The Caravan's A-Comin'

The caravan’s a-comin’

The images are stunning. A stream of humanity stretched across a bridge, down a dusty road, marching.

What do you see when you look at the photos and footage?

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see? Do you see the families torn apart by the violence in Honduras?

To the journalists embedded among them, making the journey alongside them, they tell stories of horror, violence, and threats.

They move forward because they have to. They move because that which is human within them compels them. You would be moving, too. You would be marching if you were in their shoes.

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see?

I’m reminded of the Zimbabwean song which has become such an important tune in American churches, called Siyahamba.

We are marching in the light of God, we are marching in the light of God; we are marching in the light of God, we are marching in the light of God.

We are marching, we are marching, ooohhh,we are marching in the light of God;

We are marching, we are marching, ooohhh,we are marching in the light of God.

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see? Here’s what President Donald J. Trump sees:

“Let me just tell you something. I spoke with Border Patrol this morning. And I spoke to them last evening, and I spoke to them the day before. I speak to them all the time.

“And they say -- and you know this as well as anybody -- over the course of the year, over the course of a number of years, they've intercepted many people from the Middle East. They've intercepted ISIS, they've intercepted all sorts of people.

“And they said it happens all the time, from the Middle East. There's no proof of anything. There's no proof of anything. But they could very well be.

“But certainly you have people coming up through the southern border from the Middle East and other places that are not appropriate for our country. And I'm not letting them in. They're not coming in.”

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see?

It’s a question of perspective.

Politicians see terrorists, ne’er-do-wells, criminals, rapists, security threats, interlopers, and illegal aliens. They see brown skin, poor health, and hungry, thirsty bodies.

Disciples of Jesus see people in need; families with little hope, mothers with children, laborers with nothing to do, girls who want a chance. In other words, they see Jesus himself. “Just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me,” said the king in Jesus’ parable (Matthew 25:45).

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see? Can you see yourself in that great march? Can you see us in that mass migration?

I’m reminded of another song that we sing at church, a hymn called “A Wilderness Wandering People”:

We are a wilderness wandering people on a journey of the soul. 

May we find our destination in our longing to be whole. 

Our Holy God is calling to us. 
With Jesus by our side may compassion be our compass; 

may the Spirit be our guide.

May we cherish all our children, let us heal our family’s pain.

Help us cure our city’s madness, let love and justice reign.

Reconciled with one another in prayer and praise and song, 

we’re the body of Christ together and we know that we belong.

The caravan’s a-comin’

What do you see?

The Parable of the Church on the Hill

The little church on the hill was a happy place for many years. The people who established the church had built a beautiful building. There was gold trim, exquisite stained glass windows, and marble floors. The place perpetually smelled of lilies and roses.

For years, the church was the tallest structure in the area. The steeple could be seen for miles away. The people remembered fondly that Jesus said, “A city on a hill cannot be hid.”

Over time, other people moved into the area, and began building new buildings. Some were bigger and taller than the little church. Some were shinier and flashier. Some had bigger signs, and others had more contemporary flourishes.

But nothing was as beautiful as the little church. It sat on the hill proudly, proclaiming its good news.

As the taller buildings began to press in on the little church on the hill, the people who built the church began to worry. They worried that they couldn’t be seen anymore.  They fretted that their steeple wasn’t as tall as the newest cell tower or the nearest department store billboard. Fewer people came into their doors, even though the church was still beautiful.

One day, someone read that Jesus said that those who fed the hungry and gave shelter to the homeless were serving him. They wanted to serve Jesus, so they decided to invite hungry homeless people to their beautiful building. A line soon formed in front of their doors.

But there was a problem. The homeless people didn’t have shoes, and their feet were dirty — what would happen to the church floors? They didn’t smell very good either — wouldn’t that be an offense to the sacred space? They also didn’t speak or behave logically or rationally. In fact, they were more trouble than they were worth.

So the church closed its doors and said, “Never mind.”

The church members didn’t feel good about what happened; they sighed loudly with regret.

One day, someone read that Jesus once said, “Let the little children come to me.” Another person said, “Children are the future of the church, so let’s welcome them.” So the church invited all the children in their village to come. A line soon formed in front of their doors.

But there was a problem. The children were rowdy. They were loud when they got into the building and the sound ricocheted off the walls and down the stairways — how could anyone hear themselves think, much less pray? They were messy — who would clean up the paper off the floors? They also didn’t speak or behave logically or rationally. In fact, they were more trouble than they were worth.

So the church closed its doors and said, “Never mind.”

