Vinicio Cruz and Carmen Chavez get married during a ceremony by Father Juan Carlos Guerrero inside San Juan de Dios church in Mexico City, Friday, Sept. 19, 2025. The church withstood the 8.0 earthquake of 1985, however, its structure was severely damaged in 2017 and it was forced to shut down and reopened in late 2024 after most of its restoration was completed. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)
MEXICO CITY (AP) – Carmen Chávez has a clear answer for those wondering why she and her partner chose to get married on Sept. 19 — the anniversary of two deadly earthquakes that struck Mexico 32 years apart.
“This was a tragic date for me,” said Chávez, who remembers how buildings collapsed in downtown Mexico City 40 years ago. “So I want to give this day a new meaning. From now on, it will mark the beginning of our life together.”
There is no official consensus on the overall death toll from the 1985 and 2017 earthquakes. Some estimates put the total figure at more than 12,000, but the real number remains unknown.
The coinciding dates fuel anxiety for many, especially after a third, less damaging quake hit the country on Sept. 19, 2022. But seismologists and researchers say there is no physical reason for the concurrence of major earthquakes on a specific date.
As Chávez’s wedding ceremony ended Friday morning, police closed off nearby streets to traffic for an earthquake drill. Meanwhile, exhibits, lectures and Masses took place all over the city to remember the quakes’ victims.
Mexico’s flag was flown at half staff outside Mexico City’s cathedral. A message was posted on its social media channels: “Those days left us wounded, but they also taught us that solidarity is greater than fear.”
Churches still bear scars from quakes
The Catholic venue that Chávez and her partner chose for their wedding carries a deep significance on this particular date.
The San Juan de Dios church withstood the 8.1 magnitude earthquake of 1985. However, its structure was severely damaged in 2017, forcing it to shut down. It reopened in late 2024, after most of its restoration was completed, though some interior work is still pending.
Across the plaza, another sanctuary, Santa Vera Cruz, remains closed to the public. No reopening date has been announced, but Monsignor Juan Carlos Guerrero, in charge of both parishes, hopes it can welcome visitors again by the end of this year.
“We need to keep up the restoration of our buildings,” Guerrero said. “The life of these monuments is closely linked to the people’s identity.”
Chávez said she and her partner chose San Juan de Dios as a wedding venue because her late grandmother used to attend frequently.
“It’s a parish full of history and it’s so beautiful,” she said. “Its paintings, its architecture, I love being here.”
Learning from tragedy
The Rev. Salvador Barba, who became an intermediary between the Catholic church and officials in charge of restoring federal buildings after 2017, said more than 150 churches were damaged by that earthquake in Mexico City alone. Forty were forced to shut down due to structural damage.
Nationwide, more than 3,000 churches were affected. By late 2024, nearly 90% had been restored, along with 4,000 pieces of sacred art, a government press release said.
Barba suggested that the 2017 earthquake was groundbreaking for the Catholic Church. “We raised awareness among priests that we need to take care of our churches,” he said. “An expression that we now frequently use is ’preventive maintenance’.”
That means priests nationwide can reach out to him to report cracks or any details that call for professional attention. Barba then forwards the report to the experts at the federal government and the buildings are inspected.
“We must not wait until it becomes worse,” he said. “That is what caused so much harm.” ____
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 person puts coca leaves into the mouth of a decorated, human skull on display at the General Cemetery, as an offering during the annual «Natitas» festival, a tradition marking the end of the Catholic holiday of All Saints in La Paz, Bolivia, Nov. 8, 2023. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)
LOS YUNGAS, Bolivia (AP) – Tomas Zavala performs a ritual ahead of each workday in his coca field.
Deep in the lush green mountains of Bolivia’s Yungas region, the 69-year-old farmer closes his eyes, faces the soil, and asks Mother Earth for permission to harvest coca leaves.
“The coca leaf is the core of our survival,” Zavala said. “If we work the land without permission, it gets ruined.”
Outside Bolivia, the green leaf is best known as the main ingredient in cocaine. But within the South American country it is widely considered sacred, present in both rituals and everyday life.
“The coca leaf allows us to send our children to school and put food on the table,” said Zavala, who relies on harvesting coca leaves for income. “It’s useful for everything.”
The practice that fuels Bolivia’s workforce
Bolivia recognizes the coca leaf as part of its cultural heritage, allowing cultivation within designated areas. According to the country’s Coca Producers Association, its production employs more than 45,000 people nationwide.
Most Bolivians use coca leaves for “boleo,” a practice recognized as an intangible cultural heritage since 2016. The word has no English translation. It means placing a compact wad of leaves inside the cheek.
Many refer to it as chewing, but the leaves are rarely treated like gum. Instead, people let them slowly release their active compounds. The alkaloids act as stimulants, though producers and government officials insist their effects remain mild — far from those of processed cocaine.
“It slows down our fatigue and takes away our hunger,” said Rudi Paxi, secretary of the producers association. “You’ll always watch the people from Yungas doing boleo as they head to work.”
Neri Argane, 60, works at a coca plantation in Yungas for 11 hours a day, six days per week. “We do this no matter the sun, the rain or the cold,” Argane said.
She eats bananas, rice and corn tortillas to keep up her strength. But only boleo enables her to endure long hours crouching in the fields, she says.
Families pass down coca fields like heirlooms
Bolivia’s government has made several attempts to highlight how the coca leaf is intertwined with its people’s cultural traditions.
Even as coca’s global reputation remains linked to drug trafficking, President Luis Arce sought to highlight its cultural roots. Earlier this year, he performed a public boleo to mark National Coca Chewing Day.
“Our government values the coca because it is a cultural symbol,” he said. “It represents our identity and sovereignty. It has medicinal and ritual values, and is a source of social cohesion.”
In the Yungas region, where Zavala lives about 60 miles (100 kilometers) from the capital city of La Paz, the heritage of dozens of families is tied to these hardy leaves.
“I watched my parents working the land since I was 8,” he said. “Luckily, they entrusted it to me. So I could survive.”
Mónica López also inherited her parents’ coca fields in a neighboring town. “I have been a farmer for as long as I can remember,” she said.
Raising healthy coca leaves is demanding. All work is done by hand, without machinery or animals to help. Farmers prepare the soil by October, sow the land by December and harvest the crops around February.
Most fields are handled by family members. On any given day in Yungas, it’s common to spot children next to their mothers and grandparents while they clean the leaves.
