Pascua Yaqui Easter

Like many people, especially those from European immigrant families, I have vivid childhood memories of Easter traditions. They include promising to give up something for Lent, purple cloth covered images in churches, being forbidden music and laughter on Good Friday, painted egg hunts on Easter Sunday, and the Hungarian village custom of boys sprinkling girls on Easter Monday. But, unlike Christmas, and not being a churchgoer or living in a Hungarian community, Easter is not really a part of my calendar. So I was surprised on Good Friday to get “Happy Easter” wishes from work colleagues. I almost replied, “Merry Easter to you,” but played it straight.

Good Saturday we attended the Deer Dance on Pascua Yaqui land. The Deer Dance blends Yoeme tradition with later Catholic influence. Both Yoeme (Yaqui) and Spanish recognized the parallels: weeks of austerity to prepare for the climax of temporary death (the Deer or Jesus) followed by resurrection and salvation. It is a form of spring festival in which the Deer Dance on Good Saturday is a major event. The first Spanish who encountered the Yoeme and named them Yaqui also named them Pascua Yaqui (Easter Yaqui). Spanish Padres incorporated the Yoeme festival into the Easter calendar. The dancing is still done today, in an open sacred space in front of the Chapel of Christ the King in Pascua village.

The Pascua Yaqui Reservation is small. The Pascua village is just south of Tucson and abuts the northern boundary of the much larger Tohono O’odham Reservation. We drove by the imposingly large but neat Casino del Sol, proceeded a few blocks past nicely neat civic buildings, and parked in the spaciously wide and dusty street.

The sacred space was a long rectangle of flat, dusty earth, almost a hundred yards long and twenty wide. Both sides were marked with sprigs of fresh cottonwood (I think) leaves pushed into the hard ground. Framing the sides of the broad public space around the sacred space, were long, continuous stalls that sold mostly drinks and food.

The stalls were painted white and the Pascua vendors hadn’t bothered with signs, Pepsi, Coca-Cola or otherwise. Their plainness matched the tones of the pink earth and the whitewashed church. The simplicity was also reflected by the strict and oft-repeated prohibition: no pictures, no cell phones. To try to use one would have resulted in immediate confiscation and destruction. Pascua Yaqui law was enforced by Pascua Yaqui police, crowd ushers, and pretty much everyone else there. “Take pictures in your mind, your heart, your body,” repeated the friendly voice of the bi-lingual announcer. Also strictly prohibited were alcohol, drugs, and drawing (for those who wanted to sketch the scenes instead of photographing them).

Simple also was the seating. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many folding camping chairs in one place. They were three and four deep on both sides. There must have been a thousand people there, mostly local, plus about one or two hundred directly involved in the ceremony. The local population is only four thousand.

Ceremony. Dance. Ritual. Festival. Pageant. There is no one good name that describes the wonder that we witnessed. It has roots in the origins of who we are and the Yoeme belief that the ritual dance helps maintain the balance of good in creation. It was also family-friendly, all in one. And what we saw was only a tiny part of the whole that unfolds over weeks. The dancers we saw had been dancing for days and weeks.

The Pascua don’t talk about it. Like no photographs, they prefer the direct experience. Even those who work for the tribe don’t get explanations. Our connection to the experience, let's call him "Bob" to protect his identity, told us that when he would ask the meaning of some part of the event, he would get the response, "I would have to ask grandfather." It was a polite brush-off. Still, Bob had pieced together some of what happens, and there is enough scattered on the internet to shed some more light.

What I saw was long formations of men and some young teenagers dressed in black with purple or red trim, brandishing what looked like wooden swords painted black with red and white details. Most had black cloth around their heads and hats, covering their faces. All wore simple leather sandals and many puttee-like leg wraps, their feet stepping, stamping and shuffling in unison to the beats of wooden knives on wooden swords. All had crosses on their black robes; a protection for the dancers, just in case. These were the Chapayekas, the demons or otherwise bad spirits. Converted to Christianity in the 17th Century, the Chapayekas of the Yeome became identified as the common soldiers of the Fariseos, masked characters wearing elaborate costumes with fantastic, sometimes grotesque shapes. Some Fariseos looked like pink skinned, bearded Anglos. One of them had a top hat and carried a book. Others looked like a clown or a contorted pig. They were the Pharisees.

When we arrived around ten in the sunny morning, a donkey had been hanging around the front of the church with its young cowboy rider. Over an hour later, as the procession of Chapayekas entered the space, the donkey had become the bearer of the idol worshiped by the demons. The idol was Judas, an effigy figure of a man held up on the donkey on either side by a man with a stick. The procession was  accompanied by the rhythmic clicks of wooden daggers and swords and the sound of scores and scores of sandals shuffling in unison on the ground, slowly and energetically.

Slowly the black robed Chapayekas and magnificently hideous Fariseos paraded down one side of the space, but only as far as a broad white line of chalk in front of the church, than back the other side. The lines of dancers continued outside the space and disappeared. Bob told us they proceeded around the town. They were the bad guys proudly parading Judas because Jesus had been killed the day before, on Good Friday.

