Mexican bishops acknowledge threats against prelates

Bishop Miguel Patiño Velazquez of Apatzingán, Michoacán, enters Mass on April 1.

The Mexican bishops' conference acknowledged last week that Catholic priests have suffered threats of violence and extortion at the hands of narcotics trafficking cartels and organized crime. The acknowledgment ended a stream of conflicting messages from various church officials on a delicate subject that many in the church seem uncertain of how to handle.

The bishops said in an April 15 message at the end of their spring planning session that an increasing number of prelates in areas rife with drug activities had been moved to other parishes and other parts of the country or assigned other pastoral duties.

Their acknowledgment comes as the Mexican government revised its death toll figures upward in the ongoing crackdown on the cartels to at least 22,700 since December 2006, when President Felipe Calderón took office.

Their acknowledgment also comes as Mexico's evangelicals have gone public with their own travails with extortion and threats. Evangelical leaders told the newspaper Reforma early this month that at least one pastor had been kidnapped and that extortion has taken place at many places of worship and even at their charity projects.

Catholic officials had been reticent to acknowledge the threats against prelates and had been somewhat late in developing a comprehensive response to the issue of violence in Mexico. Church observers say Catholic officials prefer to follow the government's lead on such issues and desperately wanted to avoid running afoul of the cartels, who have become the de facto authorities in some parts of Mexico.

In early April, a spokesmen for the bishops' conference, in comments published by Reforma, denied that there had been any threats against Catholic prelates. Catholic leaders in troubled dioceses and archdiocese such as Durango, Acapulco, Morelia, Tacambaro and Apatzingan all told me last year there had been no threats against priests.

Last summer, a spokesman for the Archdiocese of Mexico City told reporters that priests had been threatened in the state of Michoacán - drawing a swift denial from the Catholic hierarchy in that region. A few priests would occasionally break with the official line in their dioceses, however. Father Alfredo Gallegos Lara - a gun-totting, rachero ballad-singing priest in Michoacán, better known as "Padre Pistolas" - told the news agency Quadratin that a fellow priest had been threatened and that he himself had been robbed. He also encoured his parishioners to keep arms in the homes - something permitted by the Mexican constitution.

The church's relations with the cartels is another touchy issue: Catholic officials deny that they accept donations from cartel leaders, although the bishops' conference president, Archbishop Carlos Aguiar Retes of Tlalnepantla, acknowledged: The cartels have been generous in various parts of Mexico by donating funds for infrastructure projects. Others in the church said the cartels' money was not welcome. One bishop in southern Chihuahua declared in late 2008 that no priest in his diocese would perform funerals for "narcos," but a church spokesman in the state later said the move proved unpopular.

Past comments and actions on the issue have been contradictory, however. The late bishop of Aguascalientes caused a scandal in 2005, when he said the church receives money from the cartels and could put the illicit funds to good use. His comments were quickly disavowed.

Disgraced priest's legacy lives on in Michoacán

BY DAVID AGREN
The News

COTIJA DE LA PAZ, Mich. - Rev. Marcial Maciel, the disgraced founder of a Catholic order known as the Legionaries of Christ, was born in 1920 in this deeply religious community, billed as the cradle of illustrious men. Cotija has produced seven bishops, an estimated 300 priests and even a saint, San Rafael Guízar y Valenica, since its founding by Spanish settlers in the late 1500s.

But of all the prominent native sons, not one has reached the stature of Maciel, says local historian Javier Valencia - in spite of recent acknowledgement by Legion officials that their founder had led a double life in violation of Catholic teachings.

"[Maciel] is the greatest man Cotija has produced - and Cotija has produced many important people," said Valencia, who had known the priest since childhood, prior to Maciel's death last year.

That perception of Maciel is common in Cotija. Maciel is widely viewed as a local benefactor who plowed money into charity projects and public works that helped boost the stature of a municipality that had failed to keep up with other nearby communities economically.

He is also regarded as the product of a conservative Catholic town whose residents stayed loyal to the "madre patria," or homeland. Valencia said that Cotija never embraced independence or revolution and produced many of the generals who took up arms against the government in a Catholic uprising - known as the Cristero Rebellion - that opposed anti-clerical measures of the 1920s.

