Death of Immigrant Rights Leader Father Guillermo Treviño in Iowa City

(IOWA CITY, IOWA) Father Guillermo Treviño, a widely known Iowa priest and immigrant rights advocate, died in Iowa City on October 31, 2025, at age 39 after returning from Rome, where he had traveled for the Pope’s World Meeting of Popular Movements. His sister, Mariela Treviño-Luna, said he suffered complications from undiagnosed diabetes that caused a fatal stomach perforation. She was with him in Europe as his condition worsened and confirmed that the illness went untreated until he flew back to the United States the day before his death.

News of his sudden death spread quickly through parishes in Columbus Junction and West Liberty, where he served as pastor of the St. Joseph Catholic Church communities, and across Iowa’s immigrant networks, where he had been a steady presence for years. Treviño had fallen ill during the World Meeting of Popular Movements in Rome, an event bringing grassroots leaders together with the Vatican on social and economic justice. Friends and colleagues said he pushed through the trip to fulfill his commitments and only sought care after returning home, unaware that a silent case of diabetes had become life-threatening.

Bishop Dennis Walsh of the Diocese of Davenport said the loss was being felt from the chancery to the smallest parish hall.

“Words cannot adequately express the deep sense of loss we feel across the diocese. Father Guillermo lived his priesthood with a remarkable and authentic closeness to his people. His leadership and commitment to justice will be deeply missed.”
He offered prayers for Treviño’s parishioners, family, and especially his mother, adding, “May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, rest in peace.”

Treviño’s work reached beyond Sunday Masses. As board president and a founding member of Escucha Mi Voz Iowa, where he also served as chaplain, he joined farmworkers in winter fields and meatpackers outside lunchroom doors, pressing for fair treatment, language access, and safer workplaces. He accompanied immigrants to federal court hearings in Cedar Rapids and stood with families outside the courthouse when loved ones were arrested by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, often guiding them through the first frantic hours of detention. He did not hold back when he thought the system failed people he knew by name.

Earlier this year, he was thrust into the national debate when his godson, Pedro Pascual, a West Liberty graduate, was deported. Treviño called the deportation “a travesty” and urged due process in multiple interviews, reflecting how he saw legal protections not as abstractions but as tools that either worked for families or broke them apart. His advocacy often brought him face-to-face with agents and courtroom officials, and he insisted that rules be followed clearly and fairly. For those seeking basics on arrest and detention, he regularly pointed families to official resources from U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, then stayed with them through the long waits and longer appeals.

His colleagues say the same directness fueled his pastoral care. The son of Mexican immigrants, Treviño understood the fear that spread when raids were rumored and the quiet relief when a judge granted bond. He led bilingual services that drew farmhands, nurses, teachers, and small-business owners into the same pews. Parishioners recall how he would get up before dawn to catch a ride with someone headed to Cedar Rapids for a hearing, then return in time to preside at an evening rosary. He never tried to separate his ministry from the practical needs of the people who came to him in crisis.

In 2022, his combination of faith and public action was recognized with the Cardinal Bernardin New Leadership Award from the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops for work addressing poverty and injustice. In recent months, he spoke on a panel at Georgetown University and was increasingly called on as a national faith leader on immigration issues, where he urged a plainspoken approach to policy and a closer look at the lives affected by every memo and arrest. Those invitations reflected how Guillermo Treviño bridged worlds—parish altars and protest lines, diocesan meetings and courthouse steps—without losing sight of individuals trying to keep jobs, raise children, and remain together.

The details of his final week underline the suddenness of his death. He had traveled to Rome for the World Meeting of Popular Movements, a setting that matched his long push for workers’ rights and immigrant dignity. Somewhere along the way, he fell ill. As the trip continued, his condition worsened but remained untreated until he returned to the United States. Diabetes, which had gone undiagnosed, led to a stomach perforation that proved fatal upon his return to Iowa City. His family and friends, stunned by how quickly events unfolded, said the timing felt especially cruel for a priest who had spent that very week in the company of global activists who shared his values.

