Saving the Cuban Soul

by Bret Sigler
Researcher: Kelly Jackson Richardson

photo by Mimi Chakarova

Oscar Leon Damien parts the faded floral sheet that serves as a bedroom door and steps into his blue shoebox of a living room. He sits in the wooden rocker, picks up his bible and runs through notes in his head, making mental checks to ensure that his sermon is in order.

A few blocks away Mario Luis Ramos Madera rolls out of bed. He pulls an old but clean soccer jersey over his well-built shoulders. He slips past his son, careful not to wake him, and steps outside to have a smoke. He lights an unfiltered Popular – Cuba’s national brand – and offers a bit of tobacco to Eluggua, the orisha of opportunity.

These routines seem ordinary enough, but Cuba’s religious revival has sparked fervent debates that have been absent for decades. As Cubans again begin to consider God – some for the first time – profound theological and social questions arise. Who is God? Who needs him? And whose God are Cubans likely to worship?

Pinar del Rio is a small town in the interior of Cuba’s most important tobacco growing region. The coastal sea breeze that cools Havana never arrives here, leaving the dusty streets to bake in the Caribbean sun. UFO-shaped Soviet-era water towers hover on the horizon, hoarding the province’s lifeblood, as Pinarenos scurry along the shady side of Avenida Jose Marti, the town’s only major thoroughfare. Locals are proud of their tobacco and their baseball – the provincial team always challenging Santiago de Cuba for the national title. But in Pinar del Rio, as in many other towns, religious possibilities are stirring the spiritual. Here Catholics, Evangelicals and Santeros vie for souls on an island where most religious activity stopped when the Revolution took hold.

When Fidel Castro’s Revolution triumphed in 1959, 80 percent of the population considered themselves Catholic. Many Catholics also practiced Santeria, and Evangelical Churches were just a blip on the holy radar. Before the Revolution, many priests were anti-Batista and imprisoned and tortured for their political views. But church bishops supported the dictator until the end, and when Castro came to power, many of them fled to Miami with their rich congregations. Still, Castro initially indicated tolerance, if not support, of the church. In early 1959 he praised religious education in state schools. But as Castro began his social reforms, the church’s support for the Revolution faltered. By the end of the same year, many young Catholics had denounced Castro and the Catholic Youth organization published an article that said reform could be carried out without Communism.

This opposition made Castro take a second look at religion’s role in his Revolution. Santeria was still tolerated, but the government decided Catholicism belonged to the conquistadors and the wealthy. Although Castro never outlawed its practice outright, attending church became associated with antisocial behavior the government placed hurdles in front of the openly religious. They were barred from the Communist Party, the military and the university. The Catholic Church kept up its pressure and in August 1960, less than two years after Castro’s victory march through Havana, those bishops who remained denounced Castro’s government. "Whoever condemns a Revolution such as ours," Castro responded to the criticism, "betrays Christ and would be capable of crucifying him again."

With Castro’s feelings clear, if Christ remained in the hearts of some, practicing religion became a clandestine affair. Religious education was banned from school curriculum. Many churches shut down and fell into disrepair. Catholics and Evangelicals met in small groups behind closed doors where the pious erected makeshift altars in their living rooms. Most Cubans learned to live without religion and to love the Revolution – religious believers dropped from more than 70 percent of the population to less than 30 percent according to official numbers.

As Cubans again begin to consider God – some for the first time – profound theological and social questions arise. Who is God? Who needs him? And whose God are Cubans likely to worship?

But when the Revolution lost the Soviet bloc in the late eighties, things changed. The country entered the "special period." Times were tough – Soviet subsidies were gone and Cubans were left to fend for themselves. While much of the older generation persevered, the younger generation became disheartened and began to look for salvation elsewhere. Sunday attendance rose at the few remaining churches and new ones opened. Evangelical groups expanded and university students formed religious groups. Religion exploded and Castro retreated. He admitted in 1990 that the religious had been treated unjustly, and in 1992, the once atheist government declared itself a secular state and banned religious discrimination with an amendment to its constitution. The official number of Evangelical churches almost doubled to 1,666 between 1992 and 2000 (although Protestant groups insist the number is much higher), and at least 55 denominations now practice on the island. In 1998, 500,000 Cubans crowded into Havana’s Plaza de la Revolución to attend Pope John Paul II’s first-ever mass in Cuba. And a year later, a rally jointly organized by leaders of 49 different Protestant churches drew 100,000 people to the same plaza, with Castro himself seated in the first row.

