Palm Sunday and Oscar Romero

Franco Folini, Mural: Tribute to Archbishop Oscar Romero, https://www.flickr.com/photos/livenature/176581012

I had heard of Oscar Romero before. He’s been described to me as a liberation theologian (although he would not necessarily identify as such) and Salvadoran priest (even though he eventually became an archbishop, a rank higher than “priest”). But what I’ve learned through both the discovery of my ancestors’ own history and the theological imagination of other marginalized communities is that the particularities throughout human history matter, and they are deeply interconnected. Archbishop Oscar Romero bears the example to this praxis of deep solidarity, and the particularity of his context and life informed the way in which he lived out this life.

Alongside Mexico and Guatemala, El Salvador too was colonized by the Spanish in 1524, and such colonial effects lingered as the Salvadoran War started in 1979. Oscar Romero witnessed this war and the torture and killing of many people, one of them being a personal friend of Romero, Jesuit priest Rutilio Grande. Grande’s death prompted Romero to be more explicit and outspoken about his social and political convictions.[1] He felt a deep responsibility—a deep solidarity—not only to the poor and marginalized, but to those who were stripped of their basic human rights in El Salvador. Romero even outwardly criticized the ways that the United States contributed to the perpetual injustice by sending military aid. The interconnectedness of war, colonization, and social (in)justice was at the core of Romero’s convictions.

On March 24, Oscar Romero was shot and killed while celebrating mass at a small chapel run by a hospital specializing in care of the terminally ill.

Although this reflection is on the day of his death, it is truly meant to be a remembrance of his life. I think about how Archbishop Oscar Romero was often described to me, as “liberation theologian” and “priest.” Perhaps he did portray many of the values of liberation theology, and sure, he was a priest, but Romero made sure that the particularities of his history and life experiences informed his praxis. I had a realization that many do not even know what they mean when classifying him with such labels, nor do they know the significant ways that Romero impacted not only the people in El Salvador, but many around the world.

This year, March 24 coincidentally lands on Palm Sunday. Palm Sunday narrates the story of Jesus, who humbly chooses to enter the public square on a donkey. Jesus taught us the example of humility, deep solidarity with the poor and marginalized, and the model of a teacher who lived out theory and practice together. I would like to believe that Archbishop Oscar Romero followed closely to the example of Jesus. Maybe, then, it is not so coincidental.

About Michelle Navarrete

As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. My passions stem from within the Old Testament, and I use storytelling in my academics to engage others and cultivate connection.  People are part of this passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located in the most diverse square mile of the United States in Clarkston, GA, I am a doctoral student of the Old Testament at Emory University. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] Michael A. Hayes and David Tombs, ed. Truth and Memory: The Church and Human Rights in El Salvador and Guatemala. Gracewing: Herefordshire, UK, 1988.

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¿Y lo indígeno, donde está?

December 24, 2023

“Grampa,” I said to mi abuelo as we sat around family on Noche Buena, waiting for the pozole to heat up. My Grampa understands English but is much more comfortable having conversation in Spanish. Even so, at a very young age in our predominantly Spanish-speaking household, I called him “Grampa” in English with a slight Spanish accent. I don’t know why, but it stuck, even as our conversations always continued in Spanish.

“Grampa, sabes como hablar en Nahuatl?”[1] I asked him.

Nahuatl is the indigenous language of the Mexica people, the group that resided in what we now know as Mexico City before the Spainards came to colonize them. Although the Spainards spread their own language and religion throughout the land, many groups remained indigenous, retaining their own language and culture to the best of their ability, often resulting in various religious expressions. A multitude of indigenous languages and dialects still remain even today in the land of Mexico and Guatemala.

Right when I asked my Grampa if he knew Nahuatl, my tía scoffed at my question. Why would my Grampa, su padre, know Nahuatl? My Mexican American family only speaks Spanish and English. And how could my Grampa, her father, know Nahuatl? Right as she scoffed, my Grampa answered, “Si, pero nomas las palabras malas. Y también puedo contar hasta diez.”[2] He continued to count up to ten without wavering: “Ce, Ome, Yei, Nahui, Macuilli, Chicuace, Chicome, Chicuei, Chiconahui, Mahtlactli.” My tía gaped at me and her father.

