I. The Seroras and the Early Modern Basque Country

Zubieta's dirty church and subsequent search for a serora would have been a story that resonated with scores of small towns and rural parishes across Navarre and the surrounding Basque-speaking lands. There were literally thousands of towns just like Zubieta and thousands of seroras just like María, and by the early modern period the vocation was formalized, ritualized and well-established throughout the Basque country.Footnote ³ According to some eighteenth-century estimates, every parish and most rural shrines would have had at least one serora during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and some had as many as three or more.Footnote ⁴

Yet despite their ubiquitous place in the local religious culture of the early modern Basque country, seroras have received little historical study. For the most part, they remain confined to local ethnographic studies or shrine histories. For instance, Antxon Aguirre Sorondo's monumental work cataloging the cult of shrines throughout Gipuzkoa is unparalleled as a resource documenting generations of seroras attached to individual shrines and community memory about the historic role of the seroras.Footnote ⁵ Similarly, Mikel Larrañaga Arregi has studied the seroras in eastern Gipuzkoa through a close study of the Bergara notarial district, and Claudio Zudaire's survey of the seroras of the valley of Baztan provides a useful snapshot of a regional manifestation of the vocation.Footnote ⁶ Florencio Arza Alday's more recent work on the seroras of the province of Araba has given birth to a wider treatment of the features of the vocation across the Basque country, but remains more heavily focused upon the southern and eastern areas.Footnote ⁷ To date, there has been no attempt to place the seroras in the broader context of European or Iberian female religious life.Footnote ⁸

Part of this neglect derives from a confusion in terminology present even during the seroras' heyday. Contemporary writers, diocesan officials, and government notaries frequently struggled to produce an accurate translation of the Basque term to Castilian; as a result, even in single documents seroras went by a variety of names including serora-beata, freira, freyla, sorora, humilladera, benoîte in the French Basque country, or even the inaccurate translation of monja (nun). Such ambiguity in terminology reflects the regional flexibility of the vocation, but also hints at deeper linguistic roots. Notaries occasionally used the spelling cerera, perhaps suggesting a connection to the serora's role in collecting funerary wax (cera); though the more frequent transpositions of the words sorora and freira indicate that the term was probably an example of the Latin-root words fray and soror (sister) working their way into Basque.

The origins of the vocation are similarly hard to trace.Footnote ⁹ Seroras began to appear consistently in diocesan documentation in the middle of the sixteenth century, but these references are more a product of the expansion of diocesan oversight in the post-Tridentine period than reflections of a growing institution. Older ethnography maintains that the seroras were a remnant of the late-antique deaconesses; meanwhile, more recent revisions situate the seroras within the debatable matriarchal culture of the Basque Country.Footnote ¹⁰ Folklorist Roslyn Frank, on the other hand, posits that that seroras trace their roots back to pre-Christian cults that were preserved though heavily modified during the medieval period.Footnote ¹¹ Modern parish servants occasionally borrow the term as well, further complicating the historical nature of the seroras.Footnote ¹²

The most likely explanation of origins is that seroras developed as a combination of ancient and medieval hermitical impulses coupled with the demographic and geographic pressures that shaped Basque village life in the medieval and early modern periods.Footnote ¹³ In a densely populated but pastoral based landscape, sites of spiritual significance merged with the rhythms of centuries of shepherding and the strains of close village life.Footnote ¹⁴ Moreover, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, gender imbalances—already present due to a long tradition of male-dominated fishing and whaling—became even more pronounced with the advent of New World emigration.Footnote ¹⁵ In this context, the popularity of the seroras' vocation responded to the religious needs of a scattered, disproportionately female population, and uneven clerical presence throughout many rural areas of the Pyrenees.

In the early modern period, typical Basque and Navarrese communities were organized around nucleated family households, usually arranged around a family farmstead (called a baserri). In some areas these family units were more dispersed, while in others they tended to cluster together with other baserriak in groups ranging from eight to perhaps as many as twenty; ultimately, however, these farmsteads formed the basis for rural parishes.Footnote ¹⁶ Where settlement was more dispersed, towns were usually more numerous but smaller, while areas with more concentrated settlement boasted towns of as many as 250 such households, or 1250 people.Footnote ¹⁷ Local involvement in civic or religious life drew upon communal ties and native birth, and status and self-identification were based largely upon connections with a region and with a community. In this environment, local geographies and figures of authority or ritual significance like the seroras helped define a community's identity and were held in high esteem by local inhabitants.Footnote ¹⁸

