Waters of Grace (Podcast)

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"Welcome to the Israel Sanchez Podcast. My name is Israel Sanchez. Today I'll be reading from my autobiography, Waters of Grace.

Chapter 1 - Beginnings


"Growing up in Cuba, you either belonged to the Communist Party or the Catholic Church. The entire island seemed to be divided in those two camps. Both institutions have their saints and rituals and both have their fervent believers. Before I could even remember or form my first words, my mother decided that I was going to be part of the Roman Catholic clan. My father objected, since he didn’t believe in God, but mainly because he was part of the Union of Young Communists and a baptized son could mean trouble for him. Despite his protests and absence from the ceremony, my mother persevered and a priest sprinkled water made holy over my head.

My parents didn’t stay together long after that, due to my father’s wondering eye, and hands and body I suppose. I don’t have a single memory of them together, no strolls in the park, no holding hands, and no Hallmark or Kodak moments. Probably because of this, the idea of God as Father was foreign to me. God seemed to be someone who visited on weekends and bought you nice things whenever he could, but stayed away during the week. This was fine with me, especially since serving God had become a chore. When I was around 9-years-old, I started attending catechism every Sunday and all I remember learning was what not to do. There were rules at home, rules at school and rules at church. Of course, at this young age I had no idea that when God gave us His commandments it was meant to warn us of sin and alert us to the fact that we were all guilty in need of a Savior. Back then, however, these commandments seemed obscure and confusing. What was a graven image? If we are not supposed to bow down to them, why was everyone at church praying to statutes of saints? I would think about those things at times and ask questions, but no one ever gave me a satisfying answer. Of course, the most horrifying commandment was honoring your father and mother. I had no idea what 'honoring' meant exactly, but I knew I was guilty and it felt like the sting of a bee on my soul.

My Sunday school teacher was a handsome young priest still in seminary school and a lot of the church ladies had a crush on him. One of my mother’s friends was completely in love with the young priest. He seemed to be taken with her too and would openly flirt with her. I imagine that would have been an awkward and tense confession time between those two. Years later, I found out that the priest left seminary school because he fell in love with a woman. My mother’s friend was saddened that she had not been the one to “turn him.”

Once, I asked my aunt, "how can I talk to God? How do I ask Him for prayer?"

“You need to pray,” she said.

“Well, how do I do that?”

“Our father who art in heaven…”

And she would continue with the Apostles Creed and a prayer to the Virgin Mary. I did this every night, hoping that God would hear me, but somehow I thought he would be bored of hearing my repetitions. I don’t know if God was bored or not, but I certainly was. By the time I finished my ritual prayers and was allowed to finally speak to God using my own words, I was sleepy or had forgotten my petitions. There was a chasm between God and me and religion was the cause of it. I didn’t think of Him as Father. God was a distant being who wanted me to not lie or use cuss words and that was all. He lived up in heaven above, way up high, far away from me, far from the misery surrounding my country. He probably lived closer to the United States where kids my age had brand new toys and expensive shoes, and they could eat whatever they wanted for lunch.

Overall, I did enjoy going to church. There was a peace and an otherness that I couldn’t put into words. Perhaps it was the silence. I lived in a tiny house with over seven people, so silence was a rare thing. But there was something else drawing me to church and that was reading.

That's all the time we have today. Thank you for listening and don't forget to checkout Amazon.com for Waters of Grace. "

Cuban National Symbols

These are some of the national symbols of Cuba. The pictures are courtesy of Wikipedia.

The Coat of arms:

The Trogon, national bird:

The Royal Palm:



A look at Havana

These photos are property of Nathan Laurell and I'm using them with full attribution to the photographer and for educational purposes. Please, enjoy!

Announcement!

Hello, all! Later this week I will be posting my latest Podcast. I will read part of Chapter 1 of my autobiography, so please, stay tuned!

Waters of Grace (An Autobiography)

I just self-published a brief spiritual autobiography. It's brief, well, basically because I'm still young. However, in my 28 years, I have experienced events and things that most people my age can't even imagine. From being born in Cuba under a totalitarian government, to fleeing Cuba without either of my parents, to learning a new language, to nearly losing my life in a car crash at 16, to leaving the Roman Catholic Church and becoming an Evangelical Christian.

All these events and more, are viewed through the lens of the Christian faith. As C.S. Lewis once said, "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the Sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

You can preview and buy the Kindle version below!

Waters of Grace: Thoughts on Christianity, Communism and Cuba

The Water Gun Thief

I was around 10 years old when I became the victim of a crime. A few days earlier I had been given a lime-green water gun as gift. I wasn't allowed to spray anything or anyone in the apartment, so I was told to use it only at the park. The park was right beneath the building were I lived, so one day I went there to use the water gun for the first time.