“I’ve been in the coca fields since I was 2 and I can tell you this work is hard,” said 22-year-old Alejandra Escobar. “But the coca leaf brings us plenty of benefits. When we have no money, it’s what we consume.”
Bolivians from rural areas regularly drink coca leaf tea to heal headaches and stomach inflammation. Elsewhere in the country, people use it for pancakes, ice cream and beer.
“The coca is everywhere,” Paxi said. “It unites us as families. It’s our company.”
Coca leaf nourishes both body and spirit
The coca leaf also plays a key role in Bolivians’ spirituality. “It’s used to start most of our rituals,” said anthropologist Milton Eyzaguirre. “Before you start a new job, for example, you set up a ‘mesa’ (or table) and coca leaves around.”
In the worldview of the Aymara, the region’s Indigenous people, ‘mesas’ are offerings for Pachamama (Mother Earth). Built from wooden logs, they are arranged by spiritual leaders who pray for wealth, protection and good health.
“The coca leaf helps us see,” said Neyza Hurtado, who was hired by a family to perform a ritual ahead of the recent Pachamama month. “By deciphering a coca leaf, you can know how a person is.”
Personal rituals with coca leaves are common. According to Eyzaguirre, bricklayers regularly make a boleo before each workday. And like Zavala, they ask for Mother Earth’s permission to kick off the day.
“People even use it to travel,” Eyzaguirre said. “When you go somewhere by foot, you make coca offerings and consume it, to gather strength.”
Rituals for Pachamama live on in the Yungas
López’s coca leaf rituals start on the first minute of Aug. 1. “We thank Mother Earth, because if she gets tired, nothing sprouts,” she said.
At the mesa inside her home, her spiritual leader places sweets, rice and cinnamon. Before lighting it on fire to complete the offering, López adds 12 coca leaves. “We ask for wishes with the coca,” she said. “We ask for good luck for 12 months, from August to August.”
Just like the Yungas field, her faith in Pachamama was inherited from her parents. Now she performs her rituals alongside her five children, hoping they will keep the tradition alive.
Zavala’s rituals occur both inside his house and in his field. He, too, encourages his grandchildren to participate. “We need Pachamama in the terrain, to have a good production,” he said.
Aside from asking Mother Earth’s permission to work, Zavala performs an Andean tradition known as “chaya.” The word refers to the custom of spraying alcohol onto the ground as an offering, either for requests or as an act of gratitude that symbolizes giving back to Pachamama.
“It’s what our elders passed down to us», he said. «So we must preserve it.”
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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 pedestrian passes a mural that rads in the Indigenous Guarani language «Che rete, che mba’e» which means «My body is mine» in Asuncion, Friday, Aug. 22, 2025. (AP Photo/Jorge Saenz)
LOMA GRANDE, PARAGUAY (AP) – When it came time to choose a wedding venue, Margarita Gayoso and her partner Christian Ojeda knew exactly where they wanted to go.
Despite living in Spain, the couple traveled to their long-missed hometown in Paraguay for a ceremony officiated in their ancestors’ language.
“Everyone was crying because everything feels so profound in Guaraní,” Gayoso said. “It’s as if the pronunciation pours out of your soul.”
Guaraní is one of Paraguay’s two official languages alongside Spanish. But linguists warn that fluency among younger generations is slipping, so nationwide preservation efforts are underway.
Many Paraguayans believe that Guaraní carries a deep emotional significance. Yet because the language’s use remains primarily oral, it rarely appears in official documents, government records and literary works.
Even finding a Catholic priest who could preside over Gayoso’s wedding ceremony in Guaraní proved difficult. Still, it was worth the extra effort. Some guests told her that it was the first local wedding they had attended that was conducted entirely in their mother tongue.
Why Guaraní remains at the heart of Paraguay
Of the country’s 6.9 million people, about 1.6 million reported Guaraní as their main language, according to Paraguay’s official 2024 data. Whereas, 1.5 million use Spanish, and 2.1 million identify as bilingual. Other Indigenous languages account for the rest.
The Guaraní spoken today differs from the version that Europeans first encountered during the Latin American conquests in the 1500s. Still, its survival in a region where most countries shifted to Spanish is remarkable. Why has it managed to remain dominant?
“In the Guaraní culture, language is synonymous with soul,” said Arnaldo Casco, a researcher from Paraguay’s Department of Linguistics.
“The word is what the Lord bestowed on men, so we believe that, for the Guaraní people, losing their language was like losing their soul.”
Reflecting this deep connection to their language, the Guaraní people fiercely resisted learning Spanish. That’s why early European missionaries saw no other option but to learn Guaraní for evangelization purposes.
A language preserved yet punished
Jesuit and Franciscan priests produced Guaraní’s first written records in Paraguay.
The alphabet and dictionary they developed became essential for delivering sermons and helped preserve the language from extinction. Still, those efforts were not enough to shield Guaraní from centuries of marginalization that followed.
Casco said that close to 90% of the population were primarily Guaraní speakers by the early 19th century. But as the country regained its independence from Spain in 1811, efforts to promote its widespread use have been erratic.
While its use was encouraged to promote national unity during wartime in the 1930s, a postwar decree prevented teachers and students from using it in schools.
“My parents and other parents were tortured for not speaking Spanish,” said Miguel Ángel Verón, a linguistics researcher whose father was beaten in the mouth for communicating in Guaraní. “Why was not speaking Spanish his fault? He and my uncles ended up abandoning school.”
Spanish-Guaraní bilingual education became mandatory in 1992. Both languages are required in classrooms, but the law does not guarantee textbooks in Guaraní or foster widespread awareness of the need to preserve it.
Both Casco and Verón said that dozens of families no longer speak to their children in Guaraní. They fear the use of their mother tongue might hold them back from success, so they encourage them to learn English instead.
“Paraguay continues to suffer from a deep linguistic wound,” Verón said. “It might be easy to pass a law, but shifting our attitudes requires so much more.”
What language entails
Those working to preserve the language contend there’s more to Guaraní than words.
“The fundamental human values that we Paraguayans hold come from it,” Verón said. “Solidarity, reciprocity and a sacred respect towards nature.”
“Jarýi,” for example, is a Guaraní word that has no Spanish translation. It describes god-like protectors of the land, which according to some people like Verón’s father, needs years of rest in order to regain its wisdom and strength between harvests.