LIVING LEGEND

To this day, fading portraits of San Rafael Guízar y Valencia - Maciel's great-uncle - adorn many doorways lining the road into town. "This home is Catholic!" proclaim signs on windowsills, a warning advising missionaries that they shouldn't bother knocking.

Few in Cotija speak ill of Maciel or care to pass judgment on the misdeeds that have made headlines for more than a decade - fathering a child and allegedly sexually abusing young men, among other things.

"They're lies," said Elena Mejía, 87, who once worked as a domestic helper in the Maciel home.

Others were even more curt.

"You won't get me to say a bad word," said one man in the town center before storming off.

In 2006, the Vatican - which had previously been accused of turning a blind eye to allegations against Maciel and the Legion - stripped Maciel of the right to practice his ministry in public. The Legion itself admitted on Feb. 4 that its founder had fathered a child. Maciel and others in the Legion categorically denied any wrongdoing, but he had long been accused of sexually abusing young men in his religious order and was alleged to have absolved his accomplices in confession - a violation of canon law punishable by excommunication. He died in January 2008 and is buried in Cotija.

Even those who have heard the stories about Maciel - and don't entirely dismiss the allegations against him - refuse to change their perceptions.

"It really doesn't matter to me," said local historian Elena Silva Trejo, whose father used to make Maciel's suits. "There are two sides to every coin. You have to look at them both."

The other side of the coin, she said, is the legacy of charity and public works projects brought about by Maciel and the Legion in Cotija and towns well beyond.

The projects started out small in Cotija. Maciel - who would never permanently live in Cotija again after finishing his seminary studies but would visit frequently - gave away serapes and small figurines of Christ, according to Silva Trejo. Some residents recall him giving away cash.

As the Legion grew in stature and wealth, the projects grew too.

The Legion, according to religious observers, was founded with practically nothing in 1941, but flourished as Maciel courted the wealthy - a group that was largely not being ministered to by existing orders.

The Legion founded elite and expensive private schools - the Instituto Cumbres and Universidad Anáhuac, to name two - and expanded abroad.

It supported charity projects such as the Mano Amiga schools for children in poor barrios, but was still primarily associated with wealth, status and exclusivity.

A feature in the Feb. 9 edition of the magazine Milenio Semanal even alleged that those who would not join the Legion out of conviction would do so out of fear. "Confronting the Legion implied, until recently, ostracism in a country where financial security passes more through contacts than through talent."

Legion priest Rev. Michael Barry, a Maryland native who has worked in Cotija for the past five years, said that Maciel promoted the view of working with leaders who would use their resources to do good works.

LEGACY REMAINS

Still, critics would quickly begin to deride the Legion as "The Millionaires of Christ." And some of the Legion's money flowed back into Cotija.

Maciel helped pay for the restoration of an old sanctuary in a hamlet known as El Barrio, which had been home to the final Mass in 1929 before soldiers in the Cristero Rebellion laid down their arms. The Legion later built a large retreat center on a hill overlooking Cotija.

Today, a steady stream of visitors affiliated with the Legionaries of Christ helps boost the local economy, according to Alberto Contreras, a municipal government official.

In recent years, a Legion foundation worked with the Michoacán governor to build a museum, cultural center and a health clinic that offers doctors appointments for just 10 pesos. A private university that charges low tuition fees was also built with Legion money.

These projects haven't been forgotten. "He did a lot for this place," said campesino Juan Espinosa, who was selling green beans in the town plaza when interviewed. "There have been so many works."

12 de diciembre

Sandcastle in Puerto Vallarta
Originally uploaded by David Agren

An estimated eight million Mexicans will descend on the Basílica de Guadalupe in the capital this week and fete Our Lady of Guadalupe, the country's most revered religious icon. This gentleman in Puerto Vallarta honored the Guadalupe with a sandcastle by the Malecón

I spent the wee hours of Wednesday morning at the basilica. Here's what ran the following day in The News.

