Under Two Mantles

Our parish in Los Angeles is dedicated to the Immaculate Conception.
By American standards, it is an old church, built in 1927. At that time, it stood in an affluent neighborhood filled with large Victorian-style homes. Today, many of those same houses have been divided to accommodate several families, mostly of working-class origin, from Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras.

So last December 8th, the solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, I was expecting a large crowd, complete with bands, fireworks, and the exuberant expressions of devotion typical of Central America. Instead, the only noticeable difference from the usual 7:30 a.m. Mass was the presence of a guitar player and a singer. Unfortunately -- or perhaps tellingly -- the parishioners, who, as I said, are largely Hispanic, and even the two resident Mexican priests, seem to favour another Marian feast: Our Lady of Guadalupe, celebrated just four days later.

On 12th December, by 4:30 a.m., the church is packed as people gather to sing Las Mañanitas to Our Lady of Guadalupe. Las Mañanitas (“The Little Mornings”) is a beloved traditional Mexican song accompanied by mariachi music, often sung at dawn to celebrate birthdays, feast days, and Mother’s Day. Outside the church, vendors sell flowers, candles, and traditional foods, transforming the entire area into a joyful celebration of faith.

I had noticed that something similar used to happen in Peru with the feasts of Saint Rose of Lima and Saint Martin de Porres. For a long time, I could not understand why one saint drew much greater devotion than the other. Then, one day, a sociologist explained it to me. People -- especially the poor -- tend to identify more deeply with Saint Martin de Porres.

Born out of wedlock to a Spanish nobleman and a Black enslaved woman, Martin was of mixed race and dark complexion. His father abandoned the family, and because of his origins, Martin could never become a fully professed member of a religious order under Peruvian law. Today, he is revered as the patron saint of social justice, racial harmony, and people of mixed heritage. Saint Rose of Lima, by contrast, was born into a noble Spanish family and is now the patroness of embroidery, gardening, and flowers in bloom. While Martin’s feast is a month-long of processions and other popular devotions, Rose’s feast is rather low-key.

I sometimes wonder whether this is the same case with Central Americans who celebrate one Marian title with such fervor, while another passes almost unnoticed.

Our Lady of Guadalupe

According to the Nican Mopohua, written in Nahuatl, Virgin Mary appeared four times to Juan Diego, a humble Chichimec man, and once to his uncle, Juan Bernardino, beginning on December 9, 1531. On the Hill of Tepeyac, she spoke to Juan Diego in his own language, identifying herself as the mother of the true God and asking that a church be built in her honor. When Juan Diego relayed this message to Archbishop Juan de Zumárraga, he was not believed. After the second apparition, however, Virgin Mary encouraged Juan Diego to persevere.

When the Archbishop asked for a sign, Virgin Mary promised one during her third appearance on December 10. Juan Diego was delayed the following day because his uncle had fallen gravely ill. On December 12, Virgin Mary reassured him with her tender words: “¿No estoy yo aquí que soy tu madre?” — “Am I not here, I who am your mother?” She also told him that his uncle had already been healed and instructed him to gather flowers from the normally barren hilltop. There, Juan Diego found blooming Castilian roses.

Virgin Mary arranged the roses in Juan Diego’s tilma -- cloak, and when he opened it before the Archbishop, the flowers fell to the ground, revealing her image miraculously imprinted on the tilma. Mother Mary appears as a pregnant indigenous woman with downcast eyes, black hair, dressed in a rose-colored tunic and a blue-green mantle adorned with stars, standing before the sun and upon a crescent moon. The following day, Juan Diego found his uncle healed, and Juan Bernardino reported that Virgin Mary had also appeared to him, asking to be known as “Guadalupe.”

The Archbishop first placed the tilma in his private chapel and later put it on public display. On December 26, a solemn procession carried the image back to Tepeyac, where it was installed in a newly built chapel. Today, the site includes the Old Basilica, the modern circular New Basilica, the Chapel of the Little Well, and the Chapel of Saint Juan Diego.

