Exiled Priest Misses Parish in Chiapas : Ministry: Father Loren Riebe is petitioning to return. The government accuses him of inciting the peasants, but critics call those trumped-up charges.

He is a priest exiled from his parish, a man abruptly separated from almost two decades of fulfilling work, arrested at a police roadblock, forced into a truck in the rain and sent packing, without time to gather possessions, brief successors or bid farewells.

The exile has caused a deep hurt for Father Loren L. Riebe, a Los Angeles native, the gnawing sense that he may never be allowed to return home. But his greatest preoccupation, he says, is the fate of the predominantly Indian parishioners left behind in a place called Yajalon, in the mountainous, verdant country of eastern Chiapas, a state in the south of Mexico.

“While I was in the back of that truck, I kept thinking: ‘If they can do this to me, a U.S. citizen, a priest, in broad daylight, what’s going to happen to the people?’ ” recounted the portly, soft-spoken Riebe. “This is all some kind of craziness.”

On Tuesday, protesters marched outside the Mexican Consulate in Los Angeles, condemning the government’s expulsion of Riebe, 52, in June. Two other foreign Roman Catholic parish priests working in embattled Chiapas--Jorge Alberto Baron, 54, of Argentina and Rodolfo Izal Elorz, 35, of Spain--were exiled with Riebe. The government accused the three of inciting violence and encouraging peasant takeovers of land--trumped-up charges, according to church authorities and human rights activists.

“The other priests and myself were not doing anything except what we were supposed to be doing: pastoral work,” said Riebe, 52, based temporarily at St. Anne’s parish in Santa Monica. Riebe was posted at St. Anne’s a quarter-century ago, fresh from the seminary and a world away from the region that would later shape his life.

The priests’ expulsions emerged as another obstacle in peace talks between government and Zapatista rebel negotiators in Chiapas, who have been enveloped in conflict for more than 18 months. The expulsions, critics charge, underscore President Ernesto Zedillo’s dismissal of demands for land redistribution, social justice and other changes in one of Mexico’s poorest and most backward regions.

Zedillo has insisted that his government is committed to peace and justice in Chiapas.

The government move against the priests vividly illustrates the contentious role of the church in Chiapas, a region of stark contrasts between the privileges of a small elite and the desperate lot of the mostly Indian peasantry.

Wealthy landowners and ranchers, long aligned with the ruling party in Mexico City, have accused the church of fomenting rebellion among the Indians. The landed gentry has demanded the removal of Bishop Samuel Ruiz Garcia of San Cristobal de las Casas, a longtime agitator for Indian rights. “Don Samuel” also serves as the peace talks’ mediator and is the direct superior of the three expelled priests.

The landowners “certainly feel that the solution is to turn the army loose on the Zapatistas, and the church is in the way,” said Riebe, born in North Hollywood to a working-class couple--a Mexican American mother and German American father. “The landowners aren’t bad people, but for them the Indians are lazy and drunkards and ignorantes .”

Today, instead of ministering to parish affairs, Riebe is fighting a public relations battle.

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With church encouragement, he speaks publicly about his experiences and has organized letter-writing campaigns to Washington and Mexico City. The hope, however faint, is that Mexican officials will permit him to return to isolated Yajalon. Since 1976, Riebe had been the only priest for about 30,000 parishioners, mostly Tzeltal-speaking Indians, descendants of the Maya.

Riebe is uncomfortable in his new role. Speaking out, while shedding light on events in Chiapas, is likely to further upset Mexican officials sensitive about international criticism.

“I don’t want to be a crusader. . . . I want to go home and continue my work. Nothing else made much more sense after a while. You get caught between Zapatistas on the one hand and racist landowners on the other.”

Jose Angel Pescador Osuna, the Mexican consul general in Los Angeles, said he hoped to meet with Riebe soon and help facilitate the priest’s formal application to return to Mexico. The expulsions, Pescador said, illustrate the sometimes blurred distinctions between political and religious work, particularly in an inflamed atmosphere such as that in Chiapas.

“I don’t think the church should mix in politics,” said Pescador, who called the expulsions legal. “But when religious workers, complying with their evangelical duties, defend the poor against other interests and help them confront exploitation, is that religious or political?”

At the parish church of St. James the Apostle in Yajalon, Riebe concentrated on preparation of Indian lay volunteers, or catechists, who play a vital role in spreading Catholic teaching in a rural area chronically short of priests. But the catechists’ activities have come under intense fire: Many affluent residents view them as Zapatista recruiters.

In Chiapas, Riebe has emphasized education. He speaks proudly of Indian youths granted church scholarships--funded with U.S. donations--to study at colleges in Mexico City and elsewhere. Many have come home, empowered, to implement their newfound expertise and promote a sense of self-worth.

More than 100 Indian high school pupils from Yajalon now receive scholarships from U.S. sponsors who pay $25 a month, said Riebe, who professes little interest in politics. He applauds the rebels’ goals, including land reform and improved roads, education and health care. But he says he cannot condone their violent methods.

Yajalon has been relatively quiet since the rebellion began, despite its proximity to rebel strongholds. The priest’s dealings with area landowners--Yajalon is home to families of wealthy coffee growers--have generally been cordial, Riebe said. But relations began to deteriorate in February, when emboldened campesionos in nearby villages “invaded” large private tracts.

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Since his arrest, Riebe has been in almost daily contact with lay workers and friends in Yajalon. The news is unsettling. Army movements and police roadblocks have mounted. Church leaders report feeling threatened and harassed. Rumors of worse times ahead abound.

From his secure but frustrating perch in Santa Monica, Riebe worries about the safety of his parishioners and the fate of his pastoral projects, especially a planned dormitory for 50 students financed with U.S. donations. Townsfolk, including the mayor, scion of a wealthy family, have sent letters to Zedillo urging him to permit the cleric’s return.

“We are not afraid, and we are ready to die if we must to recognize the truth,” a group of women seamstresses wrote to the president on the priest’s behalf. “The truth is that his only sin was to help the poor and the rich alike.”