La Semana Santa in Paraguay and Bolivia

Santa Cruz de la Tierra, Bolivia
9 de abril de 2009

Semana Santa, or Holy Week, is huge in Latin America. It is far more than a week of religious observances. For Latinos it's a time for extended vacation, as well as a time for spiritual reflexion.

The first signs of Semana Santa started weeks ago while I was still in Buenos Aires. For the bottom half of South America this is the last hurrah of summer--the last holiday before the onset of winter. Every travel agency in Argentina and Uruguay were advertising for Easter get-aways--often to the same places we escape to: Florida, Cancun, and the Caribbean. But, in this year of la crisis economica, many Latin Americans are staying closer to home and escaping to beaches is Brazil or visiting places in their own country.

Chile, Argentina and Uruguay are secular countries, much like the United States. Bolivia, on the other hand, is culturally much less secular, and it is for this reason that I chose to be here for Easter Week.

The week began, however, in Parguay. Last Saturday, the day before Palm Sunday, or Domingo de Ramas, I began to notice people selling palms on the streets of Asuncion. These were not the ordinary palm fronds that we get at home but, rather, palms reshaped into baskets, crosses, flowers, hearts and designs that defy description. On Sunday, I got to a small chapel early. At the beginning of the service, the priest and his assistants lead a procession into the church. A group of young men were carrying a large statue of Jesus riding on a donkey. It was placed at the front of the church and would remain there for the duration of Holy Week. As the statue was carried into the church, people waved their palms enthusiastically. When the triumphant Jesus was placed on the altar, the priest then blessed the palms, and a traditional Mass followed.

By Thursday I had arrived in Southern Bolivia, in its largest city, Santa Cruz. Thursday morning shops and stores maintained their normal business hours. By 1:00 p.m. it was blistering hot and I escaped to my hotel to take a nap. When I reemerged onto the streets, all the stores had closed and would stay closed until Monday. This was a national holiday, a time to return to villages and time to spend with family and friends.

The cathedral in Santa Cruz is the diocesan center for this part of Bolivia. La Ultima Cena, the Last Supper, observance began at 5 pm. I had expected it be in the church, but it was held outdoors, on the broad steps leading into the church. This was high Catholic. The Bishop presided with an entourage of priests. The most powerful part of the service was the washing of feet. Twelve boys had been chosen and the Bishop, with the help of two other priests, presided over this ritual.

By 7 pm it was time to move on to another church, La Mansion. At first glance I would have said this was a Protestant mega-church. It was huge and had I not looked closely I would not have seen some of the subtle Catholic imagery in the church. People came and went. The service began with music, praise, and prayer and repeated that cycle for over an hour. Ten minutes into the service I realized I was in a Pentcostal Catholic church. People lifted their hands, prayed in tongues, waved their palms. This was a spirit filled church and it was hard not to participate. None of the traditional Holy Thursday rituals were present. From what I could, this was a service of deep thanksgiving.

There was an air of festivity on the streets outside La Mansion. People were selling all sorts of things: hamburgers, hot dogs, empanadas, popcorn, palms, of course, candies, Bibles, balloons, fruit, and juices. Several people had wheelbarrels filled with Easter eggs. I asked one woman if this was a new custom in Bolivia and she said that it had only entered the culture within the past few years. The streets were packed with people. This was the beginning of five dias de feriados--public holidays.

I walked back to my hotel. There was such a fun feeling all around me that I hated to pass up the opportunity to be part of it. On the way back, I stopped into another church--La Igelsia de San Francisco. I was, after all, on the full Semana Santa ecclesiastical tour of as many church services as I could see. I wanted the whole Holy-Week-in-Latin-America experience. The lines going into the church were thick with people. I followed the crowd, stuffing myself into the masses. As people entered, they touched each statue then crossed themselves. I am still not sure what all these people were doing. I had expected to see an exposed consecrated Host, but there was none. The crowd was jovial and this was clearly an important part of the Jueves Santo, Holy Thursday, experience.

Back at the Cathedral, the same thing was going on, but the church was so much larger that it absorbed people more easily. This time the Eucharist was exposed, but in the foreground was a diorama of the Last Supper with assorted images added. There was a table with bread and wine, and the floor was a crown of thorns, a whip and thirty pieces of silver. May people were deep in mediation, but overall the mood was high spirited. This was, for many, as a friend once said about contemporary weddings, more show than sacrament.

In the end, in my opinion, the Pentecostals trumped out the Cathedral. They had stripped away the ritual that many people simply do not find satisfying. They had gone directly to the source. As I reflected on this, I realized that this was a Catholic response to the ever-growing number of Protestant converts in Central and South America. The service was essentially evangelical Protestant, although there was a Mass with the Eucharist being an essential part. But prayer, praise and music, from what I could see, dominated.

Friday morning the streets were empty. Not a store or shop was open. Today was Good Friday, or Viernes Santo. At noon the Cathedral was first on my schedule. The Seven Words of Christ was the liturgy for the afternoon, but so much of it was lost on me because I could not follow the Spanish. It was, essentially, brief sermons on the last seven utterances of Christ, linked together by a wonderful, small orchestra.

At three, La Mansion hosted the same liturgy, but what impressed me was that most of the congregation followed along in their Bibles and many of the meditations were done by woman. (There had not been a single woman on the altar at the Cathedral. ) There was much music, contemporary in nature, but in the end it was the Word that dominated the liturgy.

