Facebook and the Value of Light

Is it just me, or is Facebook evolving?

Not too long ago, when we were Facebook neophytes, stuff just seemed to roll out of our heads and onto the keyboard with little discretion. These days, we're a little more reserved. We edit more. We are craftier with our expression.

As I write this, the trending topic is Syrian refugees. Last week it was Starbucks cups; apparently as pressing an issue as Syrian refugees when you consider the amount of attention given to the topic. Because everything is an issue. Each issue seems to be steps away from impending doom, or one click-bait away from a link.

Everyone is posting their viewpoint, expressed by others, through articles or memes. On rare occasion someone will post their own thought. That's not a slam against the latter by the way. We all learned in our Facebook adolescence how quickly we can be ostracized on social media for expressing what we think; death by shaming. Now we are older, angrier and savvier. These days we see fewer comments on posts by others. To comment on someone's post is to risk sounding stupid. Because let's be honest.. it's really all about that. It's not that people won't understand you because you are so brilliant, sensitive, self-aware, enlightened, angry, etc.... We just don't want to be rejected for sounding stupid or naive.

So, we counter-post instead. We find a smarter way of expressing our opinion (the right one). Maybe it's in the form of a thoughtful article; perhaps in Q&A form... y'know... for the slower among us who need bullet points. Or, we decide to hit hard and fast with a meme. No need to verify the veracity of the statement. It doesn't matter if it's factual, as long as it sends a hearty "f-you!" to the offending friend; the one who also just posted a picture of her dog, which you promptly "liked".

We aren't pausing.

We don't pause to reflect. We can't because it sucks to do so. A lot of time and energy has been spent in cropping and editing our Facebook persona. Who wants to look at the reflection of their real self? Why the hell would I want to stop and consider where I am, who I am and how I got here? I already know! It's all there under "About" in my profile!

We don't pause to think. We can't because we are too busy keeping our positions (and defenses) secure. I don't need to look into this any further than what fits my paradigm.

We don't consider sources. All social media bows at the altar of confirmation bias,because confirmation bias sells ads. The greatest victims of confirmation bias seem to be those who tend towards accusing others of the same. We all scoff at books, scholarly thought, and sage wisdom. The history (and historicity) of any ideology can be decimated in a 3 minute video clip posted by a 28 year old, using "facts" he found by Googling Jesus+fraud+Mithra. No need to dig further. The internet said it and Trevor Vodcast it over french fries and a Red Bull, I believe it, that settles it. Bias confirmed like old-time evangelicalism.

We are confirmed in our bias, and the internet will gladly affirm and feed our raging desire to be justified. We are so easily fooled, and so quickly lost.

And, this is not a modern problem. It turns out we haven't evolved, and we aren't any smarter (or any dumber) than our predecessors.

My "Wall"

In his collection of essays called, "Heretics" published in 1905, Chesterton, prophetically, said:

"SUPPOSE that a great commotion arises in the street about something, let us say a lamp-post, which many influential persons desire to pull down. A grey-clad monk, who is the spirit of the Middle Ages, is approached upon the matter, and begins to say, in the arid manner of the Schoolmen, "Let us first of all consider, my brethren, the value of Light. If Light be in itself good—" At this point he is somewhat excusably knocked down. All the people make a rush for the lamp-post, the lamp-post is down in ten minutes, and they go about congratulating each other on their unmedieval practicality. But as things go on they do not work out so easily. Some people have pulled the lamp-post down because they wanted the electric light; some because they wanted old iron; some because they wanted darkness, because their deeds were evil. Some thought it not enough of a lamp-post, some too much; some acted because they wanted to smash municipal machinery; some because they wanted to smash something. And there is war in the night, no man knowing whom he strikes. So, gradually and inevitably, today, tomorrow, or the next day, there comes back the conviction that the monk was right after all, and that all depends on what is the philosophy of Light. Only what we might have discussed under the gas-lamp, we now must discuss in the dark."

So then, what is the value of light?

Can we pause? Are we capable of doing the really hard work of reflecting?  Would it hurt us to do some homework; to extend the breadth of our knowledge base a bit and consider sources and, dare I say it, opposing views? I hope so. Otherwise, what we might have discussed in the light, we will continue to discuss in the dark, on Facebook.

Thoughts on God and Mission

When I was a boy, one of my aunts – everyone called her Tia Gude -- arrived at Miami International Airport.  I don’t remember when, but I remember the day because anytime someone arrives here from Cuba, or for that matter in Cuba from here, you can bet it’s going to be an arrival filled with emotion.  I've always been thankful that I was able to experience that arrival of Tia Gude so many years ago, because it left a lasting impression on me.  In those days arrivals were less frequent (not that they are all that common now), and even as a child I could sense the intensity of the moment; I feel it now like it just happened yesterday.

Today, another aunt arrives from Cuba.  This time, it’s my Tia Mercedes.  I first met her through black and white photos as a child… “Who is that Mami?” I would ask my mother. “That is your father’s cousin, a very sweet girl.  Your father and I spent a lot of time with her.  We loved her very much.”

The Cuban revolution had caused a rift in my family, as it did with every other family when it came upon the island.  In our family, the side that felt this rift the hardest was my father’s.  The majority of his family was pro-revolution.  As the new system took hold, my father became more isolated from the people he loved; his cousins, uncles, aunts.  While my mother’s family, for the most part, was of the mind that the revolution was not good for Cuba, my father watched as he drifted away from the passion his family held for the new regime.

Mercedita was an adolescent child when the revolution came to Havana.  All I knew about her were photos; images of her playing in a river, standing near a palm tree, always with family.  Looking at those photos over and over again as I grew up, I would progressively learn new things about them.  First, I learned my father took all the photos and developed them in his homemade darkroom.  He complained a lot about the cheap Russian paper he had to use to develop the photos.  I also learned he had added color to some of hte pictures himself.  They were beautiful pastels.  Growing up, I looked at the old photos from Cuba so much, I soon memorized them.  The collective memories of my parents and grandparents stored in these images became part of my own memory, though strangely, of a place I had never been.

And there was this girl, Mercedita.  So pretty; so vibrant and expectant.  But to ask about her seemed to bring pain to my mother’s eyes.  Over the years I learned that questions about family in Cuba should only be asked on rare occasions.  The pain was always palpable when the subject was raised.  Answers were always preceded with a heavy sigh and a downcast look.

So it’s no wonder that I didn't really know who Mercedita was until I visited Cuba in 2011 and met her myself.

