Religión

A centuries-old festival in Japan brings Shinto traditions and towering floats to the streets

A festival float passes through a narrow street during one of the main parades of Shinto’s Gion Matsuri festival in Kyoto, western Japan, Friday, July 17, 2026. (AP Photo/Fred Mery)

Published by The Associated Press, July 2026

KYOTO, Japan (AP) – There’s a special moment when Katsushi Horikawa feels closer to the gods. It comes as he rides atop one of the towering floats pulled through the streets in a centuries-old procession in Japan.

This is the Gion Matsuri festival, born more than 1,000 years ago as a ritual to ward off epidemics and celebrated in the former imperial city of Kyoto throughout July. 

“I am conscious of them when I’m riding on top,” Horikawa said. “When we’re assembling it as well, but I think the main time is when I’m riding on it.”

The parades — accompanied by dances, music and song — draw large crowds and tourists every year. The biggest floats can weigh up to 12 tons. Yet behind the festive atmosphere lies a tradition rooted in the worship of deities and rituals of protection.

“Those performances are not meant primarily for the entertainment of people,” said Fabio Rambelli, a religious studies professor at the University of California, Santa Barbara. “They are offerings to the gods.”

A festival that has layers of religious history

The Gion Matsuri originated in the late 9th century as a ritual to appease spirits believed to cause epidemics and to pray for protection from disease. It takes its name from Kyoto’s Gion District and “matsuri,” the Japanese word for festival.

At the heart of the celebration is Kyoto’s Yasaka Shrine, a Shinto site whose principal deity has long been revered as a protector against calamities. But the shrine’s history also reflects centuries of interaction between Shinto and Buddhism in Japan.

“Until about 150 years ago it was a Buddhist temple,” Rambelli said. “That’s part of the religious changes that have taken place in Japan.”

Back then, the sanctuary’s main deity was Gozu Tennō, an ox-headed figure believed to have the power either to spread epidemics or to avert them.

“It was a kind of syncretic deity — probably of Indian origin — with connections to Korea and local folklore,” Rambelli said. “A lot of gods in Japan are a mixture of different traditions.”

Early versions of the Gion Matsuri involved that deity, Rambelli said.

To show evil forces and spirits that their god would confront them, devotees carried him around the city in processions that resembled those seen throughout Kyoto today.

A shrine’s turn from Buddhism helps shape today’s Shinto practices

Japan’s government separated the two traditions of Shinto and Buddhism in 1868 during the Meiji era, effectively bringing Shinto shrines under state control and placing the emperor at the center of the new order.

“Because the emperor was the direct descendant of the goddess of the sun, they purified the whole system creating what now we see as Shinto,” said Andrea De Antoni, professor of anthropology and religious studies at the University of Kyoto.

De Antoni said a strong anti-Buddhist movement followed. Temples, mandalas and statues were burned and destroyed.

Shinto was formally separated from the state after World War II, but its traditions still reflect a broader history of religious and cultural influences.

“It is an institutionalized religion that revolves around ideas of deities called kami and different spirits,” De Antoni said. 

“Kami shares its rules with general ideas of animism that can be found throughout the world, but there are a lot of similarities with certain parts of Southeast Asia and with the Pacific,” he added.

Ancient traditions bring communities together

Japanese festivals often serve as ways for deities to be brought into the streets for sacred or ritual purposes while also bringing communities together in celebration.

“This is the festival of all the people in the neighborhood,” said Jacques Garrigues, a Frenchman who has lived in Kyoto for three decades and who attended the Gion Matsuri procession with his son on Friday. 

“We also come together through a certain sense of religion, although the religious significance is not the same as in France,” he added.

Among the traditions preserved by the Gion Matsuri is the choosing of a boy as a sacred messenger to the gods. During the parade, the selected boy is seen sitting on one of the floats, his feet never touching the ground.

Some key participants spend months getting ready for the celebrations. Different neighborhoods prepare their floats with great care and dedication, with many people trusting the floats will drive away evil spirits.

Atsushi Matono is responsible for erecting the shingi, a sacred tree placed at the top of one of the floats —the holiest part of the structure, to which a deity is believed to descend. 

Like Horikawa, he describes feeling a sacred presence.

“I always carry out my work with great care and respect,” Matono said. “Feeling the presence of the gods.”

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Pakistani Hindus join Shiite Muslims in Muharram observances honoring Imam Hussein

Raju Rathore, an artisan from Pakistani Hindu community, makes a replica of the mausoleum of Imam Hussain locally called ‘Tazia’, in preparation for the upcoming Ashoura, when Shiites Muslims mark the death of Hussein, at his home in Karachi, Pakistan, Tuesday, June 23, 2026. (AP Photo/Ali Raza)

Published by The Associated Press, June 2026

KARACHI, Pakistan (AP) – Raju Rathore’s Hindu faith and devotion to Imam Hussein converge in Pakistan’s port city of Karachi during Muharram, one of Islam’s sacred months

Religious observances during this period are primarily associated with Shiite Muslims. But in Rathore’s hometown some members of the Hindu community also commemorate the martyrdom of the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, Imam Hussein

“Muharram is very important to me and I want to keep participating in it for as long as I live,” said Rathore, whose parents migrated from India’s Gujarat state after the Partition of India in 1947. “I go there in devotion to Imam Hussein.”

Hussein was killed alongside family members during the Battle of Karbala in present-day Iraq in the seventh century. The episode became a defining moment in the split between Sunni and Shiite Islam.

The mourning over the deaths of Hussein and his companions reaches its peak on Ashoura, the 10th day of Muharram, which millions observe worldwide.

Rathore’s devotion to Hussein came from his parents. He said they were unable to have children until his mother made a personal vow at the shrine of Masoom Shah Bukhari. She promised that, if she got pregnant, her child would honor Hussein’s martyrdom by making tazias — temporary replicas of his mausoleum carried during Muharram processions.

