If my abuela saw the nazar hanging from my rearview mirror in my car, she’d be hysterical. She’d call it brujería, a thing of the devil.
The most ironic part is that she’s a Mexican Catholic woman acting as though half of her practices aren’t watered-down versions of witchcraft.
A nazar is a blue amulet dating back to 3,300 B.C. mimicking an eye to ward off evil intentions and curses of jealousy according to a Feb. 19, 2018 BBC article.
This little amulet, glinting in the sun as I drive, acted as my introduction into the astounding world of brujería and in turn, the more intimate side of Catholicism.
Brujería, or witchcraft, is a personalized practice with roots from various different spiritualities such as Vodou and Yoruba, according to an Oct. 11, 2019 Teen Vogue article.
Being Mexican and Catholic are seemingly a symbiotic relationship at this point. Most of those who I speak to that are a part of the culture also identify as part of the religion.
Catholicism first entered Mexico in the 16th century with the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors, according to a 2018 article from The Guardian.
Since then, the religion has held steadfast with varying levels of influence on everyday life for Mexican and Mexican-American people.
Symbolism and icons of Catholicism are apparent in every aspect of life for many of us. Crosses peppering living room walls, rosaries hanging from bed posts and unreasonably sized prints of La Virgen de Guadalupe were hallmarks of a Mexican household. I cannot recall a day that I didn’t see at least one Latin woman gesturing a cross on her forehead in silent prayer.
My cousin’s confirmation, my other cousin’s baptism, even a rosary handpicked by yours truly from the Vatican. I still have my vial of holy water from my stint in one of the holiest of city-states.
My father kissed his chains decorated with crosses every time we merged onto a highway, as if he didn’t have a behemoth of a truck that could withstand any crash.
This religion was a constant in my life despite me never being a true believer of it.
Somehow, brujería and spiritualism were present in all of this too.
While based in the same Catholicism we see from Europe, Mexican Catholicism has evolved into what I consider a beautiful and individualized experience with brujería and spirituality gently woven throughout.
The religious landscape of Mexico is shaped by the combination of these spiritualities with Catholicism and folk magic according to the same Oct. 2019 Teen Vogue article.
The burning of incense, the offerings and even some of the saints, link back to Indigenous spiritual roots.
Copal, or incense, has been burned during special ceremonies and in cleansing rituals in Mesoamerica for thousands of years according to a 2020 article from The Grace Museum.
I’ve watched friends and family members burn incense in their house as they pray. I’ve even taken to the practice in order to remove negative energy from my home. This ritual is far from foreign in the Catholic religion, as members of the clergy often swing a pendulum up and down the aisle of opulent cathedrals for similar reasons.
These Indigenous roots and rituals were not fully erased by Spanish colonization in México, but rather began to mix into aspects of post-colonial life such as language and religion, much to the dismay of my abuela.
While worship of the Aztec and Mayan gods may no longer be the dominating faith in Mexico, the cultural influence is still noticeable enough, still traceable.
Santa Muerte, a female folk saint of death, has gained in popularity since the 18th century according to an Oct. 5, 2020 article from JSTOR Daily. While death saints are prevalent in Catholicism, they also have a deep connection to indigenous spirituality.
The connection between that ever-imposing last breath and rituality within this religious melting pot is even more recognizable with a famous celebration.
Dia de los Muertos is a holiday with traditions that date back to pre-colonial times with modern Catholic rituals woven in.
Dia de los Muertos is celebrated annually on Nov. 2, with various other dates signifying child deaths before baptism and accidental deaths, according to an Oct. 22, 2022 New York Times article. The holiday calls back ancestors and loved ones from the realm of the dead, guiding them home with cempasuchil petals to an altar decorated with their pictures, candles and food.
The holiday was influenced by both Aztec and Mayan cultures and practices and transitioned into the Catholic calendar after the Spanairds arrived according to the same 2022 New York Times article.
Some of the rituals practiced during this holiday echo the dueling aspects of native spiritualism, brujería, and Catholicism.
Things like placing photos of deceased loved ones surrounded by candles, incense and flowers on a homemade altar screams brujería to me.
While these practices within the Catholic faith may not originate from brujería, I see their connection in my practices. I use herbs, incense, altars and candles in my worship of old gods and universal forces. These practices overlap far too much for it to be a coincidence.
I have taken to praying during Dia de los Muertos, even though I do not worship the Catholic God, to honor those who passed in my family that do. I place rosaries on my little ofrenda in hopes that it will call on the spirits of my family members that hoped to reach those shining gates.
I light candles and refuse to blow them out in fear of blowing away their connection to the living world. Even though I don’t consider myself Catholic nor have I willingly attended Mass in a decade, I infuse my brujería with these everpresent rituals.
Catholicism is far from my favorite religion but I wholly acknowledge the importance it holds within this holiday.
Staring at these beautiful ofrendas with candles peppering the staircased altar reminds me of two things — watching my father light a candle at church and seeing brujas practice magic.
Candle magic is a ritual that incorporates oils, herbs, candles and intentions. According to a May 3, 2019 article from Refinery29, those practicing this type of witchcraft often let the candle burn until it extinguishes itself much like the candles my father would for my late abuela.
I have always found the innate hatred of witchcraft within the Mexican Catholic community to be hypocritical.
My abuela, the number one hater of anything that she deems ungodly or satanic, has warned me and my closest cousin against things like the nazar, tarot cards and manifestation.
Even so, I used to watch this woman bow her head and pray at her homemade altar of La Virgen de Guadalupe with candles casting a warm glow on the idol while she chants her hopes and dreams.
Is this not a form of witchcraft? Manifesting your desired life path by asking a higher force to intervene while offering candles and incense to entice them to listen? God forbid I ever tell my abuela this, I value the peace my Facebook messages are currently in without her bombarding me with Jesus videos.
I still hide my tarot card tattoo that covers my entire left thigh from her in fear of her wrath-infused messages. I even hide the fundamental basis of my spiritual being, that I practice mild forms of brujería, from my family.
The hatred of brujería from Catholic believers is ignorant in a million ways.
The entire religion has only been able to survive and grow into all areas of the world because of its adaptation of local and indigenous practices. Ignoring this is akin to ignoring your family’s history, allowing the intricate development and patterns of belief systems to dissolve with time.
I have no idea when this deep-seated hatred for brujería began within the Catholic faith. Maybe my ancestors heard of the Salem witch trials, maybe the conquistadors brought over the ideology of hating everything different when they colonized my homeland. The only aspect of importance to me is that this hatred dissipates with my generation.
While brujería and Catholicism are inherently different with origins that could not be further apart, they have melded into a gorgeous practice that honors modernity and tradition. These roots deserve to be honored.
If the Catholic Church and believers similar to my abuela were to recognize this, to respect brujería as the artform that it is, I might have become a devout Catholic.
