January 31 - Market Day: Moscow Baguette

A Moscow Baguette baked in Bensenville, Illinois.

By Magdalena I. García

Choosing bread at Fresh Farms Market is not an easy task. If you’re a carb queen like me, your mouth waters as you walk past the shelves of breads made according to recipes from around the world: loafs, rolls, flat breads, and baguettes. And they are White, wheat, rye, pumpernickel, and every shade in between. I settled on a Moscow Baguette as my international item of the week.

This was Friday morning, and I was having my father and my uncle over for dinner (we’ve sort of adopted them until my mother returns from a trip to Cuba). So as I drove home with my baguette from a former enemy republic, I settled on a plan: I would slice it up, heat it up, and serve it without revealing the bread’s name. You see, the Soviet Union supported Castro’s Cuba for decades, so conservative Cuban exiles get nauseous at the thought of Soviet delicacies. And when you couple this with affiliation to the Republican Party, well, it can cause an acute case of acid reflux.

But to be fair, Cubans on the island don’t really care for anything Soviet either. Come to think of it, it’s really ironic that despite our differences all Cubans—whether 90 miles South or North of Key West—seem to share this one sentiment: we’ll take American goods over Russian stuff any day of the week. And this sentiment is not limited to food, although clearly Cubans prefer American Deviled Ham to carne rusa (Russian canned meat). Take television, for example. For decades after the so-called triumph of the Revolution, Cubans continued to enjoy classic American cartoons, like Felix the Cat and Betty Boop, alongside day-long speeches on land reform and military might from Comrade Fidel. And when Russian cartoons finally replaced the Yankee productions, Cubans were not happy campers.

Well, back to my dinner. The strategy worked. My father and my uncle enjoyed the Moscow Baguette (they had no reason to be suspicious; it looks a lot like its French counterpart). And then, towards the end of dinner, I casually revealed the bread’s true identity. No big deal. Phew! I wonder what did it? Was it the Russian proverb printed on the label? “A meal without bread is as living life without holidays.” Or was it the fact that the bread is baked by Russian refugees who live in Bensenville, Illinois? I guess I'll have to chew on that one for a while.

January 30 - Guilty

Cartoon with no copyright found online whether you search for pro-life or pro-choice images.

By Magdalena I. García

Yesterday a jury convicted Scott Roeder of first-degree murder for putting a .22-caliber gun to Dr. George Tiller’s forehead and pulling the trigger in the narthex of a church, in Wichita, Kansas, on May 31, 2009. Roeder is an activist who confessed to killing one of the only U.S. doctors to perform late-term abortions. Roeder also was convicted of aggravated assault for threatening two church ushers who tried to stop him from fleeing. He now faces a sentence of life in prison, although he could be considered eligible for parole in 25 years.

I saw the breaking news online and felt a sense of relief; I’m sure many other people did too. But not everyone is pleased with the outcome; for pro-life adherents this is clearly a defeat. But as reporter Kathlyn Stone wrote in an article published by fleshandstone.net, it’s a good thing that an “anti-abortion extremist could not kill the law.”

However, the sense of relief soon turns to sadness. It’s sad that this man will waste 25 years in prison. It’s sad that he killed another human being. It’s sad that the pregnant women who sought help from Dr. Tiller may now have nowhere to go, and may put their own lives at risk by practicing unsafe abortions. It’s sad that pregnancies were terminated, because we’ll never know who or what those unwanted children could have become. It’s sad that we live in a world where awful choices coexist. It’s sad.

This case reminds us in a powerful way that the entire human race is, to some degree, guilty of devaluing and despising life—or of not providing the conditions where all life can flourish—. As we say in Spanish: “Tanta culpa tiene el que mata la vaca, como el que le aguanta la pata” (or “The one killing the cow is as guilty as the one holding its leg”).

January 29 - Noisy, messy and complicated

By Magdalena I. García

On Wednesday night President Obama delivered his first State of the Union Address. The eyes of the nation were glued to the TV screens—or in my case, the ears, because I was listening to the speech as I did some light computer work. We listened attentively as the President who campaigned on a promise of change tried hard to explain to all of us why some things still have not changed, while others perhaps have taken a turn for the worse.

As expected, President Obama parked for a while by many subjects: the economy, the recession, the financial system, the housing-market crisis, taxes, unemployment, innovation, clean energy, exports, education, public health, healthcare reform, government spending, campaign financing, national security, the military, arms control, global responsibility. But he drove by too quickly as he approached other topics, like civil rights; at least some of us would have liked to hear a bit more on gay, women, and immigrant rights.

The address was delivered with a nice balance of seriousness and humor (a little more passion at times would have been great, but I guess that would be asking for an out-of-character performance, or perhaps trying to stereotype him as a Black preacher). It wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was a good speech. Here are my favorite quotes:

“ ... But remember this – I never suggested that change would be easy, or that I could do it alone. Democracy in a nation of 300 million people can be noisy and messy and complicated. And when you try to do big things and make big changes, it stirs passions and controversy. That’s just how it is.

“Those of us in public office can respond to this reality by playing it safe and avoid telling hard truths and pointing fingers. We can do what’s necessary to keep our poll numbers high, and get through the next election instead of doing what’s best for the next generation....”

Well said, Mr. President. I’m glad to be part of this democracy. And I’m also glad to be part of a “noisy and messy and complicated” Christian denomination. Let’s hope and pray for more leaders—inside government and inside the church—with the courage to at least attempt doing not what is expedient, but what is right.

January 28 - “Cultivo una rosa blanca”

Cuban poet José Martí, whose birthday is observed today.

By Magdalena I. García

Today is sort of a holiday in Cuba, because it’s the 157th anniversary of the birth of José Martí, a national hero and an important figure in Latin American literature, better known as the “Apostle of Cuban Independence.” As Wikipedia indicates, “in his short life he was a poet, an essayist, a journalist, a revolutionary philosopher, a translator, a professor, a publisher, and a political theorist. Through his writings and political activity, he became a symbol for Cuba’s bid for independence against Spain in the 19th century.”

