From: dzkriz@ocf.berkeley.edu (Dennis Kriz)
Newsgroups: talk.religion.misc
Subject: Cath Christianity 101 - Dec 12 Our Lady of Guadalupe (Mexico) Feast Day
Date: 12 Dec 1992 19:32:35 GMT
Organization: U. C. Berkeley Open Computing Facility
NNTP-Posting-Host: lightning.berkeley.edu


Today, Dec. 12th, is the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe.  It is
difficult to imagine how one could hope to understand Mexico without
knowing of Our Lady of Guadalupe, for the reported apparitions of
Mary outside Mexico City in 1531 absolutely changed that country
forever.  Yet it is doubtful that the average non-Catholic North
American gringo will ever find mention of these reported events in
his or her classes, even simply as an aid toward understanding the
Mexican cultural reality.  Protestant or secularist, the United
States has never known quite how do deal with Our Lady of Guadalupe. 
And thus most U.S. citizens live with a phenomenal gap with regard to
understanding their southern neighbor.  

In Christ,

dennis
dzkriz@lightning.berkeley.edu
--------------------------------------------------------------------- 
   
from "A Woman Clothed in the Sun" edited by John J. Delaney (Image
Books: New York 1961, Nihil Obstat James F. Rigney, STD, Censor
Librorum; Imprimatur Francis Cardinal Spellman, Archbishop of New
York, Nov. 4, 1959).


                        OUR LADY OF GUADALUPE
                         by Ethyl Cook Eliot

  It happened on the arid top of a 130 foot hillock in wasteland five
miles north of Mexico City, then confined to its original island in a
lake.  The date was Saturday, Dec. 9, 1531; the hour daybreak.  Only
one person witnessed it, however, and his account of the prodigy --
until it was verified, four days later -- was not believed.  

  It happened to a poor-as-poverty Aztec Indian.  Born into the
servant caste fifty-seven years earlier and given the Nahuatl name
Singing Eagle, he had survived in obscurity the Spanish conquest of
1519-21.  Until the truth of his strange tale had been sealed with a
visible, durable sign, he had been of no account to anyone in this
world except his no-account friends and family.  When he did become
of immense account to millions, almost overnight (and without the
benefit of radio or television), his wife had been dead for several
years and they had no children.  His one remaining relative was an
uncle -- an uncle who had been his foster father since his early
childhood.  Uncle and nephew had been among the first Indians to be
converted to Christianity by the Franciscan missionaries, who
baptized them with the names they had gone by for the past seven
years -- Juan Bernardino and Juan Diego.

  Juan Diego was devoted to his uncle, but the relationship was by
this time turned about: Juan Diego was watching over the old man with
as much care as he had received from him fifty years earlier.  They
lived near each other, but alone, in Tolpetlac, a village of one-room
houses thatched with cornstalks.  In spite of the task of growing
corn and beans for them both, and hiring himself out for any other
labor he could get, Juan Diego managed to see his uncle and be of
help to him at some time every day.  But this Saturday, December 9,
was unprecedented.  Juan Bernardino had no sight of his nephew all
that day.

  Juan Diego had left the village before daybreak in order to be in
time to hear the Mass celebrated in Our Lady's honor (as the
Franciscans then did on Saturdays) at the church of Santiago in the
village of Tlaltelolco.  It was a long run over the hills, and the
Fathers stressed the importance of never coming to a Mass late, and
called the roll of their converts before beginning.  Running through
the high, rare air in the hardy Indian manner, he would have arrived
at the same hour as any other morning if he hadn't been halted in his
tracks by what he took for the burst of bird song.  This as unheard-
of, at this time of year, with everything so bleak and cold. Even at
the appropriate season, Juan had never before heard birds welcome the
dawn with an abrupt burst into song all together.  The music was
thrillingly sharp, and thrillingly sweet.  As it went on, Juan's ear
discerned what seemed a harmony among separate choirs of song birds
scattered over the scrubby sides of a little hill that his path
skirted.  On this hill, Tepeyac, had formerly stood a temple to the
Mother-goddess of the Aztecs.  Now it was desert.

