September 18, 2012

"Bien Codo" Means Stingy

With a name like Miguel Ángel Castilleja Escobar, it should come as no surprise that I occasionally field questions about where I’m from. “Texas” is my immediate response, although I know that isn’t exactly what the person asking me is driving at. When pushed further, I offer up the fact that my mother is originally from Monterrey, México.

For most people I meet, the name of this city means nothing. When I say this to Mexicans, however, it’s as if I’ve just opened a window into my family’s soul. “Bien codo” some will respond, smiling mischievously. They’re joking, of course, but they’re also naming what people from Monterrey are famous for: pinching pennies.

I always find it to be an unnerving comment, mainly because it’s true.

As a lay person sitting in the pew on Sundays, I must admit that I don’t really see the annual stewardship season as just being about the size of next year’s budget. As important as that is, I've come to see the season as a rare opportunity for individuals to go deep, to reflect on the complex messages that we’ve received about money in our lives, and consider how we can move ourselves to a place of greater generosity.

This past week, for instance, I’ve been thinking about my grandfather Papá. I grew up with the understanding that my grandfather was bien codo in many respects, not just financially but also in his words and affections. And yet, one of my last memories of him would seem to counter that. A few weeks before he died of skin cancer, my grandfather sat my mother down for his final goodbye. As I recall, at some point in the conversation, he got up from the kitchen table, retrieved a wooden box, and began pulling out wads and wads of dollar bills, eventually handing over several thousand dollars.

For my grandfather, this was a moment of great pride. Not a wealthy man in any respect, this moment was the result of years and years of tucking away little wads of cash. He must have been doing so throughout his years as a migrant farm worker, as a mower of lawns, and finally as a doer of odd jobs in San Antonio, TX. It was an unexpected moment of profound generosity, and yet it also spoke volumes about how he viewed money's power to convey love.

Amidst the swirling, oftentimes conflicting messages that everyone is bombarded with on a daily basis regarding the value of money, I believe that annual stewardship campaigns are rare opportunities for reflection and conversation about the larger purposes of our resources. Perhaps we can begin with our stories? Stories of generosity, stories of stinginess, stories of the beloved communities we are seeking to build, and ultimately, stories of the kinds of people we are hoping to become.