The church members didn’t feel good about what happened; they sighed loudly with regret.

One day, someone read that the Bible directs people to welcome strangers, aliens, and immigrants. Another person said, “We should invite immigrants to our church, especially families who have been separated at the border.” So the church invited all the immigrants in the village to come. A line soon formed outside their doors.

But there was a problem. The immigrants spoke a foreign language — who would translate them? Some of them were also illegally in the country — should the church support lawlessness? Some needed legal support. In fact, they were more trouble than they were worth.

So the church closed its doors and said, “Never mind.”

The church members didn’t feel good about what happened; they sighed loudly with regret.

One day, someone reminded them that there were a lot of young single adults moving into the village. Another person said, “Let’s invite them to our church. They’re professionals without children, so they’re likely to be easier to manage. They smell good and dress well. They speak English. They also have jobs in the big city so they can help us pay to keep our building beautiful.”

Everybody thought this was a fine idea, much better than the ones they’d had before. So the church invited all the young single adults in the village to come. A line soon formed outside their doors.

They threw open the doors and the young single adults came in and filled the building. They served fancy coffee with long names and gave everyone access to free Wifi. 

But there was a problem. One of the young single adults asked, “Where are the homeless?” Another asked, “Where are the children?” And another asked, “Where are the immigrants? This doesn’t seem like much of a church to me. Why does everybody here look and speak and smell exactly the same?” The rest of the young single adults nodded in agreement.

Slowly they filed out the door and returned to the village.

Questions to ponder: What does the future of the church on the hill look like? What does it do now? What will restore the church’s beauty and dignity?

To Welcome Like the Lebanese

It’s not like I had a lifelong dream to visit Lebanon. To be honest, I’d never given it a thought. Beirut is just not one of those vacation spots that pops up on most people’s bucket list.

I didn’t plan our Lebanon trip because of a desire to vacation, however. Instead, my colleagues and I wanted to travel to the front line of the Syrian refugee crisis, and see what is going on.

And Lebanon is on the front line. In fact, it shares a long border with Syria, and for the last five years, has borne the brunt of much of the civil war’s fallout. It has received the second-most number of refugees from the conflict — over 1.5 million people.

That number sounds abstractly high by itself, but when you consider the fact that the country of Lebanon only had a population of 4 million before the war, then you can see how all-consuming the crisis has become for the Lebanese.

Everywhere we went, we heard how difficult the Syrian crisis has been on the hosting community. We found municipalities which are overwhelmed by water, electricity, and sewage needs. We discovered overcrowded schools and hospitals. And we heard ordinary citizens worry about the future.

Despite all that, the Lebanese are doing their best to serve the needs of their Syrian neighbors. We met a number of highly committed and dedicated Lebanese men and women who were spending large amounts of time to care for the refugees amongst them. We saw multiple NGOs (non-governmental organizations) at work in the country, providing family planning assistance, health care, education, vocational training, and more. 

Our team started calling these Lebanese folks we met, our “heroes.” They are doing their best to serve where they are needed. They are Christian — Maronite, Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant. They are Muslim — Sunni and Shiite. They are Druze, atheist, Buddhist, and agnostic.

I sense that what unites them is a shared sense of vulnerability. In other words, the Lebanese people are intimately acquainted with suffering. They know what it is like to be displaced.

The Lebanese have vivid memories of two major disasters — the civil war of 1975-1990, and the Israel bombing of 2006. Both events displaced large numbers of Lebanese people, destroyed infrastructure, and destabilized civil society.

But the people of Lebanon received generous help from other peoples, survived the conflict, drew together, and forged a path forward for a hopeful future. There are lots of challenges still, to be sure, but the point is that the Lebanese know what it is like to be in need. They know what it’s like to have to rely on aid, on the kindness of others.

So when the Syrian people are in need, the Lebanese have resolved to receive them with open arms. They share, not only a common border, but a common future.

The same kind of logic is at work in the Torah. Time and time again, God’s law demands that the Israelites care for the alien and stranger. This is not an abstract rule; it is rooted in empathy. “You shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt" (Lev. 19:34).

The Israelites are to welcome the stranger in need because they have known what it is like to be a stranger in need.

And now let’s turn the spotlight on our own nation. Shouldn’t this country of immigrants, this motley collection of persecuted and battered refugees, which has found refuge in these amber waves of grain and purple mountains’ majesty, also open its doors to those who are now persecuted and battered? We share a common story of suffering and hope, a narrative of displacement and rebirth.

Why are we afraid of those who should remind us of ourselves? Why is the Statue of Liberty so dark these days?