  Quite soon the shrill caroling stopped as suddenly as it had begun,
with no lingering twitters.  Such a silence with no breath of warning
unnerved Juan.  He didn't resume running.  He stood listening to the
silence, straining for some sound, any sound to break the spell.  It
came almost at once, but it was as astounding in that place and at
that time as the bird music had been.  A woman was calling down to
him from the ruinous rocks at the top of Tepeyac hill.  Though day
had broken, Juan couldn't see her.  A frosty mist, a brightening
cloud hid the rocks and the woman was calling.  She was calling him
by name, and urgently: "Juan! Juan Diego! Juanito! Juan Dieguito!"

  Whoever she was, he must go up to her and find out what she wanted
of him.  It was a short climb to the top, but he got no sight of her
until he reached the rocks, and then he saw her more completely than
he had ever seen anything else in his life.  He saw what he looked
at, whole and at the same time in the minutest detail.

  The sun wasn't above the horizon, yet Juan saw her as if against
the sun because of the golden beams that rayed her person from head
to feet.  She was a young Mexican girl about fourteen years old and
wonderfully beautiful.  Her garments were wonderfully beautiful.  The
rocks and dry grasses and stunted thorn trees were wonderfully
beautiful, as if her splendor radiated onto them.  The cactus leaves
gleamed like emeralds, and their spines like gold.  Each plant, each
stone was sharply etched by Juan's vision, transparent and jewel-like
in color.  But Juan was not dazzled by the radiance before him and
all around him.  It was just the opposite.  He saw it all with
heightened powers of vision, and when the girl finally spoke, he
heard with the same heightened power of hearing every most delicate
inflection and emphasis of his mother tongue. "Nopiltzin, campa
tiauh?"

  The girls said: "Juan, the smallest and dearest of my little
children, where were you going?"

  Juan said: "My lady and my child, I was hurrying to Tlaltelolco to
see the Mass and hear the Gospel explained" (The use of "child" and
the other dimunitives used by Juan at later meetings, appear in the
oldest account.  Probably Aztecs of Juan's servant caste habitually
used them toward their superiors; but one may also remember that the
Virgin looked young enough to be Juan's grand-daughter).

  The girl said: "Dear little son, I love you.  I want you to know
who I am.  I am the ever-virgin Mary, Mother of the true God who
gives life and maintains it in existence.  He created all things.  He
is in all places.  He is lord of heaven and earth.  I desire a
teocali (temple or church) at this place where I will show my
compassion to your people and to all people who sincerely ask my help
in their work and in their sorrows.  Here, I will see their tears; I
will console them and they will be at east.  So run now to
Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) and tell the Lord Bishop all that you have
seen and heard."

  Juan had fallen to his knees when the Virgin told him who she was.
Now he prostrated himself at her feet and replied, "Noble Lady, I
will do what you ask of me!"  Then he quickly rose and took a
courteous and humble leave of her.

  This was no light service.  If anyone else, no matter how exalted a
person, had directed Juan Diego to take a message to the Bishop in
the city and deliver it to him personally, Juan would have made every
excuse possible to get out of it.  The five-mile run to the city was
no great matter.  He was fifty-seven years old and fasting since
yesterday's sunset, but his body was agile and toughened from early
childhood.  Indians of Juans' low degree, however, seldom went into
Mexico City, and Juan had never had the temerity to do so, even
before the Spanish conquest.  The Spaniards in Tlaltelolco were
different. Even the Indians who held fast to their forefathers'
beliefs -- and these were still the vast majority -- didn't think of
the Franciscan missionaries as their conquerors.  They and their
converts together had built the church there and a school and a many-
roomed house for themselves.  TO even the humblest, they seemed
fellow men -- poor, roughly clothed in brown tunics, hard-working,
meagerly fed, and serenely gentle.  So Juan felt as easy in
Tlaltelolco as he did in Tolpetlac.  But Tenochtitlan!And even if the
Spanish hidalgos and soldiers he would run into there didn't set
their dogs on him or beat him, how was he to find his way to the
Bishop's house?  He was badly frightened.

  However much trouble Juan may have gone through before he arrived
at the door of the palace, he did manage it, was admitted inside, and
after some rough treatment from the servants that just fell short of
injury to his person, and being kept waiting in a corner for a very
long time, he found himself at last in the episcopal presence.
  The Bishop-elect (not yet consecrated) was Don Fray Juan de
Zumarraga, a Franciscan who, in Spain, having distributed a royal
gift to his community among poor laymen, thus winning the king's
notice and the papal appointment.  In Mexico since 1528, he had
greatly softened the conquerors' harshness to the Indians.  It was
not he who had kept Juan waiting all those hours; he had only now
been told that a lowly native from the country was there with a
message for his ear alone, and would let no one else relay it.

