For some reason, people who don't know anything about the religion tend to call Santería a cult.  I suspect they don't know what the word cult means, or if they do, they don't know enough about Santería to understand why cult's the wrong word to describe it.  The dictionary definition of cult says that it's a new religious movement with a limited set of followers.  It's organized around a self-appointed charismatic leader who isn't accountable to anyone else.  Cults use psychological coercion to recruit, indoctrinate and retain members.  None of these characteristics apply to Santería.  Santería's roots are in Africa and date back to the era before Christ.  Millions of people around the world practice Santería. No individual is at the center of the religion.  Religious beliefs are passed down from the ancestors and dogma isn't developed by any one person.  And, Santería doesn't recruit new members.  People who are initiated into the religion have free will.  They can study the religion, be involved with the community, and practice the religion to the degree they want. 

When we look at secondary definitions of the word cult, it becomes a little clearer why some people choose it when talking about Santería.  Webster's Dictionary, for example, says the word cult is used for religions that are considered unorthodox and spurious (that is to say, phony).  Another dictionary says it refers to a small group of people whose religious beliefs are considered strange or sinister by other people.  Cult carries negative connotations, and is used to put down the beliefs of people who are perceived to be outside the mainstream.  So, doesn't the choice of the word cult imply religious intolerance?  To me, it does.

Religion has a more positive meaning for most people  It refers to a belief system that puts human beings in communication with a higher power that's recognized as divine and sacred.  Religion helps humans understand the universe, their purpose in life, and proper conduct in human affairs.  Santería has all of these defining traits.  For anyone who practices Santería, there's no doubt that it's a religion.  Why are others reluctant to use that word to describe it?  There are some complicated thought processes at work behind the choice of words, and it's worthwhile to look at some of them more closely.

In the simplest terms, cults are bad and religions are good.  To grant a belief system the status of religion means showing respect for the people who practice that religion, having an awareness of the history and the culture that produced the religion, and being tolerant of religious differences.  In Western culture, the Judeo-Christian tradition is the predominant one.  Immigrants introduced other religions like Islam, Buddhism, and Hindu, and while people who practice those religions aren't necessarily integrated into the mainstream, for the most part there's an awareness among the general population that "foreigners" sometimes practice a religion different from our own.   They can be the victims of religious intolerance and negative stereotypes, but for the most part, no one questions that Islam and Buddhism are religions.  At least I've never heard anyone call them cults.

Santería is practiced by an estimated million people in the USA today, and globally, we're talking about as many as 100 million practitioners.  These aren't small numbers.  But, Santería isn't as visible as some other religions. For example, there aren't Santería churches where people congregate on a specific day of the week to attend Mass or hear a sermon.  There's no way to immediately identify a Santería practitioner, because they can be people of any race, ethnicity, age group or profession.  Many are people of color, bringing up the whole issue of racism for us to consider - notice how often people call Santería a "primitive" religion? What makes it primitive?  It's association with Africa?  African had highly developed civilizations when people in Northern Europe still lived in caves.   There's still a shadow over Santería, associating it with "those people" who are dark skinned and poor, due to the fact that for years in Cuba and elsewhere in the Caribbean, it was a religion embraced by slaves and the descendants of slaves rather than the wealthy white elite.  Today, there are Santeros/as who are doctors, lawyers, engineers, professors, architects, writers, artists, businessmen and women, entrepreneurs; not everyone who practices the religion is poor and undereducated.  The religion has been embraced by smart people who are leaders in their communities, but not everyone knows they practice Santería.  Why?  Because there's still some fear of rejection, loss of position and prestige, social marginalization by others who find Santería objectionable.  How many people in mainstream society would feel comfortable going to a doctor who openly declares that he's also a practicing Santero?

The process of making Santería more acceptable in mainstream culture is a slow and painful one.  It's something like the process of a gay person coming out of the closet.  There's risk involved.  Rejection.  Loss.  Punishment.  Despite the fact that our constitution says we have religious freedom, there's still a lot of intolerance for religions that are too different from the mainstream ones.  I don't know that there's any solution to the problem, but I do know that words matter. Choosing to use the word religion and correcting people who use the word cult to talk about Santería is a very tiny step, but at least it's a step in the right direction.  First, admit that it IS a religion, and from there, we'll work on correcting other misconceptions.