“This is our passion,” said Rathore, who has crafted these pieces for decades in fulfillment of his mother’s vow. “Our devotion to Imam Hussein is such that even giving our lives would feel insufficient.”

Historical ties draw Hindus into Muharram observances

The involvement of non-Shiite communities in Muharram rituals has long been documented across South Asia, including among groups known as Hussaini Brahmins, whose traditions have incorporated elements associated with both Hinduism and Shiite Islam.

“There are many reasons for this, but one is that, historically, many ruling dynasties in South Asia were Shi’a,” said Justin Jones, a professor of religious studies at the University of Oxford.

Jones said Shiite rulers in several South Asian kingdoms sponsored processions and other commemorations of Hussein’s martyrdom, helping turn them into public events that drew wider audiences.

Over time, Muharram observances became woven into civic and cultural life across parts of the region, where some Hindus participated as musicians in processions and others crafted tazias.

Such traditions persist across the region, Jones said. However, they have become less common over the past century as religious communities increasingly observe Muharram separately.

How Hindus in Karachi keep Muharram traditions alive

According to Pakistan’s 2023 census, Hindus number nearly 3.9 million people, making them the country’s largest religious minority.

Organizations such as Minority Rights Group point out that some Pakistani Hindus have faced violations of their religious freedom. Yet Rathore said he has been able to practice his faith freely.

“Yes, I am Hindu, but this is not about religion,” Rathore said. “Many of my fellow Hindus also hold Imam Hussein in great respect.”

Rathore said he attends Shiite congregation halls during Muharram with other members of Karachi’s Hindu community. There they offer prayers and take part in rituals associated with the holy month — including chest beating — before joining processions.

“Our religion has never taught us that because we are Hindus we should not participate in or respect others’ traditions,” said Bharat Kumar, another Pakistani Hindu who dearly respects Imam Hussein. “We celebrate our own festivals with great enthusiasm and grandeur and we approach this in the same way.”

Both Kumar and Rathore craft tazias ahead of Ashoura. The latter’s are made from paper, glass, cardboard and other materials at his own expense. He said family members gather materials over time for use in the structures ahead of Ashoura.

The tradition will now pass to his own son, who now also takes part in commemorating the martyrdom of Hussein through the mausoleum replicas.

“I have been doing this not just for a few years but for about 45,” Rathore said. “I am now 52 years old, and as long as I have the strength to continue, I will keep making them.”

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Hernández reported from Beijing.

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Philippine devotees honor St. John the Baptist with a mud-covered display of faith

Catholic devotees covered in mud and dried banana leaves join the mud people festival on the feast day of Saint John the Baptist at Bibiclat, Nueva Ecija province, northern Philippines on Wednesday, June 24, 2026. (AP Photo/Aaron Favila)

Published by The Associated Press, June 2026

BIBICLAT, Philippines (AP) – Hundreds of Catholic devotees wrapped themselves in dried banana leaves and covered their bodies with mud on Wednesday in the Philippine village of Bibiclat, taking part in a display of faith honoring St. John the Baptist. 

The Taong Putik, or Mud People, festival is held annually in this village in Asia’s largest Catholic nation as devotees thank the local patron saint for miracles and fulfill vows made in prayer.

Melencio Nenuda, a 39-year-old construction worker, said the mud-covered parishioners frightened him as a child and he used to hide when they passed by. But that changed when when he fell seriously ill in the sixth grade and his mother prayed to St. John the Baptist, vowing that he would join the tradition if he recovered.

“I will continue to go back to this tradition because it gives me a good future,” said Nenuda, adding that his wife and son also participate.Village residents link the festival to faith and survival

Devotees prepare for the observance before dawn

Heading into nearby fields around 4 a.m., they search for soft mud and smear it over their bodies before wrapping themselves in dried banana leaves.

Once ready, they walk barefoot to St. John the Baptist Church carrying only cellphones and lighted candles. As they wait for Mass to begin, hymns are sung near a small fire formed by the candle offerings.

Local church leaders say the practice began in the 1800s, when farmers smeared themselves with mud as an expression of humility, and covered themselves with the leaves to conceal their identities due to discrimination against the poor during that time.

According to the Rev. Elmer Villamayor, who led the parish between 2014 and 2021, devotion to St. John the Baptist grew after a group of local men escaped execution during the Japanese occupation in World War II.

Villamayor said residents say the men were spared after a sudden rainstorm interrupted the proceedings, an event many interpreted as divine intervention.

Participants trace their devotion to personal blessings

While no official attendance records are kept, Villamayor estimates that up to 3,000 people take part in the festival.

Rickmar Castilio, 43, has participated for the last two decades. This year, his 11-year-old son Nathan joined him for the first time.

“There are a lot more devotees now,” Castilio said. “Maybe they have experienced miracles or they have seen good things and that is why there is an increasing number of people who believe in St. John.”

His family has its own blessing to be thankful for, Castilio said. After his first child died, he vowed to continue honoring St. John the Baptist through the annual ritual if a future child survived. He has returned every year since his prayers were answered.

“(I bring my child so) that he will get closer to St. John,” Castilio said. “The youth now are starting that path.”

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Hernández reported from Beijing.

Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Why soccer fandom in Latin America feels almost sacred

Fans wait for the start of a friendly soccer match between Argentina and Zambia next to a banner of Argentine soccer legend Diego Maradona in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Tuesday, March 31, 2026. (AP Photo/Rodrigo Abd)

Published by The Associated Press, June 2026

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – The chain that hung from Santiago García’s neck carried no crosses or saint medals, yet it felt sacred nonetheless.

When García’s grandmother fell sick years ago and he visited her in intensive care, the Argentine soccer fan took off his beloved Boca Juniors necklace and placed it around her neck.

“Boca will save you,” García murmured to his grandmother. “And it did. So now it’s hers.”

García’s faith in his club mirrors that of millions across Latin America as the region prepares for the 2026 World Cup. From Argentina to Mexico, devotion to the game often spills into everyday life, inspiring rituals and beliefs tied to the sport.