  The Lord Bishop was courteous and kind in his reception of Juan
Diego. (It is hardly probably that the Aztec could speak enough
Spanish to convey Our Lady's message, but the Bishop kept an
interpreter, Juan Gonzalez, who had come to Mexico with Cortez,
presently became a missionary, and in 1534 a priest.)  Listening to
the story, the Bishop was impressed by the Indian's humility and
seeming sincerity.  He asked Juan a few questions -- where he lived,
his occupation, his knowledge of the Gospels, his religious practices
-- and found Juan's responses satisfactory.  But the story of the
encounter and dialogue with the Queen of Heaven, and how she desired
a church built in that uninhabited place -- he shook his head.  He
ended the interview by saying he would think it over.  Juan could
come again, if he cared to, and they would talk further about it.

  The sun was almost set when Juan came back to the hill where he had
heard the strange bird choirs and see the radiant little Virgin.
Tired and very hungry as he must have been by this time, he swerved
from the path and climbed to the spot.  Though he had sadly failed
the Mother of God in the matter of her new temple, holy ground was
holy ground.  He must do it reverence.

  When he reached the top, the Blessed Virgin was there, waiting for
him as if it had been arranged between them.  Juan knelt down.  He
said: "My dearest child, my Lady and Queen, I did your errand.  I
told the Bishop all that I had seen and heard here.  He listened, and
asked many questions; but I could see he did not believe that
everything was just as I said it was.  He thought I could be mistaken
about your wanting a church in this waste place, and even about who
it was I had seen and spoken with here.  He gave me kind permission
to visit him again, but I fear I should get no further.  I am not
worthy of your trusting me with a message so important.  Please send
someone more suitable; for I am a nobody ... Forgive my boldness in
advising you."

  The Blessed Virgin said: "Listen, little son.  There are many I
could send.  But you are the one I have chosen for this task.  So,
tomorrow morning, go back to the Bishop.  Tell him it is the Virgin
Mary who sends you, and repeat to him my great desire for a church in
this place."

  Juan said: "I will do so willingly though I fear the Bishop may not
be pleased to see me back so soon.  And if he is pleased, he still
may not believe that it was really you who sent me.  But I am your
servant and will obey your every wish.  Tomorrow I will return here
to tell you how my second try comes out.  So, youngest of my
daughters, Noble Lady, rest yourself until then."

  The next morning, Sunday, Juan rose in the dark and got to the
church in Tlaltelolco in time for Mass.  Directly after Mass was
over, he went on into Mexico City to confront the Bishop a second
time.  The palace servants had perhaps been rebuked, for they let him
in with almost no ado, and one of them went promptly off to announce
him.

  Fray Juan de Zumarraga was astonished and possibly annoyed.  It was
true he had told the visionary Indian to come again, if he wished, at
some later date, but that he was here the very next day and so early
in the morning -- that seemed hysterical or, at the least, childish.
Busy as he was, however, the Bishop received him with outward
patience and listened to his tale of a second meeting with the
Blessed Virgin, up where the rocks were, on little Tepeyac.

  Juan related how, much to his surprise, the Queen of angels and men
had waited all yesterday in that lonely place to learn what the
Bishop meant to do about the church she wanted built there.  But when
he, poor Juan Diego, had the boldness to inform her that the Bishop
seemed uncertain it was she herself who had sent the message, she had
not shown dismay.  She had simply said that Juan should return this
morning and assure the Bishop it *was* she herself -- the ever-Virgin
-- and that she *did* desire a building in that place.

  The Bishop was thoughtful.  He was beginning almost to believe that
this simple Indian might not be deluded.  But there are visions and
visions; some heavenly, some not, no matter how much they assume the
disguise of holiness.  he no longer wondered whether this earnest
convert had perhaps made up the story for vanity's sake or to gain
something practical for himself, such as having a church built nearer
to his own village for his better convenience in getting to Mass.
Even with ulterior motives for fabricating his meetings with Nuestra
Senora, this poor Indian was far to simple for so impressive a
performance.  Moreover, everything about the story was so
circumstantial!  No matter how closely the man was questioned or
asked to repeat any part of description or dialogue, he never
contradicted himself.  Rather, it seemed as if the questions brought
to his mind such trivial points as he would not think of inventing. 
Still, there was nothing, as yet, that Bishop Zumarraga could act on. 
Some proof that Juan, however truthful, was not suffering deception
or delusion, was indispensable -- but what sort of proof?