Some people are horrified by Santería because they know it involves animal sacrifice.  Well, yes, it does, but much less than you think.  In very specific circumstances, blood sacrifice (of fowl or 4-legged animals like goats or sheep) is required for reasons I'll explain later, but most of the time, sacrifice in Santería takes other forms.  I want to get the image of blood-stained altars out of the way right now, because that's not part of daily life for Santeros.  The Orichás and egun can be honored with very simple gifts, like a glass or bowl of fresh water, a few pieces of fruit, a candle, some flowers, a cigar, a small dish of honey or molasses, a small glass of rum.  They don't need all of this heaped on them at one time like a spoiled child on Christmas morning.  What they want is a steady and sincere expression of devotion.  Santeros who take time to pray to the Orichás, to sit with them and keep them company, who clean the altar, put a fresh white cloth down, leave them a small token of affection: these are the signs of daily devotion that the Orichás and egun like.

In divination, if the reading comes with osorbo (misfortune) or if the iré (good fortune) isn't firm and guaranteed, an ebó (offering) is made to the Orichás who stand up to offer assistance to the client during the reading.  The diviner asks what the Orichás want by throwing the dilogún and asking the client to manipulate the ibó to get yes or no answers.  A good diviner always starts with the simplest and most basic form of ebó.  Depending on the tastes and preferences of the Orichás, they communicate what they want through the diviner.  Remedies are usually fairly simple and relatively inexpensive.  The Orichás, for the most part, aren't greedy and don't ask more than the client can give.  Most of the time, they only want a symbolic offering that shows the client is grateful for the guidance they're offering. 

One of my favorite offerings takes the form of adimú, which usually translates as cooked food prepared for the Orichás.  Sometimes this can be food that you, yourself, plan to eat, too, but if you're preparing it as an adimú, you always serve the Orichás first.  Don't give them leftovers!  After all, they're the honored guests.  Sometimes, though, you prepare food that's just for them.  Ogún likes a sweet potato, baked or fried, rubbed with red palm oil and maybe a little molasses.  Ochún likes an omelette with a little chard and dried shrimp.  Changó loves fried okra.  There are recipes books, recipes on the internet, and even programs on youtube that show you how to cook food for the Orichás.  The recipes, manner of preparation and ingredients, can vary from one cook to another, but the most important thing is that the adimú be prepared with love and devotion. It should be served on a nice plate reserved just for the Orichá, and disposed of in the right way, as determined by divination.  For example, it might go in the garbage, or it might go to the railroad tracks, the river, the crossroads, or the wilderness.  The Orichás say how long to leave it and where to take it to dispose of it.  It's important to dispose of it in a way that doesn't harm the environment or cause unsightly litter.  The Orichás express themselves through the elements of nature, so they want you to respect the natural environment and keep it clean.

The word ebó comes from Yoruba and means both "sacrifice" and "offering" because these two things are interconnected.  Sacrifice doesn't always mean cutting an animal's throat and offering blood. Sacrifice means giving up something that means something to you, as a way to show you're devoted to the Orichás and appreciate what they do for you. When you buy flowers and put them for the Orichás, you're sacrificing the money that you would otherwise be spending on yourself. You're taking time you could spend doing something else to go to the market and buy the flowers. You arrange them in a vase with care and love. These actions require effort on your part, and they constitute a sacrifice. When you make food and give it to the Orichás, you're sacrificing food you would otherwise eat yourself.  Again, this may not seem like a big deal when you have plenty of food to go around, but Santería comes from a culture marked by economic hardship, where offering food to another was truly a meaningful sacrifice.  Another form of ebó is behavior modification, such as avoiding alcohol or staying away from large crowds. That's a sacrifice, if you like to drink and party.  Spiritual cleansings and baths are also considered ebó, because there's some time, expense and effort involved in getting the ingredients together and taking the bath in the prescribed way.  It's not just about money; it's about giving the time to the Orichás to carry out their wishes, and showing obedience by following their advice.  For people who are willful, used to getting their own way, and doing whatever they want, showing obedience and humility can be a major sacrifice, because it means giving up behavior that displeases the Orichás.  

All living things have aché (spiritual energy), so even a seemingly small gift like a glass of cool water has great metaphysical importance.  Water's the source of life. Without it, the planet would die.  Fruits and vegetables come from the earth and depend on rainwater to thrive.  Without them, we'd starve.  Honey and molasses make life sweeter.  Oils, like cocoa butter or red palm oil, make things go smoother.  Simple, natural ingredients make the best adimús and offerings because they're so closely connected to life itself.  Flowers bring beauty into our lives. Candles offer light and warmth.  When you understand the spiritual properties of these offerings, they're no longer simple things but profoundly meaningful ones.