Our church has planned 3 trips to Cuba.  I went on the first trip in 2009, and the last trip in 2011. We called these “missions trips” or “mission of reconciliation”.  Some in the United States government and humanitarian groups were thinking about reconciliation as well, because we later learned they were using the term too.  But for us, this wasn't about politics, ideology, or warm-fuzzies.  For us, this was all about the Gospel and a wound in the Cuban psyche that runs deep.

I visited Mercedita in tenement housing built by the Cuban government after the revolution; Russian designed buildings that make the island paradise look like Chernobyl.  We ate lunch together, cried and laughed.  She showed me photos of my family as I held her beautiful blue-eyed great-grandson in my arms.  She cried as she remembered the day she discovered my father and mother had left… “Why did he leave?  Why is he gone? Donde esta mi primito? Where is my cousin?”  She tells me it was one of the hardest days in her life.  The family had fallen apart.  There was a time when the family was always together.  For her, this ended when my father left.  The final tear in the fabric of the family.  In her words and the words of other family on the island, the family was never the same again.

Sitting there with my tia, neither of us spoke of politics.  Neither of us placed blame.  I was with the little girl from the photos, now in her 60’s.  She was with someone who looked like and was named after one of the people she loved most.  Nothing mattered at that moment. A bridge was being built.

Today, that little girl in the pastel colored photos arrives in Miami.  She and my father will see each other again.  My mother will see the girl she loved so dearly again.  Over 50 years have passed.  This is a big moment.

In American Christianity, we like things big and in HD-1080p. Give me the numbers… how many people were in attendance at church today?  How many responded to the altar call?  Was the pastor’s servant relevant?  Did the worship "connect" (as if worship exists to connect with us)?

On  mission's trips… did you guys take the guitar; enough Bibles?  How many classes did you teach?   Did you build a church or school?

Everything must be quantified.  Everything must be big.  To show effectiveness, you must be prepared to show us the video (with the obligatory Casting Crowns song playing in the background) and we better see a lot of people, preferably listening intently to a pastor or better yet, holding hands in prayer.  Oh and tears… lots of tears.  Then it was effective.

I went as a missionary to Cuba.  My mission was my family.  My tools were a heart willing to put ideology aside, and a bag full of food and clothing to give away.  I met several family members.  On occasion I was asked why I was there.  I would answer (shyly, I don’t speak in HD), “because Christ has made my heart new”.

Here in Miami, people wondered what we were doing.  For that matter, we wondered what we were doing. It couldn't be described, because it was personal to each of us.  It had too many variables to consider.  Still, it was clear God wanted me to go. But even while on the island, I struggled with what I was there for.

I drank beer.  I smoked cigars.  The rum was acceptable.  The black beans were tasty. This was a funny looking mission's trip.  Lot's of talking and listening.  Lot's of time doing nothing really.  Oh... I did spend about 30 minutes inside a church building; there was that.

But I sat with my aunt in her small apartment.  It was hot and humid.  Through the window I could see more tenement structures, piles of garbage, clothing drying on lines stretched between buildings.  The apartment was cramped; I was amazed how they fit 3 bedrooms into such a small space.  

But there in that space, the tears flowed and the embraces were powerful.  I knew at that moment that she was the mission.

Today, my aunt comes from Cuba to Miami.  She’s not coming because my church, Granada Presbyterian, organized a mission’s trip. To be honest, I was pretty lame with my gospel presentation to her.  I didn't convince her to come, and her leaving Cuba isn't the point.  But I did show her love, and she loved me too.  God was working between us in that moment, and I believe God has designed this moment.  He is an artist with timing and with hearts, and places each brush stroke exactly where it needs to be.  His pastels are amazing.  Sometimes He does things big.  Most of the time, I believe he does things small.

One person will be arriving on a plane today from Cuba.  She will embrace her daughter and family.  My father will see his little cousin again.  My mother will look into her eyes and see that little girl she had not seen in over 50 years, and memories beautiful and painful will rush in.  That will be a moment no HD video can quite capture.  It will be a moment no words will effectively describe. 

God moves outside our expectations.  He is not manipulated by our plans.  He works despite our arrogance, and through our humility and openness. 

I’m okay with not knowing what God is up to with me, with Cuba, and with the rest of the world.   Mercedita and my parents will be reunited today after more than 50 years.  God was putting things in place long before I even planned on visiting Cuba.  Today, I am in awe of how He loves us in this broken world.

Cigars, Rum and Grace.   I was thinking today what a ridiculous title that is for a blog.  But I’m okay with being ridiculous.

Identidad

Papi and Mami enjoying a beautiful day in Cuba.

I'm no missionary.  I'm more of a cussing, drinking and smoking kind of guy who loves Jesus desperately... sometimes.  

And Cuba is one of the most spectacular places on earth.  There. I said it.

As a boy I heard stories of mountains I imagined climbing, caves with ancient Ciboney (Caribbean indigenous peoples) carvings waiting to be explored by adventurous boys, beautiful lakes, rivers and springs for fishing and swimming, the majestic city of Havana with an unrivaled rich colonial history, the expansive blue beaches of Varadero. When Columbus landed on the island of Cuba, it is said he declared it was the most beautiful land human eyes had ever set eyes upon.

Almost 500 years following the Columbus landing, I was born in Miami, at sea level, next to a swamp... and we have a lighthouse built in the 1800's.  So yeah, I've carried some bitterness over that. Sue me.  I can understand why my father and mother never imagined a life outside of their island paradise.  Cuba is just that amazing.

Among the many memories my parents passed down to me surrounded their life growing up in an Evangelical Christian community.  Their experiences attending Wesley Methodist School and Church in Santiago de las Vegas, Havana Province, made up some of the richest stories about life in their little town.  When they arrived in the United States, grateful to their God for bringing them to a country where they could live in freedom and worship Him without fear of persecution, they also made sure to pass on their faith to their children (I have posted previously about this legacy in this blog).

So I grew up attending church in Miami.  My parents left the Methodist tradition and embraced the Presbyterian church.  Not just any church though; this was a Cuban church, make no mistake (pa' que lo sepan). While most of my Cuban-American friends attended Catholic mass with pretty much every other Cuban in Miami, I attended a Presbyterian church with Cuban grandmothers dispensing enough hugs, kisses, and candy from their purses to make any kid feel at home.  Being part of this church meant I received a weekly dose of Calvinist reformed theology, with a shot of Cuban coffee after each service.  Everything happened in Spanish.  Potlucks included rice and beans and lechon.  Traditional hymns were accompanied (on occasion) with bongos, clave, guitar and guiro.