But impacts of the old religious policy remain. In 33 years without organized religion, many Cubans have grown up with no notion of how it operates in other countries. Take Reinaldo Arenado, an angst-filled 18-year old for example. He’s a pinareno who has spent his whole life in Cuba’s near spiritual void. He lives with his grandparents and his disabled father in the center of town. When Arenado was ten, his mother left the island suddenly, rowing for Florida. "She just kept telling me that she was going over the big water, but I didn’t understand what she meant." He hasn’t seen her since, and in her wake, Arenado has become an introspective soul searcher. Although he isn’t religious, Arenado’s intrigued by religious mysticism. He sits hunched in front of a small, worn TV balanced on a rickety wooden bookshelf in the open-air living room of his house – an old, colonial villa that the Revolution has long since divided among several families – and pops a pirated copy of the film Stigmata into the VCR.

In 33 years without organized religion, many Cubans have grown up with no notion of how it operates in other countries.

"Where did you get that?" I ask, knowing that the Exorcist-style religious thriller is banned in Cuba.

"From a friend," he responds simply and quickly changes the subject. "This movie is pure fantasy … It’s stupid," he says, but admits that he’s never seen it. Arenado turns off the lights forcing the dingy but ornately carved ceilings to fade into the darkness. As the FBI warning flashes on the screen, the house falls silent, interrupted only by the occasional dog barking in the distance.

He was right. The film is stupid. It’s about a young American woman who becomes mysteriously afflicted with the same wounds as the crucified Christ. The Vatican responds by deploying an envoy of priests, comparable to the CIA in their cunning and efficiency, to the woman’s home in Pittsburgh. Arenado was mesmerized. With his deadpan stare illuminated by the rolling credits he asked, "Is the Catholic Church really that powerful?"

"Our North American friends want to know if there are any youth in the church," Damien calls out to his congregation at a youth meeting at his Assembly of God church on a Tuesday night in March. The crowd erupts in affirmation. At 60, Damien the Evangelical minister has aged gracefully with a slight paunch and hair that is just starting to gray at the temples. His face is dominated by a pair of thick, square glasses that constantly slide down the bridge of his round nose. As always, he dons a pair of worn dress slacks and one of his multi-colored guyavera shirts.

The church is a concrete box that sits on a long, dusty road on the outskirts of town where the scent of burning tobacco fields often fills the air. A squat, blue steeple adorned with a small, wrought iron cross barely pokes above the surrounding rooftops. The provincial baseball stadium – a temple of a different sort – looms on the distant horizon.

photo by Mimi Chakarova

Tonight, young Christians from across the province have descended on Damien’s church to discuss the church’s rural growth. Because Damien has no car and little money to pay for other transportation, it’s a rare opportunity to meet with members from outlying communities. The group consists of mostly twenty-somethings, many with their young children in tow, still yawning from the long day’s journey. The churchgoers take special care to greet each other, one by one, with a handshake or a hug.

The music starts and Damien times his words to the beat of a salsa rendition of "May God Always Bless You." A shabby three-piece band of drums, guitar and synthesizer pounds out the tune. "I need somebody who can ride a bike and who has enough faith to carry him along," he implores the congregation – the microphone cord coiled in his left hand in a style reminiscent of a fifties-era Vegas lounge singer. There is new interest in the Assembly of God in San Cristobal, a nearby rural community, and Damien is looking for someone to spread the good word.

