When I moved to the Deep South not only did I enjoy the Low County breezes complete with peach-sized mosquitoes, but I was amazed how everyone had a personal relationship with Jesus.
For the indigenous of San Miguel, as well as anyone who went to Catholic school up North until, well, today, that is baffling.
When the Spanish conquered folks here they did not saddle up to the notion that gods dealt with mere humans directly. Instead the newly converted were supplied with guardian angels to tell your troubles to and eventually guide one into Heaven
Then there was Mary since the indigenous were used to women being in charge of faith. The Catrina you see all over town was based on the indigenous goddess of death. Consequently, to make the new faith more acceptable Mary, Jesus’ Mom, appears all over town covering a diverse range of topics from childbirth to mourning.
You want something done it never hurts to get the boss’ Mom on your side!
Then there were the saints, each with their own wheelhouse. Lucy covered vision while Anthony constantly finds lost things. Other baileywicks include such diverse subjects as motorcycle driving, husband hunting, dogs and baking cookies.
The most popular lad in town, St Jude, appears in most taxi as the patron of lost causes. A sobering thought when driving in Mexico.
So, the indigenous, and 7 year old me, were given a laundry list of angels, Saints and Marys to chat up before bothering Jesus. Perhaps in a life or death situation but even then there is St. Barbara to contact for a quick death!
This baffles my brother the Baptist Minister who chats up Jesus for things as dull as a root canal or tire rotation. In his defense, my mother was convinced he became Baptist because he was born with the cord around his neck “cutting off oxygen at birth and making him stupid later”.
Another brother, the former seminarian, would understand but he quit to marry a Jewess and became a traveling circus clown with the act Farmer Toone, His Wife and Their Kid (a goat).