The Last Oblate Standing - Why FRONTeras named an 80-year-old priest our 2025 Person of the Year

2025 FRONTeras Magazine Vol. 1 No. 4 Issue

Father Roy is a busy man. Getting an interview with him was no easy feat. Finally, on a sunny afternoon, right after a funeral, he carved out forty-five minutes to spare.

In his office, Alexa hums old Americana from the 1940s while his dogs stretch beneath the desk. The conversation began with one question: how does a man become a man of God?

As a boy, he listened to the Oblate fathers talk about their missions. "I thought that was kind of neat," he remembered. Years later, after six years teaching in San Ysidro, he joined the Oblates. He was ordained in the Valley and sent to Roma, where he ministered for more than a decade.

His family stood behind him, though his father offered a blunt warning. "You come from a long line of rugged individuals," his father told him. "And you're joining the biggest bureaucracy in the history of the world, so you better be ready for some troubles."

Parish life carried its share of tension. He calls it a "creative clash," no different than the early disputes of the Church. "The parish priest hopes that he'll be able to love the people, and the people will love him," he says. "Starr County's a little more chocante." Just a tad snobbish.

Immigration has become central to his work. "We don't ask people if they have papers—never," he says. "There are cases where we say, well, this family probably doesn't have papers, but we're going to give them a little…" He motions to the trailer across the street. "Their house burned and they moved in there temporarily. I never asked them if they had papers."

The wall debate struck him hardest. "For us, it was particularly painful because it would have been a wall between the old mission, the mother church, and the town," he says. That chapel, older than the town itself, is still called the "grandmother church." His parish celebrates Mass there every Friday and walks there on Palm Sunday. To separate the mission from the town was, as he put it, "unbearable."

At first, opposition was firm.

"Everybody said, 'Oh, that's crazy. We don't want to put a wall on a river.'" But he saw resistance fade. "Little by little, people kept hearing about the wall. I think now there would be much less resistance. It's more fashionable. More tolerable."

He has never hidden his views. "Those who criticize, condemn, and complain about their neighbors… they're poisoning their own hearts," he says. "And if their kids hear them talking about it that way, they're poisoning their kids. Poison is getting around the family table."

He blames social media for fueling much of that anger. "I don't know if it's necessary, but it's sure evil," he said. He has been attacked there himself. "They kind of raked me over the coals. That happens. Not a lot, though. It's rare."

The Valley's political turn stunned him. "Trump carried the Valley. Nobody ever thought that would happen," he says. "I think a lot of cowboys voted for him. They said, well, he's a manly man, and he's not going to put up with a lot of this silly stuff."

When asked about his own ballot, he didn't hesitate. "I couldn't vote for either one," he said. "I felt Biden was out of his mind. But I knew that Trump was as mean as a snake. I couldn't have voted for him."

Politics has always shadowed the Church. He recalls a Jesuit priest who once served in Congress until Pope John Paul II told him to leave public office. "The Pope told him, ' No, you've got to be a priest and leave the politics to the Senators. And he did."

Politics aside, Snipes is a man of all creatures. Outside, his aging dogs trail behind him, waddling like ducks on arthritic legs. His beasts are loyal to him, and he to them.

At eighty, Father Roy is still working. "My dad was 95 when he passed away.  My mom was  85,"  he says.

"But I have to leave that in mystery. Even when you think you've got the future figured out, you usually find out you didn't have it figured out after all."

There are still funerals to conduct. Families who need shelter. A chapel that needs faith more than ever.

He wears the name "rebel priest" with ease. "Dad would like that," he says. The interview ends where it began—with dogs at his feet. His mission continues. Rebellion, for Father Roy, looks like this: waking up tomorrow and doing it all again.

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Copyright © 2026 Maria Santos Salinas for FRONTeras.

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