“I…I didn’t know that…” she said, baffled.

How could she? We never talk about our indigenous roots.

The more I learn about the indigenous people and the Nahuatl language, the more I learn about myself and my theology. For the longest time, I saw my mestizaje at the intersection of my Mexican and U.S. American culture. As a second-gen daughter of immigrants, I grew up in a household that was proud to be Mexican, even if at times I was not. But we never talked about our indigenous roots—they did not exist.

This semester, I had the privilege of taking a class on the History of Mexico. Although I knew that the Mexica people commonly referred to as the “Aztecs” were in the land long before the Spanish came, to me they were simply distant history. They were ancient people who wore fancy headdresses and sacrificed on pyramids, all generalizations from the cartoons I would watch; I had no real connection to them. It wasn’t until I learned about the complexities stemming from the colonization of the indigenous people in Mexico that their culture came to life in my own. It was then that I realized that mestizaje did not completely erase the indigenous roots of my family.

Mestizaje occludes the past. 

A theology of borderlands, of mestizaje, has always been essential to my thinking. Does God reside in the borderlands? Does Jesus not represent mestizaje? Virgilio Elizondo, a Catholic theologian who pushed forward the idea of mestizaje, considers a theology that outlines just that—a God who sits in between cultures, who came to flesh as a Galilean Jew. However, as various treatments of mestizaje point out, this theology has the potential to fall victim to a flattening of difference. It has the potential to ignore people at the margins of the margins—the Afro-Latine and indigenous people that are often overlooked in constructions of mestizaje.

But mestizaje cannot completely erase it. 

I also learned in my academic exploration that my family commonly uses a word that they thought was Spanish, the word choquía. It describes a wet-like, stale scent and comes from the Nahuatl language. Growing up, my abuela would tell me that I smelled like choquía after playing outside all day. Just recently, my abuela asked me if the tiramisu I was eating tasted like choquía after it was sitting out in the air for an extended period of time. When I asked my mom if she knew that the word was Nahuatl, she denied that it even was. “How could it be Nahuatl?” she had said. “Everyone around me growing up in Mexico used it. It was always just in Spanish.” She had no idea that some of her words had carried on for centuries into her own mestiza language.

Some things just stick. 

I never would have thought of myself as indigenous. My mestizaje always represented the in-betweenness of Mexican and U.S. culture, but as I learn how many indigenous traditions carry on, even in my own family, my mestizaje has become more complicated. It has changed. It’s more like the pozole we eat on Christmas Eve now. Known as a traditional Mexican dish of maize kernels in a tasty stew with a mixture of spices and vegetables, it is typically eaten during times of festivities. Not many know, however, that it originally came from the Nahua people, called pozolli before the Spanish took the word and made it their own. Although the word was changed, the food did not. It did not disappear. People have forgotten its origins, but its thick chunks have made their way into the Mexican culture. The taste still remains.

Mestizaje has the potential to hide these differences, but the pieces are not so easily erased.  The one experiencing mestizaje is constantly aware of the ways they are torn between cultures, languages, spaces. Instead of viewing mestizaje as a process that eventually produces “one” future mestizo people, perhaps we can follow the thread of viewing it as nonlinear, as something that constantly shifts and rearranges. A theology of mestizaje is an invitation to theologize through a lens of “in-betweenness,” one that does not diminish difference, but allows difference to enrich faith. These chunks remain and will continue to be revealed as long as we recognize that each person experiencing the “in-between” has a story to tell. It is the power of liminality.

“In-betweenness is not only pain; it’s promise. It is power. It parallels the power of Jesus, the Galilean Jew, who all said nothing good can come from Galilee. In-betweenness holds us together.” —Justo González[3]

About Michelle Navarrete

As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. My passions stem from within the Old Testament, and I use storytelling in my academics to engage others and cultivate connection.  People are part of this passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located in the most diverse square mile of the United States in Clarkston, GA, I am a doctoral student of the Old Testament at Emory University. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] “Grampa, do you know how to speak Nahuatl?”

