Protomartyr of the Cristero War

The author is a Facebook friend of mine who has done yeoman's work in documenting the persecution of the Church by the Revolution.

From One Peter Five

By Theresa Marie Moreau

To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.
– Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225-74)

Shoulders draped with chains, heads crowned with thorns, flesh punctured with cacti, ankles bound with fetters. Barefoot penitents stood, waiting to begin the annual Good Friday tradition: Procession of the Chained.

Under the hot sun, the small group of men – performing acts of faith and acts of gratitude – slowly, with difficulty, descended the steps of Iglesia de Santa Maria de Jesus, in Atlixco, in the Mexican state of Puebla, on April 2, 1926.

Their nearly naked bodies – with only a strip of cloth wrapped around their lower torso for modesty and another around their face for humility – shuffled blindly, led along the mountain village cobblestone Via Dolorosa to Capilla de la Tercer Orden de San Francisco, as family, friends and faithful crowded along the way, offering prayers, words of comfort and drops of juice squeezed from lemons, the only sustenance permitted during the short-but-grueling pilgrimage.

Among the many observers stood a short, stocky old man, Jose Garcia Farfan, who attached to his hat a little piece of cloth on which he had scribbled three words.

Jose Garcia Farfan

When his fellow companions from the Nocturnal Adoration Society noticed the expressive phrase, they immediately objected and tried to convince him to remove the patch with its boldly scrawled slogan. They feared it could be and would be misconstrued as antagonistic by the Regional Confederation Mexican Workers (Confederacion Regional de Obreros Mexicanos, CROM), a brutal federation of Socialist labor unions, made up of anti-religion thugs who – unprovoked – frequently and ferociously attacked Catholics.

The politicized union ruffians – thieves and assassins backed by President Plutarco Elias Calles (born Francisco Plutarco Elias Campuzano, 1877-1945) – mingled in the crowd that day, protesting and causing chaos, the instrument of change for Socialists, devout adherents of Dialectical Materialism – the deliberately engineered clash of social strata, such as culture, class, race, gender – for the Revolutionary transformation of society through the collapse of that society.

Despite the imminent threat, or maybe because of the imminent threat, Garcia refused to remove the battle cry emblazoned on his hat.

“Absolutely not,” he insisted. “I am not afraid of suffering any humiliation for my God and Lord.”

However, the leader of the group approached the old man and asked that he comply with their request.

“Out of obedience, I will do it immediately,” Garcia said and promptly removed the piece of cloth with its three bold, counterrevolutionary words: Viva Cristo Rey!

Born in 1860, in Tlaxco, in the state of Tlaxcala, to Ignacio Garcia and Margarita Farfan, Garcia entered life with humble beginnings in a home with great virtue. At the age of 22, he married Maria Cahuantzi, on August 12, 1892. Two years later, in 1894, the couple settled down in Puebla de los Angeles, in the state of Puebla.

Eventually, the couple opened a miscellanea shop – a small, neighborhood convenience store that carried a wide variety of miscellaneous items – located on the corner of then-named Portillo and Piojo streets, currently 601 North 6th Street at the corner of East 6th Street.

The miscellanea not only sold grocery items and whatnots, but Garcia’s little apostolate also served as the neighborhood disseminator of Catholic news, with periodicals filling the racks, on which he displayed and distributed religious pamphlets, magazines and newspapers, such as El Mensajero del Corazon de Jesus, published by Father Joaquin Cardoso (Society of Jesus, 1881-1967), a native-born Poblano serving in Mexico City and with whom he corresponded by mail.

A disciplined man, hard worker and devout believer, the shopkeeper rose early, spent time in prayer, attended daily Mass and received Communion before heading off to work, where he prayed his daily rosary during lulls in business.

Healthy and energetic, he was also humble, selfless, compassionate, self-critical and likable; however, he did have a bit of a temper, which he just couldn’t completely control, no matter how hard he tried. And he did try. After he let loose with his tongue, he always immediately regretted his words, begged forgiveness, and then, once again, consciously and willfully worked to better himself, frequently going to Confession and seeking divine intervention with his human flaw.

Even though he had that cantankerous streak, the locals still loved the short-tempered shopkeeper, because he never held onto resentment or anger and even showed a sweet and affectionate side at times, as well as generous and charitable. His regular customers – who referred to him as “Don Pepito” – knew him well and understood that underneath his harsh exterior beat a heart of true charity. And they most certainly appreciated his generosity, for he allowed them to buy on credit when they had nothing in their pockets but lint.

