Archive: Trial By Fire In Havana

By J. Lee Grady

In the darker days of Fidel Castro’s regime, many Cubans were afraid to set foot in a church. Christians did not fit into Castro’s plan for a communist utopia, so his government severely restricted religious activities and even banished pastors to prison camps. But anyone who visits the isolated island today will discover that things have changed: evangelical churches are growing, Cuban youth are embracing Christianity, and the Bible is the top-selling book in state-run stores.

And, for the most part, Castro is not interfering.

Just ask Rinaldo Hernandez, 37, a passionate preacher who pastors the Vedado Methodist Church in downtown Havana. During his days in seminary, Hernandez was sent to a labor camp for so-called “moral deficiencies.” In recent years, however, especially since Castro revised his official posture toward the church in 1990, the government has left Hernandez alone.

A charismatic like most other Methodist pastors in Cuba, Hernandez has won many atheists and communists to Christ in recent days. He says his country is in the midst of a spiritual transformation.

“We are facing a great opportunity here,” he said. “There is a growing church in Cuba, a powerful and dynamic church.”

One evening last September, Hernandez preached to about 125 people in the front yard of a modest concrete-block home in Cojimar, a Havana suburb. Since it is next to impossible for Cuban Christians to build new church structures or renovate old ones, this so-called “house church” has been meeting outdoors for months.

Most people walked or rode bicycles to the worship service—the clearest indication that a fuel shortage has crippled the country. A kerosene lantern provided the only light for the meeting because the neighborhood was experiencing a blackout. Cubans have come to expect power failures at least once a day.

But no one seemed to mind the darkness or the crude seating arrangements, which consisted of wooden benches and stone steps. Adults stood for the first half-hour, clapping and lifting their hands as they sang spirited praise choruses in Spanish. Children and a few dogs lounged on the dusty pavement to stay cool.

“Aleluya! Aleluya! Gloria a Dias!” several people shouted, while others whispered in tongues. A young man, the church’s lay leader, shook a tambourine as Hernandez strummed his guitar frantically.

The music was loud, but no one seemed to worry about disturbing the neighbors. “Most of the neighbors are here,” Hernandez explained. Pointing to various houses on the street, he recounted when and how various residents had experienced conversions after visiting the outdoor meetings.

The people who gathered for church in Cojimar exhibited the telltale signs of stress that all Cuban faces wear today. Many of these Christians owned only a few items of clothing, and maybe only one pair of shoes.

Many of them were hungry, too. They may have eaten some rice or bread that day, but no meat or eggs. Life has been extremely difficult in Cuba ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union—when the island’s only supply line for gasoline, wheat, and consumer goods was cut off.

But the people who gathered for worship at the Cojimar church seemed eager to rise above their deplorable circumstances.

The meeting lasted past 10 p.m. During a lengthy series of testimonials, one young woman told how she had abandoned a life of prostitution after members of the church shared the gospel with her while she was in the hospital.

“The doctor said my tumor was gone,” she said, declaring that Jesus Christ had healed her of cancer. She added that she destroyed a collection of idols and fetishes after her conversion. This woman had been a follower of Santeria, the African spiritist religion that is practiced by a quarter of all Cubans.

Hernandez used the woman’s story to illustrate a sermon point as he preached from the Gospel of Luke about miracles. “The Lord has not only given us His Word, but His power,” he said. “He has given us the power to perform signs and wonders.”

Out of the fiery furnace

Rinaldo Hernandez’s life could be considered a miracle of sorts. A fourth-generation Methodist, he was only two years old in 1959 when Castro led the revolution that deposed military dictator Fulgencio Batista. Castro promised to turn Cuba into a socialist paradise, and those who opposed him fled or were jailed.

By the time Hernandez was in college, he sensed that God had called him into the ministry. He was troubled that 85 percent of the Cuban pastors had left the island during the 1960s. At one point the Methodist Church had only 12 ministers to serve 120 congregations.

Hernandez’s father, who spent five years in prison for political subversion, wanted the family to escape to Miami, But Rinaldo Hernandez decided that staying in Cuba was a cross he must bear. “I remember my father told me that I would pay a high price for that decision,” he said.

Before he would be asked to pay that price, however, Hernandez had an unusual encounter with God. In 1979 a visiting professor at the seminary he attended told students in a chapel service how she had been baptized in the Holy Spirit.

Within weeks, Hernandez and his wife—along with other seminarians—prayed for a fresh infilling of spiritual power. They also began speaking in tongues. Hernandez did not know at the time that Methodist ministers all over Cuba were being introduced to that same experience. Today, more than three-fourths of all Methodist leaders could be classified as charismatic or Pentecostal.

“I knew from that experience that God was preparing me.” Hernandez said.

The big test came a year later when the government interrupted Hernandez’s seminary education and assigned him to compulsive military service at the Cuabalejo work camp near the city of Matanzas. Hernandez had to leave his wife, Maggly, who was pregnant at the time.

“I became a pastor in that work camp, not in seminary,” he said. Conditions were primitive, and most of the 100 men assigned to the camp were hardened criminals.