Pilgrims descend on the capital to celebrate the Virgin of Guadalupe

David Agren
The News

Esteban Cruz tumbled into the deep end of a swimming pool six years ago while horsing around with a cousin. Unable to swim, he quickly sunk to the bottom. Desperate and "drowning" he begged the Virgin of Guadalupe for intervention. A lifeguard pulled him from the pool moments later, sparing him a watery death.

Cruz has made a pilgrimage every December since to the Basílica de Guadalupe, where he gives thanks for what he considers a miracle. This year, he pedaled his red mountain bike from Valle de Chalco Solidaridad, a sprawling municipality on the southeastern outskirts of the capital, to the basilica in the northern part of Mexico City, leaving at 9 p.m. and arriving just in time for Midnight mañanitas.

"I thought I was going to die," Cruz recalled while sitting on the curb in front of the basilica during the wee hours of Wednesday morning.

"Thankfully, the virgin intervened."

Cruz was just one of an estimated eight million Mexicans flocking to the basilica over the past week as the country feted its patron saint, a dark-skinned virgin that they believe appeared in front of an indigenous farmer named Juan Diego on Dec. 12, 1531. And 476 years later, the cult of the Virgin of Guadalupe still captivates tens of millions of devotees in the world's second most populous Catholic country.

The virgin also draws adherents from immigrant communities in the United States and Latin America. The Basílica de Guadalupe attracts 20 million visitors a year, ranging from gaggles of clowns decked out in face paint and baggy pants to world leaders – Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega paid a visit over the summer, fulfilling a campaign promise to visit the shrine if he retook power in the Central American
country.

Her influence on Mexican society is still strong. Author and social commentator Carlos Fuentes even called President Felipe Calderón's win in last year's election, "A triumph of the Virgin of Guadalupe."

STRONG IN SPITE OF CATHOLIC WEAKNESS
In spite of a long-term decline in the percentage of the population that identifies itself as Catholic, the virgin's popularity shows few signs of waning.

"In reality, it never has diminished, but actually grown," said Conrado Ulloa Cárdenas, a philosophy professor at the University of Guadalajara.

"The devotion [is still] growing against all our predictions to the contrary."

Devotion to the virgin persists most strongly in Mexico City and the states surrounding the capital, especially among the working classes and the poor, according to Ulloa Cárdenas.

He added that wealthier Mexicans still believe in the virgin but are less inclined to publicly show their devotion.

MASSES FOR THE MASSES
Many of those arriving at the basilica arrived on foot, walking for days in many cases. Others rode bicycles or took the Metro. Entire families toting backpacks, blankets and bagged lunches spilled out of the Metro stops surrounding the basilica in the hours leading up to Midnight on Tuesday.

As the clock struck 12 a.m., fireworks exploded, trumpets from the assembled mariachi bands blared and the assembled masses began singing traditional mañanitas, or birthday songs to the virgin.

Many of the out-out-state pilgrims would later camp out on the streets and sidewalks surrounding the basilica – and even between the pumps at a Pemex station.

Midnight also ushered in a day of 15 masses. The lineup included a solemn mass featuring mariachi groups, a 2 a.m. service for construction workers and concheros, or traditional Aztec dancers, and a mass for cyclists coming in from two municipalities in Puebla.

Some visiting the Basilica started repaying mandas, or fulfilling promises made to the virgin in exchange for intervention.

María Luisa Guerrero and four family members poured 100 cups of coffee for pilgrims caught in the crushing line to enter the basilica, starting at midnight.

"It's something small, but it's the act that counts," she said.

"It's what I could afford to do."

MASS MARKETING
Guerrero prayed to the virgin after her daughter was hospitalized with severe intestinal problems during the spring. She promised that she would serve coffee to the pilgrims streaming past her home every Dec. 12 if her daughter was cured.

"I always had a lot of faith," Guerrero said, adding that her daughter made a full recovery.

Guerrero, who lives mere blocks from the basilica, has always believed in the virgin, but never participated in the Dec. 12 festivities until recently. She said the numbers were as large as ever, but the local government and church officials had created a more controlled atmosphere.

A force of more than 2,200 police officials – some in riot gear – patrolled the area along with support workers from the local borough and inspectors from the federal consumer protection agency Profeco on the lookout for price gouging.