My Encounter with Guadalupe

My own relationship with Our Lady of Guadalupe began in 2003, when an eight-day retreat for the Americas Region of my congregation was scheduled to take place in Mexico City. I was in one of my antisocial moods and I remember telling my regional superior that “the last thing I needed was a preached retreat with other Brothers in a super-cloying, overly devotional setting: the Basilica of Guadalupe.” Brother Marcos Antonio knew me well, wanted me to attend, but in the end left the decision to me.

I attended -- and to my amazement, the retreat house was only fifty metres from the Basilica. On the day we arrived, I visited the shrine and felt Our Lady say to me, quite simply, “You’re finally here.” But the real miracle happened on the first day of the retreat, when I entered the chapel dedicated to Saint Juan Diego. It is a small chapel, painted in warm earth tones, evoking an old Mexican adobe home. As I entered, a banner displayed the words spoken by Our Lady to Juan Diego:

Rest assured, my little son,

the youngest of my children

that I will be deeply grateful to you.

I will make you happy,

I will glorify you,

and you will deserve much of my gratitude

for your weariness,

for your service.

Do all that is within your power.

More than four hundred years have passed since those words were first spoken, yet that day they entered my heart and stayed with me. For the entire retreat, I could hardly wait for the preacher to finish his long, winding talks so that I could return to the chapel and listen again to Our Lady’s words.

Immaculate Conception

On the other hand, my relationship with the Immaculate Conception goes back much further to my childhood at the heart of my family. My parents had a deep devotion to Our Lady of Lourdes even before they were married.

In 1858, Virgin Mary appeared eighteen times to fourteen-year-old Bernadette Soubirous in Lourdes, France, and during the final apparition, she identified herself as “the Immaculate Conception.”

On the days that remembered the apparitions, our little family of four would come together to pray the Rosary and the prayers to Our Lady of Lourdes. I remember sitting in my parents’ bedroom, all of us huddled close together, with the lamp beside the bed softly lighting the room. One of us would recite the prayers and the others would respond. In that small space, I felt safe, held, and somehow aware that Mother Mary was nearby.

In 2011, I was blessed with the opportunity to visit Lourdes myself. Thousands of pilgrims flock to the Grotto of Massabielle, where Our Lady appeared to Bernadette. The experience touched me far more deeply than I had anticipated. Standing in that sacred place -- where so many have come in hope, and suffering, I felt a quiet peace settle in my heart. There was something profoundly humbling about being surrounded by the faith of countless pilgrims.

As I approached the Grotto, I was moved not only by its history, but by the gentle simplicity of the place. The flickering candles, the murmur of prayer, and the steady flow of the spring …. all seemed to speak of Mary’s tenderness towards Bernadette. In that moment, I felt very close to Our Lady -- very much aware of her presence.

Returning to our parish in Los Angeles, I cannot help but wonder whether people identify more readily with Our Lady of Guadalupe because she appears as an indigenous maiden, with a mestiza complexion. Her image speaks of a mother who belongs to the peoples of the Americas, especially to those who are poor, native, or mixed in heritage. Her blue-green mantle -- an Aztec royal color --- her stars, and her gentle, downcast eyes all convey humility and closeness. By contrast, images of the Immaculate Conception -- from Our Lady of Lourdes to the paintings of Crivelli or Murillo -- almost always portray Mary as white, blue-eyed and dressed in European clothing.

And there I find myself, much like our parishioners, torn between two Virgins . . .  or rather drawn by two faces of the same Mother. One speaks to me through the simplicity of Lourdes and the childhood faith of Bernadette; the other through Tepeyac, where Mary bends low to speak the language of the poor and the forgotten. Perhaps this is not a tension to be resolved, but a grace to be received. Mary remains the same Mother, yet she allows herself to be recognized in different ways by her children. In the end, it is not a choice between two Virgins, but an invitation to let myself be loved by both.

Blurbs

People identify with Virgin Mary better when she is presented as a native woman, in the colour and figure of the local people. She then becomes truly their Mother.

Mother Mary allows herself to be recognized in different ways by her children. In the end, it is not a choice between two Virgins, but an invitation to let myself be loved by both.