From a very early age, Cuban children are taught to honor Martí, and I remember my elementary school’s courtyard had a rincón martiano (like a Martí shrine), with the following quote inscribed in stone: “Children should burst out crying when a day has gone by without them learning something new, without them serving a purpose” (my free translation of “Los niños deben echarse a llorar, cuando ha pasado un día sin que aprendan algo nuevo, sin que sirvan de algo”).

In addition, Cuban children are expected to memorize Martí’s poetry, the prime example being “Cultivo una rosa blanca,” which is often recited at public events:

Cultivo una rosa blanca
en julio como en enero,
para el amigo sincero
que me da su mano franca.

Y para el cruel que me arranca
el corazón con que vivo,
cardo ni ortiga cultivo,
cultivo una rosa blanca.

I cultivate a white rose
in July as in January
for the sincere friend
who gives me his hand frankly.

And for the cruel person who tears out
the heart with which I live,
I cultivate neither nettles nor thorns:
I cultivate a white rose.

“Cultivo una rosa blanca...” It’s a tall order, but it’s a wonderful credo. I’d say all Cubans—on the island and in exile—need to recite this poem over and over until it gets into our bloodstream. Only then will we be able to build a bridge over the 90 miles that have separated us for over 50 years. Only then will we be able to embrace each other with forgiveness and tolerance. And we ought to export it to the whole world. It might not be as profitable as cigars, but it will leave behind an even better aroma.

January 27 - Energy, Intelligence, Imagination and Love

Four wonderful qualities that should flow from our baptism and permeate ordained service for laity and clergy.

By Magdalena I. García

Last night we had the first Session meeting of the year. The Session is the local governing body in a Presbyterian congregation. I led the opening devotional, and I used the opportunity to remind our officers about my favorite ordination question (there are nine in total): “Will you seek to serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination and love?”

The question is reminiscent of the heart of Jesus’ teaching, as summarized in Matthew 22:37-40: “ ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” And it invites all of us into constant reflection about our service.

Energy, intelligence, imagination and love. Most of us find it pretty easy to honor one or two of these qualities at any given time. But embodying all four simultaneously is quite a stretch. If truth be told, a lot of what we do in the name of God and ministry at all levels of the church tends to be driven by one of those virtues at the expense of the other three. And most of us have a personal tendency to live and minister out of one mode, or to have a dominant style of operation. This is the beauty of committee process, where as members engage each others’ ideas we can clearly see these four virtues competing for attention—and dominion—like wrestlers in a ring.

But the challenge is to seek—and find—balance. So perhaps it’s not too late to make a New Year’s resolution to live and minister in 2010 seeking to engage and exhibit all four qualities: energy, intelligence, imagination and love. This surely makes losing weight and working out look like a piece of cake!

January 26 - Crayons and Choices

My box of Crayola Special Edition 100 Crayon, released in 2002 and now available from eBay for a modest $78.

By Magdalena I. García

Growing up in Cuba in the 1960s, school supplies were almost non-existent, with the exception of thin, low-quality notebooks, made from recycled paper, and pencils that we sharpened with used razor blades discarded by our parents. I don’t remember seeing or owning any crayons. Although I clearly recall the one time that the local bookstore and art supply center—La Concha de Venus (or Venus’ Shell)—got a special shipment of Swiss coloring pencils. I still dream of that metal box, with 24 brightly-colored pencils, neatly lined up side by side.

Needless to say, upon moving to Spain and eventually the US I was delighted to discover the abundance of school and art supplies, and especially the accessibility of coloring pencils and crayons. In fact, the annual back-to-school shopping list for elementary school children includes crayons, pencils and markers, and I love partaking of this ritual with my son every fall.

But shopping for crayons is no longer a simple matter. We’ve come a long way from the eight original colors introduced by Crayola in 1903 to the rainbow of today’s 120 different choices. And this obviously delights us and overwhelms us, as pointed out in “Crayons and Choice: A Headache in 120 Colors,” a story posted today on npr.org (National Public Radio) by Robert Krulwich. Check out the story and accompanying graphic at:www.npr.org/blogs/pictureshow/2010/01/crayons_and_choice_a_headache.html.

Krulwich writes, “For most of us, it's hard to make choices. Because our brains get tired. And yet we have more and more and more choices all the time. Uninvited, unneeded, unwelcome. But what's to be done?”

Shopping for anything these days—from breakfast cereal to laundry detergent, from underwear to walking shoes, or from higher education to spiritual advice–is no longer a simple matter. But praise God for choices. Just don’t forget to put on your thinking cap—in the color of your choice, of course!

January 25 - Ancient technologies

The computer mouse: a marvel of contemporary technology and one of the most powerful weapons at our disposal.

By Magdalena I. García

Technology is everywhere: at home, in the classroom, at work.... And we love technology, because generally it makes everything easier, faster, lighter, prettier, safer, cheaper (eventually, that is). For example, we’ve come a long way in communication technologies, but has that really contributed to better relationships?

Take email, for example. Most of us use it. And we love the way it provides quick access to people. But have you noticed how difficult it is to communicate via email? In fact, it’s quite scary for at least two reasons: it’s too easy for the sender to put in writing things that would probably not be said face to face (especially when one is upset), and it’s very tempting for the receiver to read into the message things that are not necessarily there (and that could be confirmed or dismissed with the assistance of non-verbal communication elements like voice intonation, facial expression, and bodily posture).

It should not surprise us then that once in a while relationships get into a knot thanks to email messages. With email, one is never quite sure of what is being said or heard. But is one ever absolutely sure of what is being said or heard? This is why I love this piece of advice recently shared by my friend J., who is both a computer geek and a relationship guru: “Words are necessary but often are so limited. Ancient technologies such as patience, forbearance, forgiveness and even silence are filled with such wisdom....”

January 24 - Living Simply or Simply Living?

My uncle S. on the farm in the 1950s, back in the days when living simply meant you got up before dawn to milk the cows.

By Magdalena I. García

The January/February issue of Horizons, the magazine for Presbyterian Women, centers on the topic of simplicity. Needless to say, most women—and men—with crowded agendas and little time for relaxation crave a little simplicity. But how does one achieve such a goal? And who’s got time to add simplification to the already mile-long list of to-dos?