[2] “Yes, but only the bad words. And I can also count to ten.”

[3] I had the privilege of listening to Dr. González speak for an intensive week-long course I took at Emory. He speaks about how mestizaje can connect even those who do not identify as Latine.

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A Biblical Rebuke of Femicide

This article is part of a Learning Center course called, Reading the Bible as a Mujerista Evangelica set to release on March 8th. To learn more about WOS online courses, visit learn.worldoutspoken.com.

We have to be better readers. We have to learn how to read. And we must learn how to tell stories. To know when to raise our voice and when to lower it. When to pull the people in with a whisper, and when to increase our volume!

My professor and mentor has told me this before, and now to the countless others he has taught. His love for Charles Dickens and Don Quijote seeps into the way he reads and writes, even in his academics.[1] It makes his writing interesting to read, but only because he knows that a good reader makes a good writer. It’s the reason why I am intentional about my own reading. I regularly rotate fiction and poetry books into my repertoire. I, too, believe that a good writer learns the art by being a good reader. You communicate to others by noticing the ways that best communicate to you.

The biblical authors know this too. The Old Testament narratives have this way of drawing in the reader. These writers quickly shift from artful prose to well-developed poetry, even within the stories of the historical narratives (like Deborah’s victory song in Judges 5). These stories aren’t just dry attempts to narrate without a purpose; no, these stories are meant to convey something deeper about the condition of life and add to what we already know about God. I invite you to look at Judges 19 with me, a story so grotesque that maybe you’ve skipped it over, but a story so carefully crafted that the narrator is undeniably attempting to communicate something to the readers on the other side of the page.

(Trigger warning: Rape, domestic violence, and murder. Please feel free to skip over this article.)

Judges 19[2]

In those days, when there was no king in Israel, a certain Levite, residing in the remote parts of the hill country of Ephraim, took to himself a concubine from Bethlehem in Judah. But his concubine became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father’s house at Bethlehem in Judah, and was there some four months. Then her husband set out after her, to speak tenderly to her and bring her back. He had with him his servant and a couple of donkeys. When he reached her father’s house, the girl’s father saw him and came with joy to meet him. His father-in-law, the girl’s father, made him stay, and he remained with him three days; so they ate and drank, and he stayed there.

“In those days, when there was no king in Israel…” Already the narrator sets the scene for us. Knowing the period of Judges as a time where “everyone did what was right in their own eyes” (Judg 17:6), this statement already stirs up fear for the reader. What will happen in this narrative, during a dark time of chaos and free reign?

We read that a concubine becomes angry at her Levite husband. In her anger, she decides to set out to her father’s house for a long four months. What I find interesting about this story is not what it says, but what it doesn’t say. As a Levite, this man had a higher status and honored place in society.[3] The concubine, who in contrast has a lower status in the ancient Near Eastern world as legal property of her master, does not speak. We have no clue as to why she became angry. We have no clue if her father welcomed her with open arms, but we do know that he opened his arms to his son-in-law. The narrative states the Levite’s intent to “speak tenderly” to his concubine, almost in an attempt to see him in a positive light, but then the reader begins to wonder: Why did it take four months for him to come find her? And the story states that he stayed to eat and drink, but there is no mention of the Levite actually speaking to the concubine—the very reason he came to his father-in-law’s home. In actuality, it stirs up even more uncertainty. Pay attention to how your body feels, to what remains unsaid, and to how your attitude toward the Levite shifts.[4]

On the fourth day they got up early in the morning, and he prepared to go; but the girl’s father said to his son-in-law, “Fortify yourself with a bit of food, and after that you may go.” So the two men sat and ate and drank together; and the girl’s father said to the man, “Why not spend the night and enjoy yourself?” When the man got up to go, his father-in-law kept urging him until he spent the night there again. On the fifth day he got up early in the morning to leave; and the girl’s father said, “Fortify yourself.” So they lingered until the day declined, and the two of them ate and drank. When the man with his concubine and his servant got up to leave, his father-in-law, the girl’s father, said to him, “Look, the day has worn on until it is almost evening. Spend the night. See, the day has drawn to a close. Spend the night here and enjoy yourself. Tomorrow you can get up early in the morning for your journey, and go home.” But the man would not spend the night; he got up and departed, and arrived opposite Jebus (that is, Jerusalem).

