SANTA ANA DE GUADALUPE, Mexico — Not all immigrant smugglers are the ruthless criminals depicted by international law enforcement officials. In this impoverished region of devout Catholics, where most men can either go into the priesthood or in search of work in the United States, at least one smuggler is celebrated as a saint.
His name is Toribio Romo, a priest whose rise to sainthood began in the 1920's when he was killed defending his religious beliefs.
Then rumors of new exploits spread on underground immigrant trails from here to northern California: an angel dressed in dark clothing was guiding lost souls safely across the border into the United States. As St. Toribio's popularity soared, some church officials called him a "Patron of Immigrants."
Now thousands of pilgrims, and one business-savvy priest, have turned Father Romo's hometown in Jalisco State — once a dying village of 400 cattle farmers — into a booming religious tourism destination.
Father Romo was shot to death by soldiers during the Cristero War between Catholic rebels and a government determined to eliminate church influence in political matters. Pope John Paul II made the slain priest a saint two years ago, along with 24 other Catholic martyrs of the Cristero War. But even in a region that raises more priests than any other part of this fervently Catholic country, that is not the story that made St. Toribio famous.
In the early days after his canonization, few people came to visit the chapel where Father Romo was born and laid to rest. This ramshackle village, with no roads, no telephones and no stable livelihoods, seemed destined to disappear.
Like so many others across the high plains of central Mexico, the men of Santa Ana de Guadalupe sought to escape their poverty by migrating to the United States. But the journey became more deadly in recent years as stepped-up law enforcement along the border forced immigrants to try ever more perilous treks into blistering deserts.
Then came word of St. Toribio's migration miracles. The first account, according to church lore, came from a native of the neighboring state of Michoacán, remembered popularly only as José . He had arrived at the border with no documents and no hope. Then a stranger appeared and offered him safe passage, a good meal and a decent job.
José asked how much it would cost to buy his American dream. The mysterious stranger asked only that José visit him sometime in Santa Ana de Guadalupe.
José made it to the States, then eventually came here to thank his generous coyote, as immigrant smugglers are called. People directed him to the small chapel on the hill, where a dumbfounded José learned that his coyote was a saint.
On a recent Sunday the church seemed too small to hold the droves of people who came, many crawling on their knees, for the five masses. Catholic officials said some 5,000 pilgrims visit each weekend, many of them emigrants at home on vacation or others who are about to embark.
Those pilgrims who had already gotten their miracle, and those who had not, were not hard to detect. The blessed ones came in vintage Mustangs and sport utility vehicles, wearing snakeskin boots and Stetson hats. Those seeking a blessing came on rickety school buses, wearing dusty blue jeans and sneakers.
They all filed in a line through the church, past St. Toribio's coffin, which is on display at the altar. They ran their hands gently over the glass cases holding his blood-stained clothing. Most visitors bought medallions, posters and plaques with the saint's young but stoic face.
This has become one of the fastest growing religious shrines in the country under the direction of the Rev. Gabriel González Pérez, 39, who looked more hip than holy with his turquoise button-down shirt, pressed khakis and dark sunglasses.
A cobblestone "All Saints Causeway" lined by busts of the Cristero War martyrs runs through the cornfields. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony booms from speakers in the light posts. The Catholic church operates the Pilgrim's Restaurant and sells T-shirts from a store on the roof.
The road into town is paved. Dilapidated houses were replaced by brick cottages. Still to be completed, Father González said, is the "center for religious reflection," a colonial-style dormitory with meeting rooms and a central plaza with a 12-foot waterfall.
Only priests are allowed into a gated recreation area with terraces and gardens as elegant as any country club.
The transformation offers a new twist on the old Mexican story of how immigrant dollars make ghost towns into oases. Mexico receives an estimated $9 billion a year in immigrant remittances. That money has helped pay for roads, water systems, schools and hospitals across impoverished rural regions of the country.
"This is not a business," Father González insisted. "We are not trying to make money on people's faith. We simply want to give the people who visit us the best services we can."
The Catholic Church has not officially confirmed Father Romo's miracles along the border. However, church literature has helped spread the legend. Available from most vendors in town is a pocket-size "Migrants Prayer Book," which opens with a bon voyage message from the local bishop and includes prayers for migrants to recite on their journey to the United States.
Among them is the prayer for Crossing Without Documents. "I feel I am a citizen of the world," it says, "and of a church without borders."