Regardless, I took a few minutes to scan the magazine, and my eyes fell on some catchy phrases: holistic discipleship, enough for everyone, downsizing and focusing, connections to others, locally produced, responsible consumers, fair trade, purchasing power…. There is enough there to sell readers on the benefits of simple living, along with soothing images of tranquil settings. But don’t let the marketing approach fool you: simple is not always easy.

This reminds me of the simple way my ancestors used to get hormone-free milk on the farm in Cuba. My father remembers how he would simply get up at 3:00 a.m. to round up the cows, so that his older brother could milk them in time for the 5:00 a.m. pick up. I guess I’m not ready to simplify my life that much. I’ll take pasteurized milk from a carton at 7:00 a.m.

This also reminds me of an old saying I saw years ago, stitched and framed, hanging on the wall at a friend’s house: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” I guess I’m not ready to simplify my life that much either. I prefer “Give it up, toss it out, get it new, or shop around.”

So the moral to the story seems to be that no matter how much we try to butter up the subject (no commercial substitutes, please), there is nothing hip or chic about living simply, unless you’re into the retro look. But those of us who live in the First World must try to simplify our lifestyle, so the majority of people in our world can at least say that they are simply living.

January 23 - Market Day: Pomegranate

My first ever fresh pomegranate.

By Magdalena I. García

Friday is my day off, so it’s the day I do most of my errands, such as grocery shopping. Last year, a new store—Fresh Farms International Market—opened on the Northwest side of Chicago (actually in Niles, just over the Chicago borderline), and since then it’s become my favorite place to shop. It’s a dream-come-true supermarket with European flair and ethnic flavor, but without the nose-up-in-the-air attitude or the burn-a-hole-in-your-pocket prices associated with Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s.

Fresh is a key word in the store’s name and merchandise, where every week you find plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish, fresh delicatessen, fresh cheese, fresh breads, fresh meats... Alright, let me stop there. And just in case you’re wondering, I don’t get discounts or a commission for promoting the place, although I understand this small chain of supermarkets is owned by Greek-Americans who are close relatives of my dentist.

Anyway, as I was doing my shopping yesterday, I decided that every Friday I’m going to pick a new product to sample, and write about it on my blog. So this is the first edition of “Market Day.” After all, shouldn’t a multicultural person seek to diversify her diet, and expand her culinary horizons?

This week’s choice was the pomegranate. I like pomegranate juice, and I have seen fresh pomegranate on display many times, but I had never bought the fruit nor eaten it fresh. They were on sale for 79 cents each, and I couldn’t resist the beautiful pile by the main entrance door, so I bought two pomegranates. This was quite a modest investment compared to the Middle-Eastern looking couple standing next to me: they had three bags full of pomegranates in their shopping cart. I asked them for instructions on how to eat this exotic fruit. The man deferred to his wife, who clearly spoke English more fluently. The wife simply said, “You peel and eat the seed inside. If it’s not sweet enough you can add sugar. It’s good for you.” I thanked her, and she smiled and walked away.

I brought the pomegranates home, and put them on the kitchen counter. A few minutes later my husband walked by, stopped in his tracks at the unusual sight, and, with a tone that suggested both curiosity and distaste, asked, “What’s that?” I introduced him to the pomegranate and invited him to sample one. Then I realized that I did not know if they were ripe (both felt hard), much less how to cut them and eat them. So I did exactly what you might expect a Presbyterian minister to do: I googled “how to peel a pomegranate,” and I discovered there is an abundance of information online, including YouTube videos! (Parliamentary procedures was part of the curriculum at seminary, but little instruction was given on missionary adventures!)

After watching the video, we learned a pomegranate should be firm (not soft as most fruits when they are ripe), so we got down to the job. We cut open the pomegranate, and started loosening and sampling the ruby-colored seeds (called arils). They are actually quite tasty, and we enjoyed the treat, although it’s a little time consuming, and we managed to splash red spots all over the kitchen sink and the dishes next to it.

As I reflected on this experience, I marveled at how quick we can be to cross the bridge from surprise to disgust and then on to rejection. I also noticed how much effort it takes to sample new things, to feel comfortable with new textures, sights and smells, and to master even the simple art of eating a fruit. (I have a whole new sense of appreciation for the Garden of Eden story, and a whole lot more respect for poor Eve! I think she was the first multicultural person in the Bible!) No wonder we often choose not to engage the things—or the people—who are different! But let me tell you: the results are juicy!

Thanks to Wikipedia, I also found out that the pomegranate is native to Iran, and it’s been widely cultivated throughout Armenia, Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkey, North India, the drier parts of southeast Asia, Peninsular Malaysia, the East Indies, the Mediterranean and Southern Europe and tropical Africa. So thanks to the pomegranate, all of the sudden I feel healthier. I also feel like a United Nations ambassador of sorts. All that’s missing is a free gift card for Fresh Farms, or a discount from my dentist!

January 22: Lex Talionis

By Magdalena I. García

“Morning Edition,” a daily program that airs on National Public Radio, offered this story today:

“It’s the 37th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, the Supreme Court decision that legalized abortion 37 years ago, and today jurors begin hearing evidence in the trial of a Kansas man who admitted to killing a doctor who performed abortions later in pregnancy. Scott Roeder is charged with first-degree murder in the shooting of Dr. George Tiller in May.

“Roeder says he should be able to tell jurors why he committed the act—to ‘protect unborn babies,’ he says. But prosecutors say any evidence about abortion is irrelevant.

“Roeder allegedly drove from suburban Kansas City to George Tiller’s church in Wichita, where he pulled out a gun and shot Tiller in the head. Many witnesses saw the shooting, and Roeder has admitted he did it. But the case may not be so simple.
“Judge Warren Wilbert ruled that Roeder cannot use a so-called justifiable homicide or necessity defense. But the judge did not rule out evidence that could lead to a lesser voluntary manslaughter charge.

“According to Kansas law, that's the ‘unreasonable but honest belief’ that deadly force was justified...”

This will be an interesting case for the entire nation—and world community—to watch and discuss. It will also be a great opportunity for the moderate, liberal and progressive voices within Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and other major religions to speak up for at least three reasons:
• to encourage believers to wrestle with these difficult issues—i.e. homicide, capital punishment, abortion—in a systematic way, examining the teachings from various sources and traditions;
• to educate the media and the public on the diversity of opinions within the religious community (i.e. despite apparent evidence to the contrary, we are not all fundamentalist, religious freaks who want to impose our views on others); and,
• to contribute to—and hopefully advance—the ongoing conversation about what it means to do justice in a multicultural world.