“If you destroy a forest to eat, you won’t be in any trouble. But if you do it just for the sake of it or to earn money, the jarýi will come,” Verón said.
Casco, too, learned various lessons from a medicine man that cured people in his hometown. “Knowing that prayer can heal is a legacy from the Indigenous people,” he said.
Across Paraguay’s rural areas, hundreds of other testimonies link language with faith. Yet no written records of those beliefs had been produced until now.
To create a register of those collective memories, Casco leads a project to interview Guaraní speakers over 60 years of age. His team has spoken to 72 people so far and the interviews will be published on the Department of Linguistics’ website when the transcripts are done.
“Our goal is to rescue the connection that we have with our roots and history through language,” Casco said.
Rescuing Guaraní
Several interviewees live in Loma Grande, the town where Ojeda and Gayoso wed.
Juana Giménez, 83, possesses a deep understanding of medicinal plants. Desperate parents with crying babies used to take their children to her. And Giménez, with a mix of herbs, smoke and prayer, helped reduce the stomach inflammation that so regularly brought them to tears.
Marta Duarte, 73, learned Spanish and moved to the capital city Asunción to work as a tailor for years. She came back to Loma Grande in her 30s and currently helps at the local church, where attendees read the Bible in Spanish and she discusses the passages in Guaraní.
Carlos Kurt, an 85-year-old descendant of German immigrants, fell in love with Paraguayan ancestral words at a young age. He still laughs as he recalls the day his second-grade teacher sent a note to his German-speaking parents: “Your boy is a good student, but he speaks way too much in Guaraní.”
“I just loved the language,” he said. “I learned it and nothing escaped me. Now my grandson does not speak it. He doesn’t like it.”
Other Paraguayans echoed how their descendants are letting go of the language, but Sofia Rattazzi is an exception. She lives in Asunción with her mother and grandmother, Nancy Vera, to whom she speaks only in Guaraní.
Following Vera’s beliefs in a concept known as “yvyguy» treasure — gold hidden by rich Paraguayans during wartime in the 1800s — the family regularly digs up holes in their backyard.
Vera has always had a particular closeness to the land, Rattazzi said, as it has previously signaled to her where jewelry might be. “She discovered places where the earth and water break and there lay rings and other stuff,” she said.
Rattazzi said her grandmother doubted participating in the language project, not knowing what good may come from the interviews. But she encouraged her.
“I want her to see how her own history matters,” Rattazzi said. “Now something will be left from her once she is gone.”
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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.
Ziva Mann, mother of a transgender child and member of a welcoming synagogue, poses in her garden, Wednesday, Aug. 13, 2025, in Newton, Mass. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)
Ziva Mann remembers how joyful and smiley her daughter was as a child — the family even gave her the nickname “Giggles.”
“She was just sunshine,” Mann said. That changed around second grade, when her joy began to fade. “She got sadder and sadder,” Mann recalled. “It was like watching someone disappear.”
Mann later realized that her child’s growing sadness was connected to a struggle to reckon with her gender identity.
Her daughter came out as transgender at home in Massachusetts four years ago. “Mom, I’m a girl,” Mann remembers hearing her say. Though she was surprised by the news, she quickly came to admire her daughter’s bravery.
Since then, the family has striven to find the best ways to support Ellie within their modern Orthodox community, where tradition and strict gender roles shape daily life. They’ve managed to find emotional and spiritual resources close to home at a time when transgender rights are under attack nationwide.
Raising a trans child in Orthodox Jewish communities
Two of the three biggest branches of Judaism in the U.S. — Reform and Conservative — support the rights of transgender people, but it can still be challenging for trans youth to find an inclusive congregation.
Schools in Orthodox Jewish communities are typically divided by gender, and most synagogues have separate seating sections for men and women — sometimes on different floors.
“Orthodoxy today is just binary,” said Myriam Kabakov, co-founder and executive director of Eshel, an organization supporting LGBTQ+ people in Orthodox environments. “You’re either male or you’re female. So if a trans person is in between transitioning, very often they will be asked not to come to synagogue.”
She said even after someone has fully transitioned, rabbis should allow them to sit where they feel comfortable. But that acceptance is not guaranteed.
To connect parents and trans children with inclusive synagogues, Eshel developed a program called “Welcoming Shuls,” where people can confide in spiritual leaders who will treat them with respect.
According to Kabakov, about 300 rabbis and 160 families with trans members have joined their listings. Deslie Paneth is among them. She lives on Long Island and has traveled far to find support for Ollie, her transgender son.
“One night, I said to my husband ‘I need help, I don’t know how to navigate this,’” Paneth said. “Without Eshel, I don’t know how this would have turned out for any of us.”
Balancing tradition and change
Mann defines herself as modern Orthodox, meaning she strives to uphold Judaic law while embracing the values within her family.
“The only time we break the rules is to save someone’s life,” she said. “Because a life is more important than all of the rules.”
Respecting her daughter’s identity felt akin to saving her life, so Mann didn’t feel the need to talk to God about it. She said who her daughter is as a person mattered more than the gender she thought she had.
Mann has heard of families with trans children who were asked to leave their synagogue, but this didn’t happened to her. Before discussing Ellie’s identity with other relatives, Mann reached out to her rabbi. He assured her that her daughter would be treated with dignity and respect.
“He offered us a blessing,” Mann said. “The strength, the love and the grace to parent a child who’s walking a difficult path.”
Finding a place to belong
Mann feels lucky to have found support, both in religious spaces and among family members, which has helped Ellie be her joyful self again. Some Orthodox families have faced a tougher process.
Paneth recalled her son, before starting his transition around 2017, was deeply religious and they enjoyed sitting together at synagogue.
“He tells me still today that, especially around the holiday times, it hurts him that he can’t sit next to me in temple,” Paneth said. “He’s probably my child that has the strongest commitment to Judaism from an emotional connection.»
A rabbi told Paneth that Ollie is welcome to come to services, but he would now be expected to sit among the men. This is part of the reason why Ollie has not returned to synagogue since his transition.
Faith and identity at a crossroads
Ollie believes that his relationship with religion splintered as a student in an all-girls Orthodox Jewish high school. As he started raising questions about gender equality, none of the answers sufficed.
“I’m still convinced that if I wasn’t trans, I would still be a religious Jew,” the 27-year-old said.