But eventually he and seven other Christians began meeting secretly at night in a sugar cane field to pray and read the Bible. They supported each other throughout the ordeal.

“To the communists, a Christian could not be trusted,” Hernandez said, explaining why Castro’s forces persecuted him. “They know we have a different philosophy.”

The difficulties of life in that humid hellhole at Cuabalejo did not deter Hernandez from pursuing his call to ministry. Upon his release, he earned his seminary degree and began his first assignment with the Methodist Church in the eastern part of Cuba.

A turning point

Opinions vary about when the Cuban church actually began to experience renewal. Within Methodist churches, it certainly could be traced back to the early 1950s, when a pastor named Emilio Gonzales had a Pentecostal experience, even though he had never talked with anyone about it or read about it in books.

But everyone agrees that Cuban churches began to grow rapidly in 1990 when Castro issued an apology to Christians in a nationally televised address. The Communist Party leader admitted that his regime was guilty of religious discrimination, and he invited Christians to join his party to help build a better Cuba.

Castro’s policy shift did not lure any Christians to join the Communist Party. In fact, it had the opposite effect: it convinced many communists that it was okay for them to return to church.

After Castro’s announcement, Hernandez said communists and atheists began showing up at his worship services. One woman who taught scientific atheism at the University of Havana visited the church and was converted. Another woman who had a high-level position in the government quit her job to choose between being a Christian and being a communist.

“The spiritual needs of these people are greater than the fear they have lived under for so long,” Hernandez said.

Many followers of Santeria have also been converted at his church, Hernandez said. He has grown accustomed to casting out demons associated with the religion, and he is convinced Santeria is Cuba’s most serious spiritual problem. “It is the stronghold. It’s almost the official religion here,” he said.

The increasing spiritual hunger in Cuba could be measured by the government’s recent venture into Bible sales. According to members of Cuba’s Ecumenical Council—a government-sanctioned group of denominational leaders—Cubans stated in a recent poll that they wanted a copy of the Bible more than any other book.

Taking a cue from that survey, Castro’s government arranged to stock the shelves of state-owned bookstores with copies of the Scriptures to test response.

“Six hundred Bibles sold in 40 minutes at $10 each,” said Jose Lopez, a Baptist pastor who serves on the Ecumenical Council.

So far, about 400,000 Bibles—most of them supplied by the United Bible Societies—have been distributed to churches and the government’s 335 bookstores. More Bibles were imported into Cuba in 1992 than in the previous 23 years.

Hernandez, an incurable visionary, says he expects Cuba’s spiritual surge to intensify as more people realize they are free to believe.

Seated in his office at the Vedado Church, with volumes of John Wesley’s writings filling the shelves behind him, he shares his dream for his country: “We are going to see the same kind of reformation in Cuba that England saw [in the 19th century] when the Methodists encouraged spiritual awakening there.”

Ready for change

Fidel Castro’s remarkable change of heart toward religion is certainly not the only reason Cubans are exploring their spiritual options. Another reason is obvious: these people are desperate after years of empty promises.

Throughout Havana the failure of socialism is conspicuous. The city is falling apart. There is no paint or mortar to renovate crumbling schools and apartment buildings. Government-controlled hospitals and doctors’ offices lack basic supplies like aspirin and rubber gloves. Cars sit idle on the street for want of spare parts and fuel. Stores are empty. State-run restaurants often have nothing to serve but tea. On the black market, one can buy a plate of rice, beans, and fried pork for $5, but few Cubans can afford it. The government has an official term for the hardship Cuba has faced since the Soviet Union collapsed: El periodo especial, the special period. Party loyalists hope that citizens will rally together in honor of their beloved Fidel and make the nation great again. There does not appear to be much enthusiasm in the streets of Havana for a new political campaign. Most people are hungry and tired of being without basic necessities. And some blame Castro for running the country into the ground.

Many church leaders agree that Cuba has indeed entered a special period—but they use the term to denote a time of spiritual renewal. “Scarcity has led the Cuban people to seek a deeper spirituality,” Hernandez said.

If one wants to find a hint of enthusiasm anywhere in Havana, it will not be at the neighborhood communist committees located on every street corner. Most of the enthusiasm in Cuba today is in its churches.

At a Wednesday night service at the Vedado Methodist Church, the atmosphere was electric as 100 young people jammed into the main sanctuary to praise the Lord. For more than an hour they clapped and sang choruses. Then Rinaldo Hernandez opened his Bible and presented a message titled “Qualifications of a Christian Leader.”

The men and women in the crowd seemed eager to put Hernandez’s teaching into practice. At the sermon’s conclusion, they stood to their feet and belted out the same rousing anthem they sing at every meeting at Vedado:

“Cuba is for Christ! Cuba is for Christ! He will change my country! He will make it better!”

From his seat on the front row, Hernandez grinned as he watched his young flock. He was looking at the future of the Cuban church.

“We are not praying for a revival. We are in a revival,” he said. “This movement is quiet, but strong.”

J. Lee Grady is the news editor for Charisma. He traveled to Havana in September 1994 to compile this report. Reprinted with permission by Charisma, January 1994. Strang Communication Co.

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