So I urge you to get started by reading the full text of today’s story. Go to: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122626278. Read also the comments posted by readers; there is a wealth of food for thought there. And be brave enough to post a comment. I just did. It is simply this:

“The comments posted thus far reflect the complexity of the issue and the wisdom of the public in lifting up the many ramifications of this case. Where exactly does one draw the line? One place to begin might be by remembering that the lex talionis principle (i.e. an eye for an eye)—which was part of ancient legal codes and is at the foundation of the contemporary law system—was intended to provide equitable retribution for an offended party. And this was intended, at least in part, to prevent excessive punishment. Now, do you suppose we will ever have consensus on the meaning of equitable retribution or excessive punishment? Probably not, but discussing the issues can, I hope, at least bring us to a deeper understanding of how difficult it is to do justice, and to a greater appreciation of each others’ views and experiences.”

January 21: Here Comes...the Convert

My parents' wedding picture, from the days when inter-faith considerations were a mute point because people married someone from the farm next door.

By Magdalena I. García

An inter-faith couple seeking the services of a minister to officiate a Christian-Muslim wedding has allegedly been refused by their own pastor. Word has it that the bride intends to convert to the Muslim faith after the wedding, so the request for a Christian rite is a puzzle. A minister friend said he could understand why a pastor would refrain from participating in such a charade (my words, not his), feeling this might be “contributing to a believer’s movement away from Christianity.”

Interesting. “Contributing to a believer’s movement away from Christianity.” I never thought about such ministry options! They don’t teach this in seminary. Then, again, if the bride is determined to leave, shouldn’t we wish her well? Is this an opportunity for a contemporary re-enactment of the Parable of the Prodigal Son/Child? And aren't we supposed to have a pastoral rite to frame every transition in life? I will look again through the Book of Common Worship, but I don’t recall seeing a liturgy for such avant-garde occasions. Maybe the Unitarians have one. (If you find a liturgy, please send it along.)

Liturgical quest aside, this marriage petition embodies the challenges of living and ministering in a multi-cultural—and, therefore, multi-faith—world. No, we’re not in Kansas anymore! You’re guts don’t lie. And it doesn’t seem like we’re going back to Kansas, so we may as well take off the ruby slippers. It might be a good way to build bridges with believers who pray with bare feet.

My hunch is that this soon-to-be-wed couple is no more or no less serious about their faith commitment than any other I’ve met. But pre-marital counseling does provide a little window of opportunity to engage them in conversation about something other than the nail polish they should get for the big day (and let’s be clear: both the bride and the groom get a manicure these days!).

And about the pastor who refuses to marry this couple.... Well, at moments like this I’m not sure I’m going to like heaven. Our earthly segregation seems so much easier to handle!

January 20: The Water Challenge

My leaky kitchen fauchet.

By Magdalena I. García

A friend just sent me a power point presentation in Spanish called “The Water Challenge,” which reminds all of us of the pressing need to conserve water. You can download and watch the presentation at http://www.elretodelagua.com/, a website based in Madrid, Spain. If your Spanish is not that advanced, you can get similar information in English at http://www.wateruseitwisely.com/.

In typical US fashion, the latter website includes shopping options and a game. Surely we are going to save the world by shopping and having fun. That’s the American way! I think there is an insight here for those of us who want to make anything grow...including the church. Looking for a redevelopment strategy with mass appeal? Let them shop and let them play! Sounds like the mega church manual to me. No wonder agencies—and churches—with a social justice focus have a harder time engaging the public and growing. Heck, they expect people to think, to give up long-established habits, and to work for change.

“Súmate al reto del agua” (or “join the water challenge”). It seems to me that Jesus could have said that. We should add it to the Sermon on the Mount. Or the Sermon on the Plain. Better yet, add it to one of the sermons by the Sea of Galilee. So I’m making a commitment to take the water challenge on a daily basis. And I’m going to tell my neighbor D. that she should stop wasting water by washing her car with a hose on her driveway. That is, unless she offers to wash mine too!

January 19: Disposable Treasures

By Magdalena I. García

I didn’t tell you yesterday that my copy of Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing, written by James Weldon Johnson and illustrated by Jan Spivey Gilchrist, is used. I buy used books all the time, especially children’s books, at the Half Price Books store near my house, where you find incredible treasures on the clearance shelf for $1 or $2. And I stop by the bookstore almost every week, on the way to the supermarket, so, needless to say, I have a sizable children’s library.

Most of the time, I find books that are like new, in perfect condition. This one happens to be gently used, but I was attracted by the colorful and intriguing illustrations. Then I opened the cover and was equally fascinated by the handwritten dedication. Here is how it reads:

“2-1-2000
To Jeffrey
With our love
May we all one day—
lift our voices to sing together.

To you Jeffrey—
May all your dreams & hopes
be carried safely
on the Wings of Eagles—
We look forward to you & your future.

With much love,

Justice & Mrs. Charles E. Freeman
Illinois Supreme Court”

It makes me wonder why Jeffrey would get rid of such a wonderful book, especially when it was a gift from such a unique person, and with such a lovely dedication. Well, perhaps Jeffrey thinks he is too old for picture books. Or perhaps Jeffrey wanted to give another young person the chance to enjoy this marvelous book. Or perhaps Jeffrey was desperate for cash. Or perhaps Jeffrey, like many of us, is simply entangled in the web of this society of disposable treasures, where everything seems to have relative value.

I like holding this gently-used book, and thinking that some day, if I become a disposable treasure, someone will rescue me from the clearance shelf, and caress me as I tell my story.

January 18: Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing

By Magdalena I. García

The second book I picked to celebrate Martin Luther King Day with my son M. is Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing, written by James Weldon Johnson and illustrated by Jan Spivey Gilchrist. Many church-going people of my generation know—and even sing—this tune, which is considered the African-American National Anthem. It is a moving testimonial to the struggles and achievements of African-Americans.

