Honduras is predominantly Catholic, though it also hosts numerous Christian missions. Most Hondurans are born into the faith and prefer to remain Catholic throughout their lives. However, during their journey, some may encounter Christian missionaries who earn their pay by converting new followers, offering free items in exchange for attendance. Meanwhile, priests generally have more frugal attitudes toward their funds and often anticipate rewards for their services.
When I first arrived in Yocón, I saw the Catholic chapel at the town’s center. It was in poor condition and needed repainting. I had come to Honduras with a Baptist missionary, and although I was familiar with Catholics, my upbringing influenced my view, and I saw them as idol worshipers. I asked why they didn’t use the priest’s money for the paint, and they explained that he told them it was their own responsibility. As a devout Christian, I then helped them, hoping my efforts would lead to eventual conversions
The old Catholic priest assigned to that area rarely visited, except to collect the monthly dues. Occasionally, he appeared on a Sunday morning, and when he did, he announced his arrival with a loud blast on his trumpet. The first time I heard it, I thought the Rapture was occurring because it sounded so out of place. He disliked the Baptist missionaries who had entered his territory and told the people to take everything they could from me but to ignore everything I said.
At one point, he surprised me by showing up at my clinic — alone. He had run out of his heart medicine and was wondering if I had anything I could give him until he could get back to the city.
“With or without a sermon?” I said jokingly, as I handed him a box of something similar to the medicine he had shown me.
He had a puzzled look on his face at first, but then smiled as he realized someone had told me about his instructions. We shook hands, and I thought, at the time, that it could be the start of a new relationship. However, a few weeks later, he drowned while trying to cross a river during a downpour. Supposedly, his jeep got stuck, and when he got out to engage the four-wheel drive, a log struck him in the head, causing him to lose his balance in the rising current of the river.
Living in a small, remote village is much like living in a dormitory. There are no secrets. It was difficult at first, but eventually I became less aware of our differences and more aware of our similarities. I realized that those I once thought of as idol worshipers — because they prayed to a statue — were no different than me, who prayed every night believing that my prayers could somehow penetrate the ceiling of my room and reach the ears of an old man who lived somewhere up in the stars. That awareness allowed me to look more seriously at spirituality, both mine and theirs.
I have always been a big believer in miracles, and that fits well with the Catholic culture. The only problem is that people who believe in miracles tend to be susceptible to con artists and magicians.
When I first arrived in Honduras, I was taken to see the Virgin of Suyapa, the patron saint of Honduras. At the time, she was kept in a small temple, but they were building her a new temple right next door. There was a problem, however: the new temple was years in the making and had gone way over the original budget. Pleas for more money had gone out, but people were tired of giving and giving. It was estimated that $1,000,000.00 was needed to finish the job.
A few weeks into my stay in Honduras, the Virgin figurine was supposedly stolen from the temple, and a massive search was undertaken. Literally every car in Honduras, including ours, was searched until she was finally found in the men’s bathroom of a gas station. There was much jubilation throughout the country; however, the bad news was that she had been violated, and her diamond-studded dress was missing. Restoring her and having a replica dress made was estimated to cost $1,000,000.00. The money was raised in just a few days, the small figurine was returned to her chapel, work on the new temple was completed, and, to my knowledge, no one ever questioned the incident’s validity.
On another occasion, the newly assigned Catholic priest came into our village, announcing that there would soon be several days of complete darkness in the world. Flashlights and even candles would not work during that time; however, special candles blessed with holy water would work, and every household needed them or risked evil spirits entering their homes. I was one of the few households in the community that refused to buy his candles. The darkness never came, but to my knowledge, no one had ever asked for a refund.
Just outside Yocón lived a very devout woman who kept a statue of a small boy saint on the mantel of her fireplace. She had prayed to it for many years, and over time the paint began to fade, and parts of it were damaged by children touching it or, on the few occasions, by its being knocked to the floor by accident. She would, at times, announce a special celebration for her saint, and people from the village would respectfully come to pay homage to the statue. Usually, they would leave some money at the altar, but over the years the donations grew less and less because of its worn appearance.
One day, she ran into the village, all excited, and told everyone that God had taken the saint back to Heaven. She had seen it with her own eyes as the saint ascended into the sky when she returned from her afternoon walk. Everyone ran to her house to see if she was telling the truth. When they got there, they found the statue missing from the altar and therefore assumed that a miracle had indeed occurred.
A few weeks later, she came running into town again, but this time she said that God had sent her a new saint. She saw it descending from Heaven when she returned from her walk, and she had to run to catch it before it hit the ground. All the villagers ran back to her house to see if it was true. Sure enough, there it was: a brand new, brightly colored statue of another little boy. Everyone crossed themselves and offered prayers, dropping their money on the altar as they left the house. Even the boys who lived with me were excited about this miracle and couldn’t stop talking about it all afternoon.
That night at the dinner table, I asked them what they really thought of the incident, and all of them remained very convinced it was real. So, I asked them this question: “If the statue really came down from Heaven… why would there be a MADE IN GUATEMALA seal stamped on the base of it?”
Needless to say, it ended the conversation and perhaps shook their faith in miracles. But because of this incident, they were forced, from that day onward, to start looking at things more critically.
They say ignorance is bliss, and perhaps that is so, but often the ignorant are misled by men or women with selfish motives. I am convinced that miracles do still happen, but I suggest looking for the MADE IN sticker before you put your trust in one.