Ever since I met him, he's been known affectionately as "the chicken man." No, I'm not talking about the late Col. Harlan Sanders, although I did grow up within miles of the Colonel's original Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Corbin, Kentucky. Rather, "the chicken man" of whom I'm speaking comes from a place much further south than the Bluegrass State.
I first met Jose Ramon during my initial trip to Cuba in 2002. Jose was a member of a Baptist church in Havana with which I was seeking to develop a mission partnership. After a hearty Sunday lunch at the home of the church's pastor, I was chauffeured over to Jose’s residence where I was to spend the remainder of the afternoon visiting with this big man with a big smile and--as I was to later find out--an even bigger heart. Like most Cubans, Jose lived in a very modest but tidy home, which he shared with his wife and his elderly mother. Although neither his wife or mother spoke English, Jose was quite fluent, and I enjoyed conversing with him.
Knowing that I would be preaching in two back-to-back worship services later that evening, I didn't anticipate another meal at Jose's house. But not too long into our conversation, Jose asked if I would like something to eat. Still quite full from the unexpectedly large lunch prepared by the pastor’s wife, I politely declined his invitation. After his repeated overtures, however, I finally relented and said "yes", not wanting to appear rude or unappreciative. Jose immediately got up and went into the kitchen, where he started frying some chicken. I was quite surprised, because meat of any kind is something of a delicacy in Cuba. Most Cubans rarely eat it, because they simply can’t afford it.
Just prior to preparing the chicken, Jose told me about a time when he was allowed to travel to Miami to go visit some relatives. While there, someone either prepared or bought his dinner, I don’t remember which. Either way, the main entrée was chicken. Following the meal, however, a Cuban that lived in the States--also a dinner guest--griped to Jose about the chintzy host serving only chicken rather than a more expensive meat. Jose was perplexed at why this person would be so ungrateful for his meal, looking upon chicken with such disdain. I assured Jose that in old Southern culture in the United States, church-going families often would have their biggest meals on Sundays, inviting the pastor over for lunch. Fried chicken was the main dish they would prepare for their honored guest. I told him that I loved chicken and that, as a pastor, I thought it was an honor to be served chicken. (Little did I realize what an honor it would soon become!)
When the meal was ready, Jose called me to the table. I noticed there were only two place settings. When I asked why, Jose said that his wife and I would eat now. He and his mother would eat later. He explained that his wife needed to leave for church earlier than he did--attending the first of the two evening worship services--while he stayed home with his mother. After the 6:00 PM service, his wife would return home to relieve him so he could come to the 8:00 PM service.
Just prior to preparing the chicken, Jose told me about a time when he was allowed to travel to Miami to go visit some relatives. While there, someone either prepared or bought his dinner, I don’t remember which. Either way, the main entrée was chicken. Following the meal, however, a Cuban that lived in the States--also a dinner guest--griped to Jose about the chintzy host serving only chicken rather than a more expensive meat. Jose was perplexed at why this person would be so ungrateful for his meal, looking upon chicken with such disdain. I assured Jose that in old Southern culture in the United States, church-going families often would have their biggest meals on Sundays, inviting the pastor over for lunch. Fried chicken was the main dish they would prepare for their honored guest. I told him that I loved chicken and that, as a pastor, I thought it was an honor to be served chicken. (Little did I realize what an honor it would soon become!)
When the meal was ready, Jose called me to the table. I noticed there were only two place settings. When I asked why, Jose said that his wife and I would eat now. He and his mother would eat later. He explained that his wife needed to leave for church earlier than he did--attending the first of the two evening worship services--while he stayed home with his mother. After the 6:00 PM service, his wife would return home to relieve him so he could come to the 8:00 PM service.
When I sat down to eat my chicken dinner--a costly meal for a Cuban family--it proved to be a profound spiritual experience for me. I was not at all hungry, but I so marveled at the sacrifice this meal represented that I knew I had to eat every last bite of it. I was determined to pick the bone clean, not leaving even the tiniest sliver of meat. Never before or since have I left a chicken bone so bare. And—although I’ll never know for sure this side of Heaven—I've always suspected that there was only enough chicken for two people that afternoon—Jose’s wife, who happened to be celebrating her birthday that very day, and yours truly, the guest of honor from America. When Jose and his mother ate later on that evening, it's very unlikely they had meat on their plates. My heart was so touched by this realization that I felt completely unworthy and humbled before God, to the point of tears. For me personally, it was a holy moment, very much like when the Lord Jesus Himself bowed down and washed His disciples’ dirty feet.
Just as Jesus’ action on that day long ago forever sanctified a towel and basin—we’ve just never been able to look at those two objects in quite the same way since then—Jose’s loving action toward me forever changed my outlook regarding a simple chicken dinner. As silly as it may sound, whenever I’m in a home and I’m served homemade fried chicken, I’m reminded of Jose’s generous sacrifice and how he so graciously embodied the love of God to me.
In the years since then, on subsequent trips to Cuba, I would always look forward to seeing Jose again, and visiting in his home. Between trips, he and I emailed each other back and forth many times. When I was in Cuba in 2005, Jose’s mother was very ill, and I had the opportunity to visit her in the hospital. She actually died before the week was out, and I personally saw how the grace of God sustained Jose in his grief.
About four years ago, Jose’s adult son—who had served as my driver during my first trip to the Cuba—was granted permission to leave the island and move to Canada, of all places. (Talk about a contrast in climates! Brrr!) This had to be something of a bittersweet experience for Jose. He was happy for his son, no doubt, but still sad at the same time. His own personal dream always had been to someday leave Cuba. With the passage of time, however, it seemed that his fading dream would never be realized. At least now his son would get to experience the opportunity that always had eluded him. But it was still very sad to see his only child move so far away, not knowing when he might ever see him again.
In light of all this, I must admit my surprise upon receiving a recent email from another Cuban friend telling me that Jose Ramon and his wife had moved to Canada. I couldn't believe it. Very few people who aspire to leave Cuba ever get to do so. And when I last saw Jose in Havana just four months ago, I had no idea this move was in the works. While I’m not sure how it all came about, I'm delighted that Jose’s family has been reunited once again. The only thing I regret is that I won't get to see my old friend on possible future trips to Cuba.
Perhaps the next time I'm in Havana, I'll just walk by Jose's old home, and reminisce about the first time I met him. Truly, whether or not I ever get to visit with him again in this life, I will forever remember "the chicken man” and the awe-inspiring example of servanthood, sacrifice and love he offered up to me on a platter on one hot and humid Havana afternoon. It was an unforgettable God moment that I'll always cherish.
Pastor Danny
