The Caribbean is a place where cultures and faith traditions have intertwined for centuries. Yet, when certain cultural practices are incorporated into Christian blessings, they are often met with suspicion—even hostility. This was evident in two recent episodes. On 17 November 2013, the Jamaica Gleaner published an article titled “Salty Ritual leaves youth ministry staff concerned,” reporting unease over Rev. Marjorie Lewis’ (then President of the United Theological College of the West Indies) use of salt to bless the Ministry of Youth offices. On 28 August 2025, the Gleaner also reported that government minister Daryl Vaz had used white rum to bless several new school buses. The Jamaica Council of Churches, not having prior knowledge of Mr. Vaz’s action, which was carried out after the official blessings, quickly distanced itself from the act. At the same time, the Jamaica Umbrella Group of Churches publicly condemned the trend of “bus blessings” that involved the use of rum and salt, as reported in the Jamaica Observer on September 2, 2025.
The adverse reactions raise an essential question: Why do Caribbean Christians—many of whom are descendants of enslaved Africans—react so negatively to these cultural symbols? Why should salt or white rum, when used in a context of blessing, provoke such concern?
I admit that I, too, have felt uneasy. White rum and salt are not part of the traditional Christian rite of blessing. But why does that fact alone make me recoil? Salt, after all, is biblical: the Old Testament refers to salt as a symbol of covenant, preservation, and blessing. White rum is admittedly more complex. Its cultural associations in the Caribbean are deeply layered—linked to rum bars, drunkenness, and male boisterousness. This stigma clings to it, leading many to see it as intrinsically “evil.” Yet, in Afro-Caribbean religious practices such as Revivalism, white rum is not a tool of vice but an instrument of ritual blessing—poured on graves, sprinkled on foundations, or used to ward off evil. Both rum and salt, then, are not inherently evil. Rather, our discomfort reflects religious and cultural biases that we have inherited.
This raises a deeper theological question. Within the Catholic tradition, when missionaries enter new cultural contexts, they are called to discern what is good, what is harmful, and what can be transformed. The Church has long embraced this principle of inculturation. We forget that Christmas itself incorporated pre-Christian cultural practices—lights in the winter darkness, evergreens as signs of hope—now naturalised within Christian worship. Why, then, should rum and salt be automatically dismissed? Why should the conversation end at condemnation?
Perhaps a different approach is necessary. Instead of making public rebukes, the churches could consider engaging in dialogue—practising careful listening with the communities that perform these rituals. What values underpin sprinkling salt or rum? How do these symbols connect people with God, community, and creation? What elements could be incorporated into Christian practice in a way that enriches faith while gently transforming what is unhealthy?
Perhaps the answer lies in the Catholic Church’s celebration of October as Mission Month and World Mission Sunday on 19 October 2025 sheds light. This year’s theme—Missionaries of Hope Among All Peoples—reminds us that hope is at the very heart of Christian mission. In his message, Pope Francis insists that every baptised person is called to be a “messenger and builder of hope” in a world overshadowed by uncertainty and despair. The controversies around salt and rum need not be battlegrounds. They can be opportunities to practise this very mission of hope—entering dialogue with cultural practices, not to dismiss them outright, but to discern the seeds of the Gospel that may already be present.
The Catholic Church’s synodal journey provides a model: intentional listening, mutual dialogue, and communal discernment. Synodality is not about strict rules but about asking together, “What is the Spirit saying to the Churches?” If we apply this to the conversations on cultural blessings, we may find that God is inviting us to explore new expressions of grace rooted in the Caribbean story.
Ultimately, salt and rum are gifts of the earth and creations of human hands. The key question is whether we instinctively reject them or listen for how God might speak through them, transforming everyday objects into signs of grace. This goes beyond simply settling an argument about ritual practice. It is a deeper calling to become ‘missionaries of hope’: to show through our actions that God can speak through everything, even the most humble or contested items on our tables and in our rituals. By approaching our culture with openness, patience, and discerning love, we become not only guardians of tradition but also builders of bridges where suspicion once reigned—blessing our communities in ways that are genuinely Christian and profoundly Caribbean.
