Huánuco for another mountain town called Huancayo. I spent four days at 11,000 feet above sea level where the thin and chilly air contrasted with blistering high altitude sun. And in this environment I experienced some of the most moving religious traditions I’ve ever witnessed.
On Thursday I met Sean, one of the other YAVs, and his host sister Hayde at the Plaza de la Constitution to explore the center of town. The first sign that we were entering a time of spiritual reflection were the covered tents sheltering local women from the rain as they weaved intricate palm arrangements and sold Pan de Pascua, a special unleavened sweet bread.
Later, we encountered alfombras, or rugs, being arranged on the main streets. Religious designs and symbols are drawn with chalk on the road by businesses, civic organizations and church groups. Each design is then filled in with rose and marigold petals, eucalyptus leaves, wood chips and dirt dyed a variety of brilliant colors. There is such artistry and attention brought to each rug, only to be trampled through hours later as the Holy Thursday and Good Friday processions make their way through town.
The following day we left Huancayo to visit a bustling little town called Chongos Bajo, where a re-enactment of the Crucifixion would take place. We entered the main church, dating back to 1540, whose wood beamed roof let in streams of refracted sun light and seemed to exhale fumes of previous centuries.
The center plaza was filled with venders selling fried trout (no sign of the red meat that usually tops any menu) and candles of every color with an unusual wax knot just below the quick. Each color represents a different blessing such as health or friendship. A striking green color represents, of all things, “documents,” which might have something to do with the need to recover lost identification especially when in need of government support.
Beyond the plaza is the rocky mountain top of San Cristobol and within moments we decided to climb it. As we made our way up the walking path I felt very peaceful, despite my racing heart in the higher altitude. I literally had to hold my hand to my chest to calm the heavy beating.
Down below we saw a procession making its way to the base of the mountain. We joined a crowd of local families at the mountain’s edge and waited for the procession to arrive. Children were blowing bubbles while women sold pastries and ice-cream. Two young boys ran around three wooden crosses lying on the ground, playing see-saw on the cross in the middle.
It felt like a spectator event, as if families were gathered for a basketball game or soccer match. The only difference seemed to be the surrounding scenery, the view of a broad river valley below, with two storm systems emptying over the villages in the distance.
The procession arrived quicker than I expected, led by costumed soldiers dragging a limping man resembling Christ. I wasn’t convinced. This was obviously make-believe. I knew the red stains on his gown weren’t real blood. The leather whips barely brushed his back. And when he collapsed to the ground near the line of crosses, it seemed pre-rehearsed.
The man was then tied to the center cross along-side the other two actors portraying criminals. As the guards elevated the cross from behind I began to feel more anxious. What if the rope came untied? What if the wood snapped? Would he fall over the cliff?
One of the crosses gave way, slightly leaning forward having not been sufficiently hammered into the ground. I felt myself gasp while much of the crowd erupted in awkward laughter. “Why are they laughing?” I thought. “This isn’t some comedy routine or fun entertainment.”
Then, I began to imagine the real Crucifixion. The crowds that gathered included those that followed out of curiosity, rather than devotion. There were many who laughed, who came to gawk at someone they considered a fool. For some, the brutal death was indeed a source of entertainment, a rush of adrenalin.
As the laughter died down around me, the Christ figure said in a muffled plea, “Padre, perdónalos porque no saben lo que hacen” (“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”) At the same time, his right foot descended slightly off the wood ledge supporting his weight, just as Christ is depicted in paintings and religious art.
Mary Magdalene leapt out of the crowd and knelt at his feet… moaning, weeping. That’s when I really began to imagine the scene that occurred almost 2,000 years ago.
If I were in that crowd, would I have been laughing? Or would I have been crying? Would I have come to see a spectacle out of curiosity or would I have followed with a sense of deep loyalty?
I think it would have depended on whether I believed what I heard or saw about this man, Jesus. Did he really cure the sick? Did he really make the blind see? Did he serve the poor unselfishly and empty himself of pride and ego?
And if someone suggested to me that this living breathing human was really the son of G-d, would I have accepted it? And, even more, tell others the same?
I don’t know what I would have done, or said, or believed, because I wasn’t there. But in witnessing the re-enactment of the Crucifixion on the side of a mountain in the Peruvian altiplano, I was the closest I’ve ever felt to the truly imagining what took place.
As the bodies were lowered to the ground and we began to walk away from the scene, I felt stunned by what I had just seen. I walked in silence for a while wondering again what I would have done if I were leaving the actual death of Christ.
Would I have gone back home and returned to work as usual? Would I have talked about the event at the well with the other women, adding the story to a string of gossip? Or would I have knocked on my neighbor’s door and ask if we could pray together.
Pray for this person who was killed, who didn’t deserve to die, and who presented a philosophy of living that restores humanity. After having prayed and honored the life he led, maybe the two of us, sitting together in a dusty desert kitchen, would decide to try to live like he did.