So, rethink the concept of sacrifice, if you're put off by it.  Maybe it's not what you think it is.  Yes, once in a while an animal dies and there's blood. But most of the time, it's not that. It's something simpler, fresher, cooler, and gentler, because the religion is all about living in harmony with nature, with other people, with egun, and with the Orichás, and most of the time, that's accomplished with gestures of love and devotion, not the drawing of blood.


Here's a link to the Adimú Network, which teaches you how to make traditional foods for the Orichás.  The recipes are prepared by an experienced Santera who also happens to be a great cook!

We're not very good at keeping secrets in our modern culture. Social networking and text messaging make it possible for us to follow the intimate details of our friends' lives and receive tons of information from all around the world at the touch of a little button.  A lot of people have trouble understanding why they need to keep anything secret unless they've done something bad and they don't want anyone to know about it. Secrecy suggests underhanded, suspicious behavior, and anything done in secret must be either illegal or immoral.  Otherwise, why keep it secret?  Popular magazines exist for the sole purpose of uncovering people's secrets.  Just think what happened the last time a celebrity or politician tried to keep a secret.... It usually leads to scandal.

In Santería, secrecy has a completely different meaning, and a different social function.  It creates a barrier between insiders and outsiders, making sure the religion remains in the hands of people who will safeguard it and respect it as it was handed down to us by the ancestors. There's no real reason why outsiders need to know certain information.  What would they do with the information if they had it? It would be useless to them, because they don't have the aché (divine energy) to understand it fully.  Santeros don't have an evangelical mission and don't try to convert outsiders to the religion. It's irrelevant if outsiders understand Santería or not.  Those who practice it understand it, that's what matters. Santeros don't feel any particular zeal to get everything about the religion out in the open and share it with the world.  If someone doesn't know about Santería or doesn't appreciate it, it's their loss.  Contrary to what many outsiders think, the secrecy surrounding Santería isn't there to cover up evil deeds.  Secrecy surrounds the religion because the knowledge that comes from Santería is so precious, it can't be squandered.  No one would put a pot of gold in the front yard and stick a sign on it saying: take some.  Santeros feel the same way about the sacred teachings of the religion.  Knowledge is for those who've made a serious commitment to the religion, who respect tradition, and who will use the knowledge to good ends.

Sometimes it's hard to know who's your friend and who's your enemy.  If you share knowledge with someone you think is a friend and later he turns against you, he can use the knowledge he got from you to harm you.  We're not just talking about gossip and the potential for blackmail. We're talking about spiritual power, too, because practitioners of Santería learn how to align themselves with the aché of the Orichás, who bring them health, prosperity, success, and allow them to overcome their enemies, not through witchcraft but through the spiritual protection the Orichás offer their children.  Through secret ceremonies, Santeros strengthen their own personal aché and enlist the help of the Orichás to solve problems.  The secrecy of the ceremonies isn't to hide evil; it's to protect what's good and necessary in life, and keep it in the right hands. Those who are initiated into the religion have a sacred obligation to do the right thing.

In part, Santería's reputation for secrecy goes back in time, when the slaves in Cuba couldn’t practice their religion openly.  They hid the Orichás behind the saints, and kept their ceremonies and rituals secret so those with political and social power (the masters) wouldn’t punish them.  This historical experience taught Afro-Cubans to be quiet, guarded, and cautious.  But, there is something deeply engrained in the religion itself that promotes this careful approach to life.  So many of the refranes (proverbs) of Santería talk about the dangers of talking too much, of telling people information that they can use against you, of teaching others everything you know and finding yourself suddenly replaced.  Knowing when to be quiet and listen is much more important than having the gift of gab.  People who talk too much and too freely aren't to be trusted.  This isn't a paranoid or fearful approach to life but, rather, one that encourages discretion.  Think before you speak. Think about what you're saying, and who you're saying it to. Does it need to be said, or would it be better left alone?  A person who's fearless or smart or strong doesn't need to declare it to the world; his actions speak louder than words. Modesty and humility are important in Santería and a person who constantly boasts about his own greatness ends up looking small in the eyes of his community.

So why are some aspects of Santería kept secret? Santeros would reply: if there's no reason for others to know, why tell them? Tradition says these things are to be kept secret, so they’re kept secret. It's that simple.  Maintaining secrecy is a way of honoring tradition and the sacred teachings of our ancestors. When and if a person needs to know something, the Orichás will lead him into the religion through the proper channels.