The Lenten activities of the Pascua Yaqui are organized by societies. Some are the singers and chanters, others perform the role of Chapayekas and Fariseos, and there is, of course, the Deer Dancer Society. After the initial parade, some of the Chapayeka and Fariseo participants returned with gourd bowls to collect donations from the audience.

Sometime later (we were on local time, which passes on its own schedule) we spotted the Deer Dancer getting ready in the space in front of the church protected by the white line. With him were older men dressed in colorful and glittering cloths. They were angels. They all wore rattling shells on their legs.

Gently, timidly, the Deer Dancer began to dance, moving like a nervous deer looking to graze.

In front of the church were lots of folks, regular folks; the faithful, if you will, who also played in this Easter Deer Pageant. They had a big canvass full of fresh greens. The Deer Dancer timidly danced towards the canvass, then partook of the greens that were offered.

The Chapayekas and Fariseos returned, always staying back from the line protecting the church, the Deer, angels and congregation on the church side. A bad guy dressed as a hunter came forward to the line and shoots several arrows at the Deer and seemingly killed it. Then demons and archer rhythmically paraded back out. The Deer somehow just got up. (I didn’t quite get an understanding of that part because I thought resurrection would be more dramatic.)

All this time the audience was behind the cottonwood sprig-demarked lines on either side of the sacred space. Scores of minutes passed. The crowd got bigger. It seemed as if everyone was drinking sugar drinks and eating tacos, fried chips, ketchup, and Navaho fried bread purchased from the food and drink stalls. The locals mostly carried on as if at an extended family picnic, iced coolers, camp chairs, fidgety kids, and all. From snippets of conversation, it was obvious that many were related or knew one or the other hooded or masked participant.

The announcer advised that the celebration was about to begin, but tens more minutes passed as the participants prepared. Meanwhile, those in the crowd armed themselves with baggies full of homemade confetti.

The demons returned. I don’t know what happened to the idol on the donkey, but some forty minutes later, the fate of the idol became obvious.

The columns of black demons led by the masked ghouls paraded, more like danced, two-thirds into the space to the beat of sticks and the shuffle of feet. They slowed, almost to a stop. The angels by the Deer were shouting at them, perhaps taunting the demons. They were joined by the congregation. Finally, the demons had enough.

The lead Chapayekas gave the signal and the demons rushed the white chalk line with a shout. Pandemonium broke out. Yells, shouting, sticks on sticks, firecrackers, blank shots from pistols, and exceedingly powerful explosions of firecrackers, all accompanied by the audience throwing confetti.

(Originally, the confetti would have been flowers. Yaquis consider flowers as one of the four worlds, the others being animals, people, and the dead. Significantly, the Deer Dancer’s antlers are decorated with flowers.)

Three times this happened. Each time the formation of ghouls and demons approached to a different and increasingly faster beat of sticks and shuffle of feet. Each time the demons paused, the angels taunted, the deer grazed, and then the attack. Each rush was a din of mock fighting, drums, shouts, firecrackers, blank shells, and sudden explosions so loud that the body vibrated. Each time the demons were repulsed at the line.

After the second unsuccessful attack, some of the folks in front of the church ran across the line to the far end of the space where the demons had retreated. There the they took the black robes and masks of some of the demon group. After the third change, all the demons had taken off their black robes, dropped their wooden swords and knives, and rushed into the church.

Bob explained that the demons had been converted. Their wooden swords, masks and idols were burned in a big bonfire. Indeed, I had noticed stacks of mesquite firewood and the Pascua Yaqui Fire Department trucks positioning themselves on the street on the very far side of the space. As the audience dispersed and we left after the mass salvation, we could see the smouldering frame of the Judas effigy and pieces of painted wooden swords still burning in an intensely fierce fire.

The participants had entered inside the church where, in another part of the ceremony that is private to the participants, Bob explained, those who had played the roles of Chapayekas and Fariseos received blessings and absolution.

The Deer is not Christ literally. The Deer and what we experienced have a much deeper meaning.

St Anthony's Monastery

St. Anthony's Church, the main church at the monastery.

"[T]he Orthodox Church makes no sharp distinction in its worship between the spiritual and the aesthetic. One becomes aware of God's presence through the senses, in the experience of 'splendor' and 'beauty.' . . ."

"This emphasis on sensory involvement has its basis in the Orthodox and thoroughly Biblical conviction that it is the whole world, and not only man's soul, that will be transfigured - 'saved' - when Christ establishes His Kingdom at the end of time."

Greek Orthodox Diocese of America website:

Orthodox Art and Architecture

Visit an Orthodox church and you will see a vision of heaven on earth. Visit St. Anthony's Greek Orthodox Monastery and you will see at least six visions of heaven on earth, each a different variation on the Orthodox theme.

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The iconostasis of St. Anthony's, the wall of icons
that separates the Holy of Holies from the main church.

