Transcending Time | Observing Rituals in San Juan Chamula’s Famous Church

I’m in the small town of San Juan Chamula, just a short day trip from San Cristóbal de las Casas, Mexico. This village is special, and I’m walking through the bustling Sunday market where I am about the enter the main church. I have heard about this church. It’s famous and known for practicing ancient rituals of chicken sacrifices. I’m not sure what to expect, but I enter the dark church without any expectations or judgements.  

Disclaimer: This post contains a brief description of animal sacrifices. Please do not continue reading if this triggers you in any way. In a continued commitment to travel deeper and connect myself to destinations. I went here to observe different cultures and customs in a nonjudgemental way.

It takes a few minute for my eyes to adjust.  The hazy smoke trail of incense stings my nose. There is hay lining the floor and hundreds of flower arrangements against the wall. The amount of fresh flowers is overwhelming, but there are even more candles flickering, illuminating this living temple, glistening and dancing along the plain and undecorated walls of the church’s foundation.  

The candles are covering the floor, sitting on tables, and sparkle within every open space of the church. The light is everywhere, darkness has no place to hide in here. There are small candles in old mezcal shot glasses, candles with saints and lilies painted on them. Some candles burn in large brandy snifters where the rim is permanently stained black. The flames are dancing with a purpose, almost as if they are transcending me to the frequency inside of this spiritual house where Old World acts meet the imposed views of the Catholic church.

I see a family that is setting up their ceremonial space and ease in next to them to witness and observe this ancient ritual. There are three rows of candles lacing the floor, some are white, yellow, green, some even multi-colored and resemble the flag of Mexico. In front of the row of candles this thoughtful woman carefully places a large bottle of Pox (a traditional alcoholic drink found in the Chiapas region made from corn) and four glass bottles of Coca-Cola.

She begins lighting the candles with grace. Her unshakeable hand gliding from one candle wick to the next. She is chanting, her family huddled close around her.  The candlelight is illuminating her face. She is wrinkled, yet I can see the youthfulness, kindness, and wisdom beaming out of her. I am in awe of her, a new sense of admiration for her methodic movements.

Next to her, I notice a chicken in a box. Its head is poking out. The chicken is calm, as if it is being hypnotized by the soothing swaying of the candlelight.

I take a look around at this place. People are speaking in an ancient native language. This language was spoken long before the Spanish arrived and forced their religions and beliefs onto these Indigenous people.

A man next to me is standing next to a tomb of Jesus. His eyes shut so tight that his face is wrinkled almost like a prune. He is crying. No, it is more of an uncontrollable sob. I wonder if these are tears of sadness, regret, or if he is simply begging for forgiveness. Whatever he is saying, I feel as if he is making a heartfelt confession to this tomb that is surrounded by flowers. Next to the tomb are two trees that are very much alive. They are sprouting up from below the depths of the grounded floorboards.

The energy in this place is transcending. I realize I am sweating through my shirt and it is taking me effort to stay inside my body and not float like the black candle smoke to the heavens. To surrender would mean swirling up through the ceiling with the chants, scents, tears, pleas of the devoted people around me. The veil is so thin within these four walls. I feel as if I could pull back the curtain and get a glimpse into another world, travel through time, or maybe follow the vibrations of the prayers to another dimension. I take a few deep breaths and beg my consciousness to return back to the ceremony that I have been following since the beginning.

The women moves the chicken to her lap. How is this animal so relaxed, when I’m pretty sure the outcome will not be in favor for him. Next, the woman grabs a small black plastic bag. There is something in here, but I’m not sure what it is. I think it must be personal items for whoever this healing ceremony is for. She moves the bag over the flames and is still chanting. The chicken is then moved in the same way over the flames almost as if it is surfing on top of the black fumes of the candles.

The chicken is then stretched. There is no blood, but I’m sure the chicken’s neck was broken. It’s eyes are shut and it is returned to the box carefully. I am grateful for the quickness of the act, as I have heard and witnessed some ceremonies near to me that didn’t end the same silent way. Unlike the neighboring ceremony, there is no blood shed over this sacrifice. 

The women then begins to drink the liquor and glasses are passed to her entire family. They are drinking, chanting, and cleansing now. While the liter of white liquor of Pox is being drank, the women takes the plastic bag and the contents inside and rubs it across the four statue alters of the saints behind her own personal alter of fire.  

She returns and is continuing to drink and pass out shots of the cleansing liquor. Then, something incredible happens, she tells her family to pass me a glass of liquor. I look wide eyed at her. I have been but only a quiet and mindful observer up to this point, but now I have been granted permission to enter into their healing ceremony. I show my gratitude and make the simple gesture of my hands together in prayer. Next, I bow to this wise woman and simply say “gracias.” 