Over the years, my identity has become cemented in these two truths.  First, I am a Christian.  Second, I have a passion for the homeland of my parents.  As a Christian, I am at a place in my life where it's not about attending church, being pro-life and voting Republican.  I identify more closely to my faith in Jesus Christ than with anything else. My faith is the lens through which I see everything; my wife, my children, my world.  There is no distinction; a church life and regular life. My faith defines my life.  I believe that calling yourself a Christian means something, and that it dramatically changes how you see, hear, and interact with everything around you. But if we don't allow the message of the Gospel to penetrate our hearts daily, it will always seem like just a nice idea for people and cultures to ascribe to.  We will reduce what Schaeffer called "...the greatest intellectual system the mind of man has ever touched" into a nice idea to pass along to the kids.  


Those are big words, and they create a problem; or better said, a tension. God is a ferocious pursuer of men; He does not relent. Among other things, he would not relent with me about Cuba.  I needed to go.  There is work for me to do there.  It's difficult to identify what that work is exactly.  It's one of those things that you can't easily define or put your head around because there are too many variables.  So in 2011, I would go again.  I had to; there was no choice in the matter.  I would go despite all the fear and trepidation that goes with being a first generation Cuban-American going to Cuba, whose parents had fled the island in fear some 50 years prior.  Therein lies the tension.

While everyone around me is speculating and guessing as to why I have gone and wish to continue to go to Cuba, I can honestly say that I haven't figured it out yet.  What do I know about being a missionary?  Nothing.

My father, Roberto Perez and I discussing my trip to Cuba over lunch.

What I do know is my parents started their faith journey in a tiny church in Santiago de las Vegas. This little church would be the next step -- a baby step -- in my journey with Cuba.  To help me connect with the old church, my father put me in touch with a family friend, Pastor Roberto Perez.  I met with Roberto and he asked me, "Why do you want to visit the old church?"  I responded enthusiastically, "I want to share with the people there the story of the impact that church made on my life, and how my parents passed that legacy on to me."  Roberto looked at me and said  "Okay.  I can get you in touch with someone.  She still lives there and she knew your parents.  I have to send an email to someone else in that town who has access to the internet, in order to get a message to her though, so it may take a while. I'll see what I can do."

So the second trip to Cuba began with plans to visit, pilgrimage style, the church where my parents were married and started their life together.

At the time, this seemed like a good idea.

The Background Story

Santiago de las Vegas is a small colonial town on the outskirts of the capitol. It was established on May 3, 1749.  The old cathedral in the town square was built in 1694.  We don't know exactly how far back our family lived in that town, but we do know our time there and in the neighboring town Bejucal goes back as far as the early 1800's, and possibly earlier.

On December 24, 1962, my parents, my sister, grandparents and several family members left on a ship called the African Pilot, after an agreement reached between the U.S. government and Castro.  1,113 prisoners, brave men captured after the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion were released, my uncle Jose Peruyero included.  They arrived at Port Everglades in Ft. Lauderdale, FL.  It's reported that over 1,000 of the prisoner's family members left Cuba on or around that Christmas Eve.

My grandmother embracing my uncle; a tearful reunion for a Pedro Pan family.

My dad says the night he left, everything moved fast.  Some goon came to his door and told my parents to step outside the house.  They were to take only a change of clothes.  My mom packed a bag, the door was locked and police tape was put up to block re-entry.  Later that evening my grandfather Tuti (aka Tito) jumped the backyard fence, broke in and took some extra clothes for my sister, then just barely a toddler.

That night they headed to the African Pilot, never to return to Santiago de las Vegas.  The town my dad knew since childhood.  The place where my parents met and later fell in love.  The place my family called home. 

59 years pass.  Time goes by and places once known by heart are forgotten.  Names of friends; gone.  The colors of buildings, faces, facades and shop signs, many lost from memory.  There are still some good memories, but mostly the painful ones overshadow.  Tears, anger, rage, regret.  Too many horrible memories of betrayal, loss, fear and terror.  My parents always told me, "We will never go back."

Then I decide to go.

It's hard for my parents to swallow.  The memories come in again on them in a flood.  Mami cries, get's angry.  Papi just stares and thinks.  This goes on for weeks.  Then the moment of truth...

"Give me a pen and paper.  I want to show you where we all lived."

Mami draws out a partial map of Santiago de las Vegas.  Suddenly, the streets and places come into focus.  She can still see the houses as they were.  She draws a little box.  "That's Wesley Methodist Church.  It's probably a disaster now, but...".  Another box.  "This is where I lived.  I've seen pictures and they put this horrendous addition on the roof.  It's ugly and it wasn't there when I lived there." Another box is drawn on the other side of the street. "Aqui vivia tu papa...".  Your father lived here right across the street from me. "This house is where the Balido's lived, and this is where Rose Bagley lived..."  Another box.  "I lived in this house when our family first moved to Santiago.  It had beautiful columns in front..."  Another box.  "Aqui estaba el mercado del Chino, donde tu papa compraba su chicle". This is where the Chinese grocer had his market; where your father would buy his gum.  


Within ten minutes, my mother has written out a map of all the places that mattered to my parents in Santiago de las Vegas.  It rises from a place deep in her heart, where all the really great memories are kept safe.

Then the warnings.  "Be careful who you talk to.  Be careful what you say.  Don't trust anyone."  I say "Yes Mami..." The fear is still palpable, and I can see her in my imagination standing in front of a door sealed with tape, standing next to a man with a shotgun.  I give her a kiss and I leave.

My mother's home at the far left... with the ugly addition on the roof. 

These homes are from Cuba's colonial period.

El Willy

I spent my first 2 days in Cuba with my good friend Don.  We stayed in a "casa particular". These are homes throughout Cuba where the residents are allowed to have rooms-to-let.  I would explain how this system works, but frankly I just want to show the Willy video, and this topic gives me a headache.  Like the tax code in America, pretty much everything the government does in Cuba leaves you going... "huh?".

Our ride was a 1942 Willy. Roy is a local and he gave us a ride.  He was cheaper than paying a taxi, which was fine with us since we knew it was helping his personal economy.  Roy and his dad rebuilt 2 Willys in their front yard (amazing).  It was great hearing Roy talk about his dad and how they worked on the jeep together.