“There has been an emotional connection between the public and their soccer teams for a long time,” said Mexican analyst Erick Fernández. “It fosters identity and bonds that make us feel part of a sporting process that represents us.”

In Argentina, the home country of Lionel Messi, sports passion is often inherited within families and loyalty to clubs strengthens over time. Pope Francis himself — born in Argentina and lifelong supporter of club San Lorenzo — said he agreed with those describing soccer as the world’s most beautiful game.

García’s love for Boca Juniors came from his father. He said his mother used to support another team, but after the couple met, she became a Boca fan too.

“You usually support your mother’s or father’s club,” García said. “Soccer is the backbone of it all, but you develop a sense of belonging to a team and carry it with you everywhere.”

He may have let go of his Boca necklace and the energy he believed it carried, but the club’s imprint was already etched into his skin.

At age 17, García tattooed a phrase from the club’s anthem on his torso. Fourteen years later, those words remain as meaningful as they were when the ink was fresh.

“It belongs to a song that is like a chant of war for us,” he said. “It’s like saying: ‘No matter the storm, no matter what happens, we will always be there for you.’”

The power of belonging

Pope Francis once told a crowd that soccer is a team sport whose beauty comes from its collective spirit. 

Among fans, too, passion is nurtured through a sense of community. The singing of anthems, tears shed after victories or defeats, and the embrace of strangers inside a stadium are experiences that can mirror forms of collective devotion.

“Each person can support a team, but the sense of togetherness that generates ‘communitas’ — a word associated with religion — is only possible when people gather,” said Argentine anthropologist Eloísa Martín.

Both negative and positive reactions can emerge from that sense of collective identity. A fan who feels a member of his sporting community has been attacked by a rival may react violently in ways he otherwise never would. But the same dynamic can strengthen solidarity, leading fans to help strangers because they support the same club.

“Soccer creates a community even for those who lack one,” Martín said.

On a recent night, among a sea of fans heading towards Maracanã stadium in Rio de Janeiro was Adilvania Santos. Dressed in the maroon and green colors of Fluminense, the 27-year-old said that supporting the club had helped her through a difficult time in her life.

“I get emotional talking about Fluminense,” said Santos, who described the passion for her club as the most important aspect of her life, apart from her family. “Some people come together to go to church. For us, accompanying Fluminense is also sacred.”

Santos tries to attend every game despite living nearly 100 kilometers (about 60 miles) from Rio. When she follows matches from home, she stays alone in her bedroom to avoid interruptions from family members who may not support her team.

“Soccer deeply moves Brazilians because it creates a sense of belonging, identity and hope,” said Jeferson Mengali, a Catholic priest in the Bragança Paulista diocese and a lifelong fan of Corinthians. “People suffer, work hard and face difficulties, and soccer becomes a space for collective joy.”

Rituals for victory

Mengali supported Corinthians as a chaplain for years. He celebrated Masses with the team and was present during training sessions and matches.

“I have always liked praying before important games,” he said. “Asking more for serenity than victory.”

While not all soccer fans pray, many cling to rituals they believe can influence the outcome of a game. In Argentina these practices are known as “cábalas.” According to Martín, they became widespread during the 1990s.

Cábalas vary widely. Fans may drink from the same cup, sit in the exact same spot or wear the same underwear during every match. Others insist on watching games with certain people, while some avoid watching altogether after concluding they bring bad luck to their team.

Rituals are repeated if the team wins and abandoned if it loses. For some supporters, avoiding a match can even feel like a sacrifice made in hopes of securing victory.

At García’s home, his father sits in a specific chair whenever Boca is playing well. If the rival team scores, he changes seats. His mother cleans the house instead of watching the game, stopping every so often to ask about the score.

García’s current cábala includes wearing the same jersey throughout the season and carrying a small image of Diego Maradona everywhere he goes.

“After he died, he was rapidly sanctified by the people,” García said. “He became a figure bigger than sports.”

Saints of the stadium

Argentines rarely call him Maradona. He’s simply “El Diego,” as one would refer to a family member or an old friend from the neighborhood.

“Maradona is the player, while ‘El Diego’ is the one people turn to like a family member when they need help,” Martín said. “Sacredness only works when there’s a community behind it.”

Legends like “El Diego” or Brazil’s “The King” Pelé are recognized across the world. But other soccer fans in Latin America revere personal idols of their own.

In Chile, Héctor Hermosilla keeps a black-and-white portrait of Colo Colo club founder David Arellano at his home.

“He founded Colo Colo in 1925 and before every match I always say goodbye to him and ask him to watch over us,” Hermosilla said.

He still remembers attending his first match in 1986 and falling under the spell of the atmosphere inside the arena. From then on, he faithfully began to follow his team, traveling from Chile’s far north to Puerto Montt, considered the gateway to Patagonia.

To finance his trips, he and his wife typed out the iconic anthems of Colo Colo and sold photocopies to fans, earning him the nickname “Nano Fotocopia.”

“There were around 20 songs and I would make photocopies and sell them for 100 pesos,” he said.

Typewriters and photocopies became obsolete over time. Hermosilla now sells necklaces, bracelets and other accessories to finance the trips he now does with his wife and teenage son.

When in Chile, Hermosilla still attends matches every Sunday and performs a ritual he has followed since the 1980s. Beneath Arellano’s portrait, he asks for the club founder’s blessing, packs his products for sale and heads to a roast chicken restaurant where fans gather.

“He is like our God,” Hermosilla said. “He is the one who guides us.”

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Batschke reported from Santiago, Chile, and Hughes from Rio de Janeiro. 

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

A transgender teen’s case in Ecuador opens path for others seeking legal recognition

FILE – Revelers walk under a giant rainbow flag during a Pride Parade in Quito, Ecuador, June 29, 2019. (AP Photo/Dolores Ochoa, File)

Published by The Associated Press, April 2026

Spanish story language here

Her name translates from Spanish as “beloved.”

