Sandi Ault - Wild Penance

“I know the ones I’ve seen are usually off the beaten path. Not on a major road, some not even near a road, and never in an obvious place,” I said. “You really have to look for them to find them.”

“There are only a few moradas left which carry on the old practices, and they have been forced to become more and more covert. It is vital to the spirit of the ceremonies that the penitent ones be anonymous. These rituals are for them and for their community; they are not some circus sideshow for ignorant Anglos converging on the villages, hoping to see a religious spectacle, perhaps even a crucifixion. The attendance of uninitiated onlookers has only added fuel to the sensationalism surrounding the rituals, and that draws more onlookers. It was never meant to be that way.” He shook his head in frustration and took a drink of coffee. He checked the door, then looked back at me. “You know that Los Penitentes were once excommunicated by the Church?”

I nodded.

“You will find a tentative peace today between the Church and Los Hermanos de la Luz-that is another name for them, the Brothers of the Light. In some of the larger towns, there might be a procession, a pale imitation of what it once was. The activities will be centered around the church, although a ceremony may be held by the brotherhood in the morada, especially the Tinieblas-the ceremony held in darkness on Good Friday. But it will be nothing like…” His voice trailed off. He knitted his brows, making a chevron of grooves across his forehead. He peered at me through squinted lids. “Do you know what made me finally agree to our interview?”

“No. I wondered-I’ve been trying for months.”

“It was one of the pieces you sent me-the one you wrote about that procession you happened to witness near the Chama. When I read it, I was very moved, almost as I would have been if I had been there myself. Where did you learn to write like that?”

I thought a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe I inherited it from my mother. She wrote poetry.”

He glanced intently at me. “What you wrote about is an ancient tradition-making penance. But there are also the traditions of giving, of service to the community, of charity, of healing. All the traditions of Los Penitentes and their sister order, Las Carmelitas, have been tenderly taught from generation to generation in these tiny villages. And some believe that these lovingly maintained customs come from even before we came here.”

“Tell me about that, Father.”

He waited, tilted his head to one side to see the door. Then he began speaking almost in song. I was mesmerized by his voice as he told me the story of how Spain had sent Franciscan brothers to colonize the lands that early conquistadors had claimed for the king. Unable to reach all the outlying villages when a priest or brother was needed, they had cultivated a tertiary, or Third Order of lay leaders of the church, who called themselves Los Hermanos de la Luz. The practice of self-flagellation and excessive penance was common in medieval Spain, and some believed that the Franciscans may have introduced these practices here, hence the name Los Penitentes. When the Mexican Revolt cast the Spaniards out, the Franciscans were called home to Spain, leaving Los Hermanos to fend for themselves in religious matters. The unique and exotic practices which developed, including ritual crucifixion, were a result of the remote and isolated nature of the land itself.

“Of course there is yet another theory,” he said. “Some say that the practices and the brotherhood came up from Mexico in the late 1700s. Many scholars believe this is the more correct of the two. However, there are certain moradas that maintain they were given their original charter in the 1500s. So it is hard to say which is true.”

I propped my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand as I listened to him with fascination.

“I have a suggestion for your book.”

This roused me. I sat up at once and pulled the notebook to me, turned to a fresh page, and picked up a pencil.

“Do you know about El Instituto Religioso de la Santa Hermandad-the Religious Institution of the Holy Brotherhood?”

I wrote as quickly as I could, trying to keep up. “You mean the tract that was supposed to have been published by Padre Martínez sometime around the 1830s? The one defending the Penitentes when the Church was issuing decrees condemning them?”

“The very same.”

“I have read about that, but there are no known copies. It might even be just a legend.”

“Oh, it is not just a legend, I assure you.” He looked beyond me toward the door. He nodded his head at someone there.

I turned and looked behind me at a large man in a long black coat. He nodded at me and the padre, then turned and left the coffeehouse. I twisted around again and looked at Father Ignacio.

He shrugged apologetically. “That is my driver. I have only a few more minutes. Then I must leave.”

“So about this tract…”

“Do you also know about a man named Pedro Antonio Fresquíz of Las Truchas?”

“Wait-say that again?” I scribbled as Father Medina repeated the name for me.

He pointed to the i in Fresquíz. “There is an acute accent there. Look him up. Bring the two things together.”

I looked at him, confused.

“Fresquíz and the tract. They will come together. If you search hard enough.”

“Where would I find-”

“There is something going on right now. I cannot speak about it. It is not safe. But Los Penitentes are… someone is trying to steal their power. I can say no more.”

I gave him a puzzled look. “I don’t understand.”

“There are not so many members these days, fewer and fewer of Los Hermanos de la Luz,” he said. “There is also little interest in the true nature of their belief, their role in community life, their bond as brothers, their commitment to service. Instead, they are widely regarded by the general population, and even by some in the Catholic Church, as some sort of cult. Even I am being discouraged by my superiors in the Church from my work in this area. Some of the holy icons have been stolen, others denounced as idols. Moradas have been broken into and vandalized. The sacred oaths of the brotherhood have been betrayed by traitors. And right now, no one trusts anyone.” He pointed his finger at me. “No one is going to trust you as you try to find answers to your questions. You must be very careful.”

He reached for his coat on the banco beside him and began to get up. But he stopped, sat back, and gave me a curious look, tilting his head slightly to one side, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. “I am satisfied that your intent is well-meaning, but I wonder if you are capable of finding the gentle, loving story of community and service in Los Penitentes.” He pondered a moment. “Or if you are merely attracted to their suffering.” He waited.

I didn’t speak.

“An enlightened person will come to realize that they are both the same. But you are young, Miss Wild. You are young, and you did not even grow up here, and also, you say that you have no faith. What do you know of penance?”

His words demanded a reply, but I had none. I held his gaze without flinching for what felt like an eternity. Finally I spoke. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s the thing I’m supposed to learn about.”

He was quiet a moment, never taking his eyes from my face. “Yes, perhaps that is so,” he said softly. He smiled tenderly at me, then stood and started to put on his coat.

I stood, too. “Father Ignacio-”

He held up his hand to stop me. “If I don’t see you again, señorita, please be careful. There is danger surrounding Los Penitentes right now. May God be with you.”