I take a drink of the liquor and it warms my soul. I thank them quietly and they pour me a little more. The woman nods at me and continues on her way. They offer me some Coca-Cola and I drink it happily to wash down the strong, but bitter taste of the Pox.

They continue to drink and finish the entire liter of cleansing alcohol. Next thing I know, they are all standing and performing a few “Hail Mary’s.” Effortlessly, they pack up their 4 bottles of Coke, empty liter of Pox, the box with the now silent chicken and prepare to leave and walk to the exit of the church.

I feel humbled to have been included in this ceremony. I say a quick prayer for them that whatever healing they have asked for comes their way, wondering if the mindful ceremony and rituals I just witnessed will bring them the healing and comfort that they are seeking.

Then, something happens that I can’t explain. The women who ran the ceremony turns around and I realize she is looking for me. I meet her eyes and she flashes me her biggest smile. Her heartfelt gesture reaches deep inside of me and I feel for a brief moment an overwhelming flood of emotions. It’s as if we just shared an unspoken connection. There is something deeper to this moment and I feel as if I am going to cry. She gives me a huge wave. One so big her whole little body shakes, and all I can do is meet my hands into a prayer and bow to her. I return her smile with my most sincere and purest grin. And just like that, she turns and exits the church.

I feel as if we have exchanged a thousand words, but yet, we have not even spoken to one another. How powerful to connect with someone in this way.

I soon head to exit the church. I am feeling weak, yet filled with gratitude. 

I stroll through the main market where I share small chatter and a sandwich with a little boy. We are laughing and I leave him some coins for his excellent service. He thanks me and I continue on down the road to the cemetery. 

The cemetery surrounds an old abandoned church and the roof is missing. The tombs lay almost scattered on top of each other. The mounds of earth in front of the crosses are thin, but they represent a huge loss to the people in this village. Each mound a memorial for those who no longer are walking with us in this realm. I continue around to the backside of the church.

Here I witness four women who are deep in mourning. They have covered a fresh mound of dirt with pine branches and fruit. They are wailing at the top of their lungs and I can feel their grief. It is almost as if the sky is feeling it too, and the dark storm clouds are approaching. The noises that arise from these women sound almost like howls, it’s as if they are calling or begging to the celestial skies for the rain to come and to cleanse them of their broken hearts.

I walk towards the main plaza where I can hear the church bells ringing. It is almost 1:00 in the afternoon. There are three men on top of the roof manually pulling the strings to make the bells sing. The bells act as an alarm, and the people in the market begin packing up their makeshift stalls off the ground. San Juan Chamula is so magical. It’s authentic and raw, these simple details make it hard to leave.

I head towards the collective stop that will return me to San Cristóbal de las Casas.  There is a small child looking into my blue eyes with wonder. She seems fixated on them, and I smile at her. She burrows her face into her mother so very shyly and innocently. She still doesn’t take her gaze off of me.

Driving down the road, I look out window. The storm has started. Families are laughing and running in the rain together. I see a woman on the side of the road who is out with her goats. She quickly sets up a tarp. I’m sure she is hoping that the storm will pass fast. 

I look over and the little girl who was staring at me. She is now asleep and clutching her mother’s breast. She looks so relaxed and I notice she is smiling in her dreams. I return my gaze out the window and catch myself smiling, too. The people that I’m sharing this vehicle with feel more like acquaintances than strangers.

Here I am in Mexico, following a gut instinct that came to me a few months back. I am feeling so at peace in this van that is twisting and flying down the mountainous road. I have finally come to feel comfortable here, I have temporarily found closure in leaving Peru. Maybe I am finding a deep adornment for my new surroundings, or maybe that woman passed a little bit of healing onto me as well in that dimly lit church.

I shut my eyes and breathe deep. I am buzzing full of energy. What a treat to see how beautiful and diverse this world truly is. Even through the heaviness of the day, the grief, I can see the radiance of electricity binding us together. There is always a candle illuminating light in the darkest of days.

We connect and share moments. These human interactions can be big or small, but they impact us the most when they are authentic and from the heart. We heal and support each other in the best way we know how…. even when we don’t seem to understand the methods. As humans, we’re all just doing the best we can.

The storm clouds are now parting and the sun is beginning to beam out behind the thick rain clouds. The warm rays of light touch my skin through the window. My smile doesn’t leave my face for the rest of the journey.

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