By the way, none of the information I'm writing about on this website is secret. The information I'm sharing is general enough that anyone can have access to it. Imagine it as the tip of the iceberg, the part that's visible. There's more under the surface, but not everyone can see it.

People who are raised in the Judeo-Christian tradition are used to the idea of religious truth being written down in a sacred canonical text like the Bible or the Torah.  In fact, the first book ever printed on a printing press in Europe was a Bible, and for many years, the majority of books in print were religious texts. That's how important it is to us in our culture to have something written we can study, so we can know for sure that we're doing things "the right way."  Many of us attend Sunday school or go to class to learn about our religion.  Religious instruction is formal, carried out by teachers who know scripture.  Everything is written in a book, and what's in the book is the law.  The belief that we can study religion and know it through book learning is so deeply ingrained in us, that it's hard for some people to accept Santería as a bona fide religion precisely because it has no Holy Book, and no centralized authority figure who interprets doctrine for all practitioners.  

The fact that Santería has been kept alive for hundreds of years via oral tradition is understandable in historical context - in Cuba, slaves could not read and write - but in practical terms, it means there's no "how to" manual for Santería. Someone who wants to know what "authentic Santería" is like, and who imagines that all knowledge about the religion can be written down, agreed upon, and put into practice the same way by millions of people around the world, well, this person will be bitterly disappointed.  Looking for the single right way to do something in Santería is like looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  It always eludes us, because it doesn't really exist.

Learning through oral tradition engages the mind in a different way than book learning.  First, it requires a lot more time, because it requires a lot of repetition and memorization. The initiate has to be patient, listen, learn, absorb, meditate, and accept the limits of his knowledge as a beginner.  Until a solid foundation has been laid, more complex ideas simply won't make sense, no matter how intelligent you are.  Elders will tell you that Santería requires the head (the mind)  to be transformed via the aché (energy) of the Orichás, and this is something that happens very slowly, poco a poco (little by little).  A popular refrán (proverb) says:  The most certain way to know nothing is to learn everything all at once and too quickly.  Another refrán reminds us that no one knows everything, because knowledge was spread all over the world: No matter how much you think you know, you never know it all.  One head can't hold that much knowledge.

These sayings suggest that Santería views learning as a lifelong process, and one that's never fully complete.  There are definitely rules about how things should be done, and learning to respect the rules is an important part of spiritual development. But, the only way you can learn what's right and what's wrong, what's expected and what's going to cause problems for you, is by listening to your godmother or godfather,  learning how things are done in your particular lineage, and participating in religious activities with your community.  The elders will teach you, poco a poco, what you need to know, when you're ready to know it.  As the  learner, you can't set the pace; the teacher sets it for you. However, most teachers are delighted to find students who want to learn and who are serious about the religion.  In emotionally healthy communities, elders share their knowledge with younger Santeros/as to guarantee the knowledge isn't lost.

In Cuba, especially in small provincial cities like Palmira, everyone in the Santería community knows everyone, they know the lineage they come from, they know the godparents, the parents and grandparents of the godparents, and if they trace history back enough generations, they'll probably even discover blood families ties to each other.  Iyabós (novices, new initiates) are held accountable and carefully watched by elders in the community, who don't hesitate to correct behavior that's inappropriate, or report to the godparent any kind of misconduct.  Social pressure to conform to the expected norms of the ilé (community of Santería worshippers) keeps people in line, and makes sure there's uniformity within that community.  Everyone knows who's serious about the religion and who's not, who does things properly and who doesn't. Everyone knows the elders, they know who's an oriaté (master of religious ceremony), who's an expert at divination, who knows herbs, in short, they know who to ask when they're in doubt, and there's no need to have it written down in a book, because they have their elders at hand.

If you're not initiated and don't belong to a community of Santeros, what are you supposed to do?  Fortunately, many skilled priests are writing about the religion now, both in book form and on the internet.  Much more written information is available now than ever before, and there's less reluctance on the part of Santeros/as to share information with outsiders.  My advice is to read a variety of sources and look for common threads, patterns, and general observations that seem to be repeated by multiple authors.  Use your critical thinking skills to question the qualifications of the writer, the reliability of the information, and the author's motive for writing.  Think about what you read, and keep an open mind. Use book learning to understand in theory what the religion is like, but don't forget that book learning has limits.  Avoid writers who claim to possess the absolute and only truth, especially if they're arrogant and disrespectful of other people.  After you've looked at some books and some internet sites, you'll start to get a sense of who gives reliable information and who doesn't. Trust your judgment, and let your head lead you in the direction you need to go in.  