By the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries much of Navarre remained isolated and only relatively hispanized.Footnote ¹⁹ Yet the Basques had also long controlled a strategic political and economic region between France, Castile, and Aragon, and this reality did not go unnoticed by the dynastic powers to the north and to the south. Following the Iberian unification projects begun in the medieval period, the Basque Country and then Navarre were brought under Imperial control. Political unification did not guarantee cultural assimilation, however, and language and customs unfamiliar to Castilian governmental officials and clergy persisted long after the conquest.Footnote ²⁰ Contemporary Spanish observers commented on the seeming foreignness and impenetrability of the Basque lands and, characteristically, visitors like Pierre de Lancre went so far as to identify unfamiliar Basque religious practice with the demonic.Footnote ²¹ Even by the beginning of the seventeenth century the more rural regions of Navarre proved daunting for inquisitors so unlucky as to be assigned to conduct visitations along the borderlands. Frequently, inquisitors balked at the task of getting to the more remote parishes, let alone attempting to track down heretics or hear confessions from penitents speaking in a language they could not understand. Use of proxies, increased laxity in prosecuting crimes, and long periods of absence were common tactics by Spanish officials wary of venturing into a part of Spain that was decidedly not Spanish.Footnote ²²

Though language barriers and the rural nature of the Pyrenees may have slowed the Christianization of the Basque lands, a vibrant and active religious culture throughout the region provides a counter-narrative to such characterizations.Footnote ²³ Culturally and linguistically distinct from their southern Iberian neighbors, the inhabitants of the early modern Basque lands were still linked politically and intellectually with the rest of Europe. Religious structures and expectations common to the rest of Europe were present in Navarre and the Basque provinces, albeit often with a distinctly Basque flavor. One of the most lucid examples of Basque religious adaptation and its parallels with the rest of Europe were the seroras. The seroras shared a number of characteristics with other contemporary lay religious women; however, the nature of their work and the parameters of their vocation were calibrated to practical and religious needs specific to the Basque lands.

Seroras controlled the physical sites of Pyrenean devotion; the material side of Basque Catholicism was their domain. The importance of their work cannot be understated, and was reflected in the remuneration and competition associated with the vocation. The stipends associated with the vocation—drawn from alms, rents, and parish benefices—allowed seroras to devote themselves completely to their labors, while also designating these women as special within their communities and highlighting the value placed on their caretaking services. To emphasize their commitment to the vocation, all seroras were expected to be single and remain chaste during their service; however, this obligation was not so onerous as to preclude a wide variety of candidates for the office. Following a series of synodal meetings in the second part of the sixteenth century, it was decreed that seroras should be at least forty years of age before taking up the position.Footnote ²⁴ This was meant to prevent inappropriate liaisons and other sexual scandals, yet the position commanded enough local prestige that many younger women successfully competed for the position alongside older spinsters and widows.Footnote ²⁵ No formal vows were taken, and though some wore an identifiable Franciscan or Dominican habit, others just embarked upon the life of local religious woman while changing little about their previous life. Still, all were recognized as holding a religious office that was highly sought after, remarkably constant throughout the region, and always reserved solely for women.

II. Female Religious Life in Medieval and Early Modern Europe

On the surface, the serora's vocation looked much like other uncloistered religious lifestyles open to women in the medieval and early modern periods. Europe in the high middle ages experienced an efflorescence of lay devotion in which both men and women experimented with new and creative ways to seek spiritual perfection at home, in towns, and free from the walls of monastic enclosure. In many cases, energized lay spirituality responded to apostolic examples popularized through contact with charismatic wandering preachers or the new mendicant orders. Small communities of devout lay men and women appeared across Europe throughout this period. Looked upon with suspicion as likely heretics by some, and revered as living saints by others, men and women enthusiastically left behind wealth, civic involvement, and family ties to join devout lay communities like the Humiliati, Devotio Moderna, Waldensians, and others. Based to one degree or another on a combination of chaste living, communally shared goods, humility, and poverty, these communities sought to recreate a life based on biblical example.

Particularly prominent within these movements were female converts who were forced to create their own outlets of piety after being excluded from existing orders or finding no place within the established monastic life.Footnote ²⁶ The beguines—whose name has been used often as a catch-all for many kinds of lay female piety—provided women with a lifestyle that hovered somewhere between that of a single woman and a nun, much like the seroras. However, unlike the seroras who rarely lived in groups of more than three, the beguines favored a lifestyle more reminiscent of conventual life. Large groups of a hundred or more were not uncommon, and the largest beguinages occupied entire neighborhoods, effectively acting as cities within cities.Footnote ²⁷

The beguines, in contrast to some contemporary religious movements, did not reject property and did not take vows of poverty. Instead, a primary focus of the beguines' lifestyle was economic independence. Possessing artisanal skills and often owning their own houses, the beguines sought to support themselves and their fellow sisters through respectable work, rather than begging and relying upon alms.Footnote ²⁸ Over time, as beguines gained more property, their way of life became more institutionalized, and even came to take an important role in the local economy as they provided education for girls and served as a source of cheap, yet consistent labor.Footnote ²⁹ Like the seroras, the beguines were free to leave their communities at any time. In this way, the lifestyle furnished women with a place to live and work with other women and a way to productively contribute to their communities, all the while leading what was ideally a chaste and religiously fulfilling life.