He had with him a couple of saddled donkeys, and his concubine was with him. When they were near Jebus, the day was far spent, and the servant said to his master, “Come now, let us turn aside to this city of the Jebusites, and spend the night in it.” But his master said to him, “We will not turn aside into a city of foreigners, who do not belong to the people of Israel; but we will continue on to Gibeah.” Then he said to his servant, “Come, let us try to reach one of these places, and spend the night at Gibeah or at Ramah.” So they passed on and went their way; and the sun went down on them near Gibeah, which belongs to Benjamin. They turned aside there, to go in and spend the night at Gibeah.

Here the narrator drops another hint. We know now that the Levite is traveling not only with his concubine, but with one of his servants. His title has now been changed to “his master,” almost as if the narrator is detaching the Levite from the concubine and shifting focus onto the servant. His servant makes a suggestion: to spend the night in a city of foreigners. The master says, “No thank you!” He refuses to be part of a community that does “not belong to the people of Israel.” We remember too that his association as a Levite meant that in theory, he practiced the law of the LORD. However, the reader wonders if his disdain toward foreigners disregards a law that states to love the foreigner—not tolerate, but love (Lev 19:34). He dismisses his servant’s suggestion and does what is right in his own eyes.

He went in and sat down in the open square of the city, but no one took them in to spend the night. Then at evening there was an old man coming from his work in the field. The man was from the hill country of Ephraim, and he was residing in Gibeah. (The people of the place were Benjaminites.) When the old man looked up and saw the wayfarer in the open square of the city, he said, “Where are you going and where do you come from?” He answered him, “We are passing from Bethlehem in Judah to the remote parts of the hill country of Ephraim, from which I come. I went to Bethlehem in Judah; and I am going to my home. Nobody has offered to take me in. We your servants have straw and fodder for our donkeys, with bread and wine for me and the woman and the young man along with us. We need nothing more.” The old man said, “Peace be to you. I will care for all your wants; only do not spend the night in the square.” So he brought him into his house, and fed the donkeys; they washed their feet, and ate and drank.  

The woman has still been largely absent up to this point. Was she not intended to be the focal point of this entire narrative, the reason the Levite man even went out in the first place, and now the reason they are traveling back? The reader begins to wonder why the narrative feels empty, and it is the lack of focus on the woman that contributes to this emptiness. The Levite even tells this man, “Nobody has offered to take me in” instead of “Nobody has offered to take us in” (italics mine).[5] The narrator continues to drop clues about the Levite man’s character and the blatant disregard for his servant and his concubine.

While they were enjoying themselves, the men of the city, a perverse lot, surrounded the house, and started pounding on the door. They said to the old man, the master of the house, “Bring out the man who came into your house, so that we may have intercourse with him.” And the man, the master of the house, went out to them and said to them, “No, my brothers, do not act so wickedly. Since this man is my guest, do not do this vile thing. Here are my virgin daughter and his concubine; let me bring them out now. Ravish them and do whatever you want to them; but against this man do not do such a vile thing.” But the men would not listen to him. So the man seized his concubine, and put her out to them. They wantonly raped her, and abused her all through the night until the morning. And as the dawn began to break, they let her go.

As morning appeared, the woman came and fell down at the door of the man’s house where her master was, until it was light. In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he went out to go on his way, there was his concubine lying at the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. “Get up,” he said to her, “we are going.” But there was no answer. Then he put her on the donkey; and the man set out for his home.