After only a few minutes of using my water gun to spray some bushes near the building, I sensed trouble coming my way. A gang of five boys approached and encircled me. There were a little older than I was and their ragged clothes and filth made them intimidating.

"Can I see your gun?" asked one of them.

"You can see it well from there," I said.

I noticed the circle tightening and the faces becoming more menacing.

"I just want to see it," he said.

Although I was used to fighting bullies at school, I was outnumbered this time. I handed the water gun to the kid. He looked at it for a few seconds and then, in a flash, they all took off. I chased them briefly, but they crossed a very dangerous intersection, one that I was prohibited from crossing. Still, I felt really angry so I grabbed a rock I found nearby and threw in their direction. I hit the water gun thief in the ankle, and although I had lost my gun forever, I felt a bit vindicated.

The Good Night

There's no Thanksgiving celebration in Cuba, which would make sense since there were no Pilgrims. The original Cuban natives were almost completely annihilated by the Spanish colonialists. But since the holidays are coming up, I'll write about another celebration, and that is Christmas Eve, or Noche Buena. Noche Buena translates to "The Good Night," and it sure is good.

First, I must clarify that Christmas was not recognized as a holiday by the Castro regime until the year 1998. This didn't stop people from celebrating in their own homes, though. In my house, we owned a small Christmas tree. It was scantily decorated with often faulty lights and with empty boxes wrapped up to look like presents. And of course, there was always a nativity scene decoration.

The day before Christmas, or Noche Buena, is when the real party begins in a Cuban home. One of the main traditions is having roasted pork loin. I remember once when my grandfather stabbed a pig in the heart and the creature started squealing and running around until it dropped dead. I don't remember if I felt sad or not, but I do remember enjoying the food later. There's always rice and black beans accompanying the meat, as well as salad and yuca (cassava). There's usually beer for the adults, and if the kids are lucky, a cheap imitation of Koo-laid. Every once in a great while a Pepsi bottle would pop up, but that was a rarity.

Pork was not always easy to find, especially during Cuba's "special period," but families always managed to make their Noche Buena a good night.

In the Darkness

After the Soviet bloc fell, Cuba lost its main source of oil and other imports. This drastic elimination of the main source of economic influx plunged the island of Cuba into what the government called "the special period." There was nothing special about it. What it meant was scarcity of food, water and other basic supplies, as well as power outages.

If you think New York had it bad with power outages lasting a few weeks, imagine going months with only two hours of electricity. Then imagine years of daily outages lasting more than 16 hours every single day. That's what happened in Cuba in the mid 90s.

I was a young boy when this happened, but I clearly remember those interminable nights when the entire city of Havana was covered in darkness. I lived on the 10th floor of an apartment building, so I would look out in the distance and see the darkness all around the city. On some days when the lights would be turned on before midnight, one could hear claps and cheering all around the building, and I'm sure all around Havana. Having electricity was a luxury then.

Looking back now, I can see this darkness was the perfect metaphor for the oppressive regime.

Being Catholic in Cuba, part 2

My cousin Yinet and I were selected to represent Joseph and Mary for a Christmas show at church. All we had to was carry a ceramic baby Jesus to the makeshift manger and stand there. The baby Jesus doll didn't look heavy, but when my underweight and malnourished hands got a hold of it, I almost dropped it. I didn't know much theology then, I was only 7 or 8, but I figured that dropping baby Jesus wasn't the best way to make a good impression.

All along while this was going on, many of the opposition leaders were meeting in the church. Cuba's opposition to the totalitarian communist regime has grown in the past couple of years, but back then, in the early 90s, it was nearly unheard of. Regardless, they were at the church, many of the important leaders sat at the front. Meanwhile, in the middle of the procession, about seven or eight guys came in through the church doors and just stood at the back. Although they weren't dressed as police officers, everyone at church knew who they were. The way the stood, their posture, and even their intense gaze spoke more than an uniform.

For whatever revolutionary reason they gave, the confetti was prohibited. I don't know in what way confetti can be harmful to the Cuban Revolution, but apparently those festive pieces of paper had some subversive value.

After my exhausted and trembling hands were relaxed and the event was over, I witnessed as those same government thugs pushed those opposition leaders into cars. The members of the opposition had done nothing wrong. There was no violence from their part. All they did was shout "Freedom!" as they were taken away in cars to be imprisoned for the simple crime of speaking their minds. At that moment, I remember wishing that baby Jesus would be with them.