Here are two websites that provide reliable accurate information. The authors are experienced Santeros with a solid base of knowledge:
http://santeriachurch.org/
http://ochanilele.wordpress.com/

It drives me crazy when people refer to Santería as Voodoo. That's like calling a Southern Baptist a Lutheran.  To someone outside those religions, they seem pretty much the same, right? Both Christian, Protestant... But, people who belong to those churches will tell you that they're "completely different," and they'll get upset with you if you argue that there's no difference between the various Protestant sects. Same goes for those of us who practice African-based religions. Our belief systems might share some basic common threads, but Santería and Voodoo are not the same thing.
First, there are a lot of misconceptions about African-based religions in general.  If you go by what you see on television, you'd think practitioners of Voodoo and Santería are devil worshipers who practice black magic.  They stick pins in voodoo dolls and cast evil spells that kill their enemies. They manipulate and corrupt innocent people who fall under their influence, they engage in wild orgies, and practice ritualistic torture and murder.  We see images of naked (usually dark skinned) bodies, smeared with blood, dancing wildly around bonfires at midnight, all part of a mysterious ceremony that inevitably ends in violence, usually carried out on an altar heaped with candles, statues of saints, bowls, bottles, skulls, bones, dead chickens, and layers of dirt and grime.  Everything about these images inspires fear. They represent a threat to us, our orderly way of life, our belief system.  But, what you see on tv is not Voodoo. It's not Santería. It's the imagination of writers and producers who want to boost TV ratings by showing us gruesome and shocking images of others who aren't "like us."  These strange, primitive foreigners are to blame when bad things happen to nice people.  Most TV shows don't acknowledge Santería or Voodoo as religions - they always call them a cult -  so who's going to say they're showing religious intolerance? They're just showing images that correspond to what a lot of people already think is true. Sure, the world is a frightening place sometimes, and crazy people do horrible things to innocent people. But, most of the time, the crimes have nothing to do with Voodoo or Santería.  Remember Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, and John Wayne Gacy?  How about Timothy McVeigh? Or Jim Jones and his poison kool-aid?  To my knowledge, they weren't connected to Voodoo or Santería in any way. So, let's keep it real when we talk about dangerous people, ok?

What do we even mean when we talk about Voodoo? For example, there's West African Vodun, Haitian Vodou, and New Orleans style Voodoo that's practiced in the coastal regions of the southern USA.  Each variety has its own unique history, character, and set of practices.

Haitian Vodou originated with the Fon and Ewe peoples in Dahomey, West Africa (today Benin, and parts of Togo and Ghana).  Dahomey bordered the lands of the Yoruba people, many of whom would eventually go to Cuba as slaves and take their religion with them. A significant number of Dahomeans ended up as slaves in the French colony of Saint-Domingue (today Haiti). Others were taken to coastal South Carolina, notably the Gullah Islands, and to Louisiana, where the plantation system depended heavily on slave labor.  These slaves took African Vodun to the New World, where it became established in Haiti and the coastal regions of the Southern USA roughly around the same time that Santería was taking hold in Cuba among the Lucumí people. During the Haitian Revolution (1791-1804), many French families fled Saint Domingue with their slaves and settled in New Orleans, and the number of Voodoo practitioners there increased dramatically.  Over the course of the past two centuries, Haitian Vodou and New Orleans Voodoo have gradually taken on different characters, despite shared African roots, and today neither is identical to the religion as it's practiced in modern Africa.

I don't know enough about Voodoo to speak about it with authority, and I won't attempt to explain it here because it's outside my area of expertise. But, this much is clear: just because Santería and Voodoo have similar histories, it doesn't mean they're the same thing. Yes, they have roots in West Africa, and they came to the New World on slave ships. Yes, they grew up in places where Africans were marginalized and abused as slaves, and they offered practitioners a glimmer of hope and strategies for survival in a brutal world. Beyond that, each religion took its own path and developed in its own way, becoming a reflection of the people who practiced it in a particular place at a particular time. The next time you hear someone say that Santería and Voodoo are the same thing, you can confidently tell them they're mistaken.

If you want to know more about Voodoo as a religion, I recommend these books by Kenaz Filan:  The Haitian Vodou Handbook (Rochester, Vt.: Destiny Books, 2007) and The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook (Rochester, Vt.: Destiny Books, 2011).  They're sensible, informative and well written.