by Fernando Rodríguez
I was the youngest of four in my house and am at least 10 years younger than all three siblings. I am used to being told about how young I am and how much I have to learn. Yet, after more than 35 years on this earth and more than seven years of ordained ministry, I have come to one conclusion: Moses was probably Puerto Rican. OK, perhaps I’m stretching the biblical narrative just a tad bit. Yet as I reflect on my own faith journey and ministry, Moses’ early life has helped me make sense of it all.
Most people know about Moses as the “liberator” that led the people of Israel out of slavery. However, during his pre-liberator years he was constantly negotiating and trying to figure out his identity. He continuously crossed social, ethnic and political boundaries that led him to question his identity.
For starters, he went from being born a Hebrew to becoming an Egyptian within three months. He grew up Egyptian, yet was raised by his own Hebrew mother. After having grown up, he killed an Egyptian who was giving a fellow Hebrew a beat down. The next day he tried to play peacemaker between two Hebrews that were in a scuffle. One of them called Moses out for having killed the Egyptian the day before. Moses feared for his life and fled once Pharaoh finds out about what happened. He didn’t feel at home in the Egyptian or Hebrew worlds. Exodus 2:16-25 tells of how he ended up marrying a Midianite woman. Not only was he crossing certain boundaries by simply marrying someone from the land of Midian, but to make matters worse, the woman told her father, “An Egyptian helped us.” Moses must have been doing some deep reflection on how his identity was constantly shifting depending on the situation, because he named his son Gershom to reflect that he had “been an alien residing in a foreign land.”
Moses, I can relate. My life can perhaps be best described as one that has consistently tried to make sense of what it means to live in two or three worlds, whether in matters of national/ethnic identity, or even faith.
I was born in Trenton, New Jersey, to Puerto Rican parents. During the first 10 years of my life I believed that I was Puerto Rican. I had to. My parents were Puerto Rican. We ate comida Boricua. All my family members came from or were going to the island. I learned Spanish before I learned English. My parents, family and most friends had last names that were “different” from what was perceived as “normal.” No one had to say anything to me to notice a difference. Our neighborhoods were different. Most of my neighbors were Puerto Rican. The only language that some spoke was Spanish, not English. Those of us that spoke both languages – mostly the children – served as interpreters for parents in stores, doctor’s offices and, yes, even parent-teacher conferences.
I was also Catholic. Very Catholic. I believed without hesitation that the day my mother would die, she would be canonized a saint of the Catholic Church. We went to church several times a week, and we led and prayed the rosary every day.
At age 10 I moved to Puerto Rico with my mother, and a lot began to change. After having lived as a Puerto Rican (and willing to fight anyone who dared question that), apparently something happened on the airplane; once I stepped onto Puerto Rican soil, my identity changed. Now, I was no longer Puerto Rican. Having been born in New Jersey somehow stripped me of that. I was now a “gringo” or “Americano.”
Faith continued to be an important part of my life. I served as an altar boy, joined several youth groups, walked from one side of town to the other during Lent for the via crucis. I was Catholic through and through.
As I got older, I started to question why we believed and did all we did during church. I began to see how tradition played a major role in that and how it was intertwined with Puerto Rican culture. In a sense, to be Puerto Rican meant being Catholic, and vice versa. By the time I graduated from high school I had somehow finally been accepted as a Puerto Rican. Most people I would meet would assume as much until, of course, there was a reference to being born on the island. Then I would hear it once again, “Ah, pero si tu no eres de aquí. Tu eres Nuyorican” (Oh, but you aren’t from here. You are a New York Puerto Rican). Well, I was born in New Jersey, but I wasn’t going to get into all that.
In spite of this, I began to feel more at home on the island. I even started speaking English with an accent. However, in matters of faith, I started to question why I continued to believe what I said I did. I also began to become more politically aware. It was only a matter of time before I began to question why only very few people had an issue with Puerto Rico being a colony of the United States. “Deja de estar hablando loqueras (Stop talking crazy stuff),” my mother would say. It seemed to me that any thoughts – whether political or theological – that differed from the status quo were deemed as “crazy.” None of this made sense to me.
I decided to move back to New Jersey for college. I decided that I would not continue practicing the Catholic faith. I never stopped believing that there was a God, I just had too many unanswered questions. Besides, I was now too busy with trying to figure out how I was going to bring justice to the world and be a part of “the revolution,” whatever that meant. The funny thing was that I no longer fit in with U.S.-born Puerto Ricans because I was “de la isla (from the island).” Go figure.