Still as the story begins to close, the woman does not speak. And now, as the Levite demands her to “get up” because they should be on their way, we as readers do not know if she is alive. It confirms all of our suspicions picked up throughout the narrative—that the Levite’s character is less than exemplary.

When he had entered his house, he took a knife, and grasping his concubine he cut her into twelve pieces, limb by limb, and sent her throughout all the territory of Israel. Then he commanded the men whom he sent, saying, “Thus shall you say to all the Israelites, ‘Has such a thing ever happened since the day that the Israelites came up from the land of Egypt until this day? Consider it, take counsel, and speak out.’”

The story still never tells you if the concubine was alive or not. Her silence lingers until the very end. Instead, the Levite man takes control of the situation by gruesomely dismembering her. And, instead of taking responsibility for his actions and their outcome, he has the audacity to point fingers at the Israelites! As everyone did what was right in their own eyes, he blamed the dark and preventable death of his concubine on the state of society. Maybe if people spoke out, then the men wouldn’t have come to rape them, and then perhaps this “thing” would not have “ever happened.” We know that the Levite man’s complacency in the systemic sin found in the period of Judges contributes to this abomination just as much as the wickedness of the men did.

Being on the other side of the story, even more questions arise. Did the concubine have good reason to leave in the first place, considering the outcome of her story? Would this violence have been averted if the servant’s suggestion was followed, or was this bound to happen due to the Levite’s less-than-holy character? And finally, what is the narrator trying to convey with a story so brutal, one that begins with a woman afforded no agency or words and ends with her rape and death?

When we read stories like this, our minds always shift to ask how something like this could be included in our Old Testament Scriptures. It is important to acknowledge the implications of such a text. First, like many of the Old Testament stories, this story is not meant to be prescriptive but descriptive. After careful analysis, readers see that the narrator’s craftsmanship of the story shows that they were never on the side of the Levite. Thus, a theological, real-life lesson can be extracted. Second, the Old Testament does not shy away from acknowledging the hurts of this world. Although we hate encountering stories like this, we know that our fallen world is scattered with situations that read just like this one. And for those who have experienced these situations, it gives us words that describe something that we may not have even processed ourselves.

As Phylllis Trible puts it, this story “depicts the horrors of male power, brutality, and triumphalism; of female helplessness, abuse, and annihilation.”[6] The moment the Levite decided to mistreat his concubine, everything went downhill. If you continue on to read Judges 20, you see that things continue to spiral downward as an effect of the woman’s death. The flourishing of women, or lack thereof, is directly correlated to the health of this society. This society is indeed in need of a savior. The mistreatment of the oppressed and marginalized, specifically women here, can only result in a society that perpetuates even more oppression and marginalization.

About Michelle Navarrete

My passions stem from within the Old Testament, focusing on biblical themes and social ethics through an interdisciplinary approach. As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. I use storytelling in my academics as a way to engage my audience and cultivate connection. People are part of my passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located within the Latino community of West Chicago, I am pursuing my master’s in Old Testament Biblical Exegesis at Wheaton College, and I intend to pursue doctoral studies after my time at Wheaton. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] Dr. M. Daniel Caroll R. intertwines his love for narrative and storytelling, and even contextualizing from the Latina/o perspective, through the prophetic voice in his new book The Lord Roars: Recovering the Prophetic Voice for Today. Shameless plug.

[2] I invite you to read this without the verses marked, like a story. For your reference, this is the NRSV translation, and the entirety of chapter 19 of Judges.

[3] Phyllis Trible, Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, 66.

[4] For a more comprehensive treatment of the narrator’s possible intentions, see Jacqueline E. Lapsley’s work, “A Gentle Guide: Attending to the Narrator’s Perspective in Judges 19-21.”

[5] Lapsley, 43.

[6] Trible, 65.

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Reading the Bible as a Mujerista Evangélica

Biblical interpretation is a deeply personal task. Not only does a reader attempt to make sense of the world within and behind the biblical text, but their own presuppositions must be confronted when deciding what a passage means and how it will be appropriated[1] for their context. For Christians who regularly dissect Scripture, its interpretation and application are both a challenge and a reward.