  In the end the Bishop rather tentatively suggested that Juan might
ask Santa Maria for a sign that would prove it was truly herself.
Juan was going right back to her on the little hill ...? Very well --
  Nut before dismissing Juan, the Bishop left the room for a few
moments to instruct two of his most trusted servants to follow the
Indian home.  They were to keep far enough behind him not to let him
realize he was being followed; to notice very carefully any persons
he stopped to speak with; and to watch him until he reached his
village, no matter how far away that was.

  These two servants returned with their report much sooner than the
Bishop had expect them.  The distressing thing was that the Indian
had outwitted them, or that was the excuse they offered.  Passing
through the city, he spoke to no one nor did anyone so much as greet
him. Outside the city, he quickened his pace, but they kept him in
sight. He was on the road ahead of them until he reached the foot of
a little hill about five miles out.  At that point he simply
vanished.  They searched the whole vicinity, but he was too cleverly
hidden; they couldn't find him.

  But Juan had not outwitted anyone, nor been clever at hiding.  He
had not been aware that he was under surveillance.  He could see the
top of the Virgin's hill.  He could be seen from it.  That was his
goal, and his only thought the thought of who was watching for him
there among the rocks.

  Again Juan knelt at the feet of holy Mary and told her how the
Bishop had asked for a sign.  This did not discompose her; in fact,
she was pleased.  She said: "Very well, little son.  Come back
tomorrow at daybreak.  I will give you a sign for him.  You have
taken much trouble on my account, and I shall reward you for it.  Go
in peace, and rest."

  But the next thing was for Juan to visit his uncle, Juan to visit
his uncle, and it was well he did.  The old man had been stricken
with *cocolistle*, a contagious and deadly fever that Juan recognized
only too well.  He gathered herbs and prepared medicines.  He kept up
his own strength with food.  Through that night and day and night
following, he did everything humanly possible to relieve Juan
Bernardino's sufferings.  He did not keep his appointment with the
Virgin that Monday morning, but gave precedence to his uncle's need.

  Sometime before daybreak on Tuesday, Juan Bernardino took a turn
for the worse.  He felt certain that he would not live to see the sun
set that day, and begged his nephew to run to Tlaltelolco and return
with a priest.  The only service Juan could render him now, and the
last one in this world, was to arrange that he should not die without
receiving the Last Sacraments.  No matter how lonely and uncared-for
Juan left his dear foster father this duty came first for them both. 


  This time on his run to Tlaltelolco, Juan chose to go round the
east side of Tepeyac hill.  It was on the west side that the Blessed
Virgin had first seen him and called him up to her.  If she were
there now she would see him again, for the day was just breaking. 
She might call him again.  This would mean delay, when every moment
was precious.

  But it didn't work.  He was hardly started on the eastern path when
he saw her descending Tepeyac at an angle that would intercept him
just beyond the next curve.  He couldn't go back.  She must have seen
him, and would be astonished if he were so discourteous as to avoid
the meeting.  He did not slow his pace until he was near enough to
kneel at her feet.
  She said: "Least of my sons, what is the matter?"

  And as if to make light of his embarrassment, he answered at first:
"My dear child, my Lady!  Why are you up so early?  Are you well?"
But then (and how breathless the words must have sounded), "Forgive
me! My uncles is dying of *cocolistle* and desires me to fetch a
priest to give him the Last Sacraments.  It was no heedless promise I
made to meet you yesterday morning and take the Bishop the sign you
intended to send him.  But my uncle fell ill."

  The Blessed Virgin said: "My little son.  Do not be distressed and
afraid.  Am I not here who am your Mother?  Are you not under my
shadow and protection?  Your uncle will not die at this time.  This
very moment his health is restored.  Thee is no reason now for the
errand you set out on, and you can peacefully attend to mine.  Go up
to the top of the hill; cut the flowers that are growing there and
bring them to me."