He initially told his parents he was a lesbian. But since attending a secular college, making LGBTQ+ friends and feeling trapped during the pandemic, he decided to speak with them again. “If I was going to survive this, I had to come out with my parents as trans and start medically transitioning.”
He had top surgery in 2022 and soon after met his girlfriend at JQY, a program for Jewish LGBTQ+ teens. The couple now lives together in New York.
Ollie doesn’t think of himself as Orthodox, and says he would like to find a new path toward God. Paneth understands and still includes him in the Jewish holidays. Ollie appreciates it.
Because he first connected to God as a girl, it doesn’t feel natural to him to embrace traditions that are typical for Jewish men, like wearing a kippah.
“I don’t do any of the tasks that men do religiously because I’m the same person I always was,” he said. “Even though I look different, my relationship to God didn’t change.”
Making synagogues more inclusive
Kabakov said many LGBTQ+ Jews eventually decide to leave Orthodoxy, but for those who wish to remain, Eshel and some spiritual leaders offer support.
Rabbi Mike Moskowitz, who works at an LGBTQ+ synagogue in New York, thinks of his job as helping people understand how they can be their authentic selves and still feel accepted by their religion. “It’s not that Judaism is the problem,” he said. “Orthodoxy, the people, are the problem.”
The counseling he provides for trans children and their parents is specific to each person, but in general, he offers fresh interpretations of the Hebrew Bible.
“Those who want to be transphobic say the Bible says you can’t wear misgendered clothing,” Moskowitz said. “I think a response is that trans folks are not wearing misgendered clothing. They’re wearing gender-affirming clothing.”
He, like Kabakov, believes there’s a trend in Orthodoxy toward more inclusivity, but there’s more work to do.
“Discrimination is unholy,” he said. “Unity is coping through kindness and being able to replace the weight of oppression with the elevation of love.”
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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 man is silhouetted against a burst of fireworks during celebrations honoring Bolivia’s patron saint, the Virgin of Copacabana, in Copacabana, Bolivia, Monday, Aug. 4, 2025. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)
More than 50,000 people from Bolivia and neighboring Peru make a pilgrimage every August to Copacabana, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, to honor Bolivia’s patron saint, Our Lady of Copacabana. In the main event of the celebration, a replica of the wooden-carved figure of the Virgin Mary leads a procession.
Her official feast is Feb. 2 — coinciding with Candlemas — but Aug. 5 marks the anniversary of her canonical coronation as the patron saint of Bolivia by a papal bull issued by Pius XII in 1925. This year is the 100th anniversary.
“She has granted me various miracles,” said Elizabet Valdivia, who traveled 12 hours by road and boat from the Peruvian city of Arequipa to join the procession. “She gave us our car, the possibility of raising my son, and I always ask her to watch over our jobs.”
The birth of a sacred icon
Our Lady of Copacabana’s basilica has safeguarded this Virgin Mary figure since the late 16th century. Her history dates back to 1583, when Inca descendant Francisco Tito Yupanqui crafted a figure in her honor.
According to Marcela Cruz, a guide at the museum next to the basilica, Yupanqui had a dream about the Virgin and molded a clay figure to depict her. He showed it to the chaplain, but after being rejected and mocked, he went for a walk by the lake.
“There, he encountered the image of the Virgin as an Inca maiden,” Cruz said. “That’s why her image is so simple.”
Inspired by the apparition, Yupanqui set off for the city of Potosí, about 330 miles (530 kilometers) from La Paz, the current capital city. There, he carved the image that is now revered in the basilica from a maguey tree trunk.
When Yupanqui traveled back to Copacabana, the town was under Spanish occupation, and both the Aymara and Quechua Indigenous people — now nationals from Bolivia and Peru — were at the site for evangelization purposes.
“She arrived at dawn on Feb. 2, and both the Aymara and the Incas bowed down to welcome her,” Cruz said.
A shrine of faith, gratitude and generations of prayer
The museum named after Yupanqui displays hundreds of gifts that devotees have presented over the centuries. These include capes embroidered with gold thread, votive offerings, letters in braille and silver crowns resembling those Simón Bolívar melted down to secure Bolivian independence in 1825.
“Our Lady of Copacabana is the mother who welcomes all of her children regardless of their race or culture,” said Itamar Pesoa, a Franciscan friar residing at the convent adjacent to the basilica. “Within Bolivia, she is the queen.”
According to Pesoa, pilgrims travel from all over South America to present her with offerings. Some women who were unable to have children thank her for enabling them to become mothers. Others praise her for helping them recover from serious illnesses.
Several Masses in her honor are celebrated daily starting Aug. 4.
“This devotion continues to be passed down from generation to generation and inspires many to follow Christ,” Pesoa said.
Yupanqui’s original figure has not left the basilica for a procession since her coronation in 1925, but devotees revere her replicas nonetheless.
In a nearby chapel, parishioners light candles — one per miracle requested — and patiently wait for them to burn out before leaving.
Sandra Benavides, who traveled from the Peruvian city of Cuzco, lit a candle and prayed for good health. She said some years ago she fell and the accident nearly killed her, but the Virgin interceded.
“Our Lady of Copacabana is miraculous,” Benavides said. “She is as if she were my mother, whom I have never had.”
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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.
Spiritual leader Eusebio Huanca burns offerings observing the month of Pachamama, or Mother Earth, performing an ancient tradition to ask for a good harvest, on La Cumbre, a mountain considered sacred on the outskirts of La Paz, Bolivia, Friday, Aug. 1, 2025. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)
Neyza Hurtado was 3 years old when she was struck by lightning. Forty years later, sitting next to a bonfire on a 13,700-foot (4,175-meter) mountain, her scarred forehead makes her proud.
“I am the lightning,” she said. “When it hit me, I became wise and a seer. That’s what we masters are.”
Hundreds of people in Bolivia hire Andean spiritual guides like Hurtado to perform rituals every August, the month of “Pachamama,” or Mother Earth, according to the worldview of the Aymara, an Indigenous people of the region.
Pachamama’s devotees believe that she awakens hungry and thirsty after the dry season. To honor her and express gratitude for her blessings, they make offerings at home, in their crop fields and on the peaks of Bolivian mountains.
“We come here every August to follow in the footsteps of our elders,” said Santos Monasterios, who hired Hurtado for a Pachamama ritual on a site called La Cumbre, about 8 miles (13 kilometers) from the capital city of La Paz. “We ask for good health and work.”
