Every December 17 in Havana, thousands of people walk to the church of El Rincón. Some walk barefoot. Some crawl on their knees for the last mile. Some drag concrete blocks tied to their ankles. They're going to see San Lázaro — and they're paying promises made during the year, debts of faith owed for healings received or simply for survival.
If you've seen a statue of a man on crutches, covered in sores, with two dogs licking his wounds, you've seen San Lázaro. He's one of the most intensely venerated saints in the Caribbean and among Cuban, Dominican, and Haitian diaspora communities in Miami, New York, and New Jersey. His story sits at a rare crossroads — where Catholic scripture, Afro-Caribbean spirituality, and raw human suffering meet.
Who Is San Lázaro in the Bible and in Afro-Caribbean Tradition?
There are actually two Lazarus figures in the Bible, and San Lázaro's devotion draws from both. The first is Lazarus of Bethany, whom Jesus raised from the dead after four days in the tomb (John 11:1-44). The second is the beggar Lazarus from Jesus's parable in Luke 16:19-31 — a poor man covered in sores who lay at a rich man's gate while dogs licked his wounds. After death, the beggar Lazarus was carried to Abraham's side, while the rich man suffered.
In Catholic tradition, the iconography of San Lázaro primarily follows the beggar Lazarus — the crutches, the sores, the dogs. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, these two biblical figures became conflated in popular devotion over centuries, creating a saint associated with both resurrection and suffering — with both miraculous healing and patient endurance of disease.
Babalú-Ayé: The Syncretism
In Cuba, the story deepens. When enslaved Yoruba people were forcibly brought to the island and prohibited from practicing their religion, they mapped their orishas onto Catholic saints. San Lázaro became the face of Babalú-Ayé (also spelled Babalú Ayé or Babalu Aye) — the orisha of infectious disease, healing, and the earth.
Babalú-Ayé in the Yoruba and Lukumí traditions is a powerful, feared, and deeply respected figure. He controls smallpox, leprosy, and skin diseases. He punishes arrogance but heals the humble. His colors are purple and brown. His offerings include dry wine, toasted corn, and sesame seeds. His sacred number is seventeen — which is why December 17 carries double weight in Cuban spiritual practice.
This syncretism isn't a historical curiosity. It's alive. In a single household in Hialeah, you might find a statue of San Lázaro next to a ceramic vessel for Babalú-Ayé. The family might attend Catholic mass in the morning and a tambor (drum ceremony) in the evening. These aren't contradictions. They're layers of faith built by people who were told to abandon their gods and instead found a way to keep them.
What Happens on December 17?
December 17 is the Feast of San Lázaro, and in Cuba it's one of the most significant religious observances of the year — arguably more personally felt than Christmas for many families. The pilgrimage to El Rincón (formally the Santuario Nacional de San Lázaro, located in Santiago de las Vegas, outside Havana) begins the night of December 16.
Pilgrims come to:
- Pay promesas: Fulfilling vows made during illness or crisis — "If you heal me, I will crawl to your church"
- Ask for healing: For themselves, for family members, especially those with chronic illness, HIV/AIDS, or skin conditions
- Give thanks: Simply for making it through another year
The physical suffering of the pilgrimage is intentional. It mirrors Lazarus's own suffering. The logic isn't punishment — it's solidarity. You approach the saint on his terms, not yours.
San Lázaro in Miami and the Diaspora
In Miami, December 17 is unmistakable in neighborhoods like Little Havana, Hialeah, and Westchester. Botanicas display San Lázaro statues in their windows weeks in advance. Purple candles sell out. Families gather for veladas (prayer vigils) that blend Catholic prayers with Lukumí songs. Some churches hold special masses; some community centers host processions.
The devotion has expanded beyond Cuban communities. Dominican, Puerto Rican, and Haitian families in the Northeast have their own relationships with San Lázaro / Babalú-Ayé, shaped by their own histories of syncretism and survival. In each case, the core remains the same: San Lázaro is the saint of the suffering, the sick, the poor, and the forgotten. He doesn't belong to the comfortable. He belongs to the people who need him.
Why This Devotion Endures
San Lázaro endures because suffering endures. He's not a saint you pray to for a promotion or a parking spot. You pray to him when the diagnosis is bad, when the treatment isn't working, when someone you love is deteriorating and medicine has done what it can. He holds the space between hope and acceptance — between fighting the illness and making peace with the body you have.
For communities that have historically been underserved by healthcare systems — immigrant families, Black and brown communities, people without insurance — San Lázaro offers something the system often doesn't: recognition. He sees the suffering. He doesn't look away. And in his story, the one who suffers most is the one who ends up in God's arms.
That's not a small thing. For a lot of people, it's everything.
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