Last summer I included this song—which believe it or not is in The Presbyterian Hymnal—as part of the 4th of July weekend worship. I had hoped that one of our members, who has a stunning tenor voice, would be able to sing it. But it turned out he did not know the tune, so instead he offered to sing “O Beautiful for Spacious Skies.” Not exactly what I had in mind to close the sermon.

I was shocked. How could a child who was born and raised in the Chicago Public School system not know this tune? How could a young adult who studied music under a Hispanic maestro not have been exposed to this music? Why were Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart part of the curriculum, but not J. Rosamond Johnson (James’ brother who set to music this beautiful poem)?

But it gets worse. The really sad part of the story is that my own son—who is 20 years younger than the church tenor, and who is also being raised in the Chicago Public School system—would not recognize this tune unless I had introduced him to it! So I guess that those of us who want our children and youth to get a fuller, more accurate picture of the history of this country—and the world—have our work cut out for us. We must dare “lift ev’ry voice and sing ‘til earth and heaven ring, ring with the harmonies of Liberty...”

January 17: The Real McCoy

By Magdalena I. García

Every year, in preparation for Martin Luther King Jr. Day and Black History Month, I find books to read with my son M. This weekend we read an illustrated children’s story called The Real McCoy, The Life of an African-American Inventor, by Wendy Towle, with paintings by Wil Clay. M. is 12 years old and he has an aptitude for engineering and sculpting. His hands are always busy designing, shaping, or transforming something using the most unlikely raw materials—from the red wax cover on Gouda cheese to the twisty ties from the produce section of the supermarket—. He is also a foreign-born, cappuccino-skin, Hispanic boy being raised in a whipped cream school system, so this book is an excellent read for him.

We don’t really know where the expression “the real McCoy” came from, but one possible source is the life of this little-known inventor. Here is a quick summary. Elijah McCoy was born in 1844 to fugitive slaves in Canada. From an early age he displayed an avid interest in mechanical devices. He travelled to Scotland to receive formal training in engineering. At the end of the Civil War, Elijah returned to the US, and he settled in Ypsilantli, Michigan. During the war President Abraham Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation, and Elijah hoped he could live as a free man in the land of his ancestors. But despite his education, Elijah could only find work as a fireman/oilman for the Michigan Central Railroad in the United States. All because of the color of his skin.

Elijah wanted to make his job more efficient, so using his training and expertise as an engineer, he worked for years until he perfected a design for a lubricating cup. The train would no longer have to stop every few miles, and oilmen like Elijah would get a well-deserved break. At first, many engineers were skeptical of Elijah’s oil cup. They were not interested in the invention of a Black man. But the railroad owners at Michigan Central recognized that Elijah’s design was superior to other models. Eventually, news of the invention spread, and others tried to imitate Elijah’s invention, but the engineers knew the difference. They always asked for “the real McCoy.”

I hope and pray that my son will grow up to have Elijah’s strength and determination. And I hope and pray that children of color will one day grow up in a world where opportunities abound despite their skin shade. And I hope and pray that all children will one day live in a world where race, ethnicity, nationality, religion, gender, sexual orientation, immigration status, or any other criteria will no longer be a motive for rejection or suspicion. So maybe I better hope and pray that a new Elijah come up with a lubricating cup large enough to oil away all the prejudices that keep us grinding against each other. Only then will the screaming, clattering, and shuddering stop.

January 16: Interdigitate

By Magdalena I. García

My friend and colleague J. encouraged me to sign up for Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day. Well, here is today’s entry:
interdigitate
Pronounciation: in-ter-DIJ-uh-tayt
Part of speech: Verb
Meaning: to become interlocked like the fingers of folded hands

As I continue to be overwhelmed by the images coming out of Haiti, and to ponder what an appropriate global response might be, it occurred to me that this is exactly what is needed: interdigitate.

We all know that by next week life will go back to normal; for us, that is. TV cameras will leave Haiti in search of other breaking news: like Tiger Wood’s love life or Angelina Jolie’s pregnancies. But if life in Haiti is ever going to get back to normal, the entire world community must learn to interdigitate. Yes, the entire world must become interlocked—like the fingers of folded hands—with the destiny of Haiti, until every child is sheltered, fed, educated...

I’d say we have a lot of interdigitating to do—in Haiti and in today’s world—, so hang on to the word of the day. I have a feeling it’s going to come in handy for days—and years—to come.

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January 15: Pedicure Ponderings

My favorite nail polish color is a plummy pink called "More Time for Me."

By Magdalena I. García

There are very few cosmetic things I do for myself. For example, I have never colored my hair despite the social pressure to do so. And I’m old enough to have lived through at least two fads involving highlights (or rayitos—literally, little beams— in Spanish). I simply waited for natural highlights to set in: gray hairs. According to hairhighlights.org (yes, there is such a site!), highlights “give a funky and sophisticated look, adding depth and dimension.” Well, what do you know...I chose theological education and got just about the same results.

I also stopped wearing much make up decades ago. Perhaps I decided I didn’t want to look like Tammy Faye Bakker. Mascara has come a long way and waterproof formulas are available, but I figured that by now people are rather suspicious of women preachers with thick, dark lashes—and I could never produce the flowing streams of murky tears. So rather than a pretty look I chose to get an alternative world outlook—something that is not in the Cover Girl catalog, but readily available through higher education.

But there is one area where you might say I splurge: I get a pedicure about every three weeks. So this morning, as J. (the shop owner) sliced away my corns and dug under the fake toe nail (I lost mine moving church furniture, so acrylic keeps parishioners from getting nausea when they come up to me for the Eucharist), I pondered how many Haitians could be fed with the $40 pedicure fee.

The answer is simple: none; I’m not going to stop getting a pedicure. I know that sounds cruel, especially coming from a woman minister. But the reality is that my feet are in such bad shape—thanks to bunion surgery, metatarsal bone calluses, and other inherited features—that I should see a podiatrist on a regular basis. The podiatrist would bill my insurance well over $100, and collect a $35 co-pay from me, although he—or she—would not provide acrylic replacements nor nail polish! So years ago I decided that paying J. for a pedicure was a better deal. It’s also a more socially responsible approach: J. is a Vietnamese immigrant who owns her business and is raising two boys. My fee indeed feeds!