Other semi-religious lifestyles also enabled women to lead a simple religious life with notable degrees of personal freedom, but took on institutional affiliations. In Italy, communities of penitents—frequently affiliated with the mendicant orders and called by a range of names including tertiaries, pinzochere, bizzocche, and mulieres religiosae—provided women with a respectable venue in which to lead a pious life without entering the monastery or taking formal vows.Footnote ³⁰ As Maiju Lehmijoki-Gardner argues, lay penitent women were important features of the medieval religious scene because they became the loci of religious creativity and spiritual renewal in urban centers. Seeking to “strengthen the position of religion in secular life by advocating new forms of religious expression that did not demand a monastic withdrawal from the world,” their communities afforded women networks of support and mutual assistance, all the while conforming to acceptable models of Christian spiritual practice.Footnote ³¹ Nonetheless, in life they were considered perpetually inferior to those who chose a monastic lifestyle, and they received no ecclesiastical or secular privileges.Footnote ³²

Penitent women thus straddled two worlds: as both young women and widows, they chose a simple and religious life, eschewing more conventional paths like marriage, remarriage, or convent life. Choosing this life meant submitting to the authority of bishops and mendicant friars, yet it still allowed more mobility and economic freedom (if not necessarily economic security) than did the life of a cloistered nun. Moreover, just as there were many different names for different kinds of religious life, there were also various degrees of strictness and permanency built into any given penitential life.Footnote ³³ Some penitents remained active in the world, providing charity, care for the sick, and even counsel, as did Catherine of Siena. Others, however, perhaps starting out in the more active life, later retreated from the strains of daily life and became recluses.

Women (and men) who chose to pull away from the world sometimes chose the path of anchorite. Choosing the fixity of living “as if in a tomb,” anchorites rejected the freedom of movement allowed to other quasi-religious groups and instead retreated into long-term reclusion modeled upon the desert lives of early Christians.Footnote ³⁴ The ritual of professing as an anchorite paralleled a burial ceremony and was presided over by a bishop or abbot; however, the choice to become an anchorite was voluntary.Footnote ³⁵ It was no death sentence, but instead a decision by the anchorite to devote her life to prayer, for the betterment of herself and her community.

Though some of the most famous anchorites were eccentrics in their devotion and adherence to the anchoritic lifestyle, on the whole the vocation was not marked by deviant behavior. Christina of Markyate—who spent years in what was essentially a small closet—is arguably an exception to the rule. Most anchorites, though bricked up behind walls and unable to leave their anchorholds, did not necessarily lead uncomfortable or lonely lives. Anchorholds could be quite large, tended to by servants, and practically speaking, they also needed to have windows large enough to accept alms and gifts of food necessary to support the anchorite in her calling. While male anchorites could live in rural areas and forests, female anchorites were predominantly urban and located in highly trafficked areas like on bridges and near the city gates. Though conceptualized as a tomb inhabited by the living, the anchorhold was a vital spiritual center, frequented by passersby, friends and followers, and devout pilgrims.Footnote ³⁶

Moreover, the phenomenon of women retreating into penitential and devotional seclusion was neither isolated nor infrequent. As Ann K. Warren calculates, anchorites were well represented in medieval England, with numbers of communities hosting anchorites reaching well over a hundred in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries.Footnote ³⁷ This more permanent form of penitential reclusion appealed to women in continental Europe as well, with anchoritic cells occupying important places within Italian, Spanish, Flemish, and French cities throughout the mid to late middle ages.Footnote ³⁸ In some areas—such as Castile—anchoritism (sometimes more loosely termed as hermitism) was alive and well through the seventeenth century.Footnote ³⁹

However, even as the idea and utility of the anchorhold would have been commonly recognized across Europe, anchoritism was not static over time or space. Early medieval anchoritism was likely understood as a more severe form of monasticism, while in the later middle ages, lay men and women began to take over the vocation. In Spain, too, the conceived purpose of anchoritism changed over time, both for the anchorite herself as well as for the community in which she dwelt. Initially, early Spanish anchorites retreated to the anchorhold as a temporary means of spiritual correction; yet, gradually the institution evolved into permanent seclusion. By the twelfth century, the institution had also become more female than male, more urban than rural, and more closely tied to eremitism.Footnote ⁴⁰ With the turn to permanent reclusion, anchorites increasingly were expected to be persons who had already reached a high state of perfection, and those who could serve as examples of sanctity. Reclusion as a private affair thus became obsolete, and anchorites now, by definition, had become public figures and public models of holiness.

