Away in a Manger
There is an ancient Catholic church high in the mountains of central Honduras where Jesus lives. Built by Spanish priests in the late 1500s, it’s thick, adobe walls now provide chickens and oxen respite from the punishing heat. A few wood-carved statues of saints and one of the Virgin Mary adorn what was once an altar. Flecks of goldleaf glisten off their tunics, a reminder of the conquistadors’ true intent in that part of the world. And still they are honored: Cortéz, Ponce de León, Alverado.
A few dozen modest, whitewashed adobe homes are nestled in the shade of the church that rises above treetops, a phoenix of a bygone era. Tiled roofs and open doors allow the houses to breathe. There are gardens, flowerbeds, women cooking over open fires, men tending to livestock and building fence, and there are children running along worn dirt paths their ancestors once navigated to check on family and to bring news and supplies from the cities below. There is no electricity, and there are no roads. It is a half-day walk up a rocky path to reach the village.
Two Honduran friends and I arrived on horseback. I was an oddity, the first American anyone could remember visiting the village. Cautiously welcomed, I was served a hearty meal of fried chicken rice and beans while little kids clamored to sit on my lap and touch my hair. After lunch and countless introductions, I made my way to the church while my friends conducted business and met with ailing family members.
I imagined stained glass windows depicting angels floating above the heads of Spanish saints and Pope Alexander V1 and the hymns sung by native people learning a strange, new language while bowing their heads to an even a stranger god. That era is long gone, but the church remains and quietly, Jesus has returned to claim his home.
I sat in one of three remaining oak pews made smooth by centuries of churchgoers who prayed like I do for the wellbeing of my family and those in my community. For loved ones who have left us and those who are part of our daily lives. And like them, I have raged against injustices and have asked for forgiveness and grace when my faith has faltered.
Priests abandoned villages like these a century ago when life got a bit easier in the cities, and I wondered why they came to this tiny aldea in the first place. The hardwood timbers stretching the vaulted ceiling were not cut from this forest, rather they were painstakingly dragged up the mountain by oxen and native people forced to do the work of God, or so the priests preached. Much thought was put into building this church in this location, but I could not fathom why, except that history reminds us that Spanish colonization in Latin America was swift and complete.
Chickens pecked in the dirt floor near my feet, a greeting of sorts. I made the sign of the cross. “Hello,” I whispered. “I know you’re here.”
It had been a long day. The tropical fever I battled got the best of me, and I lay down on the pew and closed my eyes. In my sleep Jesus appeared as a young man working in the village, helping farmers plant crops, building furniture, and repairing the waterline, the lifeline for the town supplied by a river even higher up the mountain. I followed him, remaining in the shadows of the jungle, but he knew I was there.
My friends Eli and Carlos appeared at the door, startling me awake. “It’s time to leave,” Eli said.
“I want to stay,” I said.
“I know.” He smiled. “That’s why I brought you here.”
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Right now, many of us are busy with holiday planning. There are gifts to purchase and wrap. Cards to send. Decorations to hang. Sweet treats to bake and big meals to cook. And I am often overwhelmed.
But there is also what matters. The memory of that day on the mountain resides inside me as a nativity scene where Mary in her gold-flecked tunic stands over her child in the manger at the altar where Spanish priests once presided over Mass. Joseph is there, too—a proud father. So are the chickens and oxen. It is night and candles illuminate the scene inside the church. And for a moment, I can breathe during the holiday season chaos.
