Tribute to Sixto Garcia

Discipleship is a beautiful and polyvalent word. At its heart is the relationship between a teacher and a student: to learn, to follow, and eventually to embody something of what one has received from a teacher. Those of us who teach know that much of what we give our students has first been given to us by the teachers who shaped us. We teach, in many ways, because we were first taught, and because some teachers left an imprint on us that remains long after we have left their classrooms. That is certainly the case for me with Dr. Sixto J. García, who recently passed away.

One of the last times I saw Sixto was when he received the Virgilio Elizondo Award from the Academy of Catholic Hispanic Theologians of the United States. That evening, I wrote on social media that I was a professor and a theologian because of the erudition and passion that Sixto modeled in the classroom.

The following year, we welcomed Sixto to the Loyola Institute for Ministry to record videos that would become supplemental material for our course on the Jewish Roots of Christianity. Watching him once again was like returning to his classroom years earlier. He spoke passionately and masterfully, in both English and Spanish, about suffering in the Book of Job, poetry and art in the Psalms, and the theology of Karl Rahner.

Listening to him transported me back to the young graduate student I once was, sitting in Sixto’s classroom and discovering what theology could be when it was joined to intellectual rigor, imagination, faith, and passion.

It is difficult to articulate the extent to which Dr. García’s scholarship and teaching inspired his students, often far beyond the years they spent in his classroom. Being one of Sixto’s students meant more than attending his lectures or reading his articles. It meant entering into conversation with him. For many of us, that conversation continued through his blog where he reflected on issues close to his heart: from politics to pastoral ministry, and through the many lectures, essays, and conversations he offered throughout Florida and across the country.

For me, being his student also meant carrying his scholarship into my own work. I have cited his writings in my own scholarship, including an article I wrote on the need for a liberative catechesis. I have also continued to draw upon research I first undertook years ago as his student, particularly research through which he encouraged me to see the realities of Nicaragua and Latin America through the lens of Jon Sobrino's Christology. What he taught me did not remain in the classroom. It became part of the way I read the world, the Church, and the task of theology.

As a conversation partner, Sixto had a remarkable gift for pushing us to go further; to question more deeply, to think more critically, and to refuse facile answers. He challenged us without diminishing us. He could be demanding because he believed that our thinking, our scholarship, and our faith were capable of more.

I was especially honored that Sixto agreed to write the epilogue to my forthcoming poetry collection, Filosofía Poética. True to form, he offered a generous and salutary reading of my work while also, ever the teacher, gently pointing out some omissions in my artistic and philosophical reflections. Even then, he was still teaching me.

One of Sixto’s favorite sayings from St. Charles de Foucauld, was: “We will never love enough.” Those words describe something essential about Sixto himself. He never seemed content with a faith that remained superficial, a theology that remained academic, or a life that settled for less than what love demanded. His life as a theologian, professor, mentor, and friend was marked by an intellectual and spiritual passion that he generously shared with others.

Years ago, during the oral portion of my comprehensive examinations, Dr. Margarita Gómez, rmi, who was serving as the timekeeper, called out, “Time.”

Sixto looked at me and said:

“Explain paredōken to pneuma.”

Dr. Gómez, perhaps sensing my exhaustion, said, “You don't have to answer that.”

But Sixto insisted: “Paredōken to pneuma!”

Again, Dr. Gómez said, “You don't have to answer. Time is up!”

And Sixto, with that characteristic insistence that was so much a part of who he was, looked at me and said:

“Answer it. For me.”

Exhausted, I answered: “The Johannine Pentecost. ‘He handed over his spirit (John 19:30).’”

At the time, it seemed one more question from a demanding professor during a comprehensive examination. But as I think about that moment now, I realize how prophetic those words became. As a theologian, professor, mentor, and friend, Sixto truly handed over his spirit.

He gave himself generously, in his teaching, his scholarship, his faith, his wisdom, his humor, his questions, his friendship, and, above all, in the countless students and colleagues whose lives he touched and helped shape. He taught us theology not simply as something to know, but as something to give away. Today, I give thanks to God for the gift of Sixto's life, for his friendship, for his scholarship, for his humor and generosity, and for the spirit he handed over to so many of us.

Descansa en el poder del Espíritu, querido Sixto J. García. Thank you for making me answer it, for you. And thank you for all that you handed over to us.

For me, being his student also meant carrying his scholarship into my own work. I have cited his writings in my own scholarship, including an article I wrote on the need for a https://repository.usfca.edu/jhlt/vol23/iss1/5/?utm_source=repository.us...">liberative catechesis. I have also continued to draw upon research I first undertook years ago as his student, particularly research through which he encouraged me to see the realities of Nicaragua and Latin America through the lens of Jon Sobrino's Christology. What he taught me did not remain in the classroom. It became part of the way I read the world, the Church, and the task of theology.