An Unexpected Lesson from the New Mexican Church with Magic Healing Dirt.

I had read about it in books before I had ever seen the Sangre de Cristo mountains. I had dreams about it before I knew where it was. It captured my imagination in a way I can’t describe. It seemed like a Wild West fairytale. 

Nestled between the peaks of the Sangre De Cristo mountains snakes the Santa Cruz river. Along the banks of that river is a small Catholic church, el Santuario de Chimayó, that every year hosts thousands of pilgrims who are seeking the blessed earth, la tierra bendita, that can cure whatever ails them. 

I knew I needed to visit it, to touch la tierra bendita. Not because I believe, but because I wanted to believe. There was some small voice in my heart that suggested that la tierra bendita of Chimayó might even cure me. 

---

The lands which the Santuario de Chimayó now occupies are central to the creation myth of the Tewa-speaking Pueblo Indians.

They called the area Tsimajopokwi. This area, like much of northern New Mexico, has volcanic mineral hot springs and once those springs dried up, the Tewa word for “pool of  water”, Pok-wi, was dropped from the name and the area was just Tsimayo, and finally hispanicized to Chimayó. 

The legend of the current manifestation of the tierra bendita begins with the penitentes - the religious order that sprang up in the early days of New Spain, when clergy were only available a few times a year in the remote region. Los Hermanos Penitentes were a group that, outside of their medieval proclivity for self flagellation and ritual crucifixion, formed the social safety net for the community,

Sometime around 1813, a penitente named Bernardo Abeyta found a gold cross on the hillside above the Santa Cruz river in Chimayó while doing his penances during Holy Week and he built a chapel over that spot.

An unknown period of time later, Bernardo became quite ill, weak and feverish, and was making his way to the chapel when he saw an apparition of Christ beckoning him. When he approached he fell to his knees and was instantly cured of his sickness. 

News of this cure spread and settlers from the surrounding area, who would have lacked access to whatever minimal medical attention was available in the early 19th century, traveled to be cured at the same spot. Bernardo, struck by the continued healing from this particular spot of earth, petitioned the Church for permission to build a church on that spot. In 1815, the adobe Santuario de Chimayo was constructed. 

In 2025, the Santuario is part of an entire complex and appears to be the most developed area in the village - which lacks a gas station or grocery store. These businesses cater specifically to tourists and pilgrims, selling food, local art, souvenirs, and a Santuario-branded gift store selling religious artifacts. The church compound offers walking paths, numerous shrines, places to place candles, bathrooms, and ample parking. 

After wandering the grounds, looking for la tierra bendida, I eventually made my way up the steep hill to the Santuario. The Santuario is constructed of unplastered adobe and wood, with bits of straw poking through the adobe.The main altar of the church features beautiful 19th century Hispano folk art frescos among carved vigas and pews in the simple rustic style characteristic of northern New Mexico. 

Even at 9AM the heat inside is oppressive, the air still. I imagine the kind of ecstatic states that could be reached in this room from heavy incense and latin chanting. I cannot, however, imagine attending mass in the summer. 

After consulting a map posted on the wall of the church, I finally found el posito, the ‘little well’ that holds the magic dirt that draws 30,000 people to Chimayó every year. It’s located in a room with a low ceiling off the main part of the church. I ducked through the low doorway and stopped. There it was, el posito I had driven two hours to see. 

The room had religious paintings on the walls and a small single pane window. La tierra bendita, however, was sand and small pebbles  that had been poured messily over a hole in the flagstone and onto the floor, two cheaply-made trowels stuck out of the small pile. La tierra bendita was construction backfill.

Suddenly the dim waiting area outside el posito looked different. 

The crutches lining one wall - a hundred modern, unused crutches - buckets of more construction backfill tucked under a table covered in religious statues and a donation box, it suddenly looked like a movie set.  The other wall of the waiting room was filled with images of people and pets, babies with tubes coming out of their noses, and seemingly endless pictures of young men in military uniforms. Pictures left to bring healing to the individuals in those images. 

Did the people who left those pictures know they were collecting healing construction backfill?

My romantic images of digging into el posito to retrieve a handful dark earth that would glimmer with the minerals from the ancient hot spring in which generations of Tewa-speakers bathed dried up like the hot spring itself. 

I had visions about feeling the dirt on the skin of my hands, feeling connected to something bigger than myself and bigger than the hills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. I wanted miracles, something to break up the stultifying, utter monotony of modern life. 

I wanted the healing dirt of Chimayó to cure me of this continuous, ongoing disenchantment with my own existence. To heal me of the feeling of disconnection and the sense that life is passing me by, slipping through my hands. I have the dis-ease of hating my perfectly comfortable middle class life, and I wanted the healing construction backfill to fix it. 

I walked around the rest of the Santuario’s compound like a zombie. I guess the Catholic Church isn’t known for being the most honest organization, so why should this revelation rock me so badly? 

While walking along the river deep in thought, I passed a young man being pushed in a wheelchair heading towards the ramp that leads to the Santuario. I see an expensively dressed man on crutches hobbling slowly towards the ramp. 

I reminded myself that some people have real problems. 

The people who come to el posito for healing are living in a state with very little healthcare. Some must drive hours to the nearest hospital, which is also the nearest doctor. It’s astonishingly expensive when you do get access, and sometimes modern medicine doesn’t have a cure for what ails you. 

These people come to the Santuario with hope in their hearts. They’ve heard that the dirt could heal them as it has healed others. The healing earth at the Santuario doesn’t heal everyone. But they come here anyway, with the hope that the capricious Catholic God or whatever power came before that would cure them. 

It’s that hope that keeps them going, and the rest of their faith comforts them that if they’re not healed, it’s all part of some larger plan and they should keep forging onward. For those who make the journey to the Santuario, the outcome is workable for them regardless of the outcome. 

Maybe that’s the real blessing of la tierra bendita - not anything about a Christian God who will punish you for wearing wool and cotton at the same time - but rather the idea that no matter the outcome, we can persist in our pain and keep on. 

Sources: 

https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/el-santuario-de-chimayo

https://www.holychimayo.us/single-post/2017/09/06/los-hermanos-penitentes

https://www.nps.gov/places/el-santuario-de-chimayo.htm

https://www.latimes.com/world-nation/story/2023-04-13/they-come-to-this-new-mexico-shrine-in-search-of-miracles-and-some-holy-dirt