An Evangelical since his conversion at 14, Damien says that despite its limited resources, his religious community has exploded. In the nineties alone, the Assembly of God grew from 89 to more than 2,000 churches. But it isn’t just Damien’s group. Mario Cesar Aguilar, the pastor at Catedral San Rosendo, has also witnessed tremendous growth at his Catholic Church on the other side of town. Aguilar says when he came to Pinar del Rio in 1984 the church had less than 100 parishioners. Now he preaches to a filled chapel every Sunday.

Rick Johnson, the Assembly of God’s Caribbean Area Director in Florida, admits that he doesn’t fully understand why religion is growing so fast on the island, but says that it is "fulfilling something in Cubans’ lives that needs to be fulfilled." For Damien, it’s simple. "Young people feel they are missing something," he said. "For many years the government said there was no God. But God cannot be ignored or denied."

And apparently, neither can the pope. Religious attendance surged in Catholic and Evangelical churches alike after his visit to the island in 1998. As of 2000, four million Cubans – or 40 percent of the population – were baptized Catholic. Official Protestant membership is also up to 500,000, although many Evangelicals believe the true number to be much higher.

"It’s not enough just to believe in God. You have to be consumed by him," said Ramon, a nineteen- year- old Baptist youth group organizer. His reverend, Juan Carlos Rojas, agrees. Rojas is awed by the surge in young membership at his church. "Cuban youth are an example to the world. They truly are inspired."

"Cleanse yourself of Satan. Accept Jehovah as your savior!" But who is Satan? It’s a slippery question for many pinarenos.

"You cannot be a man of faith if you’re not obedient!" an assistant yells out to Damien’s congregation. He is a tiny man leaning over a small, wood-paneled podium. He waves his arms to forcefully emphasize each word. The audience quickly turns their backs to the altar, kneels on the floor and puts their heads face down on the rickety pews. Damien watches from behind a ramshackle piano. "Cast Satan out!" the man continues, his voice now becoming hoarse. The congregation begins to speak in tongues – some barely whispering, others nearly shouting in an almost rhythmic cadence. The smell of sweat fills the small temple. "Cleanse yourself of Satan. Accept Jehovah as your savior!"

But who is Satan? It’s a slippery question for many pinarenos. For Damien and other Evangelicals, he is embodied almost everywhere – especially in the Santeria ceremonies that take place in their very neighborhoods. They say the worship of saints, or orishas as they are known in Santeria, is a dangerous and powerful black magic not to be trifled with. And the use of money in its ceremonies compounds the evil.

"Santeria is the devil," Damien says plainly, his voice lowering as he pushes his bifocals back up the bridge of his nose.

Damien’s devil is just a few blocks away, locked up in Madera’s closet. Here, behind a ramshackle wooden door in the corner of the house, Madera, a Pinar del Rio native and one of only three bablaos in town, guards his most powerful Santeria ceremonial tools: a goat skull attached to a wooden stick, some bleached squirrel bones, a long, white candle mounted on the skull of a cat. But Madera’s tools are no anomaly. For centuries, Santeria has been ingrained in Cuban culture – and has transcended traditional religious boundaries as Catholics and non-Catholics alike have dabbled in the faith. "Santeria isn’t just a religion," said Dr. Margaret Crahan, a history professor at Hunter College in New York, who has studied religion on the island for more than thirty years, "it’s part of the Cuban identity."

Santeria is a mixture of Catholic and Yoruban traditions that evolved when Spanish fanaticism forced West African slaves to worship their orishas under the guise of Catholic saints. By 1840, the majority of Cubans were of African descent and Santeria had entered the mainstream.

"People who lived in close proximity [to Santeros] began to adopt Santeria," Crahan said. "You can see how it permeated." And it continued to permeate as blacks moved from the plantations to the cities, taking their religion with them.

In modern times, Madera says Santeria has been the darling faith of the Cuban people. According to some estimates, as much as 70 percent of the population practices some form of the tradition, many still blending it with the Catholic faith. Castro routinely refers to Santeria as a point of pride in Cuba’s afro-Caribbean culture, and ceremonies are often broadcast on the national TV station. Now, however, some non-Santeros are openly hostile.

"Young people feel they are missing something," he said. "For many years the government said there was no God. But God cannot be ignored or denied."