We had a blast riding around in that Willy.  You can see the jeep in action by clicking on the link below.  The town we are riding through is called Fontanar, just outside the capitol.  My dad tells me this was a new development in the 1950's and my Tio Alberto owned a few lots to build before they were taken away by the regime.

Our journey in Cuba was underway.  On this Sunday, I was off to attend a church service at the same church my parents went to youth group, attended school, and were later married more than 50 years ago.  I would be the first of my family to step in this church since my parents left in 1962.

Please note the 2 liter bottle of gas sitting between me and the driver, and the towel he's using to wipe away... spilled gas.  The 2 liter bottle is a homemade gas gauge.

The Broken Island

I visited Cuba for the first time in 2009, and it was an amazing trip. It was exciting, terrifying, saddening and hopeful all at the same time.  I look back on that trip as one of the pivotal points in my life.  I wrote a little about it, not being able to put too much into words that would accurately express what I felt in that first Cuba experience.

In 2011, I took my second trip.  Things are a bit clearer after that trip.  In 2011, my experience was real; the romanticism was stripped away.  The first trip was a vacation of sorts; a magical week of seeing the world I may have been born in under different circumstances.  The second trip was going to be the completion of the first; a time to finish the experience of Santiago de las Vegas, La Habana, and all those places my family passed on to me via memory and nostalgia.

In the second trip, I was intentional going in.  I was intent on telling more people about Jesus; this was after all, a missions trip.  I was intent on giving of my time to listen, to love and to be with those people I came into contact with.  And in the end, I was able to do all this, but it was difficult.  It was difficult because Cuba is a hard place physically, mentally and spiritually.  It was also difficult as it exposed things about me; those ugly things that dwell inside us we would rather not look at.

I snapped this photo my first night in La Habana.  This is El Capitolio, the Capitol Building.  For years this building sat in darkness, as the leaders sought to conceal and erase the grandeur of the city's past.  Now the tourist dollars demand lighting.  The consumer cries out for a view of this once great city, and the irony is missed by the ideologue tourists walking it's streets.  The statue designed in the 1920's by Italian sculptor Angelo Zanelli casts it's shadow majestically on the marble wall.  For a moment it takes your breath away; especially at night when you can't see the destruction just across the street from El Capitolio, where underwear from Miami hangs from the balconies of decaying buildings once used as offices and residences for men of commerce and law.

Havana is a city living in the shadow of it's great past.  And as I walked down it's majestic old streets, I realized why it's leaders let it decay the way they did; why they hid it for so long in the darkness as if hoping people would simply ignore this city, once and still considered one of the most beautiful in the world.  As long as the city casts it's shadow, it reminds everyone that somewhere in time, a huge mistake was made.  Something beautiful was lost.  A city was broken, and the people broken along with it.

Over the next few posts I will create a journal of my 2011 Cuba experience.  I want to be honest as I write, so I will most assuredly piss off a lot of people.  I'm okay with that.  It has been my experience lately that honesty is progress.  It helps us progress past our own collective bullshit.

I'm not looking to be overly poetic.  I have no idealism left for this place either; it is simply broken.  I do, however, have hope.  There is a story to tell here, and a lot of good stories start at a broken place.  So I hope this is a good story.  The story hasn't ended, so this is a work in progress.  In writing this down I also hope to find, in the end, redemption.

Cuba

In the days leading up to my next trip, some time to reflect is in order.  

We have 1 goal with this trip... to build friendships with those God puts in our paths and to share the truth of the gospel with them.  I hope I can give a reason for the hope that lies within me; the hope that this world of politics, cash, materialism, one-upmanship,  communism, capitalism, liberalism, conservatism and religion is not all there is. There is more to this broken world, and it has nothing to do with me and my happiness.  It has everything to do with Christ and his finished work of redemption.

I reflected today on Spurgeon's Morning and Evening. "He who blesses others cannot fail to be blessed himself. On the other hand, to seek our own personal greatness is a wicked and unhappy plan of life, its way will be grievous and its end will be fatal."

Specifically, I pray today that I can take my focus off my own "personal greatness" by thinking I can make a difference.  I can't make a difference.  Only Christ can as we make ourselves available to accept his grace and love... isn't that crazy?  Yet, it's the only thing that makes sense, if I'm being honest. If I'm lying to myself about who I am... yeah it's crazy because of course, I can make a difference because I'm a "good person".  I really pray this week and going into next week when I'm in Havana, that I will be able to strip myself every minute of the "good person" label.  

No Reservations - Cuba, Reflections from a Cuban American

What it's all about... Family. Here cousins meeting for the first time in Santiago de las Vegas

Okay. So right off the bat, kudos to Bourdain for being one of the first shows EVER about Cuba where the embargo wasn't mentioned even once.

I watched the episode tonight with a group of friends. In the room, 2 other guys who went with me on our 2009 trip. I liked the episode. I liked it, because I love this show and I love Cuba. I thought Bourdain handled it with a lot of class. I believed him when he said those wonderful things about the Cuban people, and once again as always, he has proven himself to be a pretty honest guy. My hats off to Anthony from this Cuban-American for a job well done.

I met with my buddies on the back porch for some cigars following the show. Among the group were 3 Cuban-Americans including myself, and 3 Gringos. As we puffed on our Nicaraguan and Dominican cigars, drank Chilean beer and Australian Port (yes... Australian), we thought about what we had just seen. The baseball. The restaurants. The cars. The baseball. The buildings. The baseball.

And we all concluded the same thing. The show didn't tell us much about Cuba. It was like "the baseball episode" or something. Something was missing, or better said, some things were allowed to be shown while others weren't. But that's the way Cuba is, and it's definitely not a reflection on the guys bringing us No Reservations. Even when you go, when you are right there on the island smelling the air and walking around Havana, there is a cloud that obfuscates everything. That's the way it is. You only see what you are allowed to see. You only do what you are allowed to do. And (I believe) if you are filming for international television, you only speak with those you are allowed to speak with.

This is the point where some naysayers would scoff and say "It's not like that. Cuba has changed and it never really was that bad anyway."

Well, they are wrong. I was there. I was there in 2009 from the outside looking in. I can tell you with no reservations (yeah I said it) that it is indeed that way. If it was like that for a ragtag church group trying to do missions work, I can't imagine how it would be for a high profile TV show. There is only so much you can do in Cuba. I'm sure there is only so much you can film in Cuba.

