Districto Federal de Mexico (Mexico City) is all abuzz these days. It is the celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and it seems as if on every corner there is a makeshift storefront of a vendor selling pirated CDs playing the same song, usually on a bright accordion.
La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana…
The polka beat to the tradicional song has insidiously omnipresence… Now on the Kalidopie…
La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana…
Now on the pipe organ…
La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana…
Now on the guitar…
La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana, La Guadalupana…
Now in German!
Das Guadalupana, Das Guadalupana, Das Guadalupana…
I’m just kidding.
I never heard the song sung in German, but to my great annoyance, I heard the song non-stop, all day long, in varying ways. I have no doubts that now that I have put the suggestion out into the universe, someone, somewhere will now produce a version of the song in German. Watch out Germany! “Guadalupe-fever” is a very contagious religious hypo-phenomenon. You best bet is to quarantine anyone you see carrying an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a statue, and/or anyone singing that crazy song. If they’ve reached your shores, it may already be too late to salvage your country.
During the next two days, the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe will welcome five million people. They will sleep on the streets, parade into the basilica, and often fall to tears as they climb aboard the moving escalators that carry pilgrims on a thirty second journey in front of the original image of Our Lady, now four hundred and seventy years old.
In the interests of depicting the mania, I should tell you that the line to get into the Basilica is a mile long.
I’m not exaggerating, and I’m not using a cliché expression. The line is actually ONE MILE long. Riot police have to block roadways so that people won’t cut in line. The entire spectacle is entirely unbelievable, and despite myself, it is amazingly inspiring.
I had heard from others that the experience of walking to the Basilica was the great equalizer of the Mexican people, rich and poor stood side by side walking to the image of Our Lady together. I had anticipated seeing such a egalitarian mixing of people, but I actually had a hard time determining who was rich and who was poor. Most people came in large groups that wore the same athletic jumpsuit, marked with the insignia of their parish. The only outward characteristic that was easily identifiable was the limping that people did along the path, thus revealing how far the pilgrim had walked in order to come to the Basilica.
My intense preparation for the pilgrimage came in the form of dinner and a long nap that took place at an Augustinian convent. The deacon at my parish, Deacon Mora, has a sister who is the mother superior of the Agustinas Recoletas convent in Tecamachalco, Mexico, outside of Mexico City. She invited me to spend the day with them, and I quickly became the centerpiece of conversation.
It was very different than being with the Poor Handmaids of Jesus Christ, who, on every continent, are comfortable just sitting around the table and talking nonsense as if I came by everyday. This was twenty nuns in full habits, with only their faces showing, seemingly hovering above the ground, since they had no visible sign of bi-pedal mobility, asking me detailed questions about my pilgrimage and the religious accoutrements that were attached to my camera.
I guess they don’t get a lot of male visitors, but I don’t know.
At our parting, they handed me another religious souvenir for me to add to the growing number of key chains floating on my camera. They gave me a key chain with St. Augustine and St. Monica on it.
“This is great!” I said, and recalling the conversation with them that I was still a young lad in my culture, I added, “Wait… At what age did St. Augustine have his conversion?”
“Age thirty-three.” The reply came back.
Everyone laughed, knowing to why I asked the question.
“Great! I have six more days to do all the sinning I want!” I said, while thinking, “Maybe I can start by hitting every person singing that ridiculous song over the head with a hammer.”
In prayer, they bid me off, and I journeyed for the last time to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. If you have downloaded Google Earth onto your computer, you can view my pictorial of the Basilica by clicking here.
I made it in time for the annual concert in which mariachis played, while famous artists from throughout Mexico sang passionately to Mary in honor of her patronage as mother of all, her advocacy that leads Mexico to Jesus, to God.
It was extremely moving to watch. As I turned my head an observed my Mexican brothers and sisters, many of whom had walked all day to be standing here for this very moment, tears filled their eyes. That is when I realized that the singers, and the very songs were voicing the words that every one of them deeply felt inside.
After the concert, performed on the alter in front of the original image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, a small battalion of priests marched out to celebrate Mass, and about a third of the congregation immediately left. It was a very telling sign. Mary is important to the people of Mexico… not so much the formal religion stuff. The third that departed were quickly replaced by people who were less contemptuous about being at Mass, if it meant that they could at least enter the Basilica.
By the end of Mass, I had absorbed so much of the enthusiasm from the people around me that it was hard to feel estranged by the radical devotion that the people showed for Our Lady of Guadalupe. It had captured me as well. I have become infected as well.
Nearly midnight, I went off the Basilica grounds to catch a bite to eat. For the first time all day, I didn’t mind the repetitive chorus to be found on every street corner. In fact, I found myself singing along, with joy in my heart…
Desde el cielo una hermosa manana
La Guadalupana, la Guadalupana, La Guadalupana bajo a Tepeyac!