As I embarked on my academic journey in theological education, I couldn’t quite pinpoint why I was making certain interpretative choices—it just came naturally. It wasn’t until I began learning about “other” perspectives that I realized all of us—regardless of age, ethnicity, or gender—were making choices that were uniquely a combination of our culture, background, and experiences. I, too, missed things in the text that my sisters and brothers of other ethnicities caught. I was enamored by the way that each of our varied perspectives contributed something to the way a passage of Scripture was understood.

Through my learning of “other” voices, I was able to find the words describing the interpretative choices that came naturally to me. During this time, our hermeneutics class read through Santa Biblia by Justo González. I had already read González’s Mañana on my own and resonated with so much of it. It felt strange, however, to read things that resonated personally within academic spaces. It was a stale attempt to analyze “objectively” when so much of my experience was intertwined with what we were learning. And perhaps it was a burden I placed on myself, attempting to remove myself from the material so I could analyze it the same way my White classmates were analyzing it, but I did not realize at that moment that my detachment was a form of protection.

Then came the day of class. As I was sitting in my seat, I remained silent. Everyone started talking about what they found interesting in their reading of the material. “I understand where this hermeneutical choice comes from, but I personally don’t know how I feel about it,” one classmate said. “It’s not something I would choose to do. I guess I’m still processing it.”

As my classmates continued to discuss, my professor read the uncertainty on my face. He looked at me, well-meaning, and he asked, “Michelle. What do you think?”

What do I think? What do I think? As I listened to my classmates analyze Santa Biblia in a very detached, academic way, my only thought was what came out of my mouth.

“I don’t know what to think when everything González describes—exile, marginality, in-betweenness—has been my experience.”

There was a lingering silence after I spoke. All this talk about the “pros” and “cons” of Latina/o interpretation, and I think my classmates realized they were analyzing the “pros” and “cons” of my very lens. As the only person of color in my class, I didn’t know what to think—I only knew what I felt. I felt exposed, but it was a discussion I had no choice but to engage in.

This is what I mean when I say biblical interpretation is deeply personal. We must be willing to admit that each one of our lenses comes with pros and cons, but we can allow it to grow our understanding of Scripture. Learning about mujerista and Latina evangélica theology allowed me to find words to articulate the interpretative choices I make when studying Scripture.

What is mujerista theology?

Coined by Cuban American and Roman Catholic theologian Ada María Isasi-Díaz, mujerista theology finds its roots in the struggles of Latinas[2] specifically in the United States. Isasi-Díaz felt feminist theologies did not adequately represent the experiences of women of color, nor did feminista theology formed in Latin America adequately encompass the unique experience of Latinas in the United States. Isasi-Díaz makes clear that mujerista theology is not exclusively for Latinas but from Latinas, inviting all to look through the lens in which Latinas theologize.[3] In her book of essays titled Mujerista Theology, Isasi-Díaz includes personal stories and observations about Latinas y sus luchas, their struggles, in life. Latinas in the U.S. often face a number of shared issues such as “bilingualism, multiculturalism, popular religious faith, marginality, poverty, colonization, migration, and cultural alienation.”[4] Mujerista theology seeks justice on these issues for the Latina community at large.

An essential tenet of mujerista theology is the value of lo cotidiano. Lo cotidiano is the shared experiences of everyday life. Isasi-Díaz unpacks the complexity of this term but essentially recognizes it is filled with subjectivity that helps describe the processes of Latina women in their lives.[5] Mujeristas know God cares deeply about every aspect of your life—from the clothes you choose to wear to the food you eat. Part of this stems from the way our madres, abuelitas, comadres, y amigas, who often have no formal theological education, recognize God working in their day-to-day lives. These faith traditions passed down from our Latina matriarchs, often named abuelita theology, work in tangent with mujeristas and how they understand their faith.