“We decided to call her ‘Amada’ because she came into our home to be cherished,” said Lorena Bonilla, whose transgender daughter was recently authorized to change her identity documents under a ruling by Ecuador’s Constitutional Court.

Her case — alongside another decided in March — has opened the door for Ecuadorian adolescents seeking to modify their name and sex in official records. Adults gained that right after years of advocacy efforts culminating in a 2024 reform.

The court’s rulings were welcomed by supporters of LGBTQ+ rights in a region where conservative movements have gained ground in recent months. Yet they also warn of the legal and social hurdles that transgender people continue to face.

“In Ecuador there are still political, religious and social sectors that portray gender recognition for adolescents as a threat,” said Cristian González Cabrera, an LGBTQ+ rights researcher at Human Rights Watch. “That climate can translate into institutional hostility, delays and unjustified denials.”

Bonilla and her daughter, 17, experienced that firsthand in 2018. Their legal battle began when Amada was 9 and school authorities refused to admit her because her legal documents did not match her gender identity.

“We went through 14 schools and none would take her in,” Bonilla said. “We then knew we needed to change her name.”

A court initially granted Amada the right to modify her identity documents. But the civil registry appealed the decision and a higher court later ruled that her passport and ID card should reflect her birth name and sex.

“It was a step backward for our rights,” Bonilla said.

Legal gains, rising pushback

LGBTQ+ rights in Ecuador have largely been shaped by court rulings rather than by lawmakers or government officials. A similar dynamic has unfolded in other Andean countries such as Colombia and Peru.

“The legislative and executive branches represent the country’s broad majorities, yet LGBTQ people are often overlooked,” said Christian Paula, president of the Pakta Foundation, which provides legal support in cases like Amada’s. “Turning to the courts reflects a lack of openness and sensitivity within our institutions.” 

Among Ecuador’s most important advances in LGBTQ+ rights, three have come through the courts. They include the decriminalization of homosexuality in 1997, a 2009 ruling that allowed an Ecuadorian transgender woman to change her name, and the legalization of same-sex marriage in 2019.

Those court decisions sparked a backlash from right-wing and religious groups.

In a post on X following the Constitutional Court’s 2026 rulings, André Santos, president of one of Ecuador’s most vocal conservative groups, said the court had overstepped its authority. He has also spoken against school protocols allowing students to use uniforms and bathrooms that align with their gender identity.

The country’s Catholic bishops conference also expressed concern over the court’s action. “Allowing adolescents to make decisions of this nature poses serious risks to their overall development,» it said.

Little political support 

President Daniel Noboa has not been as outspoken against transgender causes as some other conservative leaders in Latin America, but his administration has shown little support for LGBTQ+ rights.

As a candidate, he pledged to defend the traditional family. Since taking office, violence and economic instability have overshadowed gender and diversity issues in his political agenda.

“What worries us are his ministers,” said Diane Rodríguez, a lawyer and president of Ecuadorian LGBTQ+ organization Silueta X.

Rodríguez, a trans woman, pointed to officials in the Education Ministry, including current minister Gilda Alcívar, who has rejected the inclusion of what she calls “gender ideology” in education. That climate, Rodríguez said, is reflected in her daily interactions.

From Guayaquil, where she raises a 4-year-old daughter with her partner, a trans man, Rodríguez has faced difficulties at her child’s school.

“We had trouble enrolling her because people see me and assume I’m going to turn children transgender because of how I look,” Rodríguez said.

Throughout her career, she has provided legal support for people facing sex-based discrimination and backed a program providing hormone treatment for trans people. Her work has also focused on raising awareness about violence against her community.

Silueta X publishes an annual record of killings of LGBTQ+ people. Its first report in 2013 documented two killings and the numbers have risen every year. The 2025 publication reported 30 deaths, 21 of them trans women.

From parents to advocates

Amada told her parents that she was a girl at age 3. She asked for a princess-themed birthday party. But Bonilla and her husband — both raised Catholic — assumed she was confused and dressed her as a prince instead.

It took them a few years to understand their daughter and dismiss psychologists who said something was wrong with her or that they had done a poor parenting job.

“Comments can be ruthless and people have no idea what families like ours go through,” said Mauricio Caviedes, Amada’s father. “I hope education on this issue changes so people can understand.”

As they learned more about the trans community, their fight to modify Amada’s identity documents evolved into a broader cause. Bonilla and Caviedes became activists, bringing their kids with them to protests and conferences. They supported other LGBTQ+ causes such as same-sex marriage and founded an organization for families of trans children like their own.

“That became the only way we could fight the state,” Bonilla said. “We were 25 families with transgender children of different ages, the oldest being 12.”

Her family moved to Canada during the COVID-19 pandemic. And while she treasures how welcoming their new home has been for her daughter, she keeps advocating for LGBTQ+ rights in Ecuador.

Amada, now a strong student who dreams of becoming a nurse, was shaped by years of watching her parents support trans friends and community members struggling to access health care without discrimination. She has never appeared publicly on camera, but the visibility of her case feels like a lifelong legacy for Bonilla.

“People think the destiny of transgender people is to become sex workers or live in hiding,” Bonilla said. “But we want every parent to know that one day their child can become whatever they want to be.”

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Good Friday across Latin America brings faith into the streets

Hooded penitents participate in a Good Friday procession during Holy Week in La Paz, Bolivia, Friday, April 3, 2026. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)

Published by The Associated Press, April 2026

Spanish story language here

Thousands of Catholic devotees commemorated Good Friday across Latin America with processions and ceremonies re-enacting the crucifixion of Jesus.

In Antigua, a colonial-era city in southern Guatemala, dozens dressed in purple and white robes and made their way under the early morning sun, many of them penitents known as “cucuruchos.” Others carried centuries-old images of Jesus through cobblestone streets.

The city hosts more than a dozen processions throughout Holy Week, set against a backdrop of volcanoes.

Marcos Bautista, 63, said he has attended the Good Friday observances since his father brought him along as a baby in his arms.