  No flowers could be in bloom on the frozen hill.  Nor could Juan's
uncle be healed of his wasting sickness and be, all in one moment,
perfectly well.  But Juan did not question the Blessed Virgin's
words. Nor was it blind faith that made him believe.  He was seeing
her, hearing her voice.

  Castilian roses -- exotic, impossible -- were growing on the
hilltop.  Juan noticed as he cut them that their petals were drenched
with dew, not rimmed with frost as the scrub and mesquite were.  The
best way to protect them against the cold was to cradle them in his
*tilma* -- a regular Aztec garment like a long cape worn in front,
and often looped up as a carryall.  Not to tire the Blessed Virgin
with further waiting, Juan worked quickly, filling his tilma with the
fresh fragrant blossoms.  Then he ran down and bending low before
her, held out the slightly opened wrap for her to see that this time,
anyway, he had been successful in fulfilling her desire.  But he had
dropped the flowers helter-skelter into the fold, and the Virgin was
not satisfied.  With her own holy hands, she rearranged them
carefully, taking thought over every rose as to just how it should
lie.  Then she tied the low corners of his tilma behind his neck, so
that nothing could spill.

  When she was done she said, "You see, little son, this is the sign
I am sending to the Bishop.  Tell him that now he has his sign, he
should build the temple I desire in this place.  Do not let anyone
but him see what you are carrying.  Hold both sides until you are in
his presence and have already told him how I intercepted you on your
way to fetch a priest to give the Last Sacraments to your uncle, how
I assured you he was perfectly healed, and sent you up to cut these
roses, and myself arranged them like this.  Remember, little son,
that you are my trusted ambassador, and this time the Bishop will
believe all that you tell him."

  As far as is known, this is the last time here on earth that Juan
Diego ever saw the Virgin or heard her voice.

  All the way to the Bishop's palace Juan delighted in the perfume of
the roses.  He held his tilma tightly closed, but their fragrance
penetrated the coarse weave and scented the winter air he ran
through. The palace servants when Juan gained admittance were
astonished by the sweet odor that entered along with the beggarly
Indian.  They traced it to what he was so craftily hiding from them
in his uncouth apron. When Juan refused to let them see, or tell them
anything, they jostled and strated him in hope to loosen his grip
enough for a glimpse.  They succeeded, but could hardly believe their
eyes.  Some snatched at the flowers, but each time arose rose was
touched it no longer seemed real but rather an embroidery or painting
on the cream colored cloth.  Word of the commotion soon reached the
Bishop, and Juan was fetched away to his apartment.

  This time several of the Bishop's household were present.  Perhaps
he had summoned them to give their various opinions of this vision-
seeing Indian.

  Juan unhaltingly advanced and stood before the episcopal chair.
Lest he loose his clutch on the sides of his tilma, he dared not
kneel down as courtesy demanded.  So he stood all the minutes it took
to tell what the Blessed Virgin had urgently requested he should tell
and in the right order.  He added nothing and left out nothing. 
Sentence by sentence, Juan Gonzalez interpreted.  Then Juan Diego put
up both hands and untied the corners of crude cloth behind his neck. 
The looped-up fold of the tilma fell; the flowers he thought were the
precious sign tumbled out and lay in an untidy heap on the floor.
Alas for the Virgin's careful arrangement.

  But Juan's confusion over this mishap was nothing to what he felt
immediately after it.  Inside of seconds the Bishop had risen from
his chair and was kneeling at Juan's feet, and inside of a minute all
the other persons in the room had surged forward and were also
kneeling.  Juan would have thought they were praying except that he
himself seemed the object of their rapt gazes.  But no, it was his
tilma, that now hung down to his ankles.

  No wonder the Bishop and his household were kneeling before the
length of primitive cloth.  Millions of people have knelt before it
since, in awe and gratitude as profound as theirs who saw it first.
The miracle of the roses were sign enough of the authenticity of the
Indian's visions, but the Blessed Virgin had trusted him with an even
more wonderful sign.  What she had imprinted on his vision and memory
at the time of the first apparition, now -- three days later -- was
imaged in glorious beauty on the front of his tilma.

  However long the Bishop and the others with him knelt in reverent
awe before this first showing of the miraculous picture, the moment
came when he rose, gently untied the tilma of the astounded Indian,
lifted it from him and carried it with all reverence into his private
chapel.  There, after it was appropriately attached to a wall near
the altar, Juan himself could kneel with the others in prolonged and
prayerful wonder.

