I’ve been to a LOT of churches in the past several months. But they did promise me a mummified saint at this one.
It was right in the guidebook—San Pio, Roman martyr, preserved in wax and displayed in a glass coffin like a divine Snow White. I never did find him. Either he was hiding, out for a spa day, or quietly shuffled into storage after too many startled gasps from visiting, visored Midwestern cruise ladies. Hard to say. If you go, let me know.
Still, the cathedral had other charms—like being the oldest church on U.S. soil and the second oldest in the Western Hemisphere still standing. Yes, that phrasing matters. The original church at Caparra came first, but it's long gone, and the #1 spot goes to the cathedral in Santo Domingo. So fine—this one's #2, but still standing.
Anyway, it’s managed to hold onto its lofty position despite hurricanes, British plunderers, and a suspicious number of missing relics. The original building blew down almost immediately. It was hurricane season, and they’d used wood topped with a thatched roof in the interests of time. So they rebuilt. With stone. That one is technically the one you see today, though the elegant façade and interiors have been evolving ever since.
Inside, it's cool, dim, and checkered in black-and-white tiles, with fans whirring politely above the nave and stained-glass windows casting bits of candy-colored light on the pews. The layout is a classic Latin cross—long central aisle, two flanking aisles, rows of chapels branching off to the sides like ribs. There's a vaulted ceiling, candle-lit statues, and an altar that manages to look ornate and exhausted at the same time.
And yes, it has dead people.
San Pio is probably still there somewhere, even though I couldn't find him. He sounds like too good of a get to just let off the premises. You'll also see relics of Blessed Carlos Manuel Rodríguez Santiago, bones of the island's first bishop, Alonso Manso, and the tomb of Juan Alejo de Arizmendi (the whole body this time!), the first Puerto Rican-born bishop. Together, they form a sort of ecclesiastical VIP lounge tucked into various side chapels and tomb niches.
But the main attraction is Juan Ponce de León, whose name you must surely recognize from your fourth-grade social studies class—you know, from the whole Fountain of Youth debacle. (Spoiler for the Youngs who didn’t have social studies: He did not find it.) Despite his utter failure, though, he later became the first governor of Puerto Rico. And like many conquistadors, he remains weirdly venerated in the places he helped conquer.
His marble tomb sits prominently along one wall, moved here in 1908 from the Iglesia de San José. It’s appropriately grand with gilded edges, a carved inscription, and a grief-stricken marble woman in a helmet and flowing robes kissing the casket like she just lost her favorite colonial overlord. She clutches a sword with theatrical solemnity and seems to represent…Spain? Glory? State-sponsored regret? Hard to say. Either way, I doubt ol’ Poncy would be thrilled to know he shares his final resting place with tourists in Tevas, a sea of sunburned thighs, and rosary-pushing gift shop clerks.
I liked the Chapel of Our Lady of Divine Providence, though. She's Puerto Rico's patron saint, and here she appears in high regalia—a glittering cape, a soft white gown, and a serene expression as she cradles baby Jesus across her lap like a Caribbean Pietà. Her gaze gentle but firm. The kind of mother who brings snacks while she explains that she's not mad, she's just disappointed.
The cathedral is still very much alive. Historically, the cathedral would’ve been the first stop for newly arrived sailors entering the city through the San Juan Gate—one quick prayer before facing mosquitoes, colonial bureaucracy, and tropical dysentery. In 1598, the Earl of Cumberland stopped by, in the sense that he stormed the city, looted the church, and made off with some of the good stuff. Today, masses are held regularly, locals come to pray, and visitors drift in and out. Mostly on their way to or from El Morro, honestly, which is only a few blocks away.
I didn't light a candle, but I did stop to breathe. Despite its hard-luck history—vengeful English, hurricanes that could really care less, and the occasional looters—the building holds its age lightly. It's not flashy and doesn't try to impress with grandeur. It just is. The bones of the place go back half a millennium, but it still feels human in scale. Worn, weathered, welcoming. You know, you're poor San Pio in a box somewhere, waiting vainly for someone to notice.
A lot of churches try to feel eternal. San Juan Bautista’s earned it.
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