As Ann J. Cruz posits, this move towards permanent enclosure was paradoxically also a rejection of the traditional monastic lifestyle; in choosing to lead an even stricter form of religious life, anchorites ironically secured for themselves a variety of spiritual liberties denied to women within traditional convents. That is, in conforming to traditional expectations of female enclosure, Spanish anchorites reclaimed control over their own bodies and over the ways in which they organized their daily lives. Inside the anchorhold, anchorites rejected the traditional hours and communal obligations of monastic communities, offering themselves up to God permanently and perpetually, without any distraction they themselves did not first sanction.Footnote ⁴¹

Like these other forms of semi-religious life, the Spanish beatas sought to modify traditional monastic expectations in order to meet personal and geographically specific needs.Footnote ⁴² Though most prevalent in Castile and in the Spanish-American colonies, the model of beata was also present in the Basque Country, existing alongside and recognized as different from the seroras.Footnote ⁴³ Whether operating in central Castile or in Bizkaia, women calling themselves beatas lived a lifestyle akin to that of the Italian tertiaries, and like the tertiaries, they too were often (but not always) affiliated with a mendicant order and were almost always subordinate to episcopal control. They took a simple vow of chastity, which was occasionally supplemented by the standard vows of poverty and obedience. Unlike formally professed nuns, however, these vows were not binding, and thus if a beata chose to eventually leave the religious life and marry, she could do so without fear of the sin of perjuring herself. Despite this flexibility, the vocation was considered respectable, and well-born daughters of the nobility as well as those of more modest means were both attracted to the lifestyle.Footnote ⁴⁴ Living as a beata was considerably less costly than formal monastic profession; however, this rarely seems to have been the primary motivating factor for taking up the habit of beata. More likely, the popularity of the vocation rested in the attractiveness of social and religious freedoms, coupled with anti-monastic sentiment.Footnote ⁴⁵

As single or widowed women living an independent and non-cloistered religious life, the beatas were expected to submit to guidance and correction from male clerics and confessors. Though the vast majority of beatas conformed to prescribed measures of male oversight, the nature of the beatas' lifestyles frequently allowed substantial leeway in thought and mobility. In Castile, many beatas ventured out of their beaterios on a regular basis to perform acts of charity and to collect alms. In the Americas, they initially took the lead in educating and Christianizing indigenous and mestiza girls, though they were eventually replaced with mendicant institutions.Footnote ⁴⁶

Throughout the later medieval and early modern periods, the beatas occupied a conspicuous position at the crux between the secular and the holy. Their lifestyle was effectively a “synthesis between the active and contemplative,” and the beatas held a fundamental place within the religious landscape of the early modern Iberian world.Footnote ⁴⁷ They consciously constructed their religious vocations to be models of the holy and were frequently thought of as living saints. On the other hand, their independence also exposed them to accusations of heresy and spiritual deception. Many of the female prophetesses of the sixteenth century were beatas, as were many of the women accused of the heresy of alumbradismo.Footnote ⁴⁸ All told, the vocation provided women with an opportunity to seek spiritual fulfillment, while allowing them more social freedom than that enjoyed by nuns and secular wives. At the same time, this freedom also carried with it suspicion, and the more active and outspoken beatas could easily find themselves the targets of the Inquisition.Footnote ⁴⁹

IV. Selecting and Supporting a Serora

The Basque seroras can be considered a regionally specific expression of this broader women's religious movement, and one that shares a number of commonalities with these better-known forms of lay religious life while at the same time retaining several distinctive features. Like the beatas and tertiaries, many seroras were undoubtedly drawn to the vocation for its spiritual and social advantages, coupled with the freedom from monastic enclosure. Though none took any formal vows, they nonetheless were allowed to live a life free from marital obligations, instead seeking spiritual fulfillment through chaste living and acts of charity. Like the anchorites, the seroras occupied a central and conspicuous position within their communities and were often attached to popular shrines; however, unlike the anchorites, the seroras were free to move about, and indeed were lauded for their activity and involvement in parish life.Footnote ⁵⁰ Like the beguines, the seroras combined the ideals of labor, honorable income, and religious life; yet, in contrast to the beguines, the seroras usually lived alone and in pairs, and carried out their labor as sanctioned employees of the parish community.

Though many of the same impulses that framed female spirituality across Europe also shaped the vocation of serora, this institutional role for devout laywomen in Navarre and the Basque Country eventually emerged as something wholly unique. The prescribed role for the serora frequently overlapped with and augmented the work of the parish sacristan, and the two were considered equally important, though not interchangeable.Footnote ⁵¹ Space was limited, the application process competitive, and entrance into the vocation was regulated at the local as well as diocesan level. Above all, the seroras differed from contemporary lay religious women in that they were hardly marginal figures. Instead, they were licensed diocesan employees, selected by the parish, compensated for their labor, and highly valued members of the local religious infrastructure.