My connection to St. Anthony's Monastery is Shari's Greek language tutor. That connection was made through the local Greek Orthodox church in Tucson, St. Demetrios, and its annual Greek Festival. The tutor visits the monastery every other weekend.

Six monks from Mount Athos in Greece lead by Elder Ephraim established St. Anthony's Monastery in the desert just south of Florence, the Pinal County seat. That was in 1995.

The area around Florence is lowland Sonoran Desert. What historically used to be the Gila River, free flowing most of the year, has been dammed for almost a century so now it is almost always dry. Creosote bush, cholla, sage and hardy small hedgehog cacti grow there, with the occasional palo verde tree. The lack of river flow coupled with bore wells extracting water from aquifers means the water table has dropped from ten to a hundred feet below the surface. It is in this arid environment that the monks purchased land.

The monastery land without irrigation. On the hill top is
the newly completed chapel in honor of St. Elijah.

Getting the necessary permits from Pinal County was not a problem, but planners, sheriff and other County officials were puzzled because the land had no water. They discouraged the monks but the monks were not deterred.

The land was purchased and Elder Ephraim identified three areas to drill for water. Wells were dug in those places and water found.

Elder Ephraim spends many hours each day in meditation. Apparently, he knows a few things.

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The wells supply abundant water, as evidenced by at least ten acres of date palms, orange and olive groves, lush gardens with tall fan palms, paved walkways, and some half dozen fountains and courtyards.

The physical development of the monastery in a scant twenty-two years is nothing short of amazing. The monks lived in trailers as the buildings were constructed with generous donations and volunteer labor.

There is the main church (St. Anthony's), three other free-standing churches (St. Nicholas', St. George's, and St. Demetrios'), an open chapel in honor of St. Seraphim, plus separate buildings for monks, nuns, guests, meals and visitors. The community has grown to forty monks and novices.
 
The site is truly a feast for the senses.

Each structure is impressive. The design, materials, woodwork, metalwork, hardware, and every other imaginable detail of the churches are all impressive. The only electric lights in the churches are two reading lamps at the chanter's stand. Ornate and huge metal chandeliers are suspended under the central domes of each church. During services, the churches are  illuminated by candles and oil lamps.

The icons are awe inspiring, which is the intent according to Orthodox tradition.

Many of the icons were created in Greece. There are scores and scores. Much of the woodwork was carved in Greece. The churches are richly decorated with ornately carved wood frames. Even the wooden doors are gorgeous and precisely fitted.

To add to the glorified beauty, the churches and other buildings are set in a well laid out in a shaded environment of palm-lined walkways, lush orchards and flowering gardens, and delightful fountains.

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A feast for the senses. Orthodox Christianity, even more than the Roman, extols the beauty of creation with representations of saints and the divine. They are human forms and faces; stylized, but very much human.

Inside St. George's, a church constructed in the Romanian style.
The woodwork is detailed, precise, and prolific.

The human image in religious expression is strictly forbidden in Judaism and Islam. There is stunning geometric beauty in the mosques I have seen in Egypt, Jerusalem and Turkey, both in the overall design of the spaces and in the intricacy of their adornments of filigree, tiles and Arabic script quoting the Koran. There is no human image.

Then there is the stunning, human beauty of these Orthodox churches.

Each religion is making a statement about Spirit: one is that Spirit cannot be depicted; the other that Spirit pervades creation. Both are correct, in my view, but my preference is to recognize Divinity in creation and in humanity.

I believe that everything in creation is only an appearance, an expression or a symbol of Spirit. I believe only Consciousness exists, and we live within an expression of that Consciousness. Our world in its enlightenment is actually very beautiful.

Somehow, beatific images with human faces make me humble. I can relate to the image because it is similar to my own. If some human faces can be elevated and sanctified, then perhaps we all share in that possibility.

Put it another way. It's hard to be a jerk when confronted with beautiful images that remind us of who we are (or should be), and particularly images of the Divine Mother in the form of woman and child.

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The dress code is not perfection and some of the practices are depressing. Monks are severely dressed in black. Women must be all covered with long dresses and sleeves, closed shoes, and head scarves. I visited in spring when the desert is blooming in contrast to the Christian practice of Lent which is inherently somber. (Unlike Roman churches, the icons were not covered in purple cloth.) By the time I was leaving, believers had gathered in the entrance hall of St. Anthony's to have the priests hear their confessions. An odd practice, but I suppose they feel better afterwards. And don't get me started on the books for sale in the bookstore. I am not a great fan of religious dogma. Still, the stylized dress code and religious practices serve to impress a sense of humility and respect. More importantly, one cannot complain about the friendly, cheerful, even devotional disposition of the residents, guides and believers at the monastery. That made even the tourists behave nicely.

Thing is, I did not even have a full experience. That would include not only the beautiful space and its icons, but the illumination by oil lamps and candles, the fragrance of incense, the divine sound of musical chanting, the liturgical drama of the opening of the Holy of Holies and the sharing of communion, and experiencing the elevating energy of the participants' devotion.