Understanding this, I look back on the No Reservations Cuba episode and I'm satisfied knowing that it's the best one can do considering the circumstances there. I'm also thankful that this kind of exposure was given, and that Anthony handled it with as much compassion as one can when writing a show from an oppressed country. The exposure he gave was this... the current regime isn't fooling anyone anymore. And he asked questions that frankly, I think took some cojones to ask. Could he have asked harder questions? Maybe. But you ask those when the Khmer Rouge has vacated the premises, not when they're still there or may still be lingering about. It's not safe.

Best line in the episode for me was while at the baseball game... the one about "the brutal dicatorship" not allowing beer to be served at the games... that was classic.

But I digress. There's also the other side; the ones who believe Bourdain should not have gone to Cuba, should not have eaten in restaurants, should not have done this episode. I respect their opinions. I respect it, because as Bourdain noted there are a lot of feelings surrounding Cuba. It's hard for people like my parents to look at something like this and feel okay with it. It's not okay, because again, something happened in 1959 that resulted in them having to leave the country they loved. For many, there is nothing Anthony Bourdain could have done that would have made this episode right, except not to do it. I agree with this group, and I respect that view as I respect and love my parents.

At the same time, I respect Bourdain for being respectful of these sentiments. You will never do it "right", you can only do it as best you can, and I believe he did. I understand Bourdain's desire to go to Cuba even more than he does, because my parents have lived and continue to live Cuba for me since childhood. Some choose not to go. I had to go. Not for the buildings and the cars of course, but for roots. To fill the void of a place that existed only in my head. Thankfully, I went to Cuba and found that the Cuba I loved had already been given to me by my parents. I'm eternally grateful to them for that.

I could say a lot more but I won't.

So again, this Cuban-American will not be black-listing No Reservations, and I will continue to record each episode on my DVR in an expression of solidarity with Mr. Bourdain. Actually, let me not make THAT big a deal out of it... IT'S JUST A TV SHOW. I'll keep recording it because I like it a lot.

And yes, that 7 year rum is that good.

Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, Cuba - In Anticipation

No Reservations is, without question, my favorite TV show. It's the only show I will make sure I don't miss at first-run. Bourdain is cool, he's smart, and he loves pork. You can't beat that. And any self-proclaimed leftist secure enough in his ideology to hang out with Ted Nugent is okay by me.

This is not a political post. True that in this photo I'm standing in front of El Capitolio, the former Capitol building of Cuba. But remember, this building is now occupied by pigeons and bats and is not used as a governmental facility, so no this is not a political post.

I'm really looking forward to seeing this episode of No Reservations. But like every Cuban-American who cares about this stuff, I'm wondering what we will see. What will Bourdain say? What position, if any, will he take?

I will be watching it and filtering it through my own perspective. That of a Cuban-American son, raised in the exile community of Miami, who has visited Cuba himself.

I plan on posting again once I have seen the episode. So as you read this and forthcoming, here are some things you need to know.

I was born in the USA of Cuban parents who left the island in the early 60's.

No, my parents weren't rich land-owners.

Yes, both my parents went to private school but it was affordable and both my grandfathers worked hard to make it happen.

No, my parents did not live in an expansive villa. Both grew up in the equivalent of row-house apartments on the main drag of a colonial town just outside of Havana.

One grandfather was a rough-carpenter. The other was a military man. My dad worked for H.Upman Cigars in Havana. He loved his job.

My mom became a Christian at a retreat put on by a Baptist church. Both my parents met in their small Methodist private school.

My dad lifted weights with his cousin in the kitchen of his house. It was a small kitchen, but the house was small too, so there wasn't room anywhere else to put a bench and lift weights, so they used the kitchen. As they drank a soft-drink called Malta mixed with condensed milk to bulk up, my grandmother put up with their workout regimen. They were regular kids.

My sister was born in a small row-house as well. My dad had one goal in mind; make enough money to put my sister in the same Methodist school he went to. A Christian education was important for my parents.

My family was not wealthy, they weren't very educated, and they were happy. Think Irish-American family in a Boston suburb with a Chevy Nova, a dog and Catholic Mass twice a year. That was my family, except Episcopalian/Methodist with a dog named "Negrita".

Hopefully, you get the picture. I come from a long line of blue-collar workers trying to make a living. They weren't rich, but if you asked them, they had it all.

Why write all this? Well, there's a myth that's been going around for years that all those folks who left Cuba in the early days of the revolution were rich and greedy. A good-riddance type of attitude surrounds that myth. This is simply not true. I mean, it's true that a lot of wealthy people did leave Cuba. After all, there was a lot of wealth in Cuba before the revolution. Some of it was ill-gotten of course. But there were a lot of good families who made their own way, and made a way for other people; people like my family. And I just don't have the right to lump everyone together as "greedy" and corrupt. I've known some of these families here in the States. They are good hard-working people, and have proven this by recreating a good life for their families here.

And my father and mother found themselves leaving Cuba along with them. I asked my dad once, "So, why did you leave Cuba?" He answered, "My cousin asked me the same question, before I left. I asked him 'Nelson, if I stay here, can I keep working at my job, put my daughter in the school of my choosing, can I go to church on Sundays, and can I come home at the end of the day and not have other people interfere in my life?' His answer was no. So I said, 'Then I can't stay here.'"

Cuba always raises interesting opinions for those who really do care about Cuba, or pseudo-intellectuals. On one side are many who marvel at how great the revolution was. Most of these people live in freedom, ironically enough, and their idea of oppression is not being able to get a doppio espresso from a cafe that isn't Starbucks. On the other side you have those who lived to run from the revolution, or were burned by it. Everyone who cares has an opinion one way or the other, and it seems every opinion has a shred of truth to it.

When it comes to Cubans in exile though, truth is in the experience. Perception is reality. They lived it, and in Miami, you can still feel the tension in the air when certain names are mentioned; when memories are brought up. Memories of pain, of separation, of shame. It's a lot to take in, especially when a Cuban stops talking (a feat in and of itself) and you get a glimpse of the eyes. Take a long hard look into those eyes. If you do, all your opinions, all your pontificating stops. There is a sadness there that tells you something horrible happened, and you need to just shut up. Something went wrong in 1959. Things changed and not everyone was happy about it. Things changed and many good people just trying to make a living and provide for their families suffered. Some were imprisoned. Many were tortured or executed. Things changed and many people, like my parents, who never imagined they would live anywhere other than Cuba, had no choice but to leave.

The Che T-Shirts lose their appeal when you look into the eyes of someone who was there.