In a striking parallel with how most Basque parish priests were chosen and confirmed, the serora was either selected by the local community she would serve or else was nominated by the patron of her shrine.Footnote ⁵² The death of a serora left a temporary spiritual void within the community, albeit one laden with opportunity and readily filled by eager candidates waiting in the wings. In many cases, such openings in service to the parish were long anticipated by eligible women within the community, and many living seroras were tormented by a host of “back-up” seroras who had been nominated in advance by the parish.Footnote ⁵³ Some seroras—such as María de Echechipía who was hired by the parishioners of Zubieta to help them care for their dirty church—were appointed after the position had been vacant for some time. However, in most cases the transition was seamless, with one serora replacing a previous one upon her death.

Following nomination, seroras were expected to report to the bishop for examination, confirmation, and licensing. This procedure was relatively simple and usually involved no more than a basic inquiry into the serora's marital status (she needed to be single or widowed), age (at least forty), and reputation in her community. More practically, this examination was intended to establish a degree of central control over the locality's initiative in choosing their serora. Nonetheless, many parishes were either unaware (or feigned unawareness) that the bishop wished to monitor the selection process, or else they did not care and were perfectly happy to proceed with the process independent of ecclesiastic authority. Ideally, the process of selection entailed cooperation between the parish and the bishop. In practice, however, the process often revealed underlying jurisdictional conflicts and tensions over local religious authority.

Once appointed by her parish or by her patrons, the serora took possession of her new home. This process was steeped in symbolism and meant to convey to spectators the gravity of her new vocation, as well as her commitment to her contract with her community and with God. Several days after the town had voted in her favor, and after having had the proceedings notarized and witnessed, the serora proceeded to her shrine or chapel. Some seroras were bodily picked up and placed into their shrines, while other merely invited in by parishioners. Once inside, the serora then gently led anyone who was still inside outside, and then systematically began to open and close all the doors and windows, ring the bells, light the lamps, and carefully touch all church decoration. Followed by a short prayer led by the parish priest, she then ritually donned a special habit or sash and took possession of the keys, crucifix, and missal. Finally, once all these acts were complete, the serora welcomed the parishioners back into the church.Footnote ⁵⁴

The seroría, or serora-hold, was frequently endowed with its own lands, gardens, and orchards, which helped support the resident seroras. Other seroras claimed portions of rents and incomes held by the beneficed local clergy. In addition, most seroras brought with them a dowry to supplement these incomes and to signal their commitment to their new vocation.Footnote ⁵⁵ Usually viewed as a gift to the parish church or shrine where the serora would be serving, once given, dowries could not later be extracted from the parish fabric, even if a serora left the service. Moreover, in a parallel with the dowries carried into secular marriages, the seroras' dowry was often paid out through a mix of items including hard cash, property, household items, livestock, and linens.

Most parishes recognized a precedent in traditional dowry amounts for their seroras, with typical payments for entering the seroría ranging anywhere from twelve to eighty ducats, with most dowries coming in at around thirty. However, like dowries carried by secular brides, competition drove dowries prices up, and some families found themselves promising several hundred ducats in order to see their daughters installed as parish seroras. Patrons and diocesan officials always claimed that they were choosing the candidate best suited for the vocation—“possessing the qualities and circumstances necessary for such ministry”—yet their consistent selection and approbation of candidates with the highest dowry amounts over those promising more modest sums belied these idealized sentiments.Footnote ⁵⁶ Seroras in Andoain (Gipuzkoa) in the seventeenth century pledged as much as 400 and 500 ducats as dowries, and others tried to sweeten the deal by offering to build new houses for the seroras if they were selected.Footnote ⁵⁷ In San Sebastián (Gipuzkoa) the widow Magdalena de Tellería secured a nomination from the patrons of the parish church of Santa María by offering a dowry of 400 ducats plus a silver jug worth 200 reales.Footnote ⁵⁸ However, not long after, another widow named Catelina de Añorga was inspired by María's “moving” profession, and offered her own dowry of 550 silver ducats. Claiming that in their haste to fill the vacant seroría, they had somehow managed to overlook Catelina's candidacy, the mayordomo and patrons backpedaled and revoked María's nomination in favor of Catelina.Footnote ⁵⁹

