Solentiname Lectionary

Reading the Gospel with the oppressed

Other than this portion of the introduction, I did not write anything that will be included in this newsletter. Every week, I’ll send out a portion of Ernesto Cardenal’s The Gospel in Solentiname as a sort of devotional. Cardenal organized the book roughly chronologically through the life of Jesus. I’ll be sending out portions that line up as best as I can manage with the Revised Common Lectionary gospel reading of that week.

The Gospel in Solentiname was not written as a devotional. Rather, it is a recording of conversations Cardenal had with memebers of the Solentiname base community in Nicaragua during the Somoza dictatorship. I cannot explain the project better than Cardenal, so I leave you with his introduction from the book, translated by Margaret Wilde. The first actual newsletter will be next Sunday, July 23, 2023, with the Parable of the Wheat and Weeds from Matthew 13:24-30 and 36-43. Feel free to leave any questions or comments in the chat, and please share this far and wide. I’ll talk to you soon.

Introduction

Every Sunday in Solentiname, a remote archipelago in Lake Nicaragua inhabited by campesinos (peasants), instead of a sermon we held a dialogue on the gospel reading. The campesinos’ discussions were often more profound than those of many theologians, but they reflected the simplicity of the gospel readings themselves. That is not surprising. The gospel, or good news (good news to the poor), was written for them, by people like them.

Some of my friends urged me not to let those comments be lost, but to collect and publish them in a book. This is that book. I began by collecting them in my memory, for as long as I could. Later, out of a growing sense of practicality, we used three tape recorders so that none of the comments would be lost.

Many of the discussions took place in the church, at the Sunday mass. Others, in a thatched hut we had built across from the church for meetings and shared meals after the mass. Sometimes the mass and gospel dialogues were held outdoors on other islands, or in a small coastal village across the way, which we reached by way of a beautiful river surrounded by exuberant tropical foliage.

First we passed out copies of the gospel to those who could read. Some people couldn't read, especially the elderly and those who lived farthest away from the school. One of the best readers (usually a boy or girl) would read aloud the whole passage that we were going to discuss. Then we talked about it, verse by verse.

We used the Protestant translation, Dios llega al hombre from the American Bible Society, which is the best translation of the gospels that I know. The translator is anonymous, but it must have been done by a poet. It is written in the simple language of the Latin American campesinos, but with great faithfulness to scripture.

I organized the commentary for publication, not chronologically but in the order of the gospel readings. Often, however, the discussion followed the same order as the readings.

Naturally I have elaborated on the dialogues from time to time. These are not transcriptions from an anthropological text, but a work of literature. I omitted some of the less interesting or repetitious comments, polished some phrasings, and added things that would enrich the gospel texts; but most of it is just what the campesinos said, in their own words, and that is the value of the book. I consider it the best of my books, precisely because I am not its author.

Later I wished that many good dialogues had not disappeared with the wind before we started collecting them. And that we had not lost some through recording failures. But those dialogues are lost only to the book, not to those who took part—who have kept them in some ways, even when they no longer remember them.

There are 38 islands in the archipelago of Solentiname; some are very small, and only the largest of them are inhabited. The population is around 1,000 people, in about 90 families. Most of the houses are made of straw, scattered widely along the shore of each island. Our small community or commune, Nuestra Señora de Solentiname, was at one end of the largest island. The Colombian poet William Agudelo and his wife Teresita were members, along with their two small children, Irene and Juan; also some young men born on the island: Alejandro, Elvis and Laureano. There was very little communication beyond the island, so our contemplation was seldom disturbed in this secluded spot, away from the tourist and trade routes.

Not everyone who lived on these islands came to mass. Some didn't come for lack of a boat. Others, because we didn't have devotions to the saints as they were accustomed to doing. Others were influenced by anticommunist propaganda, and perhaps also by fear.

Not everyone who came participated equally in the discussion. Some spoke up more often than others. Marcelino was a mystic. Olivia was more theological. Rebeca, Marcelino's wife, always talked about love. Laureano saw everything in terms of the revolution. Elvis was always thinking about the perfect society of the future. Felipe, another youth, was constantly aware of the proletarian struggle. His father, old Tomas Peña, couldn't read but spoke out of a deep wisdom. Alejandro, Olivia's son, was a youth leader; he had guidance to offer everyone, especially other young people. Pancho was a conservative, but later took a different position. Julio Mairena was a staunch defender of equality. His brother Oscar always talked about unity. They, and all the others who often spoke up and had important things to say, and those who spoke little but also said important things, along with William and Teresita and our other companions who took part in the dialogues, are the authors of this book.

More importantly, the true author is the Spirit who inspired these comments—the campesinos of Solentiname knew very well that it was the Spirit who made them speak—the same Spirit who inspired the gospels. The Holy Spirit, the spirit of God infused throughout the community: Oscar called it the spirit of unity, Alejandro called it the spirit of service to others, Elvis called it the spirit of the future society, Felipe called it the spirit of the proletarian struggle, Julio called it the spirit of equality and community sharing, Laureano called it the spirit of the revolution, and Rebeca called it the spirit of love.

