Two years ago, I had the great privilege to travel to Cuba to teach on worship in a little seminary in Havana, and to preach in some house churches. Yes, Cuba. My father went with me on the trip, and we knew we were walking into a history of hostility—that simply by being Americans, we could be lightning rods for trouble. Overall, I had peace about making the trip, but this was Cuba, and there were times when our planning was tinged with doubts.
As it turned out, the only nervous moments came on the way into the country. When our plane landed, we were met by soldiers wearing olive drab uniforms, just like in the movies. It was a little surreal. In the terminal, our group of five gringos stood out among the other travelers. We were questioned at length by customs officials. We were honest about why we had come, but were evasive about the names of our Cuban contacts and their churches. We were eventually allowed in without incident.
The rest of the trip was a joy. The Cuban believers ...1