GUARDIA SANFRAMONDI, Italy -- Centuries ago, legend has it, a farmer discovered a wooden Madonna statue in a field in the emerald hills northeast of Naples. After locals fought to keep the statue, they honored it with rituals. Some 500 years later, those rituals continue.
The rites in the hamlet of Guardia Sanframondi were originally designed to seek the pardon of the Madonna dell'Assunta or her divine intervention against famine and scarce harvest.
They are now held every seven years, in a week of atonement and costumed parades that re-enact biblical parables. Even residents who have emigrated abroad return for the ceremonies and strut through the cobblestone streets.
The procession attracts buses with thousands of visitors from neighboring towns who line the streets as spectators, while older residents or those who have not been chosen to play a character make themselves comfortable along the streets, with chairs and umbrellas to tolerate the sun and the many hours of waiting.
The tradition has been handed down through the generations, and is a moment that publicly marks the ticking of time in the village of 5,000. Refusing to take part is a dishonor for some.
The seven days culminate with a Sunday procession, which includes hundreds of self-flagellating, hooded penitents.
Six-month-old babies are carried in their parents' arms, to "whiten the soul," as a 7-year-old put it. Villagers who now play the older characters in some of the 120 different scenes were the youngest actors decades ago, as was a bearded Samuel, who anointed a young David as king of Israel.
Four local districts prepare for almost a year in advance. They make elaborate costumes or rent them from Rome's Cinecitta movie studios, and select the residents who will act in each of the live scenes.
Little girls are likely to be angels with feathered wings, while their older, curly-haired sisters are apt to impersonate ancient Roman beauties.
Villagers wake up at dawn to dress up, put on makeup and then gather in the narrow streets around their church, awaiting an order to march, each in their position.
Sunday is the most important, and longest day, in the rites. The day before, secular and religious authorities open the golden, clam shell niche where the Madonna normally rests, dominating the altar of the sanctuary in the town's main square.
This year, as the niche was opened, the faithful, crammed in the church's nave, released the tension in tears. Old women in black knelt down in prayer. Younger faithful raised their hands over the crowd to applaud the Madonna.
On a recent Sunday afternoon in August, the Madonna was returned to its niche inside the church, watched by residents and curious tourists. At the windows overlooking the square, some older villagers wondered whether they would live long enough to see her again in another seven years, and dried their eyes with white handkerchiefs.
Germana Falato, a 21-year-old aspiring athlete, dressed up like the Madonna. In a garage adapted to serve as a dressing room, women helped her with the finishing touches, fixing the veil and adjusting her crown. The intent is to fully embody the character, not only in form, but also in manner.
The seven-hour procession under a scorching sun, through narrow medieval streets built when only horses and people needed them, is itself an act of sacrifice. It is also a matter of endurance.
This year, some walked backward for the entire day. Others shuttled sideways, pretending to protect themselves from the devil.
Toward the end, many of the child angels were pushed in strollers or carried by their parents. By the final uphill stretch, even a bearded Jesus was perched in a doorway, while others sat to rest.
The "battenti" -- penitents who flagellate themselves with nails -- wear white robes, disguising their identities, in what is said to be intimate repentance.
They traditionally get dressed in private houses purposely left empty so they can keep their identities secret, though community members can easily divine who is hiding under the hoods.
Some of the penitents flagellated themselves while walking for hours, beseeching the Madonna to heal them or to cure their sick children.
Others held a wood cross in one hand and used the other hand to jab a rounded cork with dozens of nails into their chests repeatedly, in a gesture of physical atonement.
Some struck themselves so hard that blood squirted in the air, causing visitors to cover their faces and lower their gaze.
Assistants strolled through the procession pouring white wine onto a cork that was used to disinfect penitents' wounds and numb their punctured skin. The air filled with the acrid smell of blood and tart wine. By the end of the march, white robes were stained with dry blood.
Carrying the Madonna in her final stretch before she is returned to the church is a coveted task. Often the penitents wash up and hastily change back into plain clothes to be able to do it.
The Madonna is carried like a queen, specially adorned with jewels, watches and pearl necklaces donated by the faithful and stored in a bank vault. Everyone wants to touch her.
People lightly pulled her long brocade mantle. A father lifted his little daughter so that she, too, could caress the Madonna's garment.
Such rituals were once common across Europe in the 15th century. They have remained almost unchanged in Guardia Sanframondi. Every seven years, time stops again, and the Madonna, though undoubtedly a religious icon, also becomes a member of the community.
Religion on 09/16/2017