About fifteen years ago, my younger self was watching a television program about some of the world's most notable religious events. I remember being repulsed by clips of Taiwan's "Pigs of God" festival in which pigs, who had been force-fed all their lives, were finally slaughtered in celebration of and/or sacrifice to something I don't remember.
But what followed this segment struck me even more vividly than those haunting images. It seemed far simpler, far more spiritual, and equally inexplicable. In some distant and exotic village somewhere in the Amazon rainforest, narrow streets absolutely teemed with a flood of desperate, sweat-soaked faces, all clamoring to grab and hold on to a rope as it wound its way through the city's ancient streets. It's an image that stayed with me for years to come, buried deep beneath at least a decade's worth of other images and information.
That is, until I arrived in Belém. As part of my introduction to the city, several people mentioned the name "Círio," or "Círio de Nazaré." They explained: in October, roughly one million people would migrate from all over Brazil for an enormous festival. The main event? A grueling parade through a gapless sea of people down the narrow streets of Belém, while everyone struggled to maintain their grip on a giant rope.
I had arrived in the "exotic village" narrated by the man on the television program. Suddenly, the years-old images from the travel program flooded back from a forgotten corner of my mind, as it hit me that I had not only arrived in the mysterious heart of this event, but I now lived there.
From what I have been able to gather, the legend surrounding Círio is roughly as follows:
But what followed this segment struck me even more vividly than those haunting images. It seemed far simpler, far more spiritual, and equally inexplicable. In some distant and exotic village somewhere in the Amazon rainforest, narrow streets absolutely teemed with a flood of desperate, sweat-soaked faces, all clamoring to grab and hold on to a rope as it wound its way through the city's ancient streets. It's an image that stayed with me for years to come, buried deep beneath at least a decade's worth of other images and information.
That is, until I arrived in Belém. As part of my introduction to the city, several people mentioned the name "Círio," or "Círio de Nazaré." They explained: in October, roughly one million people would migrate from all over Brazil for an enormous festival. The main event? A grueling parade through a gapless sea of people down the narrow streets of Belém, while everyone struggled to maintain their grip on a giant rope.
I had arrived in the "exotic village" narrated by the man on the television program. Suddenly, the years-old images from the travel program flooded back from a forgotten corner of my mind, as it hit me that I had not only arrived in the mysterious heart of this event, but I now lived there.
From what I have been able to gather, the legend surrounding Círio is roughly as follows:
A few hundred years ago, a fisherman (or, at any rate, someone of humble occupation) was walking through the forest (where the Basílica now stands), and stumbled upon a wooden statuette of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. It was dirty and in need of repair, so he brought it home with him that evening, planning to restore it in the morning. But, lo and behold, the sun rose and the statue was nowhere to be found. It had returned to the place where he found it! He built a chapel to commemorate and house the figure, and annually it was paraded around the nearby towns and villages, pulled along by a rope.
But the story can only provide so much understanding. To the residents of Belém, Círio de Nazaré defies explanation. Even as described by the unreligious, it is simply an irrefutable demonstration of a very real faith.
What I found simply astounding is that the largest religious event in South America (and the largest Catholic event in the world) is not a conference with a program chalk-full of world-renowned speakers and spiritual leaders in a giant, air-conditioned stadium resonating with pitch-perfect musical performances and cinematic visuals. It's an excruciating procession under the blazing equatorial sun—an incomprehensible pilgrimage of people sweating and suffocating together in an act of devotion to that reality which lies behind the 11-inch wooden carving of the Virgin and Child.
But why? Why do people do this? The short, simple answer is that participants are either expressing a petition, or thanking the fulfillment of one. Essentially, "God(/Mary), if you make this happen, I'll do Círio." One can accompany the procession in hopes that their devotion will be considered, or in order to keep their end of the deal if, say, they pass their college entrance exam.
There are no free event t-shirts, no nametags or tri-fold programs. No seats or snack bars. (For the sake of human life, water--either for drinking or for pouring over those holding the rope--was free in abundance.) No keynote speaker or band at the end, save for a mass attended well beyond fire code. No food, save for the Thanksgiving-sized feasts awaiting those with families, once they finally found their way back home.
As my time in Belém winds to an end, Círio de Nazaré served as a hard-earned climax, appreciated in large part because of the last eight months of anticipation. Or, perhaps, the last fifteen years of it.
What I found simply astounding is that the largest religious event in South America (and the largest Catholic event in the world) is not a conference with a program chalk-full of world-renowned speakers and spiritual leaders in a giant, air-conditioned stadium resonating with pitch-perfect musical performances and cinematic visuals. It's an excruciating procession under the blazing equatorial sun—an incomprehensible pilgrimage of people sweating and suffocating together in an act of devotion to that reality which lies behind the 11-inch wooden carving of the Virgin and Child.
But why? Why do people do this? The short, simple answer is that participants are either expressing a petition, or thanking the fulfillment of one. Essentially, "God(/Mary), if you make this happen, I'll do Círio." One can accompany the procession in hopes that their devotion will be considered, or in order to keep their end of the deal if, say, they pass their college entrance exam.
There are no free event t-shirts, no nametags or tri-fold programs. No seats or snack bars. (For the sake of human life, water--either for drinking or for pouring over those holding the rope--was free in abundance.) No keynote speaker or band at the end, save for a mass attended well beyond fire code. No food, save for the Thanksgiving-sized feasts awaiting those with families, once they finally found their way back home.
As my time in Belém winds to an end, Círio de Nazaré served as a hard-earned climax, appreciated in large part because of the last eight months of anticipation. Or, perhaps, the last fifteen years of it.
Interested in further reading or another angle on Círio? Check out my friends' article on Religion News Service, featuring photos by yours truly!