"I have to turn off the television almost every night," said Rojas. "It disgusts me, with all the dancing. It’s the work of the occult. It’s nothing more than folklore." Rojas, the son of a minister, coordinates seven churches in the country’s fourth largest Baptist mission. He and his family live in a small apartment above the mission’s largest church, located in Pinar del Rio. He says that Santeria is widely celebrated because so many people in the government practice the religion.

But for religious leaders, popularity doesn’t equate legitimacy. To this day, many Evangelical and Catholic authorities question whether Santeria is a true religion. When the Pope visited Cuba in 1998 he said that traditional Santero beliefs deserve respect but cannot be considered a "specific religion." But it’s unlikely to disappear. Santeria is born out of resistance and survival. Cubans have always flocked to Santeria priests, or babalaos, during hard times to ease their weary bodies, minds and souls; and the current climate of economic instability is no exception. Madera says demand for his services has grown noticeably in recent years. It’s a popularity that frustrates many Evangelicals.

"Santeria and Christianity cannot exist together," said Ramon, a youth-group organizer at the Baptist church. He is standing in front of the temple and sweat gathers on his forehead as the Caribbean sun beats down. A medley of vehicles sputters by, spewing black exhaust into the church. "The bible says there aren’t any other gods but Him in the heavens or on the earth."

But for Madera, Santeria is more than just a religion – it’s his life. "The Evangelicals," Madera says from his living room, "have a tremendous struggle. They’re very self-righteous. They think they have the answers to everything. Everyone keeps their religion like a son. But Santeros don’t go out to criticize other religions."

"Yeah," pipes in Madera’s mother, an ancient woman with fiery red hair and gray stubble on her chin, "those Evangelicals think they know everything."

"Look," he adds, "if you feel badly – spiritually, psychologically or physically – you come to me, we pray to the orishas, and you feel better. How can healing be diabolical?" But as vocal as Cubans can be about their beliefs, Madera says he keeps his opinions to himself. "I have many Christian and Catholic friends," he says, "but I don’t talk about religion.

"What do you call that hat?" I ask. "A hat," he replies

Madera, his mother, his wife and their son, a spry little boy who shares his mother’s translucent green eyes, live in a two-roomed hovel at the end of a long, narrow passageway that winds its way off the street. The Spartan abode is a cool refuge from Pinar’s heat. Madera sees between seven and eight clients per day but he says demand for his services has gradually increased in recent years. Sometimes he goes to a Santero’s house to perform a caracol or a limpia, the Santeria counseling and cleansing ceremonies, but usually worshippers come to see him.

"Take off your shoes and place your feet on the mat," Madera says to a client as he prepares for caracol. They are in the back room of his house. The sharp scent of urine fills the room – a reminder of the small pig they’re raising in the corner. "It only costs a few hundred pesos to buy one when they’re young," Madera says, referring to the pig. After only a few months of eating whatever scraps of food the family can muster, the piglet will soon be fat enough to butcher and eat.

While the young woman sits erect on a chair, her bare feet on the straw mat, Madera puts on a red and black velvet beret that he reserves for such ceremonies.

"What do you call that hat?" I ask.

"A hat," he replies, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. But the headgear is only a small part of the Madera’s arsenal of religious paraphernalia. The dilapidated piano that juts out from the undersized kitchen is saddled with religious shrines, or soperas, dedicated to a motley array of orishas – Obbata, the god of power and health, Chango, the god of morality, Yemaya the goddess of water.

Madera covers his and the woman’s hands with white chalk and asks her to place a bill on the pile of shells and stones in the center of the mat.The monetary gift is a crucial element in Santeria ceremonies – and one that Evangelicals criticize. "Money and religion don’t mix," Damien says. "He can only say what he understands," Madera says, responding to the criticism. He says Santeria isn’t a get-rich-quick scheme for babalaos. "Santeria is for everyone," he adds. Most of the clients’ money is used to buy the tobacco, rum and sometimes animals that are offered to the orishas in various ceremonies. "It’s not like in the United States," Madera says. "If I were living there, I’d be a millionaire from all the money Americans pay to those telephone psychics."