I saw the same eyes in an episode of No Reservations last season, when Bourdain went to Cambodia. A few noble women shared their stories of the horrors experienced by the Cambodian people at the hands of the Khmer Rouge. The stories sounded similar to those suffered historically by so many great nations and cultures. It was painful to watch. In the end though, I was glad Bourdain took that approach and let their story be told. You need to hear the whole story, and I think he did an incredible job with that episode.

For Cuba, the story is just as complex. What I mean is, you can't go to Cuba and think you are getting the whole story. I don't think you can come to Miami and get the whole story either.

What do I hope I'll see in this episode? I hope I see a portrayal of Cuba as it is today; that's it. I don't need to see how bad it is, or how good it is. Just show me what's there.

I hope we don't see Bourdain drooling at stories of how great the revolution was for Cuba.

I hope Bourdain is smart enough to see through the propaganda.

I'm hoping I'll see real people, not just the Cuban elite and wealthy... all 10 of them.

I'm hoping I'll see some interviews with dissidents.

If he eats at someones home, I'm hoping I'll hear how long it took that family to come up with the food to prepare that meal and how many resources they had to pull together. I'm also hoping I won't hear a reference to "the embargo" being the reason why that family struggles. If I hear that, I think my head will explode. That argument is so old, not a single Cuban I spoke with in Cuba would agree with it.

I can always hope. In all this stuff I mean... not that my head will explode. I hope that Bourdain will treat the Cuba story with the same respect he gave the Cambodia story.

Johnny Walker and King James

This is an email I sent to some men from our church. Twice a month, we get together for The Eagle & Child Men's Forum, where we attempt to have substantive conversation over food, drink and cigars. We've been meeting for 2 years now, and as the group has grown we've had some guys raise questions over Christians and alcohol consumption. I sent this email to the men, and I got some good feedback so I'm posting it here now:

Since starting the Eagle & Child Men’s Forum 2 years ago, I have never really addressed the issue of Christians and drinking. The main reason for not touching on this subject is that I personally feel this is one of MANY issues that cloud deeper issues of the heart.

You can easily spend hours talking about alcohol – everything from why it is a sin, why it is not sin, why we should or shouldn’t drink, why Joe-Christian really isn’t a believer because he had a beer, why Dude-Alcoholic needs to get a grip, all the way down to what is your favorite drink, the best beer, wine, vodka, etc.... People on all sides get angry, tempers flare, fights ensue and the next thing you know everyone really DOES need a drink; y’know… to take the edge off. Hours are spent “tackling” the issue of alcohol.

The pious man goes home feeling really good about himself.

The agnostic goes home feeling he clarified his lack of commitment to either side, because he just doesn’t know.

The “casual” drinker feels he defended his right to have a drink well, and goes home for a nightcap; oblivious to his own addiction.

The alcoholic quietly leaves, distraught over the fact that once again, nobody really understands his pain and prison.

The latter is the one I am most concerned with here. If you’re the pious man, you have bigger fish to fry and we can’t really help you until you start getting over how great you are.

Because we are a “church” group (whatever that means) in the eyes of some, and because our group is growing, I feel clarification is in order.

I believe some men use alcohol in much the same way other men use the Bible.

I believe men can hide behind a glass of Scotch the way other men can hide behind a King James. Both can be used to self-medicate; one with a buzz, the other with self-righteousness. Both can also be used to mask the real issues of the heart that go unaddressed for a lifetime. Some men live their lives to a ripe old age, hiding behind career, sex, church, religion, intellect, X-Box, theology, unbelief, empire-building, laziness, food, TV… whatever, always avoiding self-examination. They never face their real issues as real men should, preferring to hide behind their excuses and self-loathing; making sure the world is always revolving around them, and also at a safe distance.

The man who has identified himself as an alcoholic instantly has my respect and admiration because he has begun his journey of self-examination; a journey of honesty and grace. It’s a journey that I’m on in fact, recovering from a life of addiction to self-absorption, lust and pride, and a life of hiding behind all kinds of different things. I still have a long way to go.

The quote that defines the Eagle & Child Men’s Forum from G.K. Chesterton reads “Because we are imperfect, we need friendships to fill up the imperfections”. Whatever path you are on, please know that Eagle & Child is a place to come and be yourself. Eagle and Child is not a place for drinking and smoking. However, we do drink and smoke… and eat sausage, chips… sometimes sliders and nachos. We also drink Coke and Sprite and on occasion Cuban coffee or red-eye gravy and country ham. It is a place of honesty and really, just a night to hang out with other guys and relax. If you have struggled with any of these issues I hope this email cleared some things up.

How Times Have Changed

From Spurgeon's Morning & Evening, to one type of person he says:

"These words may answer your scruples, devout reader, concerning the ordinances. Perhaps you say, “I should be afraid to be baptized; it is such a solemn thing to avow myself to be dead with Christ, and buried with him. I should not feel at liberty to come to the Master’s table; I should be afraid of eating and drinking damnation unto myself, not discerning the Lord’s body.”

And to another type of person he says:

"You think, poor seeker, that you are not allowed to rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory; if you are permitted to get inside Christ’s door, or sit at the bottom of his table, you will be well content. Ah! but you shall not have less privileges than the very greatest. "

Both very humble expectations of the readers. As I read this I thought how different his audience is today; how different I am. Today, the average Christian wouldn't feel unworthy to be Baptized, but would rather spend time questioning the various methods of baptism, or question the church performing the baptism. Rather than run with desperate and humble knowledge of his sin to be baptized, he would spend a few years thinking about baptism because maybe it's all just meaningless ritual. The LAST thing on our minds today is our unworthiness because after all, the sun rises and sets on my comfort, how I feel, and what is owed to me.

Do I feel as if I am not allowed to rejoice with "joy unspeakable"? Do I think I would be content enough to sit at the bottom of His table?

No.

I believe I have rights, and those rights extend to worship. I have the right the worship to the kind of music I like. I have the right to participate in sacraments, or not to. I have the right to attend the church I like, after I've perused all the channels and found the one that fits me, with the right looking people who say the right things and do the right things (based on my criteria of course).

Spurgeon's reader is vastly different from the readers of his lifetime. We are spoiled. God used Spurgeon to reveal this about me this morning.

Spurgeon also says:

"When the Holy Ghost has given you to feel the spirit of adoption, you may come to Christian ordinances without fear."

Come without fear. And in case we have forgotten, come humbly.