Honoring Mother Earth
Offerings made to Pachamama are known as “mesitas” (or “little tables”). Depending on each family’s wishes, masters like Hurtado prepare one mesita per family or per person.
Mesitas are made of wooden logs. On top of them, each master places sweets, grains, coca leaves and small objects representing wealth, protection and good health. Occasionally, llama or piglet fetuses are also offered.
Once the mesita is ready, the spiritual guide sets it on fire and devotees douse their offerings with wine or beer, to quench Pachamama’s thirst.
“When you make this ritual, you feel relieved,” Monasterios said. “I believe in this, so I will keep sharing a drink with Pachamama.”
It can take up to three hours for a mesita to burn. Once the offerings have turned to ash, the devotees gather and solemnly bury the remains to become one with Mother Earth.
Why Bolivians make offerings to Pachamama
Carla Chumacero, who travelled to La Cumbre last week with her parents and a sister, requested four mesitas from her longtime spiritual guide.
“Mother Earth demands this from us, so we provide,” the 28-year-old said.
According to Chumacero, how they become aware of Pachamama’s needs is hard to explain. “We just know it; it’s a feeling,” she said. “Many people go through a lot — accidents, trouble within families — and that’s when we realize that we need to present her with something, because she has given us so much and she can take it back.”
María Ceballos, 34, did not inherit her devotion from her family, but from co-workers at the gold mine where she earns a living.
“We make offerings because our work is risky,” Ceballos said. “We use heavy machinery and we travel often, so we entrust ourselves to Pachamama.”
A ritual rooted in time and climate
The exact origin of the Pachamama rituals is difficult to determine, but according to Bolivian anthropologist Milton Eyzaguirre, they are an ancestral tradition dating back to 6,000 B.C.
As the first South American settlers came into the region, they faced soil and climate conditions that differed from those in the northernmost parts of the planet, where winter begins in December. In Bolivia, as in other Southern Hemisphere countries, winter runs from June to September.
“Here, the cold weather is rather dry,” Eyzaguirre said. “Based on that, there is a particular behavior in relation to Pachamama.”
Mother Earth is believed to be asleep throughout August. Her devotees wish for her to regain her strength and bolster their sowing, which usually begins in October and November. A few months later, when the crops are harvested in February, further rituals are performed.
“These dates are key because it’s when the relationship between humans and Pachamama is reactivated,” Eyzaguirre said.
“Elsewhere it might be believed that the land is a consumer good,” he added. “But here there’s an equilibrium: You have to treat Pachamama because she will provide for you.”
Bolivians’ connection to their land
August rituals honor not only Pachamama, but also the mountains or “apus,” considered protective spirits for the Aymara and Quechua people.
“Under the Andean perspective, all elements of nature have a soul,” Eyzaguirre said. “We call that ‘Ajayu,’ which means they have a spiritual component.”
For many Bolivians, wind, fire, and water are considered spirits, and the apus are perceived as ancestors. This is why many cemeteries are located in the highlands and why Pachamama rituals are performed at sites like La Cumbre.
“The apus protect us and keep an eye on us,” said Rosendo Choque, who has been a spiritual guide or “yatiri” for 40 years.
He, like Hurtado, said that only a few select people can do they job. Before becoming masters, it is essential that they acquire special skills and ask Pachamama’s permission to perform rituals in her honor.
“I acquired my knowledge little by little,” Choque said. “But I now have the permission to do this job and coca leaves speak to me.”
Hurtado said she mostly inherited her knowledge from her grandmother, who was also a yatiri and witnessed how she survived the lightning strike.
“For me, she is the holiest person, the one who made me what I am,” Hurtado said.
She said she finds comfort in helping her clients secure a good future, but her close relationship with Pachamama brings her the deepest joy.
“We respect her because she is Mother Earth,” Hurtado said. “We live in her.”
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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.
Children dressed in feather costumes attend a Mass celebrating Saint Francisco Solano at his namesake chapel in Emboscada, Paraguay, Thursday, July 24, 2025. Catholic parishioners in Paraguay don bird-like costumes and parade the streets to honor the 16th century saint said to possess miraculous powers. (AP Photo/Jorge Saenz)
EMBOSCADA, Paraguay (AP) The rainy weather did not prevent Blanca Servín from dressing her 7-year-old son like a bird. They joined a procession honoring St. Francis Solanus, the patron saint of a town in Paraguay about 20 miles (32 kilometers) from the capital city of Asunción.
Like her child, dozens of Catholics in Emboscada wear elaborate feathered garments each July 24. Dressing up is a ritual aimed at fulfilling promises made to the Spanish friar, who was a missionary in South America during the 16th century and is believed to grant miracles.
“I couldn’t have children,” Servín said. “I underwent several treatments and when I finally got pregnant and my child was born, the doctors said he would barely live for a few days.”
She then prayed to St. Francis Solanus and made a promise many parishioners make: If you do this for me, I will honor you on your feast day for seven years.
“My son is almost 7, and I have kept my promise,” Servín said. “But we will keep coming.”
Dressing in feathers
Participants dressing up in feather garments are known as “promisers.” As part of the rituals, they cover their faces, imitate birds and distort their voices when speaking.
Marcos Villalba said he spent three months crafting his costume. He worked on it every other day and said his father and brothers have also been long-time promisers.
Sulma Villalba — not related to Marcos — devoted six months to the task. Rather than wearing a costume herself, she patiently glued hundreds feathers to her children’s and husband’s clothing. Like Servín, she has already fulfilled the promise she made to St. Francis to protect her family, but she said they still honor him because it has become a tradition they enjoy.
A missionary to Indigenous people
According to Ireneo López, a layperson in charge of recreational activities at the Emboscada parish, St. Francis is remembered as a missionary who evangelized the Indigenous people through music. The first church in his honor was erected in the 1930s. As parishioners increased, a new building was built later.
López said that participants use up to 30 hens, guinea fowls and geese to craft their costumes.
“These garments represent what people used to wear in ancient times,” he added. “Gala suits were made with what nature provided: birds.”
Jessica López, who attended the festival with her two children and a niece, said she gathered feathers for months. Before crafting the costumes a week ago, her family enjoyed a banquet with a hen they specifically picked for the occasion.
She, too, asked St. Francis for good health, but said parishioners request all sorts of miracles. About 2,500 area residents join the feast every year.