After a few years of being somewhat of an agnostic, I began attending a Hispanic/Latino Presbyterian church. My then-girlfriend (who is now my wife) had joined and asked me to go with her. I began going to youth group – not because I had a particular interest in growing spiritually, but because if I didn’t go I wouldn’t be able to see her. This church seemed different, though. The pastor was a regular human being that sat to eat and crack jokes with you. I eventually began going to worship services on Sunday.
Worship felt alive. People shouted “¡Aleluya!” and “¡Amén!” and sang songs while lifting up hands. God felt very close. It felt real. I began to read the Bible and deepen my faith on my own for the first time. Unfortunately, my strong sense of social justice did not always fit with what was being taught. The passion for social justice that had grown during my college years was eventually pushed aside because matters of faith and social justice could and should not be mixed.
I felt the call to ordained ministry and attended Princeton Theological Seminary. It was here where another shift began. I found out what it “really” meant to be Presbyterian. This version of Presbyterianism was white, “orderly” and more cerebral than emotional with regards to spirituality and worship. The movement of the Spirit was apparently limited to the decisions made by committees. I learned that not only was my home church different from my previous Catholic faith, but it was also a different Presbyterian church. I was told we were “Presbycostal” – in other words, not Presbyterian enough. Once again, I was navigating between two worlds. This time it was between the worlds of evangelical Pentecostalism and “liberal” Presbyterianism. Once again, I didn’t fit neatly in either. As I entered ordained ministry, I was beginning to accept that living in two worlds was part of who I am and that I would have to continuously be crossing from one place to another.
My first call was to plant a Hispanic/Latino church in Indianapolis that later became Iglesia Nueva Creación. The initial vision was to establish a bilingual/bicultural church focusing on the so-called “1.5 generation” (those who arrived in the U.S. as youth). It didn’t take long for me to realize that this initial vision was too far ahead of its time – most of the Latinos in Indy, especially in the neighborhoods surrounding the church, were recent immigrants from Mexico and Central America. The 1.5 generation that was already there were mostly children. We had to shift a bit in order to serve the community more effectively. Given that I spoke both English and Spanish well and had some knowledge of how “the system” worked, I not only served as pastor to members of my small congregation, but also as unofficial legal liaison, social worker and document translator for many people throughout the community. In a way, I served as a bridge between the Latino community and access to many services in the English-speaking world.
The other bridge that Nueva Creación helped form was between the Latino community and the predominantly white hosting congregation, John Knox Presbyterian Church. I was a bit skeptical coming into this relationship. I did not want my congregation or myself to be seen as second-class citizens. However, the JKPC congregation and its leadership welcomed us and we established a true partnership as we ministered to and with the congregation.
Prior to seminary I “knew” I would always serve within a Hispanic/Latino context. However, as had often been the case in my life and ministry, God had other plans. I served as pastor of Nueva Creación for just over five years. During a time of vocational reflection and discernment, I began serving Witherspoon Presbyterian Church, a historically African-American congregation, as temporary pulpit supply. Although I was only there for nine months, the people of Witherspoon helped me appreciate the importance of congregational history and challenged me to help them think of a world beyond what had been. Despite the obvious racial/ethnic differences between the congregation and myself, they accepted me as their pastor.
There is no doubt my life experience in and outside the church has been a constant crossing of boundaries and, in some cases, standing on the boundary itself. It can be exhausting. It can make finding a “home” a rather elusive quest. Yet, Moses’ early life and, in particular, his experience before the burning bush help give me a new vision to live in to.
After all the running around Moses did, he came before the burning bush and was asked to take off his shoes. After constantly having to prove himself to others, he was finally home. He did not have to try to fit in any paradigm. He was accepted and called to serve just as he was because his identity was to be found in God.
I continue to navigate the waters of living in two or three worlds. Yet, as I serve in a new call in Delaware, Moses’ journey has helped me lay a foundation for what I envision this ministry to be. My life and calling has never really “fit the mold” and I do not expect this ministry to do so either. Moreover, being a Latino pastor doesn’t mean that it will be a Latino church. We will strive to minister to and with people from different cultures that speak different languages. We will strive to be a church where our identity is found in God, where faith grows in the midst of struggle and questions, where we worship God with heart and mind, where differences are seen as gifts from God, and where the Spirit welcomes, transforms and commissions all to bear witness of Jesus Christ through acts of love and justice.
Fernando Rodríguez is the organizing pastor of Church on Main, a new worshipping community in Middletown, Delaware. He is happily married to Kecelyn Santiago and they have two beautiful children, Matías and Sionely. Fernando enjoys hearing his children laugh, screaming at the television while watching soccer and playing basketball.