Regardless, my pedicure ponderings are not just a guilt trip; they are an important way of remembering that choices matter, and that the dollars we spend can change the world in multiple ways. In Christian code language this is called stewardship. It’s a healthy exercise. It makes you wonder what would happen if the next fad from Hollywood—or Paris—were latte ponderings, or martini ponderings, or Botox ponderings...

January 14: Splangchnizomai

By Magdalena I. García

I know it sounds like a curse; that is, if you can get around to pronouncing this mouthful. But that’s not the case at all. It’s a Greek verb, one of those rare animals we were expected to dissect (i.e. parse) in seminary. I was never fond of biology, much less the required lab work, and I completely lost my interest in the field the day when my high school cafeteria served spaghetti after we had spent a class period dissecting worms. I know what you’re thinking: I should have lost my appetite instead, but I guess that guts have their own logic. Hang on to that thought.

Well, thanks to the Greek Interlinear Bible—available at textweek.com—I know that this funny looking word means to be “moved to compassion”. Or, literally, “to have one’s entrails, or guts, moved.” In fact, this is the Greek word behind most of the Gospel stories where we are told that Jesus was “moved to compassion.”

Haiti was hit by a major earthquake on Tuesday afternoon, and we continue to be overwhelmed by the images of destruction and loss on TV and the internet. But we’re also starting to get encouraging news about the unprecedented level of financial aid given in the first 24-48 hours following the catastrophe, thanks to the modern miracle of social networks like You Tube, Facebook, and Twitter.

According to a special report posted on CNN.com today by Mia Farrow, actress and ambassador for UNICEF, “Haiti, just one hour from the U.S. by plane, is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. More than 80 percent of Haiti’s people live in abject poverty. In recent years, it has been battered by hurricanes, wracked by political violence, food insecurity and neglect. Even before the earthquake, many of Haiti’s children lived without the most basic necessities: clean water, adequate food, health care and the opportunity for an education.”

So I guess a fair question would be this: why does it take a national disaster for our entrails to turn? I guess I know the answer to that question. Guts have their own logic. It’s just too bad that our guts are not in tune with Jesus’ guts, or they would be turning a lot more often.

January 13: We Are Family

White rice and Cuban-style Black beans, served Ecuadorian style (with the beans on the side instead of on top).

By Magdalena I. García

Last night my extended family had a dinner to celebrate the birthday of cousin A. who is visiting the US from Cuba. A. is what you might call a true child of the Revolution, born just 12 days after Fulgencio Batista—a U.S.-backed Cuban general, President and dictator—fled the island nation, and the rebels affiliated with the July 26th Movement claimed victory on January 1, 1959. But I gather the Revolution has evolved tremendously since I left the country in 1969, because cousin A.’s universe now includes the militant CDR—Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, which is basically a spying family on every Cuban block—and a growing presence of MP3’s.

We gathered at cousin T.’s house and immediately headed for the kitchen. It’s hard to know why Cuban households bother with a parlor since guests always find their way to the stove, where rumors roast and secrets simmer. Then again, who needs a parlor when you’re born with a chatterbox gene and integrated speakers!

Like a set of mismatched pots and pans, my family is an interesting collage of shapes and colors. There’s cousin J., a die-hard romantic and prolific poet who is a walking heart attack. There’s cousin G., a gourmet cook and pastry chef whose waist keeps evaporating like a reduction sauce. There’s cousin A., a railroad worker whose love life is on the fast track. There’s cousin C., an Iraq War veteran who is a consecrated bachelor. There’s cousin M., an accomplished DJ turned Jehovah’s Witness who could usher in Armageddon with a Conga beat. There’s cousin T., a shapely forty something whose kidneys must be very healthy because she wears the stones around her neck and fingers. There’s cousin N., a robust woman whose heavy breathing reminds us that she has seen better days. There’s cousin M.d.C., a beautician whose wild comments make your hair stand on end. And so on.

We are blondes and brunettes; college graduates and school dropouts; Republicans and Democrats; devout Christians, agnostics, and atheists. And to this wonderful stew you must add the in-laws from Ecuador and the Philippines, and the partners from Illinois and Michigan. And yet, despite the vast differences, as we nibbled on the lechón or the honey-baked ham...as we toasted with Chilean wine, German beer, or American Coca Cola...it was clear that—at least occasionally—we belong together, like White rice and Black beans. As Sister Sledge would sing, “We are family...”

January 12: Roo Trail

By Magdalena I. García

I had lunch with my friend S. today. She just came back from Australia, where in early December she attended the 2009 Parliament of the World’s Religion. She is still glowing from the experience and trying to process the avalanche of new sights, new people, new information, and new perspectives, knowing that it will take a while to sift through all the layers, and that it may take more than a lifetime to connect all the dots.

As we enjoyed Turkish food and music, S. shared highlights of her trip, including Australian picture books full of colorful and peaceful landscapes, and Aboriginal testimonies loaded with dark and disquieting memories. She also gave me a souvenir: a pure cotton art canvas featuring authentic original works of Aboriginal art. My canvas is called “Roo Trail,” and it features a leaping kangaroo. She said she wanted me to have it because the kangaroo is a symbol of intuition. I love it: an invitation to go through life as an intuitive, leaping kangaroo!

I came home, hopped over to my laptop, and googled the word “intuition.” As you might imagine, there are a ton of entries, but here is one I liked. It’s attributed to Florence Scovel—an American artist, book illustrator, and spiritual teacher—in an article by Michelle L. Casto—a life coach, speaker, and author featured at http://www.businessknowhow.com/manage/intuition.htm. “Intuition is the spiritual faculty that doesn’t explain; it seemingly points the way.” And then Casto adds her own spin, “It’s also been said that intuition is your divine Spirit talking to you.”

Now, I realize that John Calvin might have been mighty suspicious of intuition, and that the Presbyterian Church (USA) might not be ready to add this marvelous word to the ordination question that asks whether we will serve God’s people with “energy, intelligence, imagination and love.” But that is not going to stop me from leaping into the new year listening to my gut. Hope I come across you down the roo trail!

January 11: Hospitality à la Jesu

Sometimes my tea box shows greater hospitality than the church.