One day during his prayers he made a promise to Our Lady of Guadalupe, a promise to visit her shrine. To fulfill his vow, he made a pilgrimage to the nation’s capital, in June 1926. At his first stop, he met with his pen pal, the Jesuit priest Cardoso, and made a General Confession, in preparation to receive Communion at the National Basilica of Holy Mary of Guadalupe, in Mexico City, at the foot of Cerro Tepeyac, where Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin (1474-1548) received several apparitions of the Virgin.

After Confession, the two men chatted about the Socialist government’s persecution of the Church and her faithful.

The regime’s inherent evil – the absence of good – was evident in the destruction of the social fabric of the nation, as it chipped away at the spiritual Catholic teaching – that natural rights are guaranteed to man from the Creator – and pushed the materialistic Revolutionary ideology – that rights are bestowed to man from the State, which can revoke those rights at any time.

“If only I could be a martyr for Christ!” the shopkeeper professed, irritated at the injustice of the State.

Garcia was riled up about the Law for Reforming the Penal Code, recently signed by Calles, on June 14, 1926. It was retributive injustice perpetrated by the authoritarian administration under the pretense and misnomer of reforming the criminal code. Commonly referred to as Calles Law, it classified acts of religion as unlawful, treasonous acts against the State. Infractions of the Law – enacted to subdue the Church by any means – could incur a fine, imprisonment, banishment to the Islas Marias Federal Penal Colony and even death.

Among the acts categorized as criminal: priests wearing cassocks, nuns wearing habits, the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony without permission of civil authorities, and religious instruction in schools. Also included in the lengthy list was the banning of religious communities, which caused seminaries, monasteries and convents to go clandestine, including one cloister – the Augustinian Recollect nuns of the Santa Monica Convent – not too far from Garcia’s miscellanea. Although many religious faced exclaustration, that convent, located at Calle 18 Poniente 103, managed to successfully go underground, in 1926, until their discovery, in 1934, when the regime immediately started churning out vile, disinformation propaganda, complete lies about the nuns and dead babies.

Garcia found the violent hatred against the Church unfathomable.

“Something must be done, Father. Something must be done. I am willing to give my life, if necessary, but something must be done to stop this series of nonsense against our religion. A time of martyrdom is coming, don’t doubt it, Father. Oh, if only I could be a martyr for Christ, if only I could!”

“Nothing is done without the will or permission of God, and for our good. Since you are going to the basilica, ask our blessed Mother to give us strength, a lot of strength, to defend our faith and to withstand the enemies of Jesus Christ, the King,” Cardoso requested.

Both believed that they would never see each other again in the material world, so the two shared an affectionate goodbye and made an appointment to meet again, in eternity’s spiritual realm.

Before returning home, the shopkeeper picked up several signs – which read: Viva Cristo Rey! Viva la Virgen de Guadalupe! Dios No Muere! – from the National League for the Defense of Religious Liberty, of which he was a member. As soon as he returned home, he entered his store and stuck the signs on the newspaper racks.

But problems persisted. On July 16, 1926, the churches in the town of Puebla were surrounded by armed combatant Callistas, who would not allow the faithful to enter. The anti-clericals also grabbed control of the following Catholic institutions: Colegio de la Misericordia Cristiana, Instituto Spina and El Colegio Teresiano America de Puebla, evicting the occupants and turning the properties into barracks for the military.

Those actions sparked indignation in the shopkeeper.

“What are we going to do? This state of affairs is unbearable. It is necessary to do something, to defend our religion. I am willing to give my life. I would give anything to be a martyr!” he said at the time, with his righteous anger giving him the strength that he would soon need.

To his wife, he said, “This is the best opportunity to give my life for Our Lord. It would be a real opportunity to die for Him at this time.”

Then, in response to the Calles Law, the Mexican Episcopate announced in their Pastoral Letter, of July 25, 1926, that, on July 31, all clergy would withdraw from the churches; otherwise, they would be colluding with the State against the Church. The churches would remain open, if possible, but only under the direction and care of the laity.

The shopkeeper was absolutely inconsolable. So upset, he was unable to calm down, physically, emotionally, mentally.

What else can I do? he contemplated. How can I help more? Well, at least I am going to get more signs of Viva Cristo Rey! and completely cover the shop window and the interior of the store with them.

Which he did, to inspire others. And it did inspire others – to his detriment.

Near his store, the military had set up the San Francisco barracks. And because Garcia sold alcohol beverages, the soldiers – low and high ranking – often entered the shop to buy the intoxicating liquor. Antagonistic toward religious faithful, the malefactors insulted and mocked the old man and attacked the Church and the clergy.

Easily infuriated, Garcia’s temper readily ignited – his tragic flaw – and he often responded to the accusatory, false and annoying accusations.

That was what happened on July 26, 1926.

Two days later, on July 28, he woke with a premonition. Waking his wife, he encouraged her to go to Mass with him and receive Communion, at the neighborhood church, Iglesia of San Francisco. There, kneeling in the pews, he prayed long and hard, peacefully and quietly. After Mass, the couple went to work at the miscellanea.