Mujerista theology is often criticized for the lack of significance Scripture holds in the lives of Catholic Latinas. The dominant influence of Catholicism from conquistadores resulted in a critical view of the Bible in the lives of Catholic Latinas, and rightly so, as it contributed to their oppression and struggle. However, Isasi-Díaz recognized the growing emergence of Latina evangélicas where the Bible became more central, and therefore, the urgency for mujeristas to articulate a biblical interpretation.[6]

What is Latina evangélica theology?

Latina evangélicas reaffirm many of the values of mujerista theology but acknowledge differences from a Protestant perspective. Loida I. Martell-Ortero, Zaida Maldonado Pérez, and Elizabeth Conde-Fraizer sought to build upon these central values in their book, Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins. They recognize the complexities of varying theologies even within the Latina community. Martell-Ortero is nuanced in her naming of evangélica, stating that it does not necessarily mean the English equivalent “evangelical,” but instead embodies Latinas coming from mixed faith traditions who understand themselves to be people who preach the gospel, el evangelio.[7] This book seeks to honor contributions made by both feminista and mujerista theologies.

Latina evangélica theology distinguishes itself with its emphases on the Holy Spirit, salvation, and Scripture. First, evangélicas see the Holy Spirit as the one who “saves, heals, affirms, calls, empowers, and transforms persons and communities.”[8] Second, evangélica theology seeks to describe salvation in a multifaceted way, stating that salvation is an “incarnational reality encountered within the context of lo cotidiano, rather than solely as a transcendent reality that helps one ‘go to heaven.’”[9] That means that evangélicas care about the “here and now,” the present reality on earth, and it is an outworking of one’s salvation (James 2:14-26). Finally, Scripture is a key tenet for evangélicas. The authors of Latinas Evangélicas weave in Scripture to affirm the testimony of their theological understandings, both by experience and the text itself.

What is a mujerista evangélica?

To name oneself is a powerfully biblical act.[10] I have decided to bridge mujerista and Latina evangélica theology by naming my methodology mujerista evangélica biblical interpretation for a few reasons. One, I want to pay tribute to the way Isasi-Díaz contributed to my theological understandings. Many second-generation Latinas in the United States began their faith journey in Catholicism as I did. My theology is heavily influenced by the beauty of ritual and order. Since much of Mexican culture is interwoven with Catholic religion, this piece is significant in my cultural and theological upbringing.

Two, the power of naming my theology as mujerista reaffirms the necessity to seek justice for women of color who live in marginalization. Justice is an explicit biblical theme, from the laws given to Israel for proper treatment of the foreigner, to Jesus’ advocacy of the marginalized—the poor, widows, and orphans. When I hear mujerista, I hear an empowered word describing the journey to liberation from internalized oppression.[11] It gives a name and voice to the struggles that Latinas experience daily.

Many of the Latinas I know see themselves as bridge builders. Our brown bodies do not fit in the Black and White binary often created in the conversations surrounding racial justice. As Isasi-Díaz says, this theology is not for us but from us. The end goal is to see the beautiful diversity of God’s kingdom from every nation, tribe, and tongue (Revelation 7:9), but that means feeling valued and elevated in our own communities of faith. My methodology embodies “both/and” rather than “either/or,” because it seeks liberation in a way that names Latinas and their contributions, but also in a way that seeks liberation for all those experiencing marginalization.

I include evangélica in my naming because I am Protestant. The Word of God is meaningful in my life, especially as someone who studies Scripture academically. Although Isasi-Díaz insisted upon the lack of biblical authority in the lives of Latinas, she still contributed incredible insight about themes of exile from passages like Psalm 137.[12] Now, voices that are distinctly evangélica are needed to represent our perspective in the field of biblical interpretation. It is a field that is predominantly White, male, and growing increasingly less confessional in Christian faith. Scripture can be a powerful tool for mujerista evangélicas.