Processions and dances honoring St. Francis start on July 22. The night before the feast day, a local family takes home a wooden figure depicting the friar in order to decorate it for the festivities.
On July 24, promisers and parishioners attend Mass at the St. Francis chapel, then lead a procession and end up dancing in front of the church.
A tale of land and dispute
According to historian Ana Barreto, the ancient context of the feast is as fascinating as the feast itself. It is celebrated in a territory that was disputed by two Indigenous people — the Guaraní and the Chacoan — before the Spaniards came in the 16th century.
The Europeans eventually subdued the Guaraní, but the Chacoan kept defending the land even after descendants of formerly enslaved people from Africa settled there.
“The Indigenous people sought to steal young women, take weapons and other valuable objects, and set the ranches on fire,” Barreto said.
Not all current participants in the St. Francis feast are aware of this, but their costumes and celebrations are a remembrance of this historic episode.
According to Barreto, the Guaraní name of the event, “Guaykurú Ñemondé,” translates as “dressing like a barbarian.” Thus Guaraní participants are dressing as their ancestral enemies.
The reason might be hidden in an ancient Guaraní rite. After battling the Chacoan, the Guaraní people kept their prisoners alive. They provided them with food and energizing drinks, and encouraged them to have sex with their women. Afterwards, they killed the prisoners and cooked them, serving them as a meal at a community banquet.
“In this way, the enemy strengthened the Guaraní,” Barreto said.
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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.
God’s message didn’t immediately make sense to pastor José Luis Orozco. But when U.S. efforts resulted in his release from a Nicaraguan prison a few months later, everything became clear.
“The Lord had told me: ‘Don’t be afraid, José Luis. A wind will blow from the north, your chains will break and the doors will open,’” the pastor said from his new home in Austin, Texas.
By September 2024, he had spent nine months behind bars. With 12 other Nicaraguan members of the Texas-based evangelical Christian organization Mountain Gateway, he faced charges like money laundering and illicit enrichment. Just like them, other faith leaders had been imprisoned during a crackdown that organizations, such as Human Rights Watch, have said are attacks on religious freedom.
Orozco thought his innocence would eventually surface. So when the U.S. government announced that it had secured his release along with other political prisoners, he wasn’t completely surprised.
“That’s when I understood,” the pastor said. “God was telling me he would act through the United States.”
In the hours following the announcement, 135 Nicaraguans were escorted to Guatemala, where most sought paths to settle in other countries.
Why did Nicaragua imprison religious leaders?
Tensions between President Daniel Ortega and Nicaraguan faith leaders began in 2018, when a social security reform sparked massive protests that were met with a crackdown. Relations worsened as religious figures rejected political decisions harming Nicaraguans and Ortega moved aggressively to silence his critics.
Members of Catholic and Evangelical churches have denounced surveillance and harassment from the government. Processions aren’t allowed and investigations have been launched into both pastors and priests. CSW, a British-based group that advocates for religious freedom, documented 222 cases affecting Nicaraguans in 2024.
“Religious persecution in Nicaragua is the cruelest Latin America has seen in years,” said Martha Patricia Molina, a Nicaraguan lawyer who keeps a record of religious freedom violations. “But the church has always accomplished its mission of protecting human life.”
Spreading the gospel
Orozco was the first member of his family to become evangelical. He felt called to the ministry at age 13 and convinced relatives to follow in his footsteps. He began preaching in Managua, urging different churches to unite.
His experience became key for Mountain Gateway’s missionary work. Founded by American pastor Jon Britton Hancock, it began operating in Nicaragua in 2013.
CSW had warned that religious leaders defending human rights or speaking critically of the government can face violence and arbitrary detention. But Hancock and Orozco said their church never engaged in political discourse.
While maintaining good relations with officials, Mountain Gateway developed fair-trade coffee practices and offered disaster relief to families affected by hurricanes.
By the time Orozco was arrested, his church had hosted mass evangelism campaigns in eight Nicaraguan cities, including Managua, where 230,000 people gathered with the government’s approval in November 2023.
An unexpected imprisonment
Orozco and 12 other members of Mountain Gateway were arrested the next month.
“They chained us hand and foot as if we were high-risk inmates,” he recalled. “None of us heard from our families for nine months.”
The prison where he was taken hosted around 7,000 inmates, but the cells where the pastors were held were isolated from the others.
The charges they faced weren’t clarified until their trial began three months later. No information was provided to their relatives, who desperately visited police stations and prisons asking about their whereabouts.
“We still had faith this was all a confusion and everything would come to light,” Orozco said.
“But they sentenced us to the maximum penalty of 12 years and were ordered to pay $84 million without a right to appeal.”
Preaching in prison
Fasting and prayer helped him endure prison conditions. Pastors weren’t given drinking water or Bibles, but his faith kept him strong.
“The greatest war I’ve fought in my Christian life was the mental battle I led in that place,” Orozco recalled.
Guards didn’t prevent pastors from preaching, so they ministered to each other. According to the pastor, they were mocked, but when they were released, a lesson came through.
“That helped them see that God performed miracles,” he said. “We always told them: Someday we’ll leave this place.”
Molina said that several faith leaders who fled Nicaragua have encountered barriers imposed by countries unprepared to address their situation. According to the testimonies she gathered, priests have struggled to relocate and minister, because passports are impossible to obtain, and foreign parishes require documents that they can’t request.
But Orozco fared differently. He shares his testimony during the services he leads in Texas, where he tries to rebuild his life.
“I arrived in the United States just like God told me,” the pastor said. “So I always tell people: ‘If God could perform such a miracle for me, he could do it for you too.’”
Laymen were targets too
Onboard the plane taking Orozco to Guatemala was Francisco Arteaga, a Catholic layman imprisoned in June 2024 for voicing his concerns over Ortega’s restrictions on religious freedom.
“After 2018, when the protests erupted, I started denouncing the abuses occurring at the churches,” Arteaga said. “For example, police sieges on the parks in front of the parishes.”
Initially, he relied on Facebook posts, but later he joined a network of Nicaraguans who documented violations of religious freedom throughout the country.
“We did not limit ourselves to a single religious aspect,” said Arteaga, whose personal devices were hacked and monitored by the government. “We documented the prohibitions imposed on processions, the fees charged at church entrances and restrictions required inside the sanctuaries.”