At 11 that morning, in front of their store, a car stopped. Inside sat four men: General Juan Gualberto Amaya (1887-1964), General Daniel Sanchez, the chauffeur and an assistant soldier who exited the vehicle and entered the shop.

Maria feared they were there to arrest her husband.

“As per orders of my General Amaya, you are to go out and see him,” the soldier commanded.

“Where is he?” asked Garcia, undaunted.

“In his car, right there outside the door.”

“Well, tell your general that there is the same distance from his car to my counter as from my counter to his car, and if he wants to talk to me, let him come here, where I am at his command.”

The soldier returned to the car and reported to Amaya the short conversation. Furious, the general and Sanchez both stormed out of the car and into the shop, yelling and insulting Garcia, who stood behind the counter.

“Old imbecile, what are you thinking! Let’s see how quickly you remove all those subversive signs from your shop window!” Amaya screamed, kicking the newsstand.

“Remove those signs that bother you? I don’t think so. I am in my house, and in my house, no one but God rules, and then me. There is no rascal among you who can force me to remove them. If you’re hell-bent to do so, remove them yourself, and face the consequences.”

Enraged, Amaya drew his pistol and fired a shot at the shopkeeper, but the bullet merely pierced the old man’s jacket, completely missing his flesh. The general then started tearing down and ripping up the signs.

Incensed, Garcia grabbed the closest projectile – a jar of pickled peppers – and hurled it toward Amaya; however, just in time, a quick-acting Sanchez put his hand up to deflect the jar, which broke on his arm, cutting his wrist.

Immediately remorseful for hurting Sanchez, the shopkeeper profusely apologized, “Forgive me, sir. I was blind with rage,” and quickly retrieved a bottle of alcohol from a shelf, sterilized the bleeding wound and bound it with a clean cloth.

“Arrest him, and take him to the barracks!” Amaya ordered, as he continued to destroy every sign in the shop and window – every sign, except one: God Does Not Die, which remained intact and in full view.

“Thank me that my general did not kill you,” Sanchez told the shopkeeper.

“I thank you for nothing. I owe everything to Divine Providence,” he responded, to which the nearby soldier laughed wildly.

By then a crowd had gathered outside after hearing the shouting and the shooting and watched as the old man was escorted from the shop to the car.

“Why are you taking Don Pepito away? Don’t be cowards! Don’t kill him! He has done nothing wrong!” an old woman shouted.

In response, Sanchez walked up to the woman, raised his whip and struck her in the face.

Sensing danger from the incensed crowd, the two generals pulled their weapons, wielded them at the incited mob, hopped in the car and sped off with their prisoner, who was taken to the San Francisco barracks, where Sanchez was in charge of Puebla’s Headquarters of Military Operations.

Immediately, the news of the arrest spread and a defense attorney was found who filed an amparo, an order of protection for the shopkeeper. The amparo was ignored, and the attorney was threatened with death if he continued to represent the shopkeeper, who, although a civilian, had a military tribunal with a military judge.

Locked up, the loveable-yet-irascible shopkeeper wrote one last letter to his wife:

“Maria, do not grieve for me. I am completely healthy, calm and not cowed. The little that these cowards can make me suffer, I suffer with resignation for God and for His Holy Cause. Do not be sad, because I am happy and my morale is good. General Headquarters, July 28, 1926.”

At 5 a.m., early the next morning of July 29, guards escorted the shopkeeper from the military barracks, under the pretext of relocating him; however, they ushered him before the firing squad.

“Now let us see how Catholics die,” Amaya remarked sarcastically.

“Like this! Viva Cristo Rey!” the condemned man yelled, clutching his rosary to his heart before bullets penetrated his chest. One projectile pierced his lips, ripping the flesh into the shape of a cross.

He was 66.

While preparing his body for burial, his loved ones found visible signs of torture: open wounds on the bottom of his feet and on his upper limbs.

After his death, a note written by him was found in a book of meditations:

“Help me, Lord God, in my good purpose and in Your holy service, and give me Your grace so that I begin today perfectly, because everything I have done up to now is nothing. July 28, 1926.”

Miscellanea and facts were pulled from the following:

“Between the Glory and the Forgotten: The Martyrdom of Don Jose Garcia Farfan, 94th Anniversary,” by Una Voce Puebla. “Dios y Mi Derecho,” by Consuelo Reguer. “Los Martires Mexicanos: El Martirologio Catolico de Nuestros Dias,” by Joaquin Cardoso SJ. “Madera de Heroes,” by Luis Alfonso Orozco. “Sangre de Martires: Semilla de Cristianos,” by Catolicidad.com.