A Final Word

I hope to be transparent in my treatment of mujeristas and Latina evangélicas. There is so much more nuance and complexity, as well as beautiful descriptions of the Latina faith, found within these two books. It is too much to describe in one article, but it is worth the work that Latinas see themselves in the world of academia. It affirms, slowly but surely, work is being done and our voices are being heard. And, frankly, much more is out there, on the ground, in the grassroots of faith communities. The goal has always been for these theologies to enable a praxiological component for Latinas. Interpretation does not stop there, and its appropriation should result in constructive change.[13] Mujerista evangélicas have a dedication to completing this work en conjunto, together, on the ground.

Just as Cuban theologians like Ada María Isasi-Díaz, Justo González, and other Latina theologians from varying Hispanic heritages present distinctive viewpoints that affect their interpretative choices, my Mexican heritage also affects the way I interpret. Many second-generation children born and raised in the U.S. share similar understandings.[14] I relate to experiences of exile, but not in the way some Latinas experience by actual displacement of migration. I learned how to travel between the spaces of Mexican and American culture, between school and home, between English and Spanish. I speak Spanglish and often use Mexican idioms that my other Mexican friends also grew up saying. I went to quinceañeras y fiestas con mi familia, and I cleaned on Saturday mornings con mi mama to Cómo Te Voy a Olvidar by Los Ángeles Azules. I took Spanish in high school as an easy “A” and quickly discovered the Spanish taught to us was not the Spanish I learned in my Mexican household. Second-generation Mexican American children bond over these experiences and much more. My mujerista evangélica lens hopes to add a voice to the dearth of work, specifically in Old Testament interpretation from a second-generation Mexican daughter. I hope my lens contributes a refreshment of the Scriptures, one that makes you fall in love with Jesus over and over again.

about MICHELLE NAVARRETE

My passions stem from within the Old Testament, focusing on biblical themes and social ethics through an interdisciplinary approach. As a second-generation Latina who lives in between the Mexican and American cultures, my faith inevitably intersects with my culture and experiences. I use storytelling in my academics as a way to engage my audience and cultivate connection. People are part of my passion and I want my work to reflect that. Currently located within the Latino community of West Chicago, I am pursuing my master’s in Old Testament Biblical Exegesis at Wheaton College, and I intend to pursue doctoral studies after my time at Wheaton. During my time at World Outspoken, I hope that my contributions will renew faith perspectives in a way that mobilizes restoring change within communities.

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Footnotes

[1] When using the word “appropriation,” I mean to convey that a passage may be appropriated time and time again depending on the particular scope and context. When using the word “application,” I mean to convey the act of applying the appropriated text for the reader’s specific singular context. For more on this language of “distantiation,” “contextualization,” and “appropriation,” see Bungishabaku Katho, “African American Biblical Interpretation” in Scripture and its Interpretation: A Global, Ecumenical Introduction to the Bible.

[2] For more on the nuances between “Hispanic,” “Latina/o,” and “Chicana/o,” see the discussion in Robert Chao Romero’s Brown Church.

[3] Ada María Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology (New York: Orbis Books, 1996), 1-2.

[4] Loida I. Martell-Otero, Zaida Maldonado Pérez, and Elizabeth Conde-Frazier, Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2013), 4.

[5] Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology, 67.

[6] Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology, 149.

[7] Martell-Otero, Maldonado Pérez, and Conde-Frazier, Latina Evangélicas, 8.

[8] Latina Evangélicas, 9.

[9] Latina Evangélicas, 10.

[10] “To name oneself is one of the most powerful acts a person can do,” Mujerista Theology, 60; “Scriptural texts attest to the power of naming,” Latina Evangélicas, 3.

[11] Mujerista Theology, 60-61.

[12] Ada María Isasi-Díaz, “By the Rivers of Babylon” in Mujerista Theology, 35-56.

[13] M. Daniel Carroll R., “Latino/Latina Biblical Interpretation” in Scripture and its Interpretation: A Global, Ecumenical Introduction to the Bible (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2017), 315.

[14] I have the privilege of working with second-generation Mexican American high school students that convey extremely similar upbringings and familiarities.

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