By now I was hungry, and I took a church break for dinner. At six, though, I was back at the Cathedral for yet another liturgy. This, too, was done outdoors on the steps of the church. The park is front was swimming with people and as far as I could see people lined the streets. By 6:30 Christ was dead and a solemn procession began. I use the word "procession," because that is the word the Bolivians use, but to me a procession implies a relatively small group of people. When I say that thousands of people participated in this event I do not exaggerate. To use the word parade would diminish the event, so we´ll just call it by what is was--a procession.

The park and streets were alive with activity. By now, bouquets of fresh basil were being sold. I had not seen this before and when I asked someone the only answer I got was that this was a Bolivian Good Friday tradition. More people were buying more palms, as well as the usual assortment of refreshments. Kids were carrying Bugs Bunny balloons. Many people had rosaries or were carrying statues of Jesus or crucifixes. A lot of people were carrying candles.

The Legion of Mary opened to procession. I had to chuckle at the macho Latino boys, spinning their rosaries on their fingers, checking out the girls in the crowd. Different fraternal groups followed--Sisters of the Dominicans, the Miracle of Jesus squad. Hundreds of people paraded past. Next to follow were the clergy who had participated in the earlier liturgy. Once these groups passed, a huge black cross, draped in white cloth and wreathed in flowers, carried on the shoulders of ten men, emerged. People would leave their place on the procession route, approach the cross, touch their palms to it, or touch their hands to it. Hundreds more people passed. A large statue of Mary, dressed just like a Domincan nun, was carried by a contingent of ten woman. Eight female Santa Cruz policewoman acted as honor guards. Hundreds more people passed.

A large statue of St. John was next, carried by another ten men and flanked by a contingent of eight male Santa Cruz policemen. As each statue approached, a truck with speakers on it was within sound distance. There was an ongoing recital of the rosary. People continued to step out of place to place their hands or palms or bouquets of herbs on the statue. This time hundreds and hundreds of people passed.

By now the faint sounds of a drum and brass band could be heard. Following the statue of the living Christ was the three foot by eight foot silver, wood and glass coffin containing the dead Christ. His body was clearly visible, covered in a thin gauzy material. This time it was not possible to step out of line. A hundred young people, hands linked, protected the coffin and the twenty eight men carrying it.

The brass band, at least a hundred strong, followed. And following them were hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of people. The stream was seemingly unending. This was my time to join the procession, walking in tune to the band, joining the faithful in this procession around the city core.

Ninety minutes later the fraternities, statues, and glass coffin returned to the church. Hundreds and hundreds of people were singing--Jesu, Jesu Christo, yo te adoro. Jesus, Jesus Christ, I adore you. The procession and all the statues entered the cathedral. The coffin was placed in the middle aisle , eight large candles surrounded it, and the statues of Mary and the living Christ flanked it. The body would be waked until midnight. Thousands of people poured into the church, standing in line to touch the coffin, to place their palm fronds on it., to kiss it. People lingered, people prayed, some people wept. There was absolutely nothing phoney about this display of fidelity and emotion.

After their visit to the coffin, congregants would find a seat in the church and sit with their friends and families. Some were saying the Stations of the Cross at their seats; others knelt in prayer. It was just like a large family wake where, once you have paid your respects to the family and deceased, you kick back and enjoy the company of people you´ve not seen in awhile.

Meanwhile, at some of the smaller altars, people were lighting candles, praying to statues; others were following the visible Stations of the Cross, praying at each one. Hundreds of candles were being lit and people were praying over them.

Outside the once quiet streets had a holiday feel about them. All the food vendors were out, restaurants were open and the jazz bar kitty-corner to the cathedral had started its Friday night entertainment.

I had never experienced a Good Friday like this, although I have experienced larger scale Buddhist/Hindu festivals in Asia. There were many comparisons. In this culture, this was a seamless extension of the secular and the religious, just as it is in India or Burma. No one would have thought to say this was a violation of church and state. This was simply a cultural extension of the lives of the majority of Bolivians. (On the other hand, the federal government on Wednesday did say that it was distancing itself from these traditions. Evo Morales is making an attempt to separate the too-powerful church/state relationship.)

I lingered in fascination at the four hour velado (from the word vela, meaning candle) , or wake. For me this was a unique experience. Saturday, I knew would be much quieter, a good day for me to travel to another town where I would experience Easter.

By the end of Santo Viernes, the Cathedral had trumped La Mansion, sheerly by its power and pagaentry. I just could not see the La Mansionites expressing their faith in this way, anymore than the Cathedralites could express their faith in Pentecostal fashion. Many branches, but one trunk, Jesus told us. This was a perfect way to experience two branches.

Saturday was a travel day. Churches were silenced, so this was a good day to be on the move. A ten hour bus ride brought me out of the hot, humid Amazonian lowlands to the lovely town of Cochabamba, at 8,000 feet. Easter morning, I rose at 5:15 to participate in the first service of the day--an Easter procession. Well, I was disappointed. Maybe there were 30 people. The women went one way carrying a large statue of Mary, and the men went another carrying a crucifix. Each group circled a city block then returned to the church. I went back to bed.

At ten, though, I did go to church , but, as is the case in Latin America, Easter is all about Friday. There was a large statue of the risen Christ on the altar and a banner proclaiming ¨Why are you looking for Jesus here? He has risen.¨ But, sadly, the service was lackluster as best. This wasn´t a congregation that sang and at one point the lector almost begged the people (and this is a pretty faithful paraphrase), ¨Come on people, sing! Jesus died for your sins. Sing!¨ In Bolivia, as in the rest of the Spanish speaking world, Semana Santa had come to an end. Easter was just another normal Sunday.

I had a feeling, though, that had I been at La Mansion, the service would have much more exhubarent!