The numbers could grow even larger said borough of Gustavo A. Madero spokesman Ruben Chavarría as the Archdiocese of Mexico City builds a new plaza near the basilica containing shops, a museum and crypts.

Vendors in the area viewed the new project with suspicion, however.

"The government and the church is kicking us out of here," said Jazmín Hernández, a vendor whose family has been selling religious items at the basilica for four generations.

"The church sees a business opportunity and wants to capture all of it," she added.

Her family is devoted to the virgin, but Hernández's merchandise selection now features statues of the Santa Muerte, or Saint Death, a skeletal figure popular with the downtrodden and kidnapping gangs. She expressed misgivings about the church, but not the virgin.

Others were less questioning, including Cruz, the Chalco resident, who planned on leaving the Basilica at 4:30 a.m.. That would provide him with enough time to pedal home and still arrive at work on time. Although he acknowledged his fatigue and carried a heavy portrait of the virgin on his back, he was undaunted by his journey and the full day of manual labor at a marble cutting business awaiting him back in Chalco.

"If you don't have faith, the [pilgrimage] can be pretty uncomfortable," he said.

Los "Cristos" de San Martin de Hidalgo, Jalisco

An apt piece on Good Friday festivities in a small Jalisco municipaliy published in today's Miami Herald Mexico Edition.

Tradition thrives in Jalisco village

BY DAVID AGREN/THE HERALD MEXICO
El Universal
Domingo 08 de abril de 2007

Nobody is sure of the origins of the custom which is unique to the town.

SAN MARTÍN DE HIDALGO, Jal. - In the weeks preceding Good Friday, a member of the García clan lowers the family´s treasured wooden Christ statue from a cross in their home and takes the fragile figure to the local church for a special Mass, where the icon is washed and blessed.

Then, in a re-enactment of Christ lying in rest after his crucifixion, they place the 16th-century statue on a bed of laurel leaves, under the gaze of a Virgin of Dolores photo, in the front of their barrio La Flecha home.

Finally, after the local Passion Play finishes on Good Friday, the Garcías welcome hundreds of guests, who come to pay their respects.

While many Mexicans decamp the country´s cities and towns and head for the beach during Semana Santa (Holy Week), the residents of San Martín, an agrarian municipality southwest of Guadalajara, instead turn their homes into capillas (small chapels), where their Christ statues lie at rest, awaiting resurrection.

According to local priest Luis Zuñiga, "What´s represented is the moment that Jesus is being lowered from the cross" and prepared for burial.

Nobody really knows the exact origins of the tradition, which only happens in San Martín, although Malaquías García González, 77, said it dates back centuries.

His statue, named Cristo San Salvador, has been in his family for five generations and might be the oldest in the municipality.

Legend has it the Spanish, who arrived in 1540, brought indigenous craftsmen from Michoacán, who made the statues and founded barrio La Flecha. (Flecha, or arrow, referred to the founders´ indigenous and less affluent roots.)

Some 32 statues are registered as being at least 150 years old, but with time, the custom expanded beyond barrio La Flecha and now includes many younger Christ figures.

Jorge Mendoza, a trumpet player with the mariachi group "Los Flecheros" - a name taken from the barrio - first built an altar for his relatively new Christ statue in 1998 after surviving an accident that claimed the life of a band member.

Somewhat aptly, he named his statue, Cristo del Mariachi.

Some motives for participating in the tradition, though, might be less pure, said Susana Evangelista, whose family runs a small restaurant and owns the 200-year-old Cristo de la Agonía.

"Here, we´re all sort of copy cats," she said cynically.

Still, she acknowledged faith just might be driving the tradition. "People (in San Martín) have stayed pretty loyal to the Catholic Church," she observed.

Los Reyes Magos go for a boat ride

A mesquite statue of Melchor, one of the Santos Reyes (three kings), is carried off of a humble fishing boat yesterday at the wharf in Cajititlan, Jalisco. The town just south of Guadalajara celebrates Dia de los Reyes every January with the usual activities - fireworks, indigenous dancing, church services, etc. - but the local fishermen also take the kings on a tour of the Laguna de Cajititlan. The tradition dates back to at least 1587 in the municipality of Tlajomulco.

I wrote about the event; here's my account for the Catholic News Service.