Chapter 59: The Weight of Anger and Redemption

MATEO – POV

The days after the fire were an endless shadow. The parish, reduced to ashes, was a constant reminder of my failure. The place that had been my refuge, my home, and the heart of the La Merced neighborhood had been consumed by flames, as if God Himself had pointed His finger at me.

The neighbors, deeply moved, came forward to offer their help. Women who barely had enough to feed their children brought me sweet bread and hot café de olla. Men who had never crossed the church threshold offered tools and strong hands to help rebuild. But I found no comfort.

Doña Socorro, as always, opened the door of her home to me.

“You’ll be safe here, Father,” she said in that firm voice that allowed no argument.

I slept in a simple bed, but rest never came. I spent the nights tossing and turning, drowned in thoughts of guilt and rage. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flames devouring the high altar, saw my cassock blackened by smoke, heard Damián’s mocking laughter echoing in my mind.

By the third day, I could take no more. Rage ruled me like a fever. I left Socorro’s house with determined steps, ignoring her voice calling after me from the window.

I found him on the corner by the market, surrounded by his lackeys, like a vulgar king on his throne of shadows. He was smoking a cigarette and laughing with them, as if other people’s misfortune were his sustenance.

I approached without weighing the consequences.

“It was you!” I shouted, my voice thick with fury. “You set my church on fire!”

Damián looked at me and let out a hoarse laugh.

“Me?” he mocked. “You have no proof, Father. Fire… well, fire sometimes appears where one least expects it.”

I took another step forward, fists clenched.

“Coward!”

Then he leaned toward me, a venomous smile on his lips.

“But between us…” he whispered, almost in my ear, “yes, it was me. And I did it because you took her from me. Because of you, she left. So if you stole what mattered most to me, I did the same to you. I took what you love most.”

My body ignited like gunpowder. I didn’t think, didn’t reason. I grabbed him by the shirt and drove my fist into his face. He staggered and struck back. His men moved closer, but Damián stopped them with a violent gesture.

“No one gets involved!” he roared.

And so it was—rage against rage. My fists fell on him again and again, each blow carrying the weight of my anger, my desire, my failure. I felt his blood on my knuckles, heard his laughter mingling with pain. It was a filthy, savage fight, unworthy of a man of God.

When they finally pulled us apart, I was panting like an animal. People from the neighborhood had intervened—shouts and hands between us.

I spat blood onto the cobblestones, my face burning.

“God will punish you for the atrocity you committed.”

Damián, his lip split and one eye swelling shut, smiled with contempt.

“But I already punished you, Father. And I’ll keep doing it every time you get in my way.”

I turned and walked away, my cassock torn and my soul in pieces.

A few days later, I received a letter from the Archdiocese. They requested my presence at the central offices in Tuxtla Gutiérrez.

The headquarters commanded respect: colonial walls, ancient stained glass, a silence heavy as lead. I was received by Monsignor Esteban Valenzuela, a man with a grave gaze and a deep voice.

“Father Mateo,” he began, “we’ve received a troubling report. It’s said you were seen fighting in the street with gang members. That you—a recognized priest—lowered yourself to violence.”

I lowered my head, ashamed.

“It’s true, Your Excellency. It was a moment of rage. That man… he burned my church. I lost control.”

The bishop studied me for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the mahogany desk.

“A man of God cannot lose control, Father. Not after all that you represent. You received recognition, appeared in the newspapers, you are an example to the community. You cannot allow yourself to fall into the same passions as those you are meant to guide.”

His words cut like knives.

“I know,” I admitted, my voice breaking. “But the truth is… now I feel empty. I lost my church. I lost the meaning of my life. And I’ve thought about… stepping aside.”

A long silence followed. The bishop leaned back in his chair, folding his hands.

“No,” he said at last, with authority. “That will not happen. You are not stepping aside.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“What you will do is go to Rome. There, you will attend the formation program for monsignors. And when you return, you will go back to your parish.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Go back to what parish? It’s destroyed…”

He gave a faint smile and turned his computer screen toward me. They were videos—of me kneeling before the ashes of the church, crying, praying in the dead of night. Someone had recorded that moment. It had gone viral on social media.

“The world saw you, Father,” he said. “They saw a man of faith weeping for his temple, for his people. The response was immediate: donations from all over Mexico, even from abroad—the United States, Spain, Italy. The amount is staggering.”

I was speechless, a knot tightening in my throat.

“Your church will be rebuilt,” the bishop continued. “No—better yet, it will be a cathedral. A beautiful cathedral, raised upon the ruins, a symbol of faith and resilience. And when you return, you will not be alone. Two priests will accompany you to help lead the community.”

I covered my face with my hands. I didn’t know whether to cry or to laugh.

The bishop leaned toward me, his gaze piercing.

“Father, remember your vocation. You are a man of God. Do not allow guilt or anger to defeat you. The Lord has chosen you, and the people need you now more than ever. What happened with that woman…” he paused meaningfully, “I know. Everything is known within the Church. But God forgives. Rome will be your penance—and your redemption.”

His words struck deep. I felt shame, relief, and terror all at once.

I left the Archdiocese with my heart clenched. I had accepted. I would go to Rome to prepare for the new role. I would return as a monsignor, with a cathedral under my care, with responsibilities greater than I had ever imagined.

And yet… deep down I knew it wasn’t only for God or for the people that I accepted. It was because a part of me still hoped she would return.

That night, in Doña Socorro’s house, I wrote in my black notebook one last time before leaving:

“Rome. A sacred city that awaits me as both judge and refuge. They say I will find peace there, that distance will erase this fire consuming me. But I know the truth: not a thousand kilometers, nor all the prayers of the Vatican, will tear your name from my chest, Lucía. I will carry you with me like an invisible scar. And when I return, I don’t know if I will come back as the priest everyone expects… or as the man I never stopped being.”

I closed the notebook and placed it at the bottom of my suitcase.

I looked up at the dark, star-filled sky over San Cristóbal. I took a deep breath and whispered:

“God… help me leave this weight behind. The weight of my desire.”

And with that silent plea, I set out on the road to Rome, not knowing whether it would be my redemption… or my final condemnation.