Our Lady of Guadalupe: A Mary Who Speaks Our Language

Ever since she appeared to an Aztec peasant in 1531, la Virgen has offered my people companionship, compassion, and consolation.

BY: Eric Stoltz

 

Reprinted from Awake My Soul: Contemporary Catholics on Traditional Devotions with permission of Loyola Press.



Here in El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Angeles, "The City of Our Lady, Queen of the Angels," a city most people know as Los Angeles, one cannot go long without encountering Our Lady of Guadalupe. She gazes tranquilly from the stucco walls of convenience stores, from the black dashboards of cars, from gold medallions, from the blue ink of tattoos.

Her story and my people's traditions surrounding la Virgen remain powerful because she speaks to the deepest recesses of the human soul. For more than four hundred years before the Second Vatican Council's "Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World" (1965), she was teaching an entire people every day how to share the joy and hope, the grief and anxiety of the whole human race.

There was snow on the ground that December morning of 1531 when a poor fifty-seven-year-old Aztec widower named Juan Diego Cuauhtlatzin approached Tepeyac Hill on his fifteen-mile walk to Mass. He climbed the hill because he heard music and someone softly calling his name: ¡Juanito! ¡Juan Dieguito! It was an affectionate form of his name, as though she were calling, "Johnny! Little John Diego!" There he encountered a young Indian woman, dark like him, wearing traditional Aztec garb, including the black sash around her waist indicating she was pregnant.

She told him she was Mary and that she desired a church to be built there, where she could hear her people's weeping and sorrows and console them. He was to inform the bishop of Mexico City of her request. Bishop Zumárraga was a proud Spaniard, and he shooed away this ignorant Indian. Juan Diego reported the bishop's dismissal to the lady. She sent him back. The bishop again sent him away disdainfully, this time demanding a miracle.

His Excellency got his miracle and then some. When Juan Diego arrived at the bishop's palace the third time, he dumped out roses the lady had picked from Tepeyac's snowy rocks and arranged in his rough cloak, his tilma. There on his cloak was the image of the very lady he had met on the hill, an image preserved to this day in the basilica dedicated to her outside Mexico City.

On Tepeyac Mary did not threaten calamity, or tell the pope to say a certain prayer on a particular day, or confirm a fine point of Augustinian theology. She promised only to listen to anyone who would come to her. She offered only companionship, compassion, and consolation. But this simple gift has resonated through the world for hundreds of years, an earthy song of divine pathos sung by millions of voices that only grows stronger with time.

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