Jesus Christ is from Belen, New Mexico

By: Jane Tabet-Kirkpatrick

“Between AD 30 and AD 33” 

When I was younger, I thought Jesus Christ was from my hometown Belen, New Mexico. It may sound silly, but I had some sound logic to back up my hypothesis. In my third grade catechism class our teacher, Ms. Evelyn, told us that Belén was Spanish for Bethlehem, which was the birthplace of Jesus. It was upon recent concurrence with others who grew up in Belen that they also believed Jesus was brought into this world somewhere in a manger (perhaps behind the Allsups?). I may have innocently mistaken this linguistic equivalence for a geographical one, but my surroundings also backed up my thesis. Belen is a rural farming town located about 30 miles south of Albuquerque, with demographics that mirror a typical New Mexico town: a majority Hispanic population with a median income of about 38,000 dollars. It’s nestled along the Rio Grande, and when you cross the bridge over the train station you can get the most spectacular view of the Manzano mountains. It seemed like the most obvious place for a miracle. In this way, it made sense to me that Jesus—a modest carpenter who lived a relatively humble life while dedicating himself to healing the sick, communal sacrifice, and charity—was from Belen.

The spiritual character of my community also confirmed my early beliefs. My nanny Rita prayed the rosary everyday and went to the funeral of almost every person in town. My grandmother Eloisa has daily prayer times, and I would bet she has not gone to bed without speaking to God an evening in her life. But perhaps there is no greater example of my community's faith base than Tomé Hill. 

A religious apex for Valencia County, it is a looming hill crowned by three crosses. It juts up from the valley as a sudden rocky protest to the flat status quo. From the top looking West you can see down the valley; turning East, you can make out the dusty figure of my high school high up on the desert plain, as well as the communities of Las Maravillas and El Cerro. On Good Friday, thousands of people make the pilgrimage to the top of the hill, some walking from as far as Albuquerque. When I was younger, I (of course) thought that the hill was the actual site of Jesus’s crucifixion, and that’s why “everyone in the world” came to climb the hill. 

Even though Tomé Hill wasn’t the original calvary, the actual story of how the hill came to be doesn’t make me believe that Jesus was from here any less. The crosses were spearheaded by a survivor of World War II who described the project as a way to fulfill a promise to God “to do something”. The monument was built communally, with caravans of donkeys carrying supplies up and down the hill. Nowadays, the community and et al. continue the traditional pilgrimage to honor Good Friday. Every year, my church, the Our Lady of Belen, organizes a procession that carries a life-size cross from the Church to the top of the hill, an almost 12-mile journey, ending with a two-mile incline hike. This annual procession was and is yet another proof of confirmation that the entirety of the plot in the Bible played out in my town; back then, I could pinpoint Jesus’s crucifixion from my house! I really thought that Jesus Christ walked up Highway 47 in his final moments of ultimate sacrifice.

It was because of this intense cultural connection to Christianity/Catholicism that I was baptized, attended confession, received my first holy Communion, and was later confirmed in the Catholic Church—all by 14 years-old. However, in the third-grade my prayers sounded more like barters with God in exchange for belief in him. I would threaten, “God if I don’t pass my spelling test, I will stop believing in you.” Now, it was pretty bold to think that at eight years old I had the upper hand in dealing with God but I held the ultimate bargaining chip of faith. Of course, once you’re already bartering with God at eight years old, it’s a slippery slope to disbelief. 

Despite my intensely Catholic upbringing and misguided origin story about Jesus, I rejected the idea of any religion and any god at a relatively young age. I remember telling my dad after church one day that it, “just didn’t make sense.” Later, I fully declared my atheism both as a vehement belief system and as a sixth-grade act of rebellion. I harbore(d) a lot of cynicism for organized religion, which I still rightfully believe in. I can’t ever imagine believing in a “Supreme Being” as it is generically described–omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent. I often wondered what the lack of a God would have on me (if any), but my non-belief is not a rejection of faith. 

It seems as intertwined with humanity as opposable thumbs. Whatever you want to call it: faith, religion, ceremony, spirituality, or ritual celebration, it has sharply etched itself into one of the major thematic arcs in the history of mankind. The mind seems to be bent on casting itself outwards–creating a heaven to absorb our exterior and interior monologues. To offer up our private and intimate thoughts, hopes, and desires to a stronger and more righteous power is a comforting hug from the universe. The act of prayer characterizes some good natured human impulses: to share, to be thankful, to be apologetic, and to hope for better things. 

I would be resigned to ignorance to ignore the intimate relationship between humans and faith. As an attempt to recognize this “faith” and simultaneously disentangle it from a transcendent reality, I’ve tried to find a more physical place for my prayers, hopes, fears, and dreams. In finding this I return to my community's annual demonstration of faith. The pilgrimage is both a  tangible example of the power of religion and a metaphorical example for my rooted faith.  

The undertaking of pilgrimage is shared across many cultures. In Tomé, the hill metaphorically (now as I rightfully understand) represents the sacrificial journey of Christ to die for our sins. The walker is meant to place themselves in the footsteps of the messiah and undertake the same spiritual/sacrificial journey. Just as Jesus resigned himself to death so that all might live, every step is meant to be a communal act of penance ultimately resurrecting in reconciliation. The top of the hill is filled with people from all over the state, who showed up to be seen and forgiven. It is an individual undertaking filled with a zealous dependence on each other. This journey represents what is more parallel to the true metaphor of Christ and his miraculous resurrection–unity, sacrifice, and redemption. This journey represents the true purpose of faith–to motivate us towards radical acts of sacrifice for others and to fervently trust that it will bring us closer toward a higher purpose.  Even so, it takes it further by demanding that the work be done before the glory can be recognized. As previously and poignantly put the pilgrimage is at its very core a promise to others to do something. 

I have found a new home for my faith in the earthly journey of sacrificing for the better of those around me. The Tomé Hill pilgrimage still primes me to believe that Jesus Christ is from Belen, New Mexico.