So this weekend obviously was Easter, a time of the year I can't help getting cynical about. You know, the whole ritual of the church, and the happy coincidence that Easter happens right about the same time as the Spring Equinox and all the extra stuff the church has welded onto a story that really didn't need embellishment. So anyway, on Friday night when my buddy Jeff said we should ride our bikes down the Yaqui dances, I was less than enthusiastic. But I eventually assented.
The Yaqui are a proud and fierce desert people, whose tribe, like the O'odham, is scattered across both sides of the border. There are three or four Yaqui villages in and around Tucson, including one about a mile and a half from my house. Easter is by far the most important ritual season for the Yaqui. Their religion is a mix of native tradition and old time Catholicism. Easter is celebrated for weeks. The culmination is the final weekend where dances and ceremonies occur around the clock.
So we headed down around eleven o'clock. The ceremonies occur around the village square, one of end of which is dominated by a three walled chapel. The ceremonies for Good Friday were reaching their peak.
On the floor, at the front of the chapel was a plaster figure of Jesus, maybe a foot and a half tall, and very old. Surrounding the figure were twelve kneeling Yaqui teenagers, half men, half women. The men wore robes and white cowls. The girls also wore robes and purple crowns. All of them carried flags. One by one, villagers approached to kneel before Jesus, to ask for blessing from the coming year. They brought their children. They left candles and other offerings. As each knelt before the Son of Man, the attending children raised and dipped their flags in obvious benediction.
Behind this circle, filling the space in the church, the elders of the tribe sat and sang mournful songs. This was a day to reflect on the crucifixion of Jesus, on the sacrifice he made.
There were other people inside. A number of small children were present and kneeling, wearing garlands of flowers in their hair and carrying small sticks. In one corner, a pile of children slept. Obviously, they were working in shifts.
There were flowers everywhere. Photography is not allowed and it's difficult for me to convey the colors. The masks and helmets of the dancers. All the paper and real flowers. The costumes. It all marks the occasion as very serious, not in a dead way, but in one that is both solemn and profoundly beautiful.
Outside the church, people milled about. Observers like us. Masked and costumed figures bearing rattles and bells, clacking sticks in rhythm. And keeping watch were a few dozen members of the Tribe's religious society, clad in black capes and black hats, there to keep order and maintain the solemnity appropriate for the occasion.
These men, and they are all men, keep watch over the ceremony and make sure that visitors approach with due respect. They take the responsibility seriously. Men join the society as their end of a promise to God, a vow usually made during the illness of a small child. Often both child and father swear devotion in exchange for good health.
In any case, Jeff and I were just standing and watching when two of these men approached and grabbed us by the elbow. "Will you help us?" they asked.
Flanked by these men, we were led into the church itself. We removed our hats and knelt among the people. Scattered about the church were flowers and santos, and all of the intricately decorated biers that bore the plaster figures of Mary and Jesus to the church itself. We had no idea what was going on, so we just knelt and watched.
Person after person approached Jesus for their blessing, including a young widow who, as she knelt, burst into sobs and had to be helped up and away. Finally, after about an hour, the songs stopped, everyone stood, and black clad figures motioned us forward.
People dropped a shroud over Jeff and handed him the plain wooden cross from the church. The cross was probably five feet tall. Another person thrust a flickering Coleman lantern into my hand. Facing the courtyard, the crowd parted, making a corridor we were obviously intended to walk down. Members of the society and the masked figures flanked us on both sides as we hesitantly strode forward with the encouragement of a few elders.
Slowly walking forward, the entire village fell into step behind us. We marched out of the courtyard and into the pueblo itself, toward the first fallen cross. Obviously we were going to make the entire circuit of the Stations of the cross.
We walked slowly. Very slowly. The village sang and candles flickered. The men in masks (not unlike kachinas) danced before us, rapping on their sticks. As we passed each station, a young man raised each fallen cross. At the fourth station we paused and faced left, down an empty street.
At the other end of the street appeared another large group of tribal members, led by more masked men. The two groups of masked men rushed and feinted at each other, clacking their sticks and yelling. Suddenly, with a great yell, the groups rushed toward each other as fireworks suddenly exploded into the sky, red, yellow, green and blue. Smoke filled the air, masked figures flashed by us as we strode forward and the singing got louder.
There were two more "battles" on the way back to the church. At the end, they took the cross from Jeff and put it back in the church. A few thanked us for our help, and the ceremonies began again, with a lighter tone, for Jesus had now returned from the dead.
Suffice to say, in the face of such sincere faith, I lost a little of my cynicism about the season. I'm still walking about two feet off the earth.
Did all that really happen? Was it just a dream?