Madera repeatedly throws the stones, shells and money onto the mat as he chants to the orishas. The shells that land face-up are speaking; the ones that land face down are not. He studies the patterns, and offers the woman his advice. "You are generally healthy, but if you feel a pain in your abdomen, go to the doctor – it could be your ovaries … You are trustworthy and people are attracted to you. But be very careful with some of them, especially lesbians, homosexuals and drunks."

Evangelicals’ criticisms don’t end with the Santeros. Relations with the Catholics have also been strained. They view Catholicism as a tired religion that relies on rehearsed prayers and arcane traditions to bring salvation – and they’ve taken their critique to the streets. In Havana, an Evangelical group recently passed out religious pamphlets after Sunday mass in front of Santa Rita, one of the largest churches in the country.

photo by Mimi Chakarova

"I don’t mind if they’re handing out pamphlets in front of the store or in front of military housing or wherever," said Jaoquin Bello, a layman volunteer for the church, his tight polo shirt straining to contain his round belly, "but after our masses? No."

"We don’t just count numbers and say ‘enough’," Father Aguilar says back in Pinar, adding that Evangelicals are too preoccupied with their official membership numbers. Aguilar, a chubby patriarch of a man who begins most of his comments with "Well, my son," continues on. "You have to evangelize, but we try not to do it with fear or aggression. We try to educate with love and with God – and love demands respect."

But respect is often fleeting in Pinar’s churches and the town’s religious leaders find themselves bickering over the particulars of faith. Aguilar believes that communication is as imperative as boosting church memberships, but he says the Evangelicals have been stubborn. The Catholic Church, he says, has invited Damien and other Evangelical leaders to discuss the state of religion in Pinar del Rio as well as the possibility of coordinating small charity programs. The offer, he says, has been declined. "Dialogue between the churches is very important," Aguilar says leaning back in his rocking chair. "But it takes two sides. We have demonstrated good faith … they have not. I hope that relations improve."

That’s unlikely for now. "There is a famous Cuban saying," Rojas, the Baptist reverend says as his five-year-old son uses a sword to attack stuffed animals at his feet, "A good wall makes a good neighbor." Damien agrees. "I don’t want to criticize. There are many Catholics that are very sincere in their religion – I was Catholic before I found the Evangelicals when I was fourteen. But you can’t erase history. The Inquisition was brutal," he says, referring to the Catholic Church’s purging of Jews and other minorities in fifteenth century Europe. "They’ve invited us to these meetings, but we don’t go," he adds, sipping on a glass of watered-down juice – a common beverage in these times of scarcity. Damien says the Catholics’ history of global politicizing has damaged their relationship with God. "The Catholics are diplomats. Politics and religion shouldn’t be mixed."

But the squabbling hasn’t deterred locals from practicing religion. And for some pinarenos, the particulars of each church aren’t important. "I go to the Baptist church often," says Mary Baez Iglesia, an elderly woman with dyed, jet-black hair and pearly white dentures who lives around the corner from Rojas’ church. When she hears that I’m investigating religion, she disappears into her bedroom to dig up her old bible. It takes her several minutes to locate the worn, paperback volume that looks as old and dusty as her pre-Revolutionary house. Iglesia was raised Catholic, but stopped practicing during the Revolution. In recent years, however, religion has beckoned once again. "The Baptist church is very beautiful," she says, as her non-religious husband grunts under the worn bill of his baseball cap, "But I go to the Catholic Church a lot too. I just like it, with all the singing and the mass."

Still, switching churches isn’t always so easy. And with many Cubans practicing religion for the first time, differing beliefs have created internal family strife. Jeremiah, a thirty-something Assembly of God member who is always flashing a broad smile, joined Damien’s church four years ago along with his mother, two brothers, wife and daughter. Damien introduced him as a convert; "he used to be a Santero … a drunk and a Santero."