Maniacs

"Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves? For I can tell you. I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally than Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success. I can guide you to the thrones of the Supermen. The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums… " - Chesterton, Orthodoxy, Chapter 2 - The Maniac

I bought the audio book and this passage fascinated me. By virtue of this passage, Miami is full of lunatics, and I struggle everyday to get out of the asylum and at least into the outer gardens.

We are all so self-confident; materialists and narcissists.

We love our Facebook posts where we can write about our jobs and our cars, or show our empty faceless empathy and "caring".

We love our careers and our achievements; our vanity and our beauty.

We love our anger, and protect it with all the self-confidence of a 2 year old hugging his toy car to his chest screaming "mine!".

We love our augmentations, lifts, and shallowness.

There is insanity in Miami of the worst kind. And of course, this insanity is not Miami specific but if you live here, you know what I mean. Just look at all the Mercedes, BMW's and Bentley's flowing out of West Kendall and Hialeah; vehicles to house our insecurity at the risk of our souls and families.

We want it all and we want everyone to believe we did it on our own.

Some people see belief in God as a mark of the insane; a false hope, a belief held by simple folk. Chesterton asks, what is crazier... belief in God, or belief in yourself?

I think belief in yourself is not only insane, but the worst kind of dishonesty and ignorance.

Orthodoxy is a great book. I'm enjoying it immensely.

Glenn Beck, Jim Wallis and Social Justice - Revised

I've been following this whole Glen Beck vs. Jim Wallis battle royale over Social Justice, and the use of that term by Christian institutions. I also just finished reading an article written by the Rev. Wallis on The Huffington Post entitled, "What Glenn Beck Doesn't Understand About Biblical Social Justice" .

Glenn Beck makes a great point about the use of the term social justice. At the same time Rev. Wallis also brings up some good points. Read the article and you'll see what I mean.

My problem with the term social justice is its use and implementation in the work of the Gospel, when the work of the Gospel (spreading the good news) should stand on its own. In other words, stick to the original formula. The beauty of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is that it is transcendent and eternal. No ideological system can touch it, because it is simply true and because it goes beyond mere ideology.

So why take something so simplistic, so earthly, as the idea of "social justice" and add it to the language of the Gospel? The only reason I can think of is to force similar sounding ideology to a truth that doesn't need it. When that happens, we can only assume something is up; there are games afoot.

“Our political philosophy is, representative democracy and social justice in a well planned economy.” So said Fidel Castro, on camera, in English, just prior to the success of the revolution.

So we have the use of the term "Social Justice" tacked on to the ministry of the church, followed by Christian college and seminary students all over the U.S.A. wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and celebrating socialism because gee, it sounds really good and besides, that t-shirt looks really cool.

Here's another quote:

"Fascism and Communism, like all other evils, are potent because of the good they contain or imitate... And of course their occasion is the failure of those who left humanity starved of that particular good." - C.S. Lewis

Redistribution of wealth sounds really good in the context of the church, meaning the Body of Christ. As Christians we believe it, and we should live it. In fact I think we do, though of course, maybe not as well as we ought to be (the point Lewis is making above). We can always do better, but that's part of the growth process; our walk of sanctification.

But in case some Christians missed it (especially those who study and teach the Bible for a living), the Bible is a mirror. Looking into it, we see that we are broken, full of sin, and unable to do any good outside of Christ. I'm not speaking of doing good acts; anybody Christian or not can do good works on occasion. The Bible speaks of something deeper, and shows us our true nature. Our hearts betray our best wishes and good intentions. We are full of darkness, and this is what the Bible teaches us.

Social justice as defined, can only work in the context of Gospel believing Christians, at best. By at best I mean, it is still flawed because we will not achieve true social justice in this world. As long as we are here, it won't work. Do we stop being the Christians God called us to be? Of course not. As the church, we strive to live out the Gospel, to serve, to love and to give until it hurts. But, unless the church is in the business of assisting tyrants to rise to power, I would suggest staying away from adopting terminology that will end up being used as justification for conquest, control, and ultimately slavery. Some would say this is a stretch; that I am simply exagerating. However to say that I am exagerating is the same as saying there has been no past, current, and will be no future attempt to undermine the message of love and redemption offered by the Gospel. To say that, my friends, would be ignorant and naive at best, foolish and disastrous at worst.

Redistribution of wealth, outside of a Gospel context will always result in oppression, not equality and certainly not justice.

Finally I would just like to go on record and say that while I agree a lot with Glenn Beck, he is the last person Christians should be listening to in matters of the Gospel because well, he is a Mormon and not a Christian. Regardless, as Americans we should listen to Glenn Beck because his warnings on the deceptive nature of social justice are true.

To the Rev. Wallis and other Christians who should know better, stop trying to be relevant and re-package the Gospel as if it were something to be sold. Christianity is and always has been relevant because it is true, and transcendent truth does not require our assistance. The Gospel is the very definition of justice. Leave it alone.

The March

Primero que nada, Partagas Benji Master Series cigar... amazing. Smoking it right now. One of the best I've ever had.

Tonight, I missed meeting with my brothers from other mothers at our Eagle & Child forum. Instead, I attended the march organized by Emilio and Gloria Estefan to stand in solidarity with Las Damas De Blanco (the Ladies in White).

I don't know what the final numbers are, but I guarantee you there were several thousands gathered there today; mostly Cubans of course, but folks from different nationalities as well. Flags I saw represented there; Argentina, Chile, Nicaragua, Spain, Colombia, Venezuela, United States of America.

Gloria Estefan gave an amazing speech, honoring Las Damas, and their peaceful and lonely battle for freedom. These women persevere; they are tenacious. As we were meeting in their honor, they were walking the streets of Havana, again, bruised and beaten; never giving up their struggle. Mr. and Mrs. Estefan walked with us; as did other local celebrities. Of course, most people couldn't help but notice they were there. But their celebrity status didn't seem to obscure the intent of the march. The crowd and the organizers did everything with great reverence and tact.

A prayer was given by a local clergyman. His prayer was powerful. A moment of silence was observed (it wasn't too long though. After all, we are Cuban and we don't deal with silence very well).

The National Anthem of our beautiful country, the land that lovingly embraced our parents and grandparents, was played and yes, sung by the throngs of people gathered their. I was so moved by it, I could barely sing along. Watching the American flags flying high next to the Cuban flags makes so much sense to me. A dance of red, white and blue, signifying pride and loss; life and liberty.

When the Cuban Anthem was played, there was pain in the voices. It was sung louder than the American Anthem of course. But still, one couldn't help but notice the mixture of pride and loss in the voices.