And while we still questioned whether he was the son of G-d and before all the talk of whether he was born to a virgin, we decided it really didn’t matter. What matters is how he lived and what he stood for and whether we have the courage to act in a similar way.
On Thursday I met Sean, one of the other YAVs, and his host sister Hayde at the Plaza de la Constitution to explore the center of town. The first sign that we were entering a time of spiritual reflection were the covered tents sheltering local women from the rain as they weaved intricate palm arrangements and sold Pan de Pascua, a special unleavened sweet bread.
Later, we encountered alfombras, or rugs, being arranged on the main streets. Religious designs and symbols are drawn with chalk on the road by businesses, civic organizations and church groups. Each design is then filled in with rose and marigold petals, eucalyptus leaves, wood chips and dirt dyed a variety of brilliant colors. There is such artistry and attention brought to each rug, only to be trampled through hours later as the Holy Thursday and Good Friday processions make their way through town.
The following day we left Huancayo to visit a bustling little town called Chongos Bajo, where a re-enactment of the Crucifixion would take place. We entered the main church, dating back to 1540, whose wood beamed roof let in streams of refracted sun light and seemed to exhale fumes of previous centuries.
The center plaza was filled with venders selling fried trout (no sign of the red meat that usually tops any menu) and candles of every color with an unusual wax knot just below the quick. Each color represents a different blessing such as health or friendship. A striking green color represents, of all things, “documents,” which might have something to do with the need to recover lost identification especially when in need of government support.
Beyond the plaza is the rocky mountain top of San Cristobol and within moments we decided to climb it. As we made our way up the walking path I felt very peaceful, despite my racing heart in the higher altitude. I literally had to hold my hand to my chest to calm the heavy beating.
Down below we saw a procession making its way to the base of the mountain. We joined a crowd of local families at the mountain’s edge and waited for the procession to arrive. Children were blowing bubbles while women sold pastries and ice-cream. Two young boys ran around three wooden crosses lying on the ground, playing see-saw on the cross in the middle.
It felt like a spectator event, as if families were gathered for a basketball game or soccer match. The only difference seemed to be the surrounding scenery, the view of a broad river valley below, with two storm systems emptying over the villages in the distance.
The procession arrived quicker than I expected, led by costumed soldiers dragging a limping man resembling Christ. I wasn’t convinced. This was obviously make-believe. I knew the red stains on his gown weren’t real blood. The leather whips barely brushed his back. And when he collapsed to the ground near the line of crosses, it seemed pre-rehearsed.
The man was then tied to the center cross along-side the other two actors portraying criminals. As the guards elevated the cross from behind I began to feel more anxious. What if the rope came untied? What if the wood snapped? Would he fall over the cliff?
One of the crosses gave way, slightly leaning forward having not been sufficiently hammered into the ground. I felt myself gasp while much of the crowd erupted in awkward laughter. “Why are they laughing?” I thought. “This isn’t some comedy routine or fun entertainment.”
Then, I began to imagine the real Crucifixion. The crowds that gathered included those that followed out of curiosity, rather than devotion. There were many who laughed, who came to gawk at someone they considered a fool. For some, the brutal death was indeed a source of entertainment, a rush of adrenalin.
As the laughter died down around me, the Christ figure said in a muffled plea, “Padre, perdónalos porque no saben lo que hacen” (“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”) At the same time, his right foot descended slightly off the wood ledge supporting his weight, just as Christ is depicted in paintings and religious art.
Mary Magdalene leapt out of the crowd and knelt at his feet… moaning, weeping. That’s when I really began to imagine the scene that occurred almost 2,000 years ago.
If I were in that crowd, would I have been laughing? Or would I have been crying? Would I have come to see a spectacle out of curiosity or would I have followed with a sense of deep loyalty?
I think it would have depended on whether I believed what I heard or saw about this man, Jesus. Did he really cure the sick? Did he really make the blind see? Did he serve the poor unselfishly and empty himself of pride and ego?
And if someone suggested to me that this living breathing human was really the son of G-d, would I have accepted it? And, even more, tell others the same?
I don’t know what I would have done, or said, or believed, because I wasn’t there. But in witnessing the re-enactment of the Crucifixion on the side of a mountain in the Peruvian altiplano, I was the closest I’ve ever felt to the truly imagining what took place.
As the bodies were lowered to the ground and we began to walk away from the scene, I felt stunned by what I had just seen. I walked in silence for a while wondering again what I would have done if I were leaving the actual death of Christ.
Would I have gone back home and returned to work as usual? Would I have talked about the event at the well with the other women, adding the story to a string of gossip? Or would I have knocked on my neighbor’s door and ask if we could pray together.
Pray for this person who was killed, who didn’t deserve to die, and who presented a philosophy of living that restores humanity. After having prayed and honored the life he led, maybe the two of us, sitting together in a dusty desert kitchen, would decide to try to live like he did.
And while we still questioned whether he was the son of G-d and before all the talk of whether he was born to a virgin, we decided it really didn’t matter. What matters is how he lived and what he stood for and whether we have the courage to act in a similar way.