"The Baptist church is very beautiful," she says, as her non-religious husband grunts under the worn bill of his baseball cap, "But I go to the Catholic Church a lot too. I just like it, with all the singing and the mass."

Jeremiah’s face drops slightly behind his smile. "Yeah, I used to be a Santero, but that was all I knew. I didn’t know Christ and I didn’t know it was diabolical." But he still has a brother and several friends who are practicing Santeros. He says their religious differences force them to have many discussions. "He talks and I listen and then I talk and he listens," Jeremiah explained. "He hasn’t converted yet, but I have faith in Jehovah."

Ramon, a nineteen-year-old Baptist youth leader, says he joined the church two years ago after he accepted God into his heart. But now, Ramon is having similar problems with his secular family. "It’s difficult," he said with a nervous smile, "but now, God is my life. The church is my life. They don’t understand, but I’ve had a complete conversion."

Crahan says Cubans, and especially Cuban youth, are joining churches in part because they are feeling increasingly disenchanted by the government’s shortcomings and are looking for fulfillment outside of the Revolution. "Young people feel particularly betrayed," she says. "In part, this is because the promises of the Revolution and its certainties are obviously not seen to hold water with these individuals."

Young Ramon doesn’t speak so pointedly about the Revolution, but in these times of scarcity, and with basic medical supplies at a premium, he admits that stories of God’s healing powers helped peak his interest in the Baptist church. "There are many examples of God saving children," he said, remembering the story of a young boy who was suffering from a degenerative muscular disease. The boy’s father, an unbeliever, brought him to several doctors, to no avail. "But one day," Ramon said, "the boy accepted Jesus into his heart, and now he’s better."

"My sister’s in the military," a young newlywed told me in the back of Damien’s church as she flipped through snapshots of her wedding. The woman, in her early twenties, joined the church with her fiancee a year ago – now they’re the only Christians in her family. She doesn’t oppose the Revolution, but she says parts of it frustrate her. "You can’t have any religion in the military and that’s been a huge stress on our relationship."

So now, many young Cubans are looking for promises and certainties in churches like Rojas’. On most Sundays, the faithful are forced to jockey for position outside his temple so they can peer in through the open-air windows that flank the building. One churchgoer said it was only a matter of time before more pinarenos started practicing religion. "After the Revolution, el comandante said we couldn’t practice anymore. But we kept pushing," he added, thrusting his elbow at an invisible enemy.

Still, there’s a flip side to Evangelical growth. Despite the influx of young people, it’s been difficult for the churches in Pinar del Rio to recruit middle-aged members. Damien says attracting men of 35 years or older to the church has been especially daunting. "They have work or they’re in the armed forces," he explains.

Crahan says the older generation is simply coming from a different place. "These are the people who participated in literacy campaigns, they received health care and they do remember pre-Revolutionary Cuba," Crahan said. Their feelings are "things have gone bad, but you can’t blame the Revolution."

Many young Cubans are looking for promises and certainties in churches like Rojas’.

Maybe not. But politics and religion are becoming inexorably intertwined. As Cubans continue to scramble for basic necessities, they have become increasingly dependent on churches to provide clothing, medicines and even food to make up for the government’s shortcomings. Now religious leaders find themselves walking a precarious line between providing spiritual and physical fulfillment and angering Castro’s government.
Damien’s hands still tremble when he speaks about the state. He suddenly looks all of his 60 years and uses hushed tones as he talks about how difficult it has been for him to be a Christian in Cuba. Damien and his wife first took over the church in Pinar del Rio in 1984 and for several months they ate nothing but the rations of rice, beans and five eggs they were allotted from the bodega each month. They avoided the black market like the plague, refusing to supplement their diet with additional eggs or meat – as many Cubans do – because they felt they were under constant suspicion. "One day my wife just put her head down on the table and cried out ‘This is so hard, why are we doing this?’"

"Something has to change here," Damien continues, his brow knotted in concern. "Before, when the Soviets were around, we had everything, everyone was for socialism. But now we have very little. It’s nothing for you to offer us aspirin, but you can’t imagine how many people come to me every week asking for aspirin or some other medicine." And still, he says, it’s not completely safe to be a Christian. "See that man over there?" Damien asks, pointing a careworn finger at an elderly man at the back of the church, "He’s in the police …You don’t know what it’s like to live as a foreigner, as an enemy, in your own country."