Like parish priests (and male sacristans and vicars for that matter), the serora received payment from the parish or shrine she served in addition to whatever incomes she might have from her dowry or the benefice. These payments varied widely in amount but at least guaranteed a steady form of support. For example, in 1626 in the Valle de Baztan (Navarre), María de Yndatea claimed to be receiving no more than thirteen reales annually, while Cathalina de Ystilart was being paid six reales plus two robos of wheat.Footnote ⁶⁰ Further south, Catalina de Jasso, serora of the cathedral church in Tudela (Navarre),Footnote ⁶¹ was receiving an annual payment of two measures of wine from the cathedral chapter; like other dependents of the cathedral chapter who were paid in kind, she presumably was allowed to sell this wine, rather than having to drink it all.Footnote ⁶² Her portion of the revenues appeared in the Actas Capitulares, alongside other accounts and payments, and while making slightly less than the sacristan, she was paid roughly the same as the pregonero (town crier), the barredora (the woman who did the sweeping), and the schoolmasters.Footnote ⁶³

These official payments were not inconsequential; however, they were not really all that much either, and they suggest that many seroras had to rely on alms to supplement their stipends and income from their endowments. A few seroras managed to do quite well for themselves between drawing incomes from their lands, collecting their stipends, and amassing alms from generous parishioners.Footnote ⁶⁴ Upon her death in 1685, for example, the serora María de Villanueva's property was worth over 900 ducats; and in the late sixteenth century, Doña Ana de Alzate was able to include instructions in her testament for liquidating an investment she held for 300 ducats.Footnote ⁶⁵ But most seroras were considerably less financially secure. María de Larragueta, for instance, had to fight hard for what was her due. She was supposed to have received alms for her services for the shrine of Nuestra Señora de la Soledad (Navarre), but had considerable trouble actually collecting her promised recompense, let alone providing her services. Though she suffered harassment and was even, for a time, forcibly expelled from her shrine, she resorted to legal means to ensure that she was allowed to keep her position as well as the alms attached to it.Footnote ⁶⁶

V. Daily Life and Expectations

Following the close of the Council of Trent in 1563, the Diocese of Pamplona began to actively investigate claims of clerical misbehavior and other irregular activity throughout the region. The bishopric was large and its jurisdiction wide-ranging, but the ecclesiastical officials were enthusiastic about Tridentine reform and made it a top priority to address absenteeism, superstition, cohabitation, inappropriate recreational habits, and violence among the lower clergy and parish employees. This was no small task. The problems turned out to be extensive, and though the process kicked off with a series of synodal meetings starting in 1577, 1586, and 1590, investigation of clerical and lay misbehavior and abuses continued through the end of the century and well into the next.Footnote ⁶⁷

Some bishops sought to establish closer ties between the diocese and the seroras than others, but on the whole following the Catholic reforms of the mid-sixteenth century and the Council of Trent, the trend was towards increased oversight and control over the vocation at the local level.Footnote ⁶⁸ The process of reforming local clergy and church employees—seroras included—was gradual and went through a series of iterations from the late-sixteenth century up through the early eighteenth. Throughout this period, the diocese claimed increased control over the vocation, though notably, the vocation was never fully wrested away from parish control and local patrons.

The 1590 synod, celebrated by Don Bernardo de Rojas y Sandoval, addressed the vocation of the seroras alongside hermits, sacristans, and devotion to local shrines more generally. Here, synodal delegates emphasized the importance of official licensing for all auxiliary church employees, including the seroras. Declaring that “no person may take up residency inside a shrine without license from the Prelate and examination,” delegates went on to establish in an official capacity the qualifications necessary to become a serora, which up until then had existed more in precedent rather than in mandate. Seroras (and sacristans and hermits for that matter) could not operate in the capacity of caretaker without first obtaining one of these licenses; seroras in particular were warned that the diocese “would not even consider” issuing one of these licenses “to women who are married” or who “are less than forty years of age.” Parish clergy were charged with making sure that their parishioners did not appoint any such women to the seroría in the first place, as well as to monitoring the activity of existing seroras and making sure that they knew that “[these licenses] do not license them to collect alms, though they can accept alms as long as they do this inside or nearby their shrines.”Footnote ⁶⁹

Subsequent synods celebrated in the diocese of Pamplona and the diocese of Calahorra-La Calzada reiterated the necessity of examination and licensing. These seventeenth-century synods also built upon earlier mandates to establish a degree of consistency across parishes about the duties and function of the seroras, as well as trying to avert irregular or “scandalous” behavior. A synod held by the diocese of Calahorra-La Calzada in Logroño in 1620, for instance, noted that “throughout the diocese there are women who hold titles as fraylas or sororas and serve as sacristans.” These women, synodal delegates noted, were sometimes suspect of “grave indecency” because their duties required them “to approach the altars to light the candles and handle the ornamentation and sacred vessels.” Nonetheless, delegates concluded, “these women generally fulfill their function with honesty, as experience has shown.” Similar statements about the seroras' questionable—yet ultimately acceptable—capacity as quasi-sacristans were repeated in later synods throughout the century. The diocese would continue to condone the vocation, so long as the seroras submitted to diocesan oversight and control.Footnote ⁷⁰

