“Ché Guevara!” Those were the only two words I could make out from his garbled and largely-unintelligible Spanish. I had been trying to carefully maneuver my way through a crowded open-air market in Havana, Cuba, when the old man set his sights on this obviously out-of-place, seemingly naïve gringo. An easy mark, he undoubtedly thought.The aging Cubano appeared to be poor, like many of his countrymen. His straw hat and soiled clothes
were wrinkly and weather-beaten, just like his dark skin. His face was hard, and he was too, as I was about to find out. Quite unexpectedly, he had approached me, thrusting into my hand a vintage Cuban coin bearing the image of Ché Guevara, the legendary hero of the Cuban revolution. It wasn’t a gift however. It was a business proposition that would prove to be quite difficult to refuse.“Ché Guevara! Ché Guevara!” he repeated in his deep, gruff voice, the volume rising with each utterance. I tried to give the coin back to the man, but he adamantly refused it. Instead, he
insisted that I pay for it with US dollars. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I didn’t want to buy the product he was hawking. When I indicated as much, he became increasingly impatient and belligerent, shaking his head at me. When I tried to tell him I couldn’t speak Spanish, this only agitated him further. He responded by shouting (in Spanish) even louder. As I tried again and again to hand the coin back to him, he r
epeatedly recoiled from me like I was a leper. Then, when I stepped back, he would resume the offensive, lunging at me with an open hand and demanding that I pay him for the coin. “Ché Guevara! Ché Guevara!” the gravelly old voice kept repeating throughout this whole cat-and-mouse caper.
I could have relented and bought the unwanted coin, I suppose. It would have been an act of benevolence on my part. But knowing that the exchange of foreign currency on the streets on Havana was unlawful, I was afraid that this innocent little transaction might possibly net me some jail time. And how did I know that this was not some sort of set up job? But I also knew that if I didn’t buy it, I still might be in hot water, the old man perhaps accusing me of trying to steal his prized coin.Ultimately, my interpreter as well as some nearby table vendors came to my rescue and joined
the debate. I didn’t understand a lot of what was being said, but I sensed we were at a stalemate. Finally, I got tired of the whole mess and just threw the coin down on the ground. The incredulous old man almost had a cow! You would have thought that I had just spit in his face. He scooped up the coin and angrily tried to thrust it into my hand once more, but I wasn’t going to fall for that trick again.Finally, the vendors threatened to call the police and, at long last, the old man fled. The escalating international incident was over as quickly as it had begun. But ever since then, whenever I hear the name Ché Guevara, I always think of that old man and his coin.
Ché Guevara, like the protagonist in my story, is a figure that seemingly just won’t go away. Throughout the revolution in Cuba, Ernesto “Ché” Guevara, an Argentine physician, had been Fidel Castro’s right hand man (or is that left hand man, if you’re a Communist?). Following their stunning ascent to power in 1959, the restless Ché left Castro’s side in order to continue fanning the fires of revolution across Central and South America. Ultimately, he wound up on the wrong side of a gun in 1967, shot to death in Bolivia at the age of 39.
In the years since his death, Ché has achieved a rare kind of immortality, rising to the mythic pop culture status of a Marilyn Monroe or an Elvis Presley. In fact, he’s probably more popular today than he’s ever been. His ageless, bearded, beret-topped image—forever frozen in time because of his early death—has become an instantly recognizable icon to people around the globe. Many of those enamored by Ché view him as a great martyr for a noble cause, a Christlike messianic liberator who came to set the captives free, a courageous voice for the downtrodden and the oppressed, and the personification of the world’s revolutionary spirit. Stranger still, the late Ché has developed quite a cult following among white, upper middle-class, left-leaning American college students. In fact, on many college campuses today, it’s not unusual to see students wearing chic “Ché” T-shirts and other 
apparel because they think it’s cool and trendy. Little do they realize who or what this man really was—a thug, a criminal, a terrorist, an executioner, and a murderer! He didn’t set people free. He manipulated them and then destroyed them. Truly, we’re talking about a Satan; not a Savior. An evil man who just happened to be quite photogenic.What really got me thinking about Ché this week was a news story reporting that a lock of his hair was recently auctioned off in Texas for the amazing sum of $100,000. (Ugh! How disgusting! What’s next? Hitler’s toenail?)
All of us need (and want) heroes. But it’s tragic when you see young people embracing (and even
worshiping) such an ungodly figure as Ché Guevara. It only goes to show how desperate this generation is for heroes, role models, and mentors. (Not to mention, how confused they are about morality, spirituality and politics.) Rather than trying to project on Ché (and others like him) something that they're obviously not, how about embracing an authentic Hero instead?The Hero who truly set the world on its ear was another bearded revolutionary. He didn’t do it with violence, but with love. He didn’t shed the blood of others, but poured out His own. His victory wasn’t physical, but spiritual. His kingdom isn’t temporal, but eternal. He’s the one true Messiah that came to give love to the loveless, power to the powerless, and hope to the hopeless. His Name is Jesus. And when He died, He didn’t stay dead. Unlike Ché Guevara, He rose again. And He’s alive today. And having Him in your heart is worth far more than any T-shirt you can wear on your back.
Pastor Danny