These discussions took place during the Somoza dictatorship; the dictatorship was always a part of them, along with the hope that liberation would soon come. I have called them marxist commentaries on the gospel, interpreting the gospel in light of the revolution. Naturally this book was banned in Nicaragua; a friend of mine in the customs office showed me a flyer that was sent to all the border checkpoints, forbidding its importation as a pernicious book that “uses the gospel to promote communism among the people.”

The Gospel in Solentiname was published in many countries and many languages, even in Japan and the Philippines. In the United States it was used most of all as readings in mass and liturgical services, I believe more by Protestants than by Catholics; it often became a model for congregational discussions of the scriptures.

I remember that one U.S. publication compiled commentaries on the gospel from different parts of the world, following the Solentiname model. I noticed that the commentary from one congregation in Poland was altogether different from ours. What we said about the Somozas in Nicaragua, they said about the communists; in the parable of the Pharisee and the publican, they portrayed the communist hierarchy as the Pharisee. I kept that publication in the library at Solentiname, but it was lost when the Somoza army destroyed our community.

All of us in the community were radicalized by these discussions of the gospel. Little by little we came to identify with the revolutionary movement in Nicaragua, until at some point we became a part of it. Some of the young people wanted to leave the community and become guerrilla fighters. I was having a hard time holding them back. They didn't go then, in part because of a message from a legendary guerrilla leader, Commander Marcos, saying that we had to hold the Solentiname community together; it was important to the revolution in social, political and military, tactical and strategic terms.

We soon found out why he said military; that was when the youth of the community were called to participate in the armed struggle, attacking the army barracks in nearby San Carlos as part of a general insurrection. After training in secret, some boys and girls from the community and other compañeros overran the barracks at San Carlos, but had to withdraw because the insurrection didn't take place as planned in other places. Some of the people who were discussing the gospel in this book took part in that action: Alejandro, Laureano, Felipe, Donald, Elvis, Julio Ramon, Gloria, Myriam, Ivan, and Bosco. The Somoza army razed our community in retaliation, and I had to go into exile with the other people of Solentiname, although I had not taken part in the armed action.

From Costa Rica I wrote a “Letter to the people of Nicaragua” that said:

The Gospel teaches us that the word of God is not only to be heard, but to be put in practice. The campesinos of Solentiname who were exploring this Gospel could not fail to feel solidarity with their brother and sister campesinos who were suffering persecution and terror in other parts of the country: they were being imprisoned, tortured, murdered, their wives were being raped, their houses were burned, they were thrown out of helicopters. They also had to feel solidarity with all those who were offering their lives out of compassion for their neighbors. To make this solidarity real, they also needed to risk their safety and their lives. In Solentiname we knew that those who put the word of God into practice would not always have peace and tranquility. We knew that the hour of sacrifice was coming, and that hour is now.

On the day of triumph of the revolution, a large number of people went to see the bunker that Somoza abandoned in his precipitous flight. Among them was a cousin of mine, who picked up from Somoza's night table a copy of The Gospel in Solentiname in English. She gave it to me and I still have it, with some passages underlined and a few brief notes, written by his hand in the margins. Curiously, one of the underlined passages was a comment by the young campesino Pablo, who said of Herod in the chapter on the arrival of the magi: “He must have felt hatred and envy. Because dictators have always believed they were gods. They think they are the only ones, and cannot allow anyone to be above them.”

After the triumph of the revolution, everything was rebuilt that had been destroyed in our community. Many people had come to visit before, but now there are many more (some almost in a spirit of pilgrimage), although the community that made these commentaries no longer exists. There are two rustic hotels, a historic district where the community used to be, and one can also obtain modest lodging in some of the campesinos’ homes.

This book speaks about a particular situation that Nicaragua experienced, and about the international situation of the time, when one half of the world believed in communism. That reality has changed a great deal, but I think that the book has not gone out of date; it is still as valid as the gospel itself. The utopia of that time is the same as it is now, and has been ever since the time of the prophets. More people than ever have faith and hope for a better world, and I believe that those who don't should have them too.

This book shows that what we said years ago by the lake in Solentiname is still fresh and new.

Among the people who discussed the gospel in Solentiname, Felipe, Elvis and Donald became martyrs of the revolution before the triumph; later, Laureano and Alejandro. They are buried beside the little church where we held the dialogues—except for Felipe, who was buried symbolically because we don't know what happened to his body; he was last seen carrying an injured person, being chased by the soldiers. For each of them there is a stone, engraved with words spoken in these commentaries about the resurrection. Beside them is a steel sculpture several meters high which I made, a stylized image of the red and black flag of Sandino. At its base are Sandino's words: “Our flag is red upon black. The black is death; the red, resurrection.”

Ernesto Cardenal
Translated by Margaret Wilde