By Magdalena I. García

B., a precious three-year-old girl, was getting restless in worship yesterday, so fearing the embarrassed mother might take her out of the sanctuary one more time—or worse yet, punish the little girl who is usually extra good and was only acting her age—I asked to be excused for a moment, stepped off the pulpit, walked over to B.’s pew, and offered her the picture book Signs of God’s Love: Baptism and Communion, written by Jeanne S. Fogle and illustrated by Bea Weidner. Despite being in tears, B. was very intrigued and almost immediately quieted down.

I went back to the pulpit and said, “We pray for children to come and, when they do we have a responsibility to welcome them.” And then I went on with my sermon, as if the interruption had been part of the order of worship script. At the end of the service, several people thanked me for the way in which I handled the matter. They also assured me that they are delighted to have B. in worship, even if it means they occasionally miss a word or two from the sermon! (Don’t you just love it when lay people have their priorities straight?) But more importantly, B. came out of the sanctuary fully poised, with a big smile on her face, and handed the book back to me saying, “You’re welcome,” to which her mother immediately added, “She meant to say ‘thank you.’ ”

As I reflected on this incident, I came to the conclusion that B.—at the ripe old age of 1,095 plus days—said the right words: “You’re welcome.” For you see, all the rest of us really needed to say “Thank you” to B. for reminding us what hospitality à la Jesu looks like. Hospitality means welcoming kindly guests and strangers, where kindly clearly implies anticipating and meeting their needs.

And yet, it's so tempting—and comfortable—for all of us church people to think that hospitality means grinning from ear to ear, reciting the schedule of activities, and inviting visitors to adopt our well-established routines! We need B. to keep reminding us that exhibiting hospitality—on Sunday morning or at any other time—means designing and shaping our lives taking into consideration the needs and preferences of others—especially the ones we say we want to attract. That is, if we want to offer hospitality à la Jesu.

January 10: Baptism Trivial Pursuit

If I pronounce the baptismal formula over my son's fish tank, are the fish baptized? There is certainly enough water!

By Magdalena I. García

Today was “Baptism of the Lord Day” in church, so we talked about Jesus’ baptism, the dove, the voice from heaven. We also noted how Christians from different traditions continue to get tangled up in passionate conversations about baptism, focusing on matters like the age of the baptized or the amount of water.

Consider the age. Is understanding the most important criteria for the life of faith? When does a child reach the so-called age of accountability? And why is it that every Sunday morning we have so many baptized Christians unaccounted for, despite the fact that they are well passed the enlisting age, the voting age, and the legal drinking age?

Consider the water. How much water does it take for a baptism to be effective? A handful, a cup, a bucket or a tub? Spring, purified, mineral, sparkling, artesian, well, tap or bottled? Running or stagnant? Sprinkled or submerged? And why is it that we have so many Christians whose enthusiasm and commitment has dried up, despite the ounces or gallons of water used at their baptism?

The Bible doesn’t bother with this kind of trivial pursuit. But it does tell us that in baptism Jesus and believers are given an identity—as beloved children of God—and a vocation—as people sent out to proclaim the good news of God’s Kingdom (or New Order). In fact, the Gospel of Mark says, “And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness (Mark 1:12).” So, why is it that Jesus’ baptism ejected him out into the wilderness, to wrestle with all kinds of powers and adversaries, while our baptisms lead us to the oasis of a reception table, merely to wrestle with calorie counting and indigestion?

January 9: Jelly Roll Budget

By Magdalena I. García

They say that only two things in life are certain: death and taxes. Well, there is actually a third one: budget meeting. And in my congregation it always happens on a frigid, Saturday morning in January, when the days are short and dark, and one would rather roll over in bed and sleep another hour...or another month!

This morning I spent five hours sitting in a cold parlor—along with several other faithful lay people—going over the proposed church budget for 2010. Now, there are many things I love about church life, but there are definitely a few that I could do without. And budget drafting is near the top of the leave-it-‘til-Christ-comes-again list, right along with chasing a flying squirrel out of the sanctuary on a hot summer day, or vacuuming sewer water out of the boiler room on the eve of the Christmas play.

I have thought about this for a while now. Why would I rather do just about anything else—like clear mouse droppings from a Sunday School closet–rather than sit in a budget meeting? Well, I’ve actually come up with a few answers, but the most satisfactory one came yesterday morning. Just as my toes were starting to get numb my mind became crystal clear. And this insight came as I stared at the Cappuccino Swiss Jelly Roll!

The main reason I dislike this annual exercise is because year after year we spend hours pretending we are putting together a new budget, while we toss around the same old line items, figures, and rationales. But can you imagine the day we dare knead a church budget without a set recipe? Can you imagine the day we let our cravings—or better yet, the world's longings–shape the budget? Who knows, we might end up with a Cappuccino Swiss Jelly Roll! But if not many people want to partake of the old recipe, what have we got to lose?

January 8: Stitched in Love

One of Elvis' many elaborately embroidered performance suits.

By Magdalena I. García

Internet sites report that Priscilla and Lisa Marie Presley were joined by three thousand fans at Graceland today to celebrate what would have been Elvis Presley’s 75th birthday. Some fans traveled from parts of Europe to be in attendance. Presley died in 1977. He was 42 at the time and the unrivaled King of his rock n roll music genre.

I’m not an Elvis fan; never was. But I was listening to Chicago Public Radio earlier today, on my way to get a haircut, when I heard a very interesting interview by Dick Gordon, host of “The Story,” which airs daily. Dick was talking to Gene Doucette, who was a young designer specializing in embroidery back in 1972 when he got a call that would change his life: he was asked to help design jumpsuits for Elvis Presley's live concerts.

Gene talked to Dick about what it was like creating the elaborate costumes that are nearly as memorable as the songs—and which are on exhibit at Graceland. But get this: Gene never met Elvis! Gene says that there was a very well-defined hierarchy of people surrounding Elvis, and he was not high enough on the ladder to meet the King of Rock n Roll. But he did get feedback—through a long succession of intermediaries—that Elvis liked his designs.

Gene also talked about being paid peanuts for his anonymous work; alright, maybe it wasn’t peanuts, but $12.50 an hour was a very modest salary even in the 70s considering who he was working for! And yet, Gene speaks of delighting in his work, which he viewed essentially as an art form: the cloth became the canvas; the rhinestones, the tiles; the thread, the brush strokes…

As I listened to “The Story” I thought about how Jesus—the King of Kings—needs more disciples like Gene, who do their work honestly and quietly, with dedication and delight, without paying much attention to pay or recognition, trusting that their efforts are not in vain, and that perhaps one day they also will be known for the garments they stitched in love.