  Juan was willing to remain in the palace for the rest of that day
and the night following.  He had no anxiety about his uncle's health,
and the Bishop requested his continued presence.  Meanwhile, the news
spread.  Early Wednesday morning Juan's humble tilma, glorified with
the supernatural image imprinted on it, was carried in solemn and
joyous procession to the cathedral, where everyone in the city
thronged to see it and pray before it. 

  The next thing was for Juan to show the Bishop and those he asked
to accompany them to the sacred hill where the Blessed Virgin desired
a church to be built.  After viewing the holy ground -- bleak now and
with no traces of the glory that had so recently blessed it -- the
Bishop gave Juan permission to return to his village.  He himself
would waste no time about constructing at least a shrine on Tepeyac,
but some in his company could go with the Indian to see how his uncle
fared, and if he was well enough they were to bring him back with
Juan to Mexico City.

  Juan Bernardino was sunning himself at his door when his nephew
arrived, and was astonished by his escort of friars and caballeros.
He wasn't in custody; he was showing them the way.  Rapidly the
villagers were closing in around them, forgetting timidity in their
eagerness to see and hear Juan Diego's amazement at finding his uncle
alive and well.  All yesterday they had looked for his return with a
priest.  By last night they felt sure he had himself come down with
the dread cocolistle.  Now today he appeared with a whole troop of
Fathers and hidalgos!

  Encircled by the fascinated audience, uncle and nephew were
embracing.  Juan Diego was eager to give his uncle the joyous
explanation of his long absence, but in courtesy he first inquired
how he felt now; and the old man had his own marvels of yesterday
morning to relate.  Too weak to even drink the concoction of herbs
his nephew had left at his side, he longed for daylight and spiritual
comfort, yet had no hope of living until either could arrive. 
Darkness encompassed him, when of a sudden the room was filled with
soft light. A luminous young woman, all made of peace and love, stood
beside him. She told him he would get well, and he believed her.  She
told him she had intercepted his nephew and sent him to the Bishop
with a picture of herself to be enshrined at Tepeyac.  She further
told him, "Call me and call my image Santa Maria de Guadalupe."  Then
she disappeared and dawn stole in.

  (Now Guadalupe -- the "river of the wolf" in Saracenic Spain -- had
given its name to a little statue of Madonna and Child which a
cowherd found buried near it, toward the end of the thirteenth
century when the Moors had been expelled from Eastremadura.  King
Alfonso XI enshrined it in a chapel.  Columbus prayed there before
his voyage and named one of the Antilles he discovered "Guadalupe." 
TO the Spaniards in Mexico the name seemed natural.  Applying it to
the Indian Virgin made them feel at home in New Spain.  But to the
natives it could have no appeal.  They could not even pronounce it,
for neither G nor D (nor R) was used in Nahuatl.  "Santa Malia," as
they pronounced Maria, was familiar to them, especially to converts
like Juan Bernardino, but instead of "de Guadalupe" some other, more
intelligible, syllable must have been spoken to him by the
Apparition.  Recent research, especially that of Helen Behrens,
strongly suggests that these were tetcuatazopeuh, which repeated by
Juan Bernardino to the Spaniards were heard as "de Guatlashupe,"
easily assimilated by their ears to the Old World title.  Of course
they supposed the old Indian was doing his best to say "de
Guadalupe"!  But to all Aztec ears the compound epithet meant Stone
Serpent Troddenon: the Apparition had announced that she had
suppressed and supplanted Quetzalcoatl, the terrible god (originally
perhaps a comet later the planet nearest earth) idolized as a
feathered serpent to whom countless men had been excruciatingly
sacrificed.  What wonder that as the word spread among the Indians of
*this* title given to herself by the vision of Juan Bernardino *and*
the promise made by the identical vision to Juan Diego ("I will give
my motherly love and compassion to all who seek my aid"), plus the
actual picture in which they could read many concurrent symbols --
clouds, sun, stars, crescent, and the little black cross on a golden
brooch -- the natives swarmed to embrace the Christian religion in
which one divine man had been sacrificed once and for all.  The
Mother of their God had come to them directly and told them in their
own tongue that she had trodden on the serpent's head.