And Damien is tired of being the enemy. He laments over simple things. "You know how difficult it is for me to go to Havana?" he asks, referring to the travel expenses and the inability for most Cubans to stay in a hotel. But even if he had the money, it doesn’t matter he says. "You have to have relatives to stay with or the government is suspicious. Even going to our beaches for a visit is impossible. They’re only for the tourists now."

But Damien, Madera and the others stop short of saying that their churches are hot beds of dissident organizing. "Santeria is a religion of peace and healing," Madera says. "It can’t be about rebellion."

"We don’t know if there are dissidents in the church because we don’t ask," Damien whispered one afternoon from inside his darkened, empty temple. "That’s very dangerous. We don’t mix politics with religion." Rojas agrees. "There’s no room for anything but the bible in my church."

He may be right, and many Evangelicals believe that’s how the government wants to keep it. To accommodate their growing communities, Rojas and Damien have solicited construction permits from the government to build new temples for their respective churches. Both have been rejected. The state routinely denies such permits, forcing many groups to open informal facilities in members’ houses. Many Evangelicals see these denials as a way for the government to control religious growth on the island.

"Look at us, we have to hold classes outside," Rojas says from the small vacant lot behind his church where he someday hopes to build a new temple. Small groups of Sunday school students sat scattered around the yard discussing the day’s gospel – some huddled beneath an ancient tree while others leaned against the whitewashed wall of a makeshift garage.

And space is even tighter at the Assembly of God. Damien lives with his wife in a tiny apartment above the church. The couple hopes to convert their small storage area into a much needed temple addition. They’re still waiting for a permit. "Here, there’s only one employee, the government," Damien said. "In one way or another, it always comes back to the government."

To deal with space shortages, Damien says his church has opened "preaching points" in members’ houses throughout the province. The Assembly of God has established 890 preaching points across the island. But still, Damien says officials will shut meetings down if more than 15 people are present. Now the church constantly rotates the meetings between different living rooms. Johnson, the church’s Caribbean director, says the government also tries to exert control over his church by grossly misrepresenting membership to downplay its impact on the island. Official numbers report 83,000 baptized Assembly of God members in Cuba, but Johnson says there are tens of thousands more practitioners.
Father Aguilar also feels discrimination despite Cuba having become a lay state. "The method of oppression has just changed," Aguilar says. "Now the government uses more psychological repression than physical," he adds, referring to government policies that still restrict complete religious freedom. The state routinely shuts down religious meetings in homes, for example, citing laws that limit the number of people allowed to congregate in private locations. "Perhaps it’s changed in the sense that people can breathe easier, but it’s still difficult."

Difficult or not, Cuba’s Catholic Church isn’t the same organization that involved itself with the Latin American Revolutionary movements of the seventies and eighties. Although the majority of priests supported Castro’s Revolution, much of the hierarchy was in line with Batista and fled the island in 1959. "The churches keep their distance from dissidents," Crahan said. She says liberation theology hasn’t taken hold in Cuba. Crahan remembers a recent conversation with a Cuban; "I asked him about liberation theology, and he responded ‘What do we need that for? We’ve already had our Revolution.’"

People think there are only two options," he says, holding up his pinkie and index finger. "To be for the Revolution or against the Revolution. But there’s a third way," he added while extending his thumb, "to be a Christian."

Still, the Evangelicals have organized several events to spread God’s word. Last year the Assembly of God and other churches held an Evangelical religious rally in Pinar del Rio’s nearby baseball stadium. But the Catholics, Damien said, weren’t invited. The gathering came on the heels of a Protestant rally in Havana that drew more than 100,000 Cubans. "If the Pope could do it, so could we," Damien said with a chuckle, referring to the 1998 papal mass that drew hundreds of thousands of Cubans. "We had to prove that we weren’t inferior." Despite prohibiting private gatherings of more than 15 worshippers, the government has permitted the occasional release valves of religious fervor.

