The Beauty of the Nations

Growing up I was oblivious to the ever present reality of what it meant to be a person of color. Living my life just felt normal. I played with my dad, was hugged by my mom, and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches just like everyone else. But in the third grade is when the reality of my color was truly put on display.

I was playing with friends on the playground when suddenly one of the people I honestly dreaded to see started talking to me. Most interactions with this guy weren't great but were fairly tolerable, but this day was different. I heard words that would echo in my head for years to come every time I would grow my hair out, “Why do you have nigger hair?” As a kid I didn’t know how to respond, or really what he had meant by that, I just knew it couldn’t be a compliment based on the scowl on his face and the edge in his voice. So I just walked away and kept to myself that day. I never told my parents about this until I was an adult, maybe because of the shame, it just never seemed like the right thing to do. 

Even though I had an African American Father and a Salvadorean Mother, some days it was hard to embrace that the way I looked and the cultures I had come from were beautiful masterpieces given to me by God himself. My prayer is that the beauty of God would be as clear as day through the stories of my life and the truths found in the scriptures.

THE STORY OF SCRIPTURE

In the book of Ruth we get a story that holds great beauty. We see a woman named Naomi who’s husband and two children have both died. In the culture of the ancient Middle East, in order for a woman to live or have a flourishing life, she must either have a husband or a male son who would provide for her. So when she had lost both of these pivotal people in her family, life seemed hopeless. Luckily both of her children had married so this was a light in the midst of darkness. Naomi advised both of her daughter in laws to return to the land from which they came so that they could have a life worth living. One of them had gone, the other named Ruth had stayed. Despite the counsel from her mother in law to leave, Ruth stayed knowing what kind of a life it would contain. 

A life of hardship, unsure of where the next meal would be, no protection from men who may take advantage of them, and a plan that seemed like a shot in the dark. Ruth even went so far as to take on a whole new way of living and being when she said “where you go I will go, where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God…”. Ruth embraces a culture that isn't her own and takes on a God that she knows little about all because of a love for her grandmother.

During the life of Paul, we see the kingdom of God expanding to the ends of the earth. We see Europe and Asia receive the good news of the Gospel and Paul emphasizing to the Jews that the family of God isn’t inherited merely by being a Jew, but by believing in Jesus Christ. Paul often refrains from eating certain foods in some areas as to respect the culture, he advises Timothy to become circumcised so that he isn’t a stumbling block to brothers in the faith who see those haven't done so as less than (Acts 16), and speaks in ways that the people he is preaching to would understand (Acts 17). 

All this to say, the mission of God has always had in mind the inclusion of people from every tribe, nation, and people group. All the differences in culture, ethnicity, way of living, all beautifully welcomed into the family of God.

THE STORY FOODS TELL

One thing that I’ve been abundantly blessed by is the cooking of my grandmothers. One was a successful caterer for many years who’s cake pops were nothing short of heaven and earth meeting in the form of a chocolate dessert. The other grew up in the country of El Salvador who’s native land influenced the way she tasted and prepared every food with subtle reminders of a land distant yet near and dear through the taste of a simple dish. 

During the winter months, actually, during every month of the year my family and I would gather and have my grandma's caldo de res, caldo de pollo, or whatever else soup she would be in the mood to make. Always with a lime on standby for that extra zest for those who were feeling a bit adventurous. But the wonder came when I would randomly come visit my grandma during lunch at our family owned barbershop. My grandmother would begin to gather up whatever ingredients she could find and make do with what she had. Some days it would be a Salvadorean version of spaghetti, other days meatball and rice, and the best of all would be pupusas con queso (if you’ve never had this, go find this and you’ll thank me later).

My grandma on my fathers side would make the tastiest holiday food. While I enjoyed the spirit of Christmas and all it encompassed, thanksgiving was my guilty pleasure because it's the day I knew my tummy would be filled and cravings would be met. The sweet potatoes were perfectly soft, the turkey was wonderfully moist, the greens were perfectly seasoned, cornbread was firm and sweet, and all was right in the world. It was obvious that my grandmother had poured her soul into this food and made it with the love that only a grandmother could.

The thread found in both of my grandmothers cooking was the rich history. Foods are storied and carry their own memories. The table was where I learned what the people in my family had celebrated for decades, where I could see the heritage of my family, and what ties me to a land that I had yet to see with my own eyes.

MY EXPERIENCE

Family pictures were always a unique thing in my experience. Most of my cousins on my mother’s side all generally looked like one another. Most of my cousins on my fathers side generally looked like one another. But I felt like the ugly duckling who never quite fit in. I was too dark for one side of the family and too light for the other. It wasn’t something that destroyed me, but it did nag at my soul little by little. 

Once I started making friends I had begun to realize the cultural differences between my own family and from others I would meet. Some insignificant and some not so much. I didn’t realize that having oversized wool blankets with a large animal on the front of it wasn’t the norm, nor did I realize how different it was to have a church service last over two hours because of the preacher catching the Holy Ghost. 

The harsher realities came when I realized that not everyone had to have a conversation about how to conduct yourself when being pulled over or seeing your family members practice for their citizenship test in hopes they remember the exact right answer for fear of the unimaginable happening. 

These experiences weren’t bad nor did they start to give me a pessimistic view of the world, they actually did the opposite. I began to see that there’s beauty in diversity. That the cultures that had bore me was not something to be hidden or diminished, but something to be celebrated and embraced. For so long I thought I had to conform to the environments around me to be deemed as worthy or good enough. But through faithful friends and the encouragement from loved ones, I began to see myself the way God had seen me. As a beautiful brown skinned man who was made to image God through my love for others and devotion to God. 

PRAYER

May our eyes become aware of the beauty you’ve made in the world. All the different languages, cultures, nationalities, and complexions are all made to depict more of your glory. May our eyes become keenly aware of how we can welcome the outsider and treat them as family. May our heart for the nations become vibrant and more alive than ever before. May you become big before our eyes. In your name we pray, Amen.