Santa Biblia. Justo L. Gonzalez

it is absolutely impossible for two people to stand at exactly the same place at the same time. Some will stand so close to each other that their views will be virtually indistinguishable. Others, standing at a greater distance, will have widely differing perspectives. This means that, while it will be possible to classify various perspectives, all such classifications will be provisional, and may shift according to the issue at hand. We may say, for instance, that there is a group of people looking at a landscape from hill A, others from hill B, and still others from the bottom of the valley. Generally speaking, those on hill A will share a common perspective, which will be distinguishable from those on hill B. Yet there will be among those on hill A some who are on top of the hill, others who are lower down the slope, some who are standing to the right, others who are sitting to the left, some who are looking at the horizon, others who are more interested on the river at the bottom of the valley, and so on. Thus, those who share the common perspective of hill A could also be divided into various subgroups, according to a variety of criteria. Likewise, when we speak of “a Hispanic perspective,” we must immediately acknowledge that this is just one of many possible ways of classifying perspectives, and that even among Latinos there is a wide variety of perspectives. There are Hispanic males and females, poor, rich, and in between, liberals and conservatives, young and old, Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, and others. This is why, in a conversation such as this, we are always tempted to spend so much time trying to define who we are—what our common perspective is—that we never get to look at the landscape itself. The only way to move beyond such an impasse is to speak of “a Hispanic perspective,” making an effort to be as inclusive as possible and hoping that such a perspective resonates with other Hispanics, but knowing that it must never claim to be the Hispanic perspective.

      At the same time, it is important to remember that Latinos stand together with many others who speak out of similar experiences of marginalization, suffering, and poverty. While we must learn to read the Bible through our own eyes, we must constantly stand in solidarity with those who, out of similar experiences, read it in a similar fashion. From them we have much to learn. To them—and to the church at large—we offer the insights of our perspective, as resources for our common struggles.

      Fourth, a variety of perspectives enriches everyone’s appreciation of the landscape itself. If I stand on hill A, someone from hill B can point out features in the landscape that I would never have noticed on my own. If I am interested in the way light bounces off of rocks and rivers, I can contribute something to my neighbor, whose interest lies in the various shades of green in the forest below us. Through conversation, we can amplify each other’s experience of the landscape—and thereby we can enhance each other’s lives. Thus, I affirm my own perspective, not in order to claim that it is only I who understand the landscape, but rather in order to enrich the entire community of observers around me. And I am also much impoverished if I do not listen to what they have to say about the landscape as they see it from their own unique perspectives.

      Finally, and most important, all of this is worth doing only because we believe in the miracle of communication. Thanks to communication, I do not stand alone in the landscape. Thanks to communication, those others who stand with and around me, both near and far, are much more than silent features in the landscape. They address me in their otherness. They speak to me, both of themselves and of their own vistas as they look at the landscape. They enrich my enjoyment of the landscape, forcing me to move around, to shift into their perspectives, to see the towering rock or the small bush I had missed. Some of the great landscape artists owe their greatness precisely to their ability to present in a single picture a vista that is subtly yet coherently enriched by a variety of perspectives. Likewise, our interpretation of the biblical text will be enhanced as we take into account the variety of perspectives offered to us by the entire church catholic.

      Such a variety of perspectives is not only valuable; it is absolutely necessary. Although in the preceding paragraph I have used words such as “enhancing” and “enriching,” we are not dealing here with an optional enhancement to Christian theology—like chrome trimming on an automobile. We are dealing rather with something that belongs to the very nature of the church, and without which the church cannot be true to its own nature—more like the four wheels on a car. To say that the church is “catholic” means that it includes within itself a variety of perspectives.⁴ To say that it is “one” means that such multiplicity, rather than dividing it, brings it closer together. This is the miracle of communication, which in Christian theology we ascribe to the Holy Spirit.

      Significantly, in the book of Acts the first consequence of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit on the disciples—men and women, the Twelve as well as the others—is their ability to communicate. Thanks to the Spirit, these disciples can communicate with a variety of peoples; and their communication is not centripetal or imperialistic. The Spirit does not impose on all the language of the original disciples, but rather makes it possible for various people to understand “each in their own native language.” From the very outset, the Spirit makes the church truly catholic by including in it a variety of languages and cultural perspectives—even though, as the rest of the book of Acts and the entire history of the church show, on this score Christians have constantly and repeatedly resisted the Spirit.

      Thus, if I dare offer to the church at large these reflections on “the Bible through Hispanic eyes,” it is first of all trusting in the Spirit of God, who will create communication while respecting our differences, and build intimacy while affirming our distinct identities. And it is also trusting that the Spirit, who enriched the church with Elamites, Parthians, Cappadocians, Greeks, Anglo-Saxons, and all the rest, will also see fit to enrich the church and its understanding of the Scripture with the gifts and perspectives that we Latinos offer to the whole.

      An Autobiographical Note

      If perspective is as important as I have said above, it seems necessary that I give the reader a clearer indication of the particular perspective from which I read the Scripture, and how I have reached it.

      I grew up as a Protestant (Methodist) in a country (Cuba) where most of my neighbors were at least nominally Roman Catholic. This was long before the Second Vatican Council, and therefore the prejudices and misunderstandings on both sides were even greater than they are now—and they certainly are still enormous. My more devout Catholic classmates crossed themselves, almost as in an exorcism, when I told them that I was a Protestant. Some assured me that Protestants do not believe in God or in Jesus, and therefore cannot go to heaven. I for my part was no less prejudiced. Catholics were idolaters who worshiped the saints instead of God and who put Mary in the place of Jesus. An important part of my task as a Christian was to convert Catholics from their errors, and “bring them to Christ.”

      One thing that clearly distinguished us Protestants in those days and in that setting was the Bible. On Sundays, one could always recognize a “sister” or a “brother” from another church, because they carried a Bible. On Wednesdays, we gathered for Bible study. During the rest of the week, we often debated with Catholics on the basis of the Bible. Indeed, a favorite sport of some of us in the youth group was to spot a priest or a nun and engage them in a debate. And, partly as a preparation for that sport and partly out of profound devotion, we read the Bible religiously. Three times I read it from cover to cover during my teen years.

      Yet, there was a difference between my reading of the Bible at that time and what I have later come to know as a fundamentalist reading. Fundamentalism is a reaction to the doubts about Scripture raised by modernity—as many fundamentalists would say, against “modernism.” As a result, it too is a modern reading of the Bible. It seeks in the sacred page objective information of the same sort that modernity seeks in a laboratory or a telescope. In contrast, my reading of the Bible was premodern. Even when I was aware of some of the doubts raised by modernity, I felt free simply to ignore them. They were not my issues. My issues were how to confound and convert Catholics and nonbelievers—which were almost the same—and how to live a fuller Christian life. The fundamentalists I knew as I was growing up often read the Bible with anger, almost as if they cherished the damnation of the rest of the world. Most often, I would read it with joy, because it was a guide and a friend. I would read it seeking after wisdom, rather than mere information. I would read it for its beauty, as poetry,