by Casey Cheney-O'Byrne

We had finally arrived in Chimayo, New Mexico, a small town about 25 miles outside of Santa Fe, boasting rolling hills textured with shades of green shrubbery and rocks that have faces of camels and buffalos. The closer you get to the town, the more crosses and religious symbols you begin to see by the side of the road, some with brightly colored flowers, some with icons of the Virgin Mary. Pulling into the parking lot there are signs all around telling you that this is a sacred place and to respect the devotion of others, right next to the unusual number of signs telling you to securely lock your vehicles and keep all valuables with you.

I was drawn to Chimayo after hearing about the small church at the center of the town, made famous by its dirt. This dirt supposedly contains miraculous healing powers. There are numerous stories on the internet and in local newspapers of people who have gone to Chimayo blind, disabled or suffering in some way, rubbed the dirt on their ailment and been cured. Every year during Holy Week, tens of thousands of people make a pilgrimage, some walking over fifty miles, through the night, to end at the church. I traveled to Chimayo to hear their stories.

As we stepped out of the car I was struck by a sense of isolation. There were hundreds of crosses made from sticks randomly dispersed in the surrounding chain link fences, and there were makeshift altars all over. In order to reach the door of the main church we had to walk through a small courtyard in which there were about seven graves. The tombstones read names from the Medina and Chavez family, whom, I found out later were the proprietors of the land before it was divided and sold. Inside the first door there was another tombstone, this one read: “In memory of all the innocent victims of abortion.”

For mass we were ushered to the, smaller, Santo Nino chapel, as, the main altar was in the process of being restored. The service began with an awkward, off tune version of Amazing Grace as a stout, old man, dressed in a dark green robe emerged and took his place at the podium. He led the group, which consisted of three older Hispanic couples and what appeared to be two sisters and their mother, all three in brightly colored sweat suits, in a prayer. The prayer began: “I have sinned through my own fault,” and continued in a similar manner. I felt pressured to be chanting along, especially because right when we had entered the squeaky wooden doors a man with thick, dark glasses had shoved a prayer book in our hands.

The sermon continued with a very conservative undertone. At one point as the father was speaking of the sacred act of matrimony he remarked, “and now these men wanting to marry men oy, yoy, yoy.” and slapped himself on the head, as if saying, “what is the world coming to?” He spoke with a thick, undeterminable, accent and his words slurred together. He would speak of how we are all children of God and God loves everyone, then his tone would switch as if he were angry with the “ignorant” people of the world who do not embrace the Catholic way of life. According to Father Roca, “those who do not follow the word of God are empty and their lives are a mistake.” I have been to church before but have never felt so persecuted. His words felt as if they intended to make me feel like a bad person for not being Catholic and I could not help but notice the hundreds of religious icons watching me from the walls and ceiling.

“Everyone who is in jail is there by their own will. Why do these people want to go to jail? I don’t understand.” Turning the subject matter over to drugs the rage inside him that had begun to develop with the topic of jail was heightened, “Drugs, drugs, drugs. What for?” He continued on to condemn those who have done drugs. It was very clear that in Father Roca’s opinion, people who do drugs do them entirely by choice and are stupid for doing so. The word “stupid” came up again several times throughout the sermon, once in reference to libraries. Libraries are stupid, in his mind, because they tell us nothing of our origins. We are all products of God and therefore only the Bible has the answers. We are lying to ourselves if we do not read the bible. As his disapproval of those who do not follow God’s words increased and the temperature in that tiny wooden chapel rose, I needed to get out. I decided that as we all stood to, once again, confess our flaws as human beings, it would be the best time to make a smooth exit. Outside I felt like I could breathe. I looked down and saw a car with an “I Love Jesus” license plate.

Curious about what secrets this place had to hold, we began to investigate the town. The houses and trailer homes were run down and unkempt, and the presence of religious imagery was all encompassing. In almost every yard there was some kind of personal shrine or at least a decorative cross or two. “Home of the Holy chili”, even the food is religious here. We were surprised to see an open sewer and followed it into a man’s yard.

“Hello?” a Hispanic man was standing on the porch looking at us with concerned eyes, “Can I help you?” I guess the first thing that popped into Hannah’s head was, “Are you Catholic?”

“Yes,” he replied, and as if to defend himself and his fellow Chimayo residents, continued, “we all are.” As we left the parking lot to head to lunch we saw two young local boys leaning up against the church walls smoking pot.

Later that day I got a chance to speak personally with Father Roca. His voice was loud and filled with animation, yet I could barely understand a word he said. Father Roca had been a priest for 60 years, 50 at the santuario. When I asked him the history of the church he went into great detail of a story that I had read over and over on the internet, the information pamphlet and the sign outside. I listened contently.

Over 200 years ago a man named Bernado Albeyta was leading a Holy week celebration when he saw a mysterious light coming from the ground. He began to dig at the source of the light and soon uncovered a crucifix. The crucifix was taken to the church of Santa Cruz, but miraculously continued to return, on its own, to its original location. The santuario was constructed around the cross so that it could remain where it belonged. I tried, several times to change the subject back to the dirt or the pilgrimage but Father Roca wanted nothing more than to tell me the story of how he turned the Santuario de Chimayo into one of the most well known churches in New Mexico.

When we finally did get to the dirt he seemed agitated. He said that it was something the “Indians” had come up with and now “they” come from all over just to rub the dirt on themselves. He said he approves, but only in small quantities. It was once again made clear that the dirt does not make miracles; only the good lord makes miracles.

In regards to the pilgrimage, he had little to say, “The Indians, they come in groups, usually. They are not talking because they have something in mind. They come and they kneel at the end, into the church.”
When I had the chance to talk to Anna Belian, a young girl who has done the pilgrimage many times, she told me that she rarely sees a Native American making the walk, “The first time I did it, to tell you the truth, I was in high school and it was just a big party. The second time I did it because I was so thankful for the birth of my son. I think that is the main reason people do it, to be thankful for something. A lot of non- religious people do it as well.” I started to think that the reason the Father didn’t want to talk about it was the lack of Religion involved. Anna also mentioned, however, that there are always a number of people making the walk carrying huge crosses on their backs, suffering, in repentance of all the year’s sins.

Sitting in the quaint Santa Fe home where we stayed the night, I got to speak with Carlene Whitcomb, a woman who has spent her entire life in Santa Fe, and has also done the pilgrimage several times. Carlene is not Catholic, however, and does not enter the church at the end. She tells me that she has problems with the Catholic Church. We started to talk about Chimayo and what a strange place it is. Carlene then mentioned something that caught my attention.

“Yeah, Chimayo has a huge Heroin problem, it’s really sad.”

According to ABC News online “Between the years of 1995 and 1998, 85 people in Chimayo, in a town of just 4,100 people, died of heroin overdoses, one of the highest rates of heroin related deaths in the nation.” The people of Chimayo have been struggling with this drug problem for some time now. There are horrific stories of young children dying in the heat of drug related burglaries. All the signs about locking up your valuables began to make sense. The crosses I saw by the side of the road are to mark the sights of accidents, most of which were caused by drivers under the influence. In Carlene’s words, “These people go out and shoot up all week and then go to church to be forgiven for their sins on Sundays. It is a vicious cycle.” Father Roca and the inhabitants of Chimayo want to make it obvious to the outside world that they are devout Catholics and follow God’s words at all times, yet sometimes projection is not reality.

Tourists come from all over the country to experience Chimayo’s Holy Dirt, famous Chili, and beautiful weavings. What they don’t expect to find are needles buried in that Holy Dirt.