  In the seven years 1532-1538, EIGHT MILLION (emphasis of author,
not the poster) natives were baptized.  Friar Toribio de Benevente
recorded that in five days, 14,500 presented themselves at his
mission and were anointed with oil and chrism.  Learning of the
sacrament of matrimony, 1000 couples were married in one day.  For
Easter, 1540, twelve different tribes peacefully assembled ad one
church, some from as far away as 150 miles.  Today over five million
people come annually to Guadalupe, and the descendants of the Aztecs,
dancing, hail "Teotl Inzntzin" (God's Mother) by her title,
"Coatlalupej," and sing how "She freed us from the great evil, She
crushed the serpent!")

  This, to Juan Bernardino, was the fifth apparition of our Holy
Mother on the American continent -- a delicate kindness shown to her
Juanito's foster father.  Through him she made known to Spaniard and
to Aztec the significant name by which her image was to unify them in
Christendom.

  Juan Bernardino got up and went about his chores serene and well.
Not until this morning had he begun to worry over his nephew's long
absence.  What, now, had kept him, and why were all these white men
so respectful?  Never had he seen such a novelty -- not in his
lifetime. It nearly overwhelmed him when he was placed upon a litter,
and four young men of Tolpetlac were hired to bear him to the
Bishop's palace. To the City in the Lake! For a fortnight's visit!

  Swiftly news of the church to be built in the precinct of the
Mother-goddess on Tepeyac was carried from village to village.  The
Indian's own church, requested through one of themselves!  Volunteer
laborers appeared more than could be employed.  In only thirteen days
the simple chapel-like structure was completed.  On the day after
Christmas the sacred Image was brought to it in great procession and
installed above the altar; the church was blessed and the Mass
celebrated. 
  Here ends the earliest account (c. 1560) of the miracles written in
Nahuatl by an Aztec of the former imperial family who was educated at
Tlaltelolco and attained very high office under the name of Don
Antonio Valeriano (died 1605).  But recently there came to light a
much older, actually contemporary document that had lain among the
Archives of the Indies in Seville, Spain.  This is a letter to the
conqueror Cortes, written by Bishop Zumarraga on Christmas Eve, 1531. 
It presupposes Cortes' acquaintance with the recent events and is not
explicit, but is imbued with exaltation.

     "I have had the news published -- sent a messenger to
     Cuernavaca -- an Indian to Fray Toribio -- am preparing the
     festival and keeping with me a little longer your honor's
     trumpeters.  How glorious it will be!  The joy of all is
     indescribable.  Tell my lady the Marquesa [Cortes' wife]
     that eventually I want to dedicate my cathedral to the
     Immaculate Conception because it was during that feast
     [December 8-17 in the missal used in Mexico] that God and
     his Blessed Mother deigned to shower the land you won with
     this great favor.  No more now."  -- The Bishop Elect,
     filled with joy.

 Cortes and his marquesa took part in the procession.  Everybody
walked in it.  But the Indians danced too, and one in his frenzy was
grievously wounded by an arrowhead piercing his neck.  Unconscious,
he was laid before the Image, and amid fervent prayers a friar
staunched his wound.  His eyes opened.  He beheld the Image.  He
revived.  He lived.  And the Aztec hymns rose louder than before. 
"The chiefs sing to thee, Santa Maria, the people dance before thee. 
Speak, Father Bishop, to us thy children, newborn beside the lake."

  While the millions of baptisms were taking place, Juan Diego spent
his days in a hermitage built for him beside the little chapel on the
holy hill.  To pilgrims he showed the sacred picture and repeated the
story.  At a time when the laity was not accustomed to frequent
communion, he, by special order of the Bishop, received his Savior
three times a week.  When he died in 1548, his room, appropriately,
became the baptistry of "the old church of the Indians,": and on one
wall of it a tablet proclaimed, "In this place Our Lady of Guadalupe
appeared to an Indian named Juan Diego who is buried in this church." 
Juan Bernardino, too, was reverenced, and after he died in 1544 his
hut in Tolpetlac became a chapel that still stands, in good repair. 
In 1545 a cruel pestilence abated when the small children of the
countryside were brought together before the Virgin's picture and
appealed to her.