“To describe Holy Week in Antigua, there are no words that can capture what it feels like,» Bautista said. “It’s a feeling that, just by speaking about what Jesus has done in our lives, moves me deeply.”

In Bolivia, President Rodrigo Paz traveled to the southern city of Tarija to participate in Good Friday ceremonies.

The country is a secular state under its constitution and its leaders refrained from engaging in any religious events between 2006 and 2025. But Paz — who took office last November — broke with precedent by attending Palm Sunday Mass carrying a palm frond.

In the capital city of La Paz, local authorities and military bands accompanied Good Friday processions, in which hooded penitents carried the Holy Sepulcher through the streets.

Antonio Santamaría, who was holding an image of Jesus, said he welcomed the government’s presence. “I’m glad everyone is here now,” Santamaría said.

Bolivia remains a predominantly Catholic country, alongside strong Indigenous spiritual traditions. In some households, it is customary to eat only fish on Good Friday and prepare up to 12 dishes representing the apostles of Jesus, a tradition that has declined in recent years amid an economic crisis.

In Ecuador, where about 80% of the population identifies as Catholic, processions were held across major cities. In the capital, Quito, the “Jesús del Gran Poder” procession drew more than 150,000 faithful who filled the historic center’s streets with chants and prayers as they accompanied an image of Jesus carrying the cross.

Thousands more climbed the Monserrate Hill in neighboring Colombia. At more than 10,200 feet (3,100 meters) above sea level, they reached the summit in the capital city of Bogotá to attend Mass at the basilica. Similar observances, including reenactments of the Stations of the Cross, were held in other parts of the country.

Mexicans, too, celebrated Good Friday in a country that’s home to nearly 100 million Catholics.

Masked penitents, in chains and with pieces of cactus stuck to their skin, walked through the town of Atlixco, in the central state of Puebla. Known as the “Procession of the Chained,» it’s part of a tradition in which some participants pay penance for their sins and others thank God for miracles.

“It’s very beautiful, very sad,” said Marcela Ramírez, a homemaker who attended the procession. “It’s a kind of reverence, and you have to come and accompany them.”

While the share of Catholics in Latin America has declined over the past decade, the faith remains the region’s largest religion.

In several countries, including Peru and Argentina, more than 60% of adults still identify as Catholic, according to 2024 surveys by the Pew Research Center and Latinobarómetro.

AP journalists Moisés Castillo in Antigua, Guatemala; Carlos Valdez and Juan Karita in La Paz, Bolivia; Gonzalo Solano and Gabriela Molina, in Quito, Ecuador; and Martín Silva in Atlixco, Mexico, contributed to this report.

Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Chile’s new President José Antonio Kast brings openly religious views to a changing country

FILE – Chilean President-elect Jose Antonio Kast and his wife Maria Pia Adriasola greet supporters at the Santiago Cathedral after attending Mass in Santiago, Chile, Friday, Dec. 19, 2025. (AP Photo/Esteban Felix, File)

Published by The Associated Press, April 2026

Spanish story language here

SANTIAGO (AP) – Chile’s new president, José Antonio Kast, has joined a growing list of right-leaning Latin American leaders. Not only is he conservative — he’s openly religious as well.

Kast — who took office March 11 — is a practicing Catholic and part of the Schoenstatt movement, an international community devoted to the Virgin Mary. As a staunchly conservative former lawmaker, the 60-year-old father of nine opposed the sale of the emergency contraceptive pills in 2009. He has also spoken out against same-sex marriage and abortion, positions he emphasized during his 2021 presidential bid.

“We are inviting you on a journey to recover values for a proper and healthy life,” Kast said on election night last December. “It requires everyone’s commitment.”

Supporters of abortion rights and LGBTQ+ rights are wary as Kast takes office. Even if there are no immediate policy changes, they worry that it will be more difficult to make advances with their causes.  

Kast won 58% of the vote after pledging to crack down on crime and deport immigrants without legal status. As part of a broader regional trend, other conservative leaders such as El Salvador’s Nayib Bukele and Argentina’s Javier Milei have risen to power on different priorities, including security and economic reform.

Kast’s positions also align in part with those of U.S. President Donald Trump, whose administration welcomed his victory.


Here’s a look at Kast’s religious background and how his faith resonates with some Chileans in a country often described as increasingly secular.

A shifting religious landscape

Chile has seen a decline in Catholic affiliation in the past two decades, along with other Latin American countries. According to a 2024 Latinobarómetro report, the proportion of Catholics across the region fell from 80% in 1995 to 54% in 2024.

In Chile, 45% of the population identified as Catholic while 37% said they had no religion and about 12% identified as Protestant.

According to Luis Bahamondes, a religion scholar at the University of Chile, the Catholic Church was one of the country’s most trusted institutions during the 1990s. However, a series of social transformations and sexual abuse scandals eroded that perception. “It became one of the most questioned institutions and one of the least trusted,” Bahamondes said.

Still, he added, conservative tendencies in the country have long been evident.

Chile was the last country in Latin America to legalize divorce in 2004, Bahamondes recalled. More recently, he said, there has been resistance to sex education in schools.

Religion classes are not mandatory in Chile. They are optional in both public and private institutions. 

“There are still concepts that resonate strongly in Chilean society — such as family and marriage — which carry a strong religious weight,” Bahamondes said. “There is often talk of a crisis of Catholicism, but what is in crisis is the institution, not the belief itself.”

Inside Kast’s faith community

Kast and his wife are part of Schoenstatt, a Catholic apostolic movement devoted to the Virgin Mary. It was founded in Germany in 1914, at the outset of World War I.

Schoenstatt arrived in Chile in 1947 in the coastal city of Valparaíso, where the movement’s first shrine was built. It then expanded to other parts of the country including Santiago, Temuco and Concepción. It currently claims around 10,000 followers and has more than 20 shrines.

According to the Rev. Gonzalo Illanes, director of the movement in Chile, Schoenstatt has three pillars: the formation of individuals, the connection between faith and daily life, and the central role of the Virgin Mary.

