The Death of Padre Pro

Article 1 in the Ordinary Saints series

The sun had been gleaming down for a short time between the bars of the jail cell when Miguel Pro was awakened by the shuffling of guards and deadly serious jingling of keys turning in the lock. Though he seemed now to look at the faces of his executioners, in reality he was looking far past them, almost through them. They reminded him of the poor he had served in Mexico City over the past year; the substitution of rags for rifles seemed trifling compared to the spiritual suicide they were prepared to undertake. As usual, Padre Pro made some attempt at good natured conversation with the men as they led him out into the yard, but the brief time he had spent in jail without trial left him with little rapport with his captors. Unlike in his ministry or boyhood, they had little patience for the Father’s humor. His detention had provided little opportunity for the pranks he loved to play on his many siblings and parishioners in days gone by.  Led out into the prison yard, he now glimpsed the odd sight of a camera crew. The big clunky cameras reminded him of his short time in America and Belgium, their bustling cities filled with the newest inventions. The commanding sergeant approached the bound Father and asked him for his last request, barely mustering the courage to look him in the eye. As if he had been asked on any other day, he requested to sit and pray. The sergeant glanced back at his rifleman before nodding back to Pro. The public practice of the faith had been banned, but even with the cameras rolling he saw no harm in permitting the condemned man's delusions for a final time. He was a loyal soldier, and he disliked the press presence, but President Calles had specifically ordered it, convinced he would capture the priest's broken countenance and final cries for mercy as he was shot. 

Briefly finishing his prayer, the priest stood up. A private approached him with a blindfold but was shooed away by the priest. The sergeant didn't mind much; he wanted the job taken care of as quickly as possible. Orders are orders, and the Catholics are subversive, but killing a holy man was…dirty. The soldiers formed their line. Assuredly, the priest raised his own arms, his hands bearing a crucifix and a rosary. This is ridiculous thought the sergeant, each step away from the condemned man towards the firing squad stabbing his conscience. The old priest broke his silence and hummed to life “May God have mercy on you! May God bless you! Lord, Thou knowest that I am innocent! With all my heart I forgive my enemies!". The sergeant didn't need forgiveness. He needed a dead priest for Calles. A final resolute cry came from Padre Pro “Viva Christo Rey!” immediately answered by the crack of rifles. The man fell down. But he was not done. The same young private as before approached once again, this time to put the mortal bullet in his head. 

A few days later Calles stood on the balcony of the presidential palace in a foul mood. Not just a foul mood, but a complete fury. Thousands lined the streets behind the coffin. The pictures had evoked a radically different response than he had expected from the public. No amount of officers nor rifles were going to stop the body of Pro as postmortem he led the congregation to the graveyard. President Calles was furious. Years of repression, thousands of priests exiled or killed (the rioters couldn't even find one to conduct the burial!), and continuing crackdowns had been undone overnight. Try, no, force as he might, the people of Mexico would not surrender their faith just yet. As he retreated with a hardened heart to the palace, he clenched his fists, furious that he had been defeated by the sacrifice of a single dead priest. 

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