Arteaga witnessed how police officers detained parishioners praying for causes that were regarded as criticism against Ortega.
According to CSW, the government monitors religious activities, putting pressure on leaders to practice self-censorship.
“Preaching about unity or justice or praying for the general situation in the country can be considered criticism of the government and treated as a crime,” said CSW’s latest report.
Building a new life
Prison guards also denied a Bible to Arteaga, but an inmate lent him his.
It was hard for him to go through the Scripture, given that his glasses were taken away after his arrest, but he managed to read it back-to-back twice.
“I don’t even know how God granted me the vision to read it,” said Arteaga, who couldn’t access his diabetes medicine during his imprisonment. “That gave me strength.”
He eventually reunited with his wife and children in Guatemala, where he spent months looking for a new home to resettle. He recently arrived in Bilbao, Spain, and though he misses his country, his time in prison shaped his understanding of life.
“I’ve taken on the task, as I promised God in prison, of writing a book about faith,” Arteaga said. “The title will be: ‘Faith is not only believing.’”
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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.
Afro Mexican activist and actress Eréndira Castorela poses for a photo with her jarana jarocha instrument during a break from a Mulato Teatro rehearsal, in Ticumán, Mexico, Saturday, May 17, 2025. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)
TICUMÁN, México (AP) – There was something about her body, but Mexican actress Eréndira Castorela couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Some casting directors told her she was “too tall” to play a Mexican woman. Others insinuated her features weren’t sufficiently “Indigenous.”
“It wasn’t until later that I discovered what it means to recognize oneself as Afro,” said Castorela, who subsequently confirmed her African ancestry. “We are a diverse community which, perhaps due to discrimination, doesn’t identify as such.”
Her life changed after she joined Mulato Teatro, a theater company that empowers actors of African descent who are eager to forge a career despite racism. However, like most Afro Mexican activists, Castorela believes that nationwide recognition is still a long way off.
“If we look around, we’ll see curly hair, high cheekbones, full lips or dark skin,” the 33-year-old said. “But there’s a wound that prevents us from recognizing ourselves.”
The Afro Mexican lineage
Unlike the United States, where there have been concerted efforts to boost awareness of the Black history, acknowledging Black people in Mexico has received little support.
“The concept of mixed race denies the cultural diversity that defines us as Mexicans,» said María Elisa Velázquez, a researcher at the National School of Anthropology and History. «We are not only Indigenous, but also European, African and Asian.”
It is well known that the Mesoamerican lands conquered by the Spaniards in the 16th century were inhabited by Indigenous people, resulting in mixed-race marriages and births. Less noted is the fact that some mixed-race Mexicans are partly descended from enslaved Black people.
According to Velázquez, the evolution of communities incorporating Black people depended on their geographic location. “Much of the Afro-descendant population established relations and coexisted alongside different Indigenous groups, resulting in very heterogeneous communities,” she said.
Official figures from 2024 estimate the Afro-descendant population in Mexico is 3.1 million, mainly residing in the states of Guerrero, Morelos, Colima and Quintana Roo. While most identify as African Mexican, nearly two-thirds also perceive themselves as Indigenous.
Finding her true identity
Castorela — born in Morelos, a state neighboring Mexico City — recalls looking through family photo albums after first wondering if she had African ancestry. The features of her relatives left no room for doubt.
“I also realized we had created a narrative that concealed our origins,” she said. “There was always someone saying: ‘But there was a blond person in the family,’ or ‘Grandma had finer features.’”
Castorela may not have curly hair and her skin tone may not resemble that of other Afro women, but she said her body never lied.
When she was a young actress taking ballet classes, she felt constrained and uncomfortable. It wasn’t until she joined African dance classes that the choreography was ideal for her height, weight and soul.
“I feel much freer because there’s openness and movement,” she said. “Identifying as African Mexican has given me the mental and spiritual peace I needed to realize there is a place where I can reflect myself.”
A struggling career
The theater company where Castorela and two dozen other artists collaborate was founded in the early 2000s by another Afro woman who struggled to excel as a Black actress in Mexico.
Born in Colombia, a South American country where around 10% of the population is Black, Marisol Castillo said she had no clue her physical features would hinder her career. But after falling in love with Mexican playwright Jaime Chabaud and moving to his hometown, everything changed.
“Some want to force us to fit a mold, a white mold,” Castillo said. “And when we differ, we’re told: ‘You’re a bad actor, you’re out of tune.’ But we’re just different.”
Casting directors mostly offered Castillo roles as prostitute, exotic dancer, maid or slave. So she teamed up with Chabaud, and “Mulato Teatro” was born.
“There was very little openness and awareness,” Chabaud said. “So I started writing plays for her.”
Tales of African and Mexican heritage
The themes of Chabaud’s plays are as diverse as the actors who bring his characters to life.
“African Erotic Tales of the Black Decameron” draws inspiration from oral traditions, fusing the worldview of African communities. ”Yanga» portrays a real-life 17th-century Black hero who is considered a liberator in the Mexican state of Veracruz.
Among the topics inspiring Chabaud are not only African legends or characters, but stories closer to home. “Where are you going, Mr. Opossum?” tells the tale of a “Tlacuache,” an ancient creature from Mesoamerican mythology.
In Chabaud’s play, the Tlacuache steals fire from a goddess to save humanity from hunger and darkness. The creature has no divine powers, but his ability to play dead enables him to sneak past the Jaguar, a deity safeguarding the flames.
“Jaime always tells us that we should all worship Mr. Tlacuache instead of other deities,” said Aldo Martin, playing the leading role.
Martin, 28, does not identify as Afro, but feels the company’s work successfully portrays Mexico’s diversity.
“Our ancestors are not only Indigenous, but a fusion, and these mixed heritages have resulted in a very distinct society, made of all colors, which shouldn’t pigeonhole us into just being Afro,” Martin said.
Diversity is welcomed at Mulato Teatro
Castillo and Chabaud primarily encourage Afro-Mexican artists to work in their plays, but they also welcome amateur actors and LGBTQ+ performers.
One of them is transgender actress Annya Atanasio Cadena, who began her career in plays addressing topics such as suicide, alcoholism and drug addiction in marginalized communities.
“In my (LGBTQ+) community, we know what it’s like to fight against the world,” said Atanasio, who plays a trans woman in one of Chabaud’s plays about gender violence.
