The Power and the Glory

The priest enjoys a moment of much-needed respite when he’s taken in by the Lehrs. He’s able to rest and to bathe, and Mr. Lehr gives him a new set of clothes to wear. A church is nearby, and the Lehrs allow him to hear confession in the barn, even though Mr. Lehr doesn’t hold with the Catholic worldview. Even the water is “fresh and clean” at the estate, and the priest’s pursuers are across the border (161). The Lehrs live in an idyll of their own choosing: “Mr Lehr and his sister had combined to drive out savagery by simply ignoring anything that conflicted with an ordinary German-American homestead” (163). Despite the implicit colonial attitudes here (see Background: Postcolonial Context), the priest, like Odysseus enjoying his extended stay on Calypso’s island, welcomes (albeit much more briefly) this interlude in his epic journey. For the first time in years, the priest walks into the village “conscious of peace and safety” (166). Before long, however, his commitment to duty intrudes.

When the mestizo returns with the dying gringo’s request, the priest is, as always, compelled to choose his religious duty over his personal safety, foregrounding the theme of The Whisky Priest: Alcohol, Duty, and Faith. Still, he initially hesitates, certain of the mestizo’s malicious intent. Only when the mestizo presents him with the gringo’s scrawled request on the back of Coral’s old homework does the priest know he must go: “He thought of the deserted banana station where something had happened and the Indian child lay dead on the maize: there was no question at all that he was needed” (180). He must attend to the American not only for the man’s own sake but also for the sake of Coral, his symbolically surrogate daughter, and the others wounded by the man’s actions. By extension, the priest’s acceptance of his fate, knowing beyond a doubt that he’ll be captured and killed, represents a kind of redemption. In this only, he has never doubted; it’s an expression of faith in its way. He takes this last stage of his journey, relinquishing all his money to the village children in a gesture that conveys both hope (for the future) and hopelessness (for his own life).

Resonating with the priest’s deep sense of duty is the lieutenant’s bearing the burden of his own responsibilities, which extend beyond his role as lawman. He allows the priest adequate time with the unrepentant American: “I am not a barbarian,” he says when the priest thanks him (190). In addition, he maintains a reverence for procedure: He won’t execute the priest on site, respecting the full formality of a trial (though the priest won’t be allowed to plead his case), with witnesses present. He’ll even honor the priest’s request for confession. Ironically, Padre José is the sole actor in these events who has forsaken his sense of duty, who is without honor. As his wife profanely suggests, his only duty is to her: “‘You aren’t a priest anymore […], you’re my husband.’ She used a coarse word. ‘That’s your duty now’” (204). Padre José refuses the priest’s final request.

In addition, this section repeatedly raises the question of redemption, introducing the theme of The Glory: Martyrs and Saints. While the American steadfastly refuses the priest’s advice to confess his mortal sins, he does so out of an exaggerated concern for the priest. His attempt to save the priest from the trap set unfairly against him is a kind of redemption. The priest then conflates himself with the gringo, as he did with the prisoners in the cell back at the capital: “At the best, it was only one criminal trying to aid the escape of another—whichever way you looked, there wasn’t much merit in either of them” (190). While the superficial observation may be true, this again points to Christ’s commitment to the criminals: Neither will be forsaken.

The lengthy conversation between the lieutenant and the whisky priest amounts to a kind of confession. The lieutenant confesses his hatred of the Church, its impotence in the face of poverty and ignorance—not to mention what he sees as its inherent corruption. He also admits that his politics are not perfect, that there are bad men among the good. Later, he unburdens the guilt he feels over shooting the villagers: “I’ve shot three hostages because of you. Poor men. It made me hate you” (198). Now, however, he affords the errant priest a generous measure of respect. The priest, in turn, confesses his sins, which he believes all stem from the same place: “Because pride was at work all the time” (196). He neglected his duties and indulged in fleshly pleasures because he was proud that he didn’t flee from persecution. He denies that he seeks, or ever sought, martyrdom. Between them, they confess hatred and doubts, venal and mortal sins alike. The implication is that, perhaps, they can redeem each other.

The priest ends their conversation with an earnest speech, claiming that his fate is intimately entangled with the fates of his parishioners: “[I]f there’s ever been a single man in this state damned, then I’ll be damned too. […] I wouldn’t want it to be any different. I just want justice, that’s all” (200). Again, it appears as if he has relinquished the pride that once defined him. He’s just like any other criminal; he’s no better than a simple villager. In the end, perhaps ironically, his worth is intimately bound up with his religious duty, his faith. He feels that he hasn’t done enough. He feels “alone” and “abandoned” by man and by God. Like Christ in agony on the cross, the whisky priest believes himself forsaken.