Illanes said Kast has been a long-time member of the community, which encourages its members to build a better world. “Schoenstatt, like the Catholic Church, is not a political movement but a space for formation, faith and transcendence,” he said.

Like Kast, Schoenstatt emphasizes the protection of life from conception to natural death. However, Illanes said, the group remains open to dialogue. “The challenge is how to move forward,” he said. “Not to stop talking.”

How Kast’s faith resonates with supporters

“He’s a president who gives me a lot of confidence,” said Jorge Herrera, a Catholic who belongs to Schoenstatt and voted for Kast. “I share his values.”

He said one of Schoenstatt’s core beliefs is the idea that each person has a unique life mission. “God did not bring us here by chance,” he said. “We exist because there is something special we are called to do.”

Kast’s stance against abortion aligns with Herrera’s views. Yet beyond their shared religious beliefs, it was Kast’s political vision that also appealed to him ahead of the 2025 elections.

“He’s someone very capable and has a plan,” Herrera said. “I think Chile needed a plan.”

That sense of confidence in Kast extends beyond South America.

In Mexico, where there’s a left-leaning government and abortion has been decriminalized in more than half of its states, some wish for a leader like him.

“It gives me confidence that he publicly acknowledges being inspired by a Christian faith,” said Rodrigo Iván Cortés, president of a conservative advocacy group. “That does not mean that he wants to impose his faith on others, but simply that he professes it.”

Risks and expectations

Kast came close to Chile’s presidency in 2021 but lost to Gabriel Boric. At the time, his opposition to abortion and same-sex marriage, as well as his history of defending Augusto Pinochet’s dictatorship, were widely rejected by many Chileans.

Kast centered his 2025 presidential campaign on security. Yet analysts agree his views might still impact reproductive and LGBTQ+ rights.

“There are valid reasons for concern, though not necessarily for an immediate rollback as seen with Milei,” said Cristian González Cabrera, an LGBTQ-rights researcher at Human Rights Watch. He was referring to the Argentinian president’s ban of gender-affirming care for people under age 18. 

“The risk with Kast could be more gradual: slowing progress, weakening public policies and legitimizing anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric,» González Cabrera said.

Regarding women and reproductive rights, Catalina Calderón, chief advocacy officer at the Women’s Equality Center, noted that one of Kast’s first measures as president was a 3% budget cut. 

“Across the region, we have seen that when leaders from the political wing to which Kast belongs take office, one of the first things that happens is a rollback of individual rights and women’s rights,” she said.

Calderón pointed to Argentina, where Milei cut funding for a program that implemented comprehensive sex education policies and aimed to prevent teenage pregnancy.

It is also notable, she said, that Chile’s new Women and Health ministers are openly religious.

“That belongs to the private sphere,” she said. “But how that vision could shape the administration is something that should be watched closely.”

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Hernández reported from Mexico City.

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

As her kidneys fail and time runs short, this activist fights to decriminalize euthanasia in Mexico

Samara Martínez, a supporter of a law to decriminalize euthanasia, hugs a friend during the «Muerte Digna,» or Dignified Death, exhibition at the Ermita metro station in Mexico City, Monday, March 23, 2026. (AP Photo/Marco Ugarte)

Published by The Associated Press, March 2026

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Samara Martínez has written countless letters to the illness that weakens her body. 

“Dear cursed one,” the Mexican activist once wrote. “I hate you because you have taken things away from me, but I love you because you have been my greatest teacher.”

At 31, Martínez is among the most prominent voices pushing to decriminalize euthanasia in Mexico. The topic has long been debated by advocacy groups, politicians and academics. However, her case has shifted that conversation into the public spotlight as lawmakers weigh possible policy changes.

Martínez developed early signs of chronic kidney failure at age 17. Despite chemotherapy, two kidney transplants, dialysis and frequent hospitalizations, her prognosis estimates she has about five years left to live.

Neither the physical toll nor the personal losses caused by the illness have broken her spirit. Martínez has told her more than half a million social media followers that her life experience has given her resilience and purpose. She often meets with politicians, hosts conferences and keeps her job as an academic in her hometown of Chihuahua, in northern Mexico.

“I would not have taken up this fight unless I had to endure what I’ve had to, so I’ve found in it my purpose,” she said. 

The legal landscape

Though not explicitly addressed in the Mexican Constitution, the General Health Law defines euthanasia as “mercy killing” and bans it along with assisted suicide.

Under federal law, assisting or inducing someone to take their own life is punishable by one to five years in prison. If a person directly causes the death, the penalty can increase to 12 years.

Colombia is the only Latin American country where euthanasia is fully legal and regulated. Ecuador decriminalized it in 2024, and Uruguay approved legislation in 2025 that is expected to be implemented.

The proposal pushed by Martínez is known as the Transcendence Law.

It was presented in 2025 by lawmakers from several political groups including Morena, the party of President Claudia Sheinbaum.

The legislation proposes to remove the explicit ban and redefine euthanasia as a legal, voluntary medical procedure. It frames it as a right tied to dignity and autonomy, arguing that life should not be understood as an obligation to prolong suffering.

If approved, the proposal would allow adults to request the procedure. It includes conscientious objection for health workers, but requires public institutions to provide willing staff.

One lawmaker supporting Martínez is Patricia Mercado, a longtime advocate for women’s reproductive and labor rights.

“Samara’s emergence — her struggle, her authenticity — brings the possibility of passing legislation closer,” Mercado said. “A testimony speaks louder than a thousand data points.”

A past version of herself

Martínez often revisits her letters. Writing is cathartic, she said. And reading how her past self confronted her pain helps her recognize the strength she didn’t know she had.

“Today I read things I wrote four years ago and think: I was so wrong,” Martínez said. “But it’s nice to see how there’s more wisdom.”

