La Noche Nueva

The road to San Ignacio winds like a pilgrim through the deserts of Baja California, down from the cool springs and blue palms of Cataviña to the bleak wastelands of the Vizcaíno desert. There the road stretches to the horizon, past the salt marshes of Guerrero Negro and over dry hills where only a few cardón cactus mark the monotonous miles. After such a desolate journey, the first glimpse of San Ignacio sleeping its green sleep in the distant arroyo seems to be a traveler's mirage: flash of river water in the sunlight, lush verdure of date palms, and the swoop and glide of a hundred bright-winged ravens over it all. But the closer one approaches, the more the shimmering images form themselves into solid reality: thatched roofs, and stone river walls, and the old mission waiting like a welcome in the plaza's shade.

We drove into San Ignacio on the afternoon of December 24, a dusty little caravan of Volkswagen vans seeking an oasis in which to pass Christmas Eve. Far to the north, the California towns we had left behind buzzed with canned Christmas music and glittered with tinsel garlands. But in San Ignacio, where Christmas is still simply the celebration of the Nativity, the only decorations in the plaza were two old men who appeared rooted to their park benches under the ancient trees, and the only music came from the lilting voices of children as brown and sweet as the dates they sold to travel-weary tourists like us. I thought that just such urchins might have greeted Joseph long ago, as he led his weary wife into Bethlehem--another sleepy little oasis town in another desert land.

We had hoped to spend the night with our old friend Oscar Fischer who owns La Posada Motel in San Ignacio. But Oscar informed us, with his grave Mexican courtesy, that there was no room at the inn. He directed us to an empty lot behind the motel, and there we made our Christmas Eve camp. Under a rusty faucet beneath a pepper tree, we washed the dust of the journey from our faces; then we dug into our bags for the clean clothes we had been hoarding for just this moment, and we prepared to attend Christmas Eve mass at the mission. Over the mountains beyond the town, the setting sun cast its glow on palm trees and river and lit the old stone of the mission walls with gold.

In other parts of the New World, there was once abundant gold in the earth itself, and the padres in those regions filled their churches with its splendor. I have been in poor towns in other parts of Latin America where entering the church seemed like entering Heaven itself, so rich were the carved robes of the saints and their gilded halos. But the mission church in San Ignacio exudes the same simple, unadorned beauty as the earth from which it springs and the people it has served. Unlike grander, more sophisticated churches, it does not soar; rather, it sprawls, spreading its arms to embrace and protect the town with its solid presence. Over more than two centuries, the feet of the faithful have worn its rough stone stairs to a marble sheen. Beside the ancient wooden doors, a lone bougainvillea spreads magenta blossoms in welcome; the doors themselves open slowly, creaking with age.

Inside, the chapel is dim and smells faintly of mildew. That night, a cluster of votive candles flickered at the feet of St. Ignacio where he raised a patient wooden hand in blessing. Beside him, a carved angel with an Indian face floated in the gloom. I found myself overwhelmed by a sense of disappointment: I had been ready for candelabras, and choirs, and twinkling Christmas trees; but the atmosphere in the mission was hardly festive, let alone gala, and its modesty depressed me. To make matters worse, I realized that I was dressed all wrong. I had thought that this would be an Event to which the townsfolk would come in their finest attire to see and be seen. But I had underestimated the easy intimacy between the people and their mission, for they came in to worship straight off the street, dressed in their everyday clothes, stopping by to greet the newborn King as simply and as naturally as if they were dropping in to gossip for an hour with a neighbor on their way home from the day's work. Many of the women still carried their small purchases: a package of tortillas or a slab of cheese for the evening meal; and the men still wore their shirtsleeves rolled up against the heat of the day, the sweat still drying on their dusty necks. In my green wool dress and high-heeled shoes, I felt like a gaudy plastic Christmas tree in a forest of dignified pines. I curled up in a corner of my wooden pew and tried to disappear into the stone walls.

The priest was young with a clear, honest face. His hair was blond and his eyes light, and I wondered if he had been banished to this remote outpost as a lesson in humility. But his bearing, in his white robe, was serene. Without ceremony, he began to read the beautiful words of the Christmas story. Even in Spanish they sounded comfortingly familiar to me: the decree from Caesar Augustus, the journey into Bethlehem, and the birth in a manger, witnessed only by shepherds. In the unpretentious voice of the young priest, the words carried a sense of immediacy, as if the miracle had only just happened, and we were all gathered together in that humble place to bear witness. Beside me, a woman with a fat baby on her lap glanced my way from under heavy lids and graced me with a shy smile.

Then the priest came down from the altar and stood at the front of the nave. With head bowed, he extended his arms to the people. In them he held--much to my utter astonishment--a small, well-worn doll. It was a baby doll much like one I had played with as a child, with plastic head and limbs and a cloth torso. The doll was unclothed and uncovered; for me, the spectacle was so shockingly incongruous that I almost laughed aloud. I don't know what I had expected: organ music, perhaps, or incense; certainly not a young man in ceremonial dress holding a doll in his arms. But no one else seemed startled at all. No word was spoken, no signal given, but suddenly the aisle filled with the congregation, all pressing forward toward the outstretched arms of the father. He simply stood there, impassive as stone, a human altar whose only function was to hold out that tiny form to the people. Reverently they approached, touching the small figure with hands and with lips, leaving there all the dust and sweat and tears of their lives. And when they turned to file out into the plaza and the dark town, their faces glowed with the same golden light that had touched the mountains and the mission walls at dusk. Without knowing how it had happened, I found myself standing in the aisle, pressed by the swell of bodies and borne toward the front of the nave by their motion. Confusion made my heart race and my palms sweat; I cringed in an agony of self-consciousness, unsure of what was expected of me and feeling entirely inadequate to the challenge. Panic rose as I struggled against the tide of people, seeking an escape route but finding none. All I could feel was the warmth of the bodies around me, and all I could smell was their human smells. Then, suddenly I was alone, and His presence was before me. And as I bent to kiss the Holy Child, the salt on my mouth mingled with the salt of all those who had gone before; He accepted my tears as a fitting gift, and His peace filled my heart like a prayer.