In conjunction with synodal legislation, diocesan reformers also demanded increased direct and personal contact with church officials at the parish level. Through a combination of increased visitations to the parishes and summons to the diocesan court, bishops in the Tridentine mold sought to enforce the principals of reform, while also establishing a precedent of regular and predictable interaction with the local representatives of the church.Footnote ⁷¹ Nevertheless, due to either a discrepancy between what was understood as necessary at the local and diocesan levels, or just because of the difficulty of actually getting to Pamplona, many seroras—backed by their parishes—continued to resist ecclesiastic intervention in the nomination process, or at least maintain a casual attitude about seeking episcopal confirmation.

A 1626 visitation to the Valley of Baztan (Navarre), for example, uncovered dozens of seroras who apparently had been ignoring the requirement of episcopal licensing for years.Footnote ⁷² Given six days to present themselves for an examination “about their life, age and habits,”Footnote ⁷³ which would then lead to receiving an official license, many seroras responded via proxy that coming to Pamplona was out of the question, because “they were just too far away.”Footnote ⁷⁴ At the same time, many arranged for legal depositions and witness statements to be sent to Pamplona that testified to the length of time each serora had served in her seroría, what she did there, and her many virtues.

From these depositions emerges a “job description” for seroras of the early modern period. Each serora (with the help of witnesses) crafted her answer slightly differently, highlighting various aspects of her occupation or lifestyle, yet certain elements appeared over and over in their responses. At the time of their answers, many seroras had already been in their parishes for decades, though it is likely that the ones who chose to feature this information prominently were the ones who were in the midst of long tenures, and that the more junior—and therefore less established—seroras probably chose to emphasize other aspects. Still, this information reveals that ages varied widely, and there seem to have been just as many “career” seroras as ones who had chosen the vocation later in life, as a way of supporting themselves in old age. Joanna de Meyora from Ziga, for example, was eighty-eight years old at the time of the inquest, and despite her advanced age, had been serving her community for “five years or more with much punctuality and care, as was required for the ministration of her office, and moreover she is a woman of good life, devotion, and customs.”Footnote ⁷⁵ Meanwhile, María de Yndatea had served her parish for over twenty years, “to the satisfaction of everyone,” and Estebenía de Oarichea had been a serora for thirteen years in Arizkun.Footnote ⁷⁶ While Estebenía did not volunteer her age (suggesting that she might have been under the required forty years old, at least when she entered the office), she was nonetheless able to round up numerous witnesses who testified on her behalf. Most importantly, she wanted the bishop to know how “for all the said time that she has had the said habit of serora, which she took because of her devotion . . . she has served with much devotion and decency of life and service to the church.”Footnote ⁷⁷ Twenty-four-year-old María de Echebez was really far too young to officially be a serora, but despite this she had already been serving for three years alongside a more senior serora named Juana de Azpilcueta who testified in her favor. Juana informed the bishop that María should continue to act as a junior serora because she was a “virgin . . . of good life,” “an honored woman and very devout, virtuous, and honest, steering clear of rumors and any other scandal whatsoever . . . and [she is held] in good opinion and [has] a good reputation.”Footnote ⁷⁸

In addition to justifying their positions through tenure, witness testimony, and good life, many seroras also provided more practical and immediate rationale for their continued service to their communities. Though not directly questioned as to what it was exactly that they did in their serorías, many seroras considered this information important enough to pass along to the bishop. Holding as they did a religious position devoted largely to tangible service to the parish and the community, seroras evidently defined themselves and their vocation through the physical acts they performed.Footnote ⁷⁹

Seroras clearly were supposed to be models of good behavior and religious life, though some went further and involved themselves actively in their parishes. Many of the seroras of Baztan prided themselves on fostering good neighborliness. This was certainly the case with Cathalina de Ystilart, serora of Lekaroz, who proudly stated that she lived in a town “with more than twenty houses and in one of these she lives, not as if she was in the desert, but rather as a neighbor, along with the responsibilities and obligations [that being a neighbor entails].”Footnote ⁸⁰ All, or nearly all, occupied themselves with the more humble tasks necessary to the upkeep and smooth functioning of their parish church or shrine. Like María de Echechipía, who stepped up to take on the role of serora and take care of the dirty church of Zubieta, most seroras cleaned and maintained church vestments. Estebanía de Oarichea swept the church, washed woolen cloths belonging to the church, and rang the church bells.Footnote ⁸¹ Cathalina de Ystilart, in addition to being a good “neighbor,” also organized the care of the church vestments and rang the bells when necessary.Footnote ⁸²

The inquest into the life and customs of the seroras of Baztan allows valuable insight into the day-to-day expectations of the seroría. Because of the nature of visitation records, these particular depositions provide a comprehensive cross-sectional view of the seroría throughout several parishes simultaneously, and moreover, show remarkable consistency across the daily tasks performed by the seroras and the ways in which they were perceived by their communities. Seroras further south in Navarre, as well as in the other Basque provinces reported doing similar work, suggesting that the vocation and its most basic features were replicated and understood very similarly across the Basque lands throughout the early modern period.