She recalls a letter from 2021. Her doctor told her that her kidneys could no longer function on their own and she had two options: a transplant or relying on treatments that take over the kidneys’ role of removing waste and excess fluid from the body.

Back then Martínez saw the latter as unthinkable. “I thought I could never live connected to a machine,” she said. But she now undergoes peritoneal dialysis every night, connected for hours to a piece of medical equipment about the size of a printer that she must carry with her wherever she goes.

“An illness like this isn’t for everyone and it’s hard to embrace the pain,” Martínez said. “You can stop living and just exist, but I don’t want that.”

Before everything changed

There was a time when Martínez loved sports. She played soccer and was careful with her diet, thinking she was on track to live a healthy life.

She met her husband in 2013 at university, where she became a journalist. The couple married five years later despite Martínez’s warnings regarding her health.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him soon after being diagnosed with a broader set of health complications including lupus, an autoimmune disease. He answered that no adversity would ever take him from her side. 

By the time the marriage crumbled in 2024, Martínez had lost more than love. After more than a decade of severe illness, she had also lost her dream job at a publishing house after telling her boss she would undergo a transplant and might need a week to recover. Debt piled up, forcing her to sell her home and leading her parents to take out loans. Long-time friends vanished.

Vomiting, weight gain from steroids used in her treatment and hospitalization became part of her routine. Martínez has actively avoided presenting herself as a victim and strongly rejects pity. But she said that at certain stages, anger and doubt became unavoidable.

“I consider myself agnostic, but there are moments when you look up at the sky and question God — why me?” she said. “Now I practice stoicism and live each day with gratitude.”

A debate that goes beyond the law

Critics of her stance often flood Martínez with abusive messages online. “I’ve been told that if God wants me to suffer, then I should suffer,” she said.

Opposition to euthanasia remains strong among conservative and religious groups in Mexico. Following the presentation of Martínez’s proposal, the Catholic Church echoed Pope Leo’s call to uphold the sanctity of life.

Rodrigo Iván Cortés, president of a conservative advocacy group, said they view life as something that must be protected from the womb through old age. “For us, the value of life spans every stage,” he said.

Among the few religious leaders supporting Martínez’s cause is the Rev. Héctor Reyes, who collaborates with the organization “For the Right to Die with Dignity.” The group has defended euthanasia for almost two decades.

“Transcendence has everything to do with the God I believe in,” said Reyes, who added that people should not remain trapped in the image of a judgmental and punishing God. “For me, transcendence lies in the hope that life doesn’t end with physical death.”

A farewell shaped by choice

Martínez has said she has no intention of giving up. Yet when her body gives out, she dreams of saying her farewells by the sea.

It is not cowardice that drives her, she has said, but the belief that choosing how to die is the most courageous decision of her life.

Her parents struggled the day she told them she would spend her remaining days fighting for euthanasia. “That meant beginning to grieve while I was still alive,” she said. “When my father asked me why I had to fight for this, I told him that if I didn’t do it, no one else would.”

Martínez says she’s aware that she might not live to see the outcome of her fight. But pushing for change, she says, has already been worth it.

When the end is near she wishes for a sunset far from a hospital bed. A gathering to celebrate her life, surrounded by family and friends.

“That’s what my life deserves,” she said. “A proper time to say goodbye, to laugh and cry, and leave in peace.”

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

Giant Baby Jesus statue visits Mexico City’s Tepito neighborhood with message of peace

Parishioners take part in an offering to a giant Baby Jesus in Mexico City, Tuesday, March 10, 2026. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, March 2026

MEXICO CITY (AP) – His face and body resemble those of a newborn. Yet the Baby Jesus statue towers 16 feet (5 meters) tall and travels across central Mexico spreading a message of peace.

The giant figure arrived this week in Mexico City’s Tepito neighborhood, known for its bustling street markets and strong local identity, but also for longstanding crime problems. Prayers, offerings and a Mass followed.

“The Baby Jesus means everything to me and my family because we are very Catholic,” said Guillermo Ramírez, a local resident who coordinated logistics for the statue’s visit. “By bringing it here, I want to show that there are good people in Tepito.”

The 49-year-old musician first saw the giant Baby Jesus in 2024 in a nearby neighborhood. Seeing the devotion it drew from worshippers, he thought his own community could benefit too. So he reached out to the family who owns the statue, which made its first visit to Tepito later that year.

“Since it represents peace, we hope for peace in our neighborhood, in our family,” said Ramírez’s wife, Alma Cravioto. 

A statue on a mission

Mexican artist Abraham Gómez created the Baby Jesus figure with his brother in 2013. 

“This began as a project called ‘Walk for Peace and Good,’ intended to promote and spread values in families, towns and neighborhoods through sacred art,” Gómez said.

The statue has traveled to communities in the Mexican states of Puebla, Tlaxcala and Jalisco, including places where violence stemming from drug trafficking affects local communities.

“Insecurity has complicated our visits lately,” Gómez said. “But that’s why we think these activities are more necessary than ever.”

Made with a steel frame and layers of polyurethane foam and resin reinforced with fiberglass, the statue weighs about half a ton. Gómez said he found inspiration in the smaller Baby Jesus figures cherished among Mexican Catholics, who traditionally dress them ahead of Candlemas on Feb. 2.

He and his brother transport the image in a massive basket placed on top of a flatbed truck. For each of the Baby Jesus’ journeys, they lead a procession that heads to a local church or meeting point, where devotees can make offerings and a priest celebrates Mass.

After its arrival in Tepito on Monday night, dozens of residents gathered around the towering statue as music and prayers filled the street. Neighbors also shared “atole,” a traditional warm corn drink.

“For us, the important thing is not just bringing the statue so visitors can take photos,” Gómez said. “It’s that they leave with a message that stays in their hearts.”

Faith in the neighborhood 

The giant Baby Jesus left his sleeping position on Tuesday and was seated upright. Following the Mexican custom of dressing him up, locals clothed the statue with traditional textiles inspired by Huichol art, a colorful Indigenous tradition from western Mexico.