  Not quite a century after the miracles of 1531, Mexico City was
badly flooded during four years of unusual rain.  In a convent there
an Indian lay sister had a vision of the Virgin as portrayed on the
*tilma*, propping up the threatened walls.  Accordingly, the
Archbishop with a rich flotilla of boats, lights, and music fetched
the precious Image from Tepeyac to its "birthplace" in his palace and
kept it in the capital till the floods subsided.  In 1663, it left
the original shrine for a stately, towered temple built for it close
by, where it was kept locked in a silver tabernacle and behind
curtains expect during Mass or when responsible persons were present. 
Only forty-six years later (1709) it was installed in its present
place, around which a complex of buildings grew.  Eventually, in
1904, the great domed church was declared a basilica; and since its
interior was done over in 1931 it has been considered the most
beautiful church in the Western Hemisphere.

  Above the high altar is Juan Diego's *tilma* still intact.  Two
straight pieces, coarsely woven of fiber from the maguey plant, are
sewn together so that the whole measures 66 inches by 41 inches.  In
color it looks rather like unbleached linen.  Modern scientists are
agreed that in the Mexican climate this cloth would naturally have
disintegrated beyond recognition within twenty years.  On its
fishnet-like web no painting could ever have been done; and even on a
properly prepared canvas, the picture would within two hundred years
have been browned over to the point of obliteration.  What colors,
what gilt were employed is still a mystery.  The technique has eluded
and still eludes all endeavors to elucidate it.

  The figure is only 56 inches tall, but as one draws back from it,
it seems to become larger and more plastic.  Surrounded by golden
rays, it emerges as from a shell of light, clear-cut and lovely in
every detail of line and color.  The head is bent slightly and very
gracefully to the right, just avoiding the long seam.  The eyes look
downward, but the pupils are visible.  This gives an unearthly
impression of lovingness and lovableness.  The mantle that covers the
head and falls to the feet is greenish blue with a border of purest
gold, and scattered through with golden stars.  The tunic is rose-
colored, patterned with lace-like design of golden flowers.  Below is
a crescent moon, and beneath it appear the head and arms of a cherub. 
Although he is tiny in size, he seems to be balancing the image above
him with joyous ease.

  The seer saw the Blessed Virgin as a person of his own race, and
was firm in this conviction.  Her physiognomy in the painting bears
him out, as also do her garments.  Her star-studded outer mantle
resembles that of an Aztec queen.  In so appearing she showed herself
a mother to him and to his people in a most especial way; but the
pictures expression is archetypical of adorable motherhood in every
race of man.

  As recently the Image was preserved as if by Our Lady's special
watchfulness from the persecutors of the Church who then ran the
Mexican government.  They did not dare to close the basilica, so
beloved by the Indian masses, but someone hid a bomb in a bunch of
flowers at the altar, timed to explode at the climax of a pontifical
high Mass.  Most of the hierarchy, as well as the Image, would be
within its range.  The bomb went off, shattering an altarpiece, and
twisting a big bronze cross, but not a man was hurt and the glass in
front of the Image did not even crack.

  The frames surrounding the sacred picture and the various jeweled
crowns above it are brilliant with earthly splendor.  But the
splendor of the Image is not of this earth, not of man's making.  The
eyes that gaze on it now see it exactly as Bishop Zumarraga and the
others saw it when the roses spilled from Juan's mantle and it was
first revealed.  Millions have viewed it during the four and a
quarter centuries since.  At the present time, some fifteen hundred
persons kneel before it on every ordinary day, and on days of
pilgrimages (of which there are many, every year, from other
countries) the numbers cannot be counted.

  The Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe is the Patronal Festivity of
Mexico and is also celebrated with solemnity in the Southwest of the
United States.  To all American Indians, we may suppose, the message
applies as it was spoken: an end to strife and cruelty, a promise of
solace, peace, maternal love.  To all inhabitants of the Americas,
the Image implies a unity of brothers, a union of races acknowledging
the fatherhood of God.  The Mother of the Incarnation of God made it
and gave it to us all, to reaffirm and vivify the pivotal point of
the Cree: that her Son was true God and true man, Redeemer and
Savior.

  We cannot know how long this Holy Image will remain, nor how long
this earth of ours will endure, but the effect of Our Lady's
appearances and gift is continuous, and God may mean the Western
Hemisphere to play a special part in these latter days by
exemplifying, defending, and spreading His purposes for all humanity.
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