A holy odyssey on horseback. Men from as far away as Georgia come to ride horses with the men of their communities; groups of 3,15,45,450, gather at the base of the mountain. Mass begins at dark. Men lay their cowboy hats on the ground, knell and pray before first light. There is the smell of copal burning, and the lone voice of one woman rises and soars supported by the bass of men preying. A Dog lies in the open doors to the church in this cold morning. Christmas decorations flutter in the breeze slightly torn but still shimmering. People are making coffee. Shadows move. We leave before dawn breaks to travel up the mountain and greet Cristo Rey emerging into pink light of the sky.
There will be over 3,000 riders by the end of Feast of Three Kings. 3,000 men have ridden, will dismount, walk slowly to the top of the stairway where the embodiment of the King of Kings,a babe lies with open arms. Thousands of kisses will ensue. In humbleness, eyes will flutter for a moment of rapture and grace. It is the gentleness of grandfathers, fathers and sons and grandmothers and daughters, mothers who will kiss upon the head, the brow, the cheek, the open hand, in hope and salvation, forgiveness, and love. I watch humanity knell and pray under the hot winter sun. Dust rises. The holy sacrament is given. Heads bow in prayer in whispers, in the shouts, VIVA CRISTO REY! In the heart center of this mythic land, a candle burns in the wind.
Peace reigns in the beauty of the faith of the people.