VI. Regional Pressures and Variances

Above all, the vocation responded to religious needs and local concerns present within the communities the seroras served. Consistently, seroras served in auxiliary capacities to ensure the smooth functioning of day-to-day parish life. They kept the church clean, cared for the vestments and decoration, and helped summon parishioners to worship. The more active seroras were also associated with spiritual mentorship among the female parishioners. They served as exemplary models of female spirituality, and sometimes provided spiritual counsel to women in their communities.Footnote ⁸³ Anthropologists and historical ethnographers have further documented their roles within funerary preparations, mourning, and healing cults, though these were always in addition to the daily labor they devoted to keeping the church clean and orderly.Footnote ⁸⁴ The vocation of serora allowed women to seek spiritual fulfillment and most importantly, it allowed them to do so in a way that contributed productively to their communities and responded to specific local needs.

In addition to the basic features which defined the vocation as a whole, certain appointments required further services from their seroras. The Cathedral chapters of Tudela (Navarre) and Bayonne (Labourd) for instance, both employed seroras to assist with vestments and cleaning.Footnote ⁸⁵ Other times, seroras took on roles more akin to hospitallers, looking after the poor and sick that passed through town.Footnote ⁸⁶ In certain areas, physical geography further affected what was expected of local seroras. In the parish of San Juan Bautista in Hernani (Gipuzkoa), the seroras were distributed among three of the four notable parish shrines. Masses were said at all three of these shrines, so the seroras kept busy. Like their sisters elsewhere, they were charged with “caring for the keys to the principal doors of the parish, opening [the doors] early, usually at around five in the morning, and then closing them in the evening.” Additionally, the seroras of Hernani rang the bells to call the parishioners to church, “fetched water for the Mass,” and “lit the lamps and checked to make sure they did not go out.”Footnote ⁸⁷ None of these tasks were unusual, and taken as a whole, they provide a fairly accurate portrayal of the daily requirements of the vocation. The strength and skill required to ring the bells should not be underestimated, yet even this was a standard requirement of the serora. The local geography of Hernani and the placement of the shrines, however, added an extra twist: though the shrines were dispersed around Hernani, one was located high above the town itself. Thus, as the parish priest explained in the mid-eighteenth century, one of the historic duties from “time immemorial” of the Hernani seroras was to make use of this vantage point and keep a look-out for impending dangers. As it turned out, this usually amounted to storm-spotting. Every time the serora at the shrine of Santa Barbara saw a storm approaching, she would ring the bells of her chapel “throughout the rain and until the tempest had passed.”Footnote ⁸⁸ The seroras could thus use their bells to send messages to one another as part of an elaborate first-alert system, as well as for the more conventional means of calling parishioners to worship.

Though the seroras of Hernani provided practical as well as spiritual services to their community, living alone in remote or sparsely trafficked areas such as this exposed these more rural seroras to the danger of attack or robbery. For example, in 1695 the villagers of Amasa-Villabona (Gipuzkoa) notified the bishop of Pamplona of their need of a new caretaker for their shrine to San Pelayo. Though the shrine had been dutifully served for years by the serora Magdalena de Estanga, there had been a number of problems which the patrons of the shrine now sought to address. Namely, Magdalena “had been robbed many times [to the point] that [the shrine] was now impoverished.” The problem did not lay with Magdalena herself—she had served the shrine well—but rather, the danger lay in the fact that she had been an old woman, and thus particularly vulnerable and unable to protect the shrine against intruders. “In order that the shrine be better cared for and so that in the future it would not be robbed,” the patrons decided, it would be wise to “name to the shrine a hermit [instead of a serora].” They wished to replaced Magdalena with someone of equal caliber, so after careful consideration, they suggested Joan Perez de Legarra “because he was a man of good life and customs, fearful of God . . . [and] someone who frequents the holy sacraments with much punctuality and who knows the Christian doctrine.”Footnote ⁸⁹ Also like Magdalena, upon entering his new vocation, Joan provided the shrine with a dowry, and in return was guaranteed “that he could enjoy for the rest of his life the privileges and incomes [of the shrine] . . . just like all the seroras of that shrine had done in their times, without any diminution.”Footnote ⁹⁰