Many North American churches have shown their support by establishing relationships with their Cuban counterparts to help them cope with scarcity on the island. Pastors for Peace has been delivering "friendshipments" to Cuba since 1992. In Havana, two American school buses from Pastors for Peace San Francisco were recently parked in front of a Baptist church. They were covered with social-political statements painted in bright, multi-colored letters written in English: "This bus is going to Cuba with medicine in defiance of the unjust US created embargo on Cuba." And on the back bumper, "Be a real Revolutionary … practice your faith."

Cross-border relationships have allowed many churches to provide much needed clothing and medicine to some Cubans, and in these times of scarcity, foreign donations can be a boon for local memberships. "If one minister has a car or a school, he’ll be more popular," Crahan said. "Of course economics influence membership," says Rojas. "If you have a bible to read and there are fans around to keep you cool, you will enjoy church more." But he’s quick to note that people are drawn to modest temples as well. "Look at us," he says, "we have to hold classes outside."

Even in Pinar, some religious leaders have traveled to the United States to foster these relationships and speak about conditions in Cuba. Rojas has visited several times, and has been invited twice to First Baptist Church in Archdale, North Carolina to preach and to receive "love offerings" of medicines, bibles and other necessities to distribute to his congregation. Although Rojas still has several friends at First Baptist, he was shocked by the state of the Baptist faith in the United States. "They haven’t lost their vision," he says, "But there is also great weakness. People work too much. They worry too much. Materialism has corrupted man."

"He’s just a whole lot more staunch in his beliefs," says Gary Green, a First Baptist Church member in Archdale, adding that he was a bit ashamed that his brethren drank and smoked in Rojas’ presence.

Damien has also fostered relationships abroad. He has visited Assembly of God Churches in Los Angeles and Las Vegas ("People aren’t meant to live in those conditions," he said, commenting on the desert heat), and Father Aguilar has spent many months in Miami – most of them while recovering from knee surgery.

But despite religion’s ever-changing role in Cuba – and it’s ability to provide for some where the government cannot – it’s difficult to know if churches will prove to be a major point of resistance against Castro. "I’m not going to predict what is going to happen," Crahan says. "Churches are stepping in to fill that void within their means. Their overseas connections and access to money make them prime candidates to do so."

In Cuba politics are life, but for Damien there are alternatives. "People think there are only two options," he says, holding up his pinkie and index finger. "To be for the Revolution or against the Revolution. But there’s a third way," he added while extending his thumb, "to be a Christian."

And for Jeremiah, that’s getting easier every day. "Before, it was impossible to be Christian – you couldn’t get a job, people made fun of you," he said. But now, Jeremiah greets people in his neighborhood with "May God bless you," the familiar Christian salutation. "It’s so much better. People ask me ‘Are you a Christian?’ … ‘So am I!’" Jeremiah isn’t alone. He and the others hold great hopes for the future of their churches as religion is reborn in Pinar del Rio.

"Mass is about to start," says a plump man donning a Catedral San Rosendo T-shirt in front of Father Aguilar’s church. He’s waving the faithful into the colonial temple, now just a shell of its former grandeur, floating on a sea of brown grass.

A few blocks away, Madera thinks about how he will one day pass the knowledge of the orishas on to his son, like his uncle did to him. He is comforted in knowing that the legacy – and the faith – will continue.

Meanwhile Damien remembers his brothers that have left Cuba for the United States in the hopes that they could practice their faith in peace. He thinks about them, and about his experiences at home, and he knows he is where he belongs.

Back inside Aguilar’s church, neighbors greet each other with handshakes and kisses. A young mother shows off her newborn to the congregation under the watchful eyes of the wax saints enshrined throughout the temple. Aguilar stands in front of the Cuban flag on the altar and looks out on his community.

And Rojas sits at the head of the table to leads his family in grace, thinking about the message of his last sermon: Christ doesn’t control our lives, he only tries to direct us, like a bridle does a horse.

 

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