Church, faith and rock 'n' roll

Church, faith and rock 'n' roll

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Wearing a fantasy movie T-shirt and with the ends of his hair tinted red, Adolfo Huerta leaves a church in Saltillo looking like an out-of-place dishevelled rocker. In fact, he is the Catholic priest who has just conducted mass.

Huerta is an unconventional man of the cloth, who likes rock music, goes to bars, drinks, smokes, swears and tells jokes during services. But for all his unusual style, he has a good relationship with the local community.

. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta officiates mass in Saltillo, his studded leather bracelet and skull ring visible as he holds up the Eucharist.

The priest, who is nicknamed “Father Gofo,” developed his commitment to religion while studying at Mexico City’s Pontifical University and working with HIV patients and sex workers as a social activist.

He now mixes his duties as a priest with a passion for motorbikes, heavy metal and rock music, and says it is important to demystify faith and recognise that priests are ordinary people too.

Despite, or perhaps because of, his unconventional style, he relates well to communities in some of the most dangerous areas of Saltillo and he has the support of regional bishop Raul Vera Lopez for his work.

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Slideshow

Huerta smokes a cigarette as he stands next to a picture of Christ.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta smokes a cigarette as he stands next to a picture of Christ.

He smiles with a fellow priest and members of the diocese.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He smiles with a fellow priest and members of the diocese.

A Playboy bunny pin sits on his shelf in front of his collection of Playboy magazines.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

A Playboy bunny pin sits on his shelf in front of his collection of Playboy magazines.

A picture of a naked woman is stuck into the front of his diary.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

A picture of a naked woman is stuck into the front of his diary.

His priest's robes hang in front of a poster of the movie "The Matrix".
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

His priest's robes hang in front of a poster of the movie "The Matrix".

Huerta puts on his cassock in church.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta puts on his cassock in church.

He conducts mass wearing a skull ring.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He conducts mass wearing a skull ring.

He baptises a little boy at the church.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He baptises a little boy at the church.

Huerta passes a girl in a blue dress as he leaves after the baptism.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta passes a girl in a blue dress as he leaves after the baptism.

He greets a neighbour before conducting mass in a gap between two houses.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He greets a neighbour before conducting mass in a gap between two houses.

He gets ready in his robes.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He gets ready in his robes.

The small crowd of people at the mass laugh as Huerta performs the service.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

The small crowd of people at the mass laugh as Huerta performs the service.

The congregation sit on chairs set out on the street.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

The congregation sit on chairs set out on the street.

The priest holds a girl's hand during the mass.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

The priest holds a girl's hand during the mass.

Huerta poses for a picture before driving off on his motorbike.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta poses for a picture before driving off on his motorbike.

A skull with glowing red eyes adorns the front of his bike.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

A skull with glowing red eyes adorns the front of his bike.

Huerta stops to ask children for directions.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

Huerta stops to ask children for directions.

He waits for friends outside a rock bar, with "666," the number of the Antichrist, marked on the wall.
. Saltillo, Mexico. REUTERS/Daniel Becerril

He waits for friends outside a rock bar, with "666," the number of the Antichrist, marked on the wall.

"He entered the church carrying a black jacket and holding a black portfolio... He was the new priest in town."
Daniel Becerril, Reuters Photographer

When I first heard of Adolfo Huerta, or “Father Gofo,” as everybody calls him, I thought the whole thing was a joke. I assumed he liked to drive a motorcycle and wear his hair long, and that he wasn’t a priest at all, but just a guy who enjoyed pretending to be one.

The day I met him, he was packing his stuff because he was being moved to another parish. They were sending him off to a problem neighbourhood – a “hot” area, as they are normally known.

As I chatted with Adolfo, I looked around his room and saw it looked a lot like a teenager’s bedroom. I noticed heavy metal and alternative rock CDs, and there were lots of books piled up high, all with his nickname, “Gofo,” written on them. A poster of Che Guevara was stuck to the wall, along with one of the latest Batman movie and a double-spread picture of a lovely young lady showing her assets au naturel.

Adolfo came round to God and priesthood while studying philosophy at the Pontifical University in Mexico City and working with HIV-positive patients and sex workers as a social activist.

He seems to break all the moulds of a Catholic priest: he likes rock music, dyes the ends of his hair red, dresses in black, and enjoys riding his motorbike. He is a member of a motorcycle club called the “Black Wings”, he goes to bars, he drinks beer, he smokes, he swears and he tells jokes while officiating mass.

He also likes pictures of naked women. Although his female friends complain about the posters, he says he is an admirer of the female body for its beauty and its ability to give birth. No filthy or profane thoughts are behind it though – it’s the chaste life for him!

One night, I went with Father Gofo to a bar called “The Confessionary,” which played music by Iron Maiden and had the number 666 painted on the wall, illuminated with red lights.

Gofo greeted the bar’s owner and waited outside for some friends and members of the “Black Wings”. Inside, he and his mates had a couple of beers, chatted and sang to Pantera and Metallica songs. He left early.

Adolfo sees a lot of benefits to going out: “There is more communion at barbecues, at parties, at bars,” he said. “When you arrive at those gatherings and places, people greet you, they hug you, they ask you how you have been. When you arrive at church, nobody notices each other and they only shake hands when the priest tells them to do so.”

Father Gofo blends in and is accepted by people in the most dangerous areas; the community tends to receive him as one of their own. Nobody can enter the barrios, as the city’s risky neighbourhoods are known, dressed in a suit, walking with freshly shined shoes, smelling of aftershave, and driving the latest model of car and then talk about God as if everyone else should repent of who they are.

Before he officiates mass, Father Gofo puts his cassock over his black rock’n’roll T-shirts but keeps the rings, bracelets and collars in the shape of skulls on show for all to see.

“I strive for an adult faith, more humane and reasonable,” he told me. “We must demystify faith and the priestly figure people think won’t smoke or dance, when reality is different.”

“We have to accept the differences and preferences of the others without condemnation. We have to be free and we have to rationalise faith in order to find God everywhere”

The next day Adolfo was to move into a famously rough neighbourhood. I arrived thirty minutes early and saw him getting there on his motorcycle. He entered the church carrying a black jacket and holding a black portfolio. A few residents had already heard about him and looked at him with curiosity. He was the new priest in town.

He took confessions that day, something he really enjoys. He said that his parishioners don’t see him as a dishevelled rocker, but as the saviour of their souls.

Adolfo is aware that none of his work would be possible without the support of the bishop of the region, Raul Vera Lopez, who is famed for his commitment to human rights, especially when it comes to Central- and South American migrants travelling through Mexico. The bishop thinks that Adolfo does his work well and he respects the means Adolfo uses to evangelise and instil values in people.

Personally, I’m not the best Catholic and not I’m very devout. I rarely go to church unless it’s for a professional reason. But I have to admit that Father Gofo’s story encouraged me to find out more about what the Church can offer. I realised that priests are not necessarily angels, but real humans with a deep desire to help others.