“I’m very moved to have been given the chance to become part of this space, which also heals me,” she added. «We can show that we exist and we are more than just a story. We are bodies, desires, feelings, and the pain we carry.”
Dreams of an unknown land
There’s a special play written and directed by Castillo: “Dreaming of Africa.”
Although she has not been able to trace the exact roots of her ancestry, her work and community make her feel closer to a long-lost home.
“When we, people from the same ethnicity meet, we call each other ‘brother,’” Castillo said. “After all, we came from the same ports.”
She said she’ll never forget a presentation of “Dreaming of Africa,” when a girl from the audience approached her.
“She could barely speak, so we hugged,” Castillo said. “Then she said: ’Thank you for telling me I’m pretty, for making me feel my worth’.”
Castillo, too, learns something about herself as she acts, writes and directs. It’s like peeling an onion, she said, taking layer by layer to reveal what’s underneath.
“I grow with each play,” Castillo said. «I feel prouder of my roots, knowing that I can move away from stereotypes like playing a prostitute or a witch. That I, too, can be a queen.”
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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.
CARACAS (AP) – “Can I bring my gun into the worship service?”
The question presented Venezuelan pastor Fernanda Eglé with a dilemma. Agreeing might have endangered parishioners at her evangelical church in Caracas. But what if dismissing the gang member pulled him farther from God?
“It was risky, but this was God’s plan,” Eglé said. “He knew these people’s hearts, their need for change. So I created a ‘service for criminals,’ intending they would come.”
Many pastors like Eglé provide spiritual guidance in Venezuelan slums affected by crime, drug addiction and gangs. Their task has proven challenging amid the 12-year crisis that stemmed from a drop in oil prices, corruption and government mismanagement.
The economic collapse has forced millions to emigrate since Nicolás Maduro took power in 2013. And despite official claims of decreasing inflation levels in 2024, he declared an “economic emergency” in April, granting himself powers to implement extraordinary measures.
“Working in these communities has been difficult,” Eglé said. “But we need to keep up our work.”
How big is the evangelical community in Venezuela?
Reliable statistics are hard to come by since official figures have not been issued in more than a decade, but academic experts and community members contend the number of evangelicals in Venezuela has grown in recent decades, just as it has in other Latin American countries.
The region’s string of social, political and economic crises is a key driver of that growth, said David Smilde, professor of sociology at Tulane University in New Orleans.
The second issue driving communities to evangelical churches might be the Catholic Church’s priest shortage, which means fewer faith leaders are now serving larger groups of people, said Smilde. With less stringent rules for clergy, evangelical churches can more quickly step into that void.
As for Venezuelans, many find themselves on the margins of survival. “This is a context in which participation in evangelical churches can provide strength, focus and a social network for mutual support,” Smilde said.
Despite the statistical void, the U.S. State Department’s 2023 report on religious freedom estimated that 96% of the Venezuelan population is Catholic — though that may not reflect the rise in evangelicals.
Sociologist Enrique Alí González estimates that the current religious affiliation would be 82%-84% Catholic and 10%-12% evangelical with other faiths accounting for the rest. He based those numbers on his own field work and data from one of the most recent demographic assessments, which was led by the Andrés Bello Catholic University in Caracas in 2016.
A pastor’s role among the people
Like Eglé, pastor José Luis Villamizar encourages Venezuelans to embrace the Gospel as a path to change course.
“We have managed to get people who used to be hitmen away from that lifestyle,” Villamizar said.
Also based in Caracas, Villamizar founded his evangelical church at his house during the pandemic. At first he ministered from a window. As lockdown receded, he took his work to the streets.
Both he and Eglé visit elderly people and Venezuelans lacking basic care on a regular basis.
Mostly dependent on donations or their savings, they deliver food, medicines and clothing. Prayers and religious lectures are followed by recreational activities, financial workshops and barbershop days.
“We joke around, we paint the women’s nails, we try everything to make life a little easier,” Eglé said. “To lift some of the burden of loneliness and depression.”
A welcoming church
At Eglé’s sanctuary, gang members eventually agreed to leave their weapons at the entrance.
“I spoke to many of them and asked: What led you to this life?” Eglé said. “And when they told me their stories, I wept with them.”
Villamizar’s congregation finds temporary homes for those willing to start over and embrace the Gospel. His team monitors their behavior. And like Eglé, he offers support until they find a job and regain self-reliance.
“If we don’t help them get out of their situation, they’ll end up in the same circumstances,” he said.
Maduro has openly associated with evangelicals
In 2023, the president launched a program called “My well-equipped church” to improve evangelical churches with government funding. Some pastors accept the help. Others prefer to find their own means.
Eglé recalled a contribution that helped her acquire chairs and a house that she later turned into a sanctuary. Villamizar opted to remain fully independent.
“They have offered us help, but if the church of God gets tangled in politics, one ends up in debt,” he said. “I prefer Him to provide and, to this day, He has fulfilled.”
Maduro’s outreach to evangelical groups has had little effect on gaining the president more supporters, said Smilde. Politicians are mistaken if they think the structure of independent evangelical churches mirror the hierarchical nature of the Catholic Church, he added.
“The possibilities for politically mobilizing evangelicals is widely misunderstood in Venezuela and consistently overestimated,” Smilde said.
“A year ago there was a lot of concern in Venezuela about Maduro’s outreach to evangelicals being a factor in the election, but it was not, despite considerable effort on his part.”
What Venezuelans find in their evangelical church
Israel Guerra was raised Catholic, but a spiritual crisis led him to become evangelical.
“I made the transition because in Catholicism I never felt supported nor that God loved me,” said Guerra, who attends a Caracas megachurch.
He, too, has noticed the expansion of evangelical churches in Venezuela and says people find them approachable.
“More than being places listing rules to enter heaven, they’re a place of refuge,” he said. “They are safe places for the poor and the rich alike, for former gang members and entrepreneurs.”
Not all congregations are as open or welcoming, said Génesis Díaz, born to evangelical pastors in a church requiring its members to follow strict rules. But their proliferation is nonetheless evident to her.
As a missionary and Christian content creator visiting Caracas congregations on a regular basis, Díaz said she has seen up to 20 evangelical churches in neighborhoods where a single Catholic church stands.
“Venezuela is a Christian, religious country,” she said. “While there are things we have forgotten and bad people are around, there is a very strong awakening towards God.”
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María Teresa 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.
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