January 7: Gnoshing a Knish

By Magdalena I. García

Had breakfast with my friend T. from Oshkosh this am. It was great to see him and to get news—and pictures—of his family. T. is a Presbyterian pastor, just like me. He is also very bright, funny, creative, humble and a decent human being—qualities that seminaries haven’t figured out how to teach—and PIFs don’t inquire about—but that make for fine ministers. So every December he sends an annual Christmas letter—one that I actually look forward to reading!

I went to breakfast with the letter in hand, because I had a pressing question for T. In the second paragraph, he talks about going to a baseball game at the new Yankee Stadium with his sons, and then he says, “P. [his older son] gnoshed his first knish…” I had no idea what that meant. I was stunned. I thought it might be a baseball term, like catching a fly ball. Go figure. A contemporary Gnostic secret. But I went on reading, and enjoyed the rest of the letter.

T. graciously explained that a knish is a Jewish snack popular in New York. It’s basically a filling (usually potato) covered with dough and then either baked, grilled, or deep fried. Alright, I get the picture. It’s like an empanada. Sounds yummy. I’ll go to a Yankees game just for that!

Funny how after 39 years of living in the United States as a Cuban immigrant I’m still learning every day words. But what is really interesting is reflecting on the way I read this letter, and on the fact that, at a very early age, I learned that in order to survive in a new environment, I had to figure out the big things using the context, letting go of the small details that were not essential to the overall experience.

Come to think of it, these are the kinds of skills that are needed to build the beloved community in a multicultural environment. Or to redevelop a congregation. Or to reinvent the church. One must be willing to step outside one’s comfort zone. One must be willing to accept the unknowns and live with them. One must figure out a lot of things from the context, or by trial and error. One must not get caught up in the conquering of minute details, because, although they might enrich the narrative, failure to master them does not deprive us of the story.

So...may 2010 be the year when we all dare “gnosh a knish”...whatever that might mean for you and me.

January 6: Queen for a Day

Sometimes the Magi from the North bring allergy medicine, anti-inflammatory pills, and pain killers.

By Magdalena I. García

Today in the afternoon I delivered a box of over-the-counter medicine to a local social service agency. It was not for their clients, although I’m sure the homeless men and women who frequent this facility would benefit from such a gift. The medicine was collected by Ravenswood—the church I pastor—as part of their Three Kings Day celebration last Sunday. And it will be carried to Cuba—along with monetary mission gifts for sister churches—by a delegation from the Presbytery of Chicago travelling to the island next week.

I remember growing up as a child in Cuba. I remember the excitement of gathering grass for the camels and cigars for the Magi on the eve of Three Kings Day. And I remember the joy of discovering a gift by the bed early in the morning—usually the one toy we got for the whole year. I also remember being about 10 years old, and hearing my friends talk about how so and so woke up in the middle of the night and discovered his father smoking the cigar meant for the Kings! So much for the Wise Men traveling from afar.

I knew that one day I would grow up to be somebody’s King—or Queen—and be charged with the privilege and pleasure of making wishes come true. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that this Queen would be called upon to deliver over-the-counter-medicine for the Cuban people, common citizens who are the casualties of an embargo that benefits the Cuban government by deflecting attention from its failed policies and gross violations.

I long for a world where I don’t have to play Queen...not even for a day!

January 5: The Missing Angels

Dressing angels for a church service.

By Magdalena I. García

I had some really good conversations today about what it means to be multicultural. It came about because some of us who are part of the Presbyterian multicultural movement are concerned that there be room for theological variety around the table—and not just racial and ethnic diversity.

Clearly we—the so-called colored people of this world—are very comfortable celebrating our espresso or café-au-lait skin, our vivacious ways, our poly-rhythmic conversations (thanks to Yolanda Nieves for blessing me with this term). But are we equally eager to embrace everyone else’s ways? And are we ready to acknowledge that underneath our caramel and chocolate skins there is an enormous assortment of fillings?

It’s bad enough that the US Census has been trying to convince us for decades that we are all the same—that is, Hispanics—instead of Cubans, Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, Guatemalans, Colombians... But have we bought into the lie? If we are all the same, can somebody tell me why my own extended family continues to have so many heated conversations around the kitchen table over all kinds of subjects?

Building the beloved community must mean tearing down all barriers so that everyone is welcomed at the table. Period. No strings attached. Otherwise, there is nothing be-loving about this community; it is a rather un-loving click. Truly, the credibility of the multicultural movement—and more importantly, the Gospel and the church—is at stake here.

This all got me thinking about the multicultural angels that I made this past Advent for a worship service. They were beautiful and colorful. And they represented various cultures around the world. But what about the missing angels? Will there ever be, for example, a homeless angel? An undocumented angel? A gay angel? Of course. So I guess that my craft-making and my faith are both a work in progress...

January 4: Brush Strokes

A case full of paints equals a box full of possibilities.

By Magdalena I. García

I really don’t get this thing about the New Year. If truth be told, most New Year’s Eves I’ve gone to bed before midnight, simply because I get sleepy around my usual bedtime, and I don’t see the point of staying up when it’s already the next day in Europe or Asia.

But there is something about the New Year that I do like; it’s that whole business of pausing, looking back, and looking ahead. Some people call it making resolutions. So, I have resolved that this year I will not wait to have “finished” pieces to post on the blog. I will post musings. After all, when is something finished?

One of the greatest blessings I received when I was learning to preach—as I was trying to overcome pulpit phobia and its accompanying nausea—was to be told that every sermon is only a brush stroke on the canvas of life: my life, the congregation’s life, the church’s life... It was a tremendously liberating piece of advice, but it’s taken years for it to sink in. I still wrestle with the masterpiece syndrome every time I sit at the keyboard to write a sermon.

So, from now on, you will get just that on this blog...brush strokes. It’s a good discipline for me, and it’s the whole reason I started this blog. I hope and pray that my readers will be as gracious as the congregations that have heard me preach; heck they even pay me and come back week after week! Not a bad gig is you can get it!