Some readers will find this column a bit disconcerting. It is a column about the flip side of holiness. Not satanic rituals, but Christian spirituality on the wrong side of the law.
It is a column about Jesus Malverde, the bandit-saint of Mexico.
You've heard of Pancho Villa. And you may have heard of Zapata. Perhaps you can even place the name of Joaquin Murietta. But chances are you can't tell Jesus Malverde from St. Martin.
And given the number of people who pray to Malverde, many others don't make the distinction.
Jesus Malverde was a highwayman, a bandit on horseback who lived 100 years ago. Like Robin Hood, it's said, he would steal from the rich and give to the poor. Over the past 10 years, however, Malverde has risen from folk hero to the ranks of angelic saints who perform miracles. Just how that happened, no one knows. But despite the fact the Catholic Church refuses to recognize Malverde, today many hard-working souls honor and adore him.
Locally, you can buy Jesus Malverde portraits, statues, wallet cards — even Malverde jewelry.
But that's not what makes Malverde unique.
What makes him unique is he has become the "Narco Santo" — the patron and protector of all drug traffickers.
Drug runners pray to him for help. Drug lords lay offerings at his shrine in Sinaloa. The Phoenix New Times quotes one source as saying 90 percent of all drug traffickers have an image of Malverde on them when they're caught.
When you work outside the law, the drug lords say, you need a saint who worked outside the law.
And Jesus Malverde definitely worked outside the law. He is their boy.
If the portraits of Malverde are right, he looked like Guy Williams — the actor who played Zorro. Some say he was a railroad worker. Others say he was a carpenter. No one can be sure, however, since so much about the man has come down through folktale and folk songs.
Some say Malverde was captured and hanged.
Some say he remained at large and — just before he died — told a friend to take his body to the police, claim the reward and give the money to the needy.
Some say his body was left to rot in the street and surrounded by soldiers. His followers tossed tiny pebbles on his body until he was buried in pebbles.
Some say the Mexican government built an office building on that grave to discourage pilgrims. They say the pebbles on Malverde's grave bounced like popcorn as the bulldozer approached. They say the heavy machine broke down as it touched his body.
Some people say those things.
But nobody knows. Nobody can be sure, in fact, that Jesus Malverde even existed.
In the end, the idea of admiring a bandit-saint would seem bizarre, if we Americans weren't prone to the notion ourselves. Here, we also love our Western outlaws. We have turned Jesse James, Billy the Kid, Butch and Sundance into legends. We admire their spunk — their willingness to take risks and stand up to the iron fist of authority.
We put their names on our tourist attractions.
We name film festivals after them.
We never tire of their stories.
In America, we have a romance with our outlaws. But we don't worship them.
Not yet anyway.
For if the saga of Jesus Malverde teaches one thing, it is this: When it comes to religion, pretty much anything can happen. In fact, pretty much everything has.
E-mail: jerjohn@desnews.com