ABSTRACT
It was springtime in Mexico City, and the boulevards were sweet on Jesus. Under the pink bloom of the jacaranda trees, amidst the Sunday throngs at Plaza Hidalgo; along the newsstands and across the racks of bootleg DVDs dividing the stalls of the tianguis, the image of Jesus—Jesus by way of James Caviezel—had flourished in the warming landscape. His shadows thriving under the imperious sun. His sorrows circling like the farewell notes of “Cielito Lindo” over the bust of a morose organ grinder.