“We want to reclaim the traditions of our ancestral communities,” Gómez said. “To show that Mexico is a blend of cultures, shaped by both Spanish heritage and Indigenous roots.”

María Concepción Franco, who lives in Tepito, said she had previously seen the figure and was excited about having him visit her neighborhood.

“This is a blessing for me,” she said. “He has granted me miracles and I have asked much of him.”

Friends and loved ones have given her images of the Baby Jesus throughout the years. She keeps some at home and carries one in her purse.

“He helps me stay strong despite all difficulties,” Franco said. “I don’t have any children, but I am really devoted to him.”

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

At the convent of Leonardo’s ‘Last Supper,’ Dominican friars still live, pray and welcome visitors

The Basilica of Santa Maria delle Grazie, best known as the home of Leonardo da Vinci’s «The Last Supper,» sits in Milan, Italy, Sunday, Feb. 15, 2026. (AP Photo/María Teresa Hernández)

Published by The Associated Press, March 2026

MILAN (AP) – The Rev. Paolo Venturelli never gets too close when he visits Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper.” The Dominican friar prefers to stand away from the wall where it was painted, on the opposite side of the room once used by members of his order for meals.

“From there, the painting looks as though it were painted in the middle of the refectory,” said Venturelli of the masterpiece depicting the Gospel story of Jesus’ final meal with his apostles. “It unleashes all kinds of human and spiritual reactions.”

He lives in Santa Maria delle Grazie, a convent and basilica in Milan where Leonardo worked in the 1490s at the request of Ludovico Sforza, then ruler of the city.

“The Last Supper,” which illustrates the biblical account of Jesus announcing that one of his apostles will betray him, is located in the convent’s original refectory. Such rooms still serve as dining spaces where monastic communities gather for food, prayer and reading. Yet at Santa Maria delle Grazie it is no longer part of the friars’ daily life.

After the Napoleonic suppression of religious houses in the 18th century, the refectory passed into state hands. Today it is known as the Cenacolo Vinciano and is managed by Italy’s Regional Directorate of Museums of Lombardy.

“We don’t go often because we have to ask permission to enter,” said Venturelli, who can stay inside for only 15 minutes like any other visitor because of preservation rules.

“It no longer belongs to us.”

Living beside “The Last Supper”

A dozen priests and nine novices make up Santa Maria delle Grazie’s current Dominican community. Dressed in the iconic white robes associated with their order — or brown hooded capes in winter — friars are regularly seen walking inside the basilica.

Not all tourists visiting the Cenacolo make a stop at its adjacent church. But among those who do, some look at Venturelli and the other friars with curiosity. 

“We just came from the cloister and saw one of the friars taking care of the garden,” said Maria Teresa Bruzzi, who traveled from Genoa with her husband in mid-February.

“We came to see Leonardo’s Last Supper but we also wanted to see the church because it’s quite special,” she added. “This is a Renaissance church that combines two styles and was very important for the Sforza family.”

According to Venturelli, visitors to the sanctuary are often blown away by its architecture. “When they visit the chapel of Our Lady of the Grazie, they can see that the beauty around them was built to give glory to the one who is beautiful in and of himself — God,” he said. 

Tickets for the Cenacolo are often sold out and the museum is closed on Mondays, preventing last-minute visitors to Milan from seeing the painting. The basilica, in contrast, opens daily and welcomes those wishing to attend Mass or go to confession.

“Confessions are very much sought after and we maintain this service for the citizens of Milan but also for all visitors,” said the Rev. Llewellyn Muscat, prior of the Dominican community at Santa Maria delle Grazie.

Venturelli offers confessions to Italian-language speakers. Muscat can support those speaking English, Italian and Maltese, his mother tongue. And while other friars offer their services in French and German, the prior said they all make an effort to understand everyone.

“We cannot hold back the graces that the Lord gives to each one of us,” Muscat said.

A life of study and prayer

Dominicans arrived at Santa Maria delle Grazie as the complex was being built in the 15th century. However, the order had established an earlier presence in Milan.

Those first friars’ devotion to St. Catherine of Siena is still visible in the basilica. Frescoes depict her alongside St. Catherine of Alexandria, associated with the Dominican tradition of study and considered the patron saint of philosophers.

That intellectual legacy is also evident inside the convent itself. A few steps away from the steady flow of tourists, dozens of shelves filled with books stand in the halls.

“Reading is part of our identity,” Muscat said.

Neither he nor his fellow friars follow a strict daily schedule. But study, prayer and their ministry shape their routine.

Priests like him celebrate Mass on a regular basis and assist nearby parishes when clergy are needed. Others oversee the novitiate program, teach at local Catholic institutions, or collaborate with Santa Maria delle Grazie’s cultural center, which organizes conferences and events.

“We try to offer the spiritual push that people need,” Muscat said.

A bond beyond art

The fact that Leonardo was commissioned to paint “The Last Supper” inside a Dominican convent was no accident. Venturelli said most of his order’s refectories have this scene depicted on their walls. And according to Muscat, it echoes Dominican principles.

“For us, it does not awaken an emotion about something that belongs to the past,” he said. “It is like a continuation in which we eat together with Jesus and his apostles, as though his words are also spoken to us.”

Muscat, like any other visitor who stands in front of Leonardo’s mural, feels deeply moved by it. 

In his case, however, it is not only the art but also a shared history that strikes a deeper chord. The painting, like the convent that houses it, has endured centuries of upheaval and has required collective efforts to survive.

“’The Last Supper’ is a call to my personal conscience and a call to the conscience of the order,” Muscat said. “Because here in the Grazie there are no individuals, but a community that works and welcomes.”

The order’s current refectory is housed away from tourists, deep inside the labyrinth-like convent where the friars find the quiet needed for reflection and prayer. It is a modest, wide room, with several square tables instead of a long one, like the table depicted in “The Last Supper.”

It’s nice, Muscat said. But who knows, he added, maybe one day the old refectory will belong to them again.

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.