The best part of the march was being able to experience it with my 11 year old daughter, my father and my mother.

The "old guard" of Cubans was amazing to see too. These are the ones who really appreciate what the United States represents. You can see it in their sage faces. Their eyes have a wisdom from a life experience that has allowed them to appreciate this country as much as the greatest American patriot. They have felt the sting of oppression, and the exhilaration of liberty. I love being with them; especially my mom and dad. It's hard though, because even after more than 50 years, their wounds are still fresh.

It's late, I'm tired and I think I'm rambling. But most of all, I'm hurting tonight for the Cuban people; even for those who are inflicting pain on others who are crying out for that liberty. There is so much anger and rage and confusion in that place of loss and memory.

My little girl went to bed late tonight. She was really tired. She asked me if she should request a prayer for Las Damas tomorrow at school. I told her it was a great idea. I'll pray with her before she goes to school. I think I'll have a talk with God now too, over this cigar.

Cuba Blog

Time to let the cat out of the bag. I went to Cuba in December, and contrary to popular belief, there are still cats in Cuba (meaning they are no longer part of a daily diet).

I went to Cuba because an opportunity opened up for me to go, and because I just had to go. There was a time last year where I had made a firm decision that I would never go, caught up in anger and pain over the injustices that are occurring on the island. Then I realized that there are people there, and that these people are desperate for something; anything besides the life of despair they live in. I met amazing people, cried with them, laughed with them; even met family I never knew existed because of time, pain and polarization. Going to Cuba changed me, yes. But more importantly, the Gospel changed me yet again. The term "Cubanaso Gospel" has taken on a whole new meaning for me.

I'm still working on my photo blog. The reality of Cuba makes me feel I need to be selective with the photos I post, lest I jeopardize people on the island. But it's a great story. I hope you enjoy it.

Here's the photo blog.

Solidarity Now

Me

I woke up this morning feeling guilty and regretful over things thought, and things said and done. It was one of those moments where you reluctantly wake up and all your assurance is out the window. If you're sure about your agnosticism, you're not so sure at that moment. If you're sure about your God, you feel completely exposed and unsure at that moment. You know what I'm talking about.

I then proceeded to do something else you are all familiar with; I began building my argument of defense. I defined who was at fault, I concocted reasons for my behavior. I came up with some pretty good arguments in fact, strong and solid reasons why I was not completely to blame (you always leave room for some self-deprecation; you know -- always allow for the appearance of humility.)

I sent the family off to school and the day. Still feeling uneasy, I decided to sit down and read from a devotional book I purchased earlier this year. If anyone is interested, I highly recommend it. It's called Whiter Than Snow -Meditations on Sin and Mercy, by Paul David Tripp.

These are some excerpts of what I read:

"It was one of those times when you go where your desires and emotions are leading you. It was one of those situations when you know you should stop or walk away but feel you can't."

"...I knew I couldn't back away from this little moment (of regret). I knew I had to own my sin."

"The minute I thought this, an inner struggle began. 'I wasn't the only one at fault. If he hadn't said what he said, I wouldn't have become angry. I was actually pretty patient for much of the conversation.' These were some of the arguments I was giving myself."

"Rather than appealing to the mercy of the Lord in the face of my sin, what I actually do instead is function as my own defense lawyer and present a list of arguments for my own righteousness."

"Before you can ever make a clean and unamended confession of your sin, you have to first begin by confessing your righteousness."

Wow.

Ceci and I were talking yesterday about people who it seems God is always having conversations with, and how a lot of those people are likely having conversations with Popeye the Sailor Man and Pluto as well.

Well I haven't been receiving messages from Bugs Bunny lately, but God definitely did speak to me this morning; gave me a swift kick in the ass, too.

I always say that this blog is for my children. When I say that, I don't mean so they can see how great their dad was, but who their dad was. It's hard to get honest. It's hard to put the blame on yourself. It's not much of an ego boost to get slapped in the face with the knowledge that you can't blame anyone else for anything going on in your life; that you need to own your stuff.

Sorry kids. I wish this blog could be about how great I am. The truth is however, I'm not so great. What I can tell you is this. I am His. I am broken, and I am His.

The greatest deterrent to me being able to get up in the morning and make silly statements in my head like, "I'm back on track" or "Ready to face the day" or any other "new start" comments we tell ourselves as we try to cover up our missteps and stumbling, is that "my sin is always before me". And on days like today, when I wake up blaming everyone and everything for who I am inside (who we all are inside), God slaps me in the face rather quickly and reminds me:

I am broken, I am His.

Calling Out Your Name

My church printed this article I wrote, along with this photo, in our bulletin. For perspective, I attend Granada Presbyterian Church in Coral Gables, thus the "Granada Man" comment.

That’s me, New Years Day, 1981. My dad took me to the Miccosukee Indian Village. The whole family went, actually. But I don’t remember being with the family much that day. All I remember is being with my dad, the vast expanse of saw grass under a clear blue sky, men wrestling alligators, a beautiful young Miccosukee girl, and a knife for sale in the gift shop I wanted… badly.

This photo represents so many things to me. It represents those precious days of my youth; those rare occasions when we got out of the old neighborhood in the Miami suburbs to enjoy the natural treasures that surround us. We can miss them, these occasions, if we don’t take the time to experience them.

This photo also represents for me the heart of every man. The heart that cries out to be unleashed and experience this adventure called life. It is a heart that cannot be tamed. As I looked out over the saw grass, images of unexplored territory and trails to be carved came rushing in. There is danger at every turn. There are gators, panthers, bears… oh my. A person could die out there. Then I thought, cool.

So, here I am so many years later, still with so much left to explore. I find myself surrounded by other men; brothers with the same desire to explore and to conquer; to live. But it’s not just about cutting trails with machetes or catching a big fish to cook over an open fire. It’s about being the men God called us to be. We are not tamed, but we are His. What does that mean? It means we search Him out daily. We carve the trails, not because we are lone rangers on a selfish quest for vainglory; that is what small men do. We explore the wild and we explore it as brothers, because we desire to live out this adventure with Him, and for His glory; a quest we cannot seek on our own. Our hearts are calling out His name. This is at the heart of the men’s ministry we call, Granada Man.

And the single hawk bursts into flight
And in the east the whole horizon is in flames
I feel thunder in the sky
I see the sky about to rain
And I hear the prairies calling out Your name –Rich Mullins-