Across Iowa, the mourning blended personal memories with public tributes. Parishioners in Columbus Junction and West Liberty described a pastor who blessed babies in grocery store aisles and coached teenagers on college essays. Volunteers at Escucha Mi Voz Iowa recalled late-night strategy calls and early-morning rides to check on a family after an arrest. In Cedar Rapids, attorneys and advocates who saw him regularly on immigration hearing days said he brought order to chaos, collecting documents, making introductions, and calming parents who did not know what would happen next. Even those who disagreed with his tactics acknowledged his stamina and the way he kept returning to the same hard cases until there was an answer.

His reach also came from an unusual blend of seriousness and humor. He was a fan of professional wrestling and sometimes went to events in his liturgical vestments, posing with wrestlers and chatting with fans who recognized him from local news. On a trip to London, he crossed paths with the wrestler MJF, who later posted a line that captured Treviño’s knack for laughing at himself: “Father Treviño, thank God you’re a priest, because if you weren’t, your sex life would be exactly the same”. Friends said moments like that made him more approachable to young people who might otherwise avoid a priest in a collar; he used the laughter to start conversations that led to confession, mentorship, or simply a ride home.

Those who worked closely with him emphasized that the public moments—protests, press interviews, awards—rested on private routines that built trust. He showed up at hospital rooms unannounced and learned the names of children who sat quietly at adult meetings. When arrests swept through small towns, he brought food to kitchens with empty cupboards and found spare mattresses for relatives who arrived to help. His fluency in both Spanish and English meant he could switch tone and tempo as needed—advocacy with a judge in the morning, catechism with fourth-graders after school, testimony at a city council meeting by evening.

The circumstances of his death have prompted urgent conversations in his community about undiagnosed diabetes, especially among people who avoid doctors due to cost, fear, or lack of time. Family members said he had not been treated while in Europe and that the seriousness became clear only after he returned to Iowa the day before he died. Health workers who knew him said they hoped the tragedy would encourage more people to seek testing for symptoms that can be mistaken for stress or travel fatigue. In immigrant circles, where jobs are long and insurance can be spotty, the story landed as a warning about a disease that too often stays hidden until it is too late.

Funeral arrangements were still pending as of November 2, 2025, as parish leaders coordinated with his family and the Diocese of Davenport on services that could accommodate mourners from across the state. Pastors in nearby towns said they were preparing memorial prayers and planning buses so parishioners without cars could attend. Escucha Mi Voz Iowa volunteers began collecting stories and photos for a vigil, hoping to capture the full span of his life—altar, sidewalk, and everything in between.

Treviño’s colleagues say his absence will leave a real gap in daily advocacy. He was often the person people called first when an arrest happened at dawn or a letter from immigration authorities arrived without warning. He knew how to read the paperwork, who to phone, and when to simply pray with a family that had run out of options. That mix of practical help and pastoral care was what made him, as one friend put it,

“not the stereotypical Catholic priest,”
a phrase that kept coming up in tributes as people tried to explain what set him apart.

What remains, they say, are the communities he helped knit together and the systems he pushed to work more fairly. In towns like Columbus Junction and West Liberty, where the parish halls double as community centers, people will remember a priest who showed up and stayed late, who brought a national conversation about immigration into local rooms where decisions are felt most. In court corridors in Cedar Rapids, they will remember a familiar figure pacing with a phone, jotting names on scrap paper, and ushering nervous families into empty benches. And in the broader conversation, from Georgetown University panels to the World Meeting of Popular Movements, they will remember Guillermo Treviño as a voice who insisted that policy be measured by what it does to real people, in real time, with names that mattered to him.

For now, those closest to him are taking stock of what he built and how to carry it forward. The diocese has asked the faithful to pray for his family and parishioners as they prepare to lay him to rest. They will do so knowing that the same conviction that took him to Rome also drove him home again, back to Iowa, where he spent his brief life standing beside the people he served.