It is hard,
this week,
to read this passage from Exodus
against the grim backdrop
of violent images
and disturbing updates from Gaza and Israel.
It is hard to read this passage
knowing that 100 million people
in our world are displaced—
forced from their homes
because of
Financial ruin
Political oppression
Religious persecution
Starvation
Environmental disaster.
It is hard to read this passage
and know that modern footnotes might add,
“This year, there are 32.5 million
refugees in the world.”
Or,
“The UN estimates there are 153 million
orphans across the globe.”
Now,
the Bible doesn’t lay out economic strategies
or policy statements.
It doesn’t offer a blueprint
for social action,
and despite what some people
would like to believe,
Scripture doesn’t tell us how to vote
or which political party to support.
Scripture does tell us,
in no uncertain terms,
what we owe to God
and to each other.
We owe God our reverence and obedience.
We owe God our “first fruits”,
our sacrifices,
our offerings scooped generously
from the cream,
not scraped together from the dregs.
We owe God gratitude,
praise,
worship.
And as hard as these may be to live out,
what we owe to God
is the “easy” part.
Much harder
is what we owe to each other.
“The Bible is Clear”
is a phrase often used
to impose personal agendas
or to force “Biblical Beliefs”
or “Biblical Morality”
on people who don’t follow the Bible.
But the Bible is remarkably clear
for those who follow it.
Love your neighbor.
Welcome the stranger.
Serve the least.
Feed the hungry.
Forgive debts.
Show mercy.
Heal the wounded.
Create space for the other.
Make peace.
Care for the land.
For example,
the Bible is clear
that we owe justice to women.
Period.
Full stop.
Not grudging justice,
not quasi-justice,
not convenient justice,
not justice based on what men in power
are willing to concede—
but justice in God’s eyes
and on God’s terms.
This means,
a woman’s worth is not measured
by her usefulness
or by the square root
of how many men find her attractive
or share the same gene pool—
but by her absolute worth in God’s eyes.
Young,
old,
wealthy,
poor,
single,
daughter, wife, widow.
Scripture is clear.
Women are worthy of God’s justice.
The Bible is equally clear
that the most vulnerable among us—
those easily used or abused
by the strong,
those with no safety net—
children,
orphans,
widows,
the elderly,
the stranger,
the refugee,
the poor,
the wounded,
are to be protected and welcomed in.
Scripture tells us
time and again
that we must take special care
of people who might have
a hard path to walk.
Scripture teaches
that because God cares for sojourners
and aliens
and refugees,
we must care for them, too.
There’s no wiggle room in this,
no matter how carefully
we search for a loophole,
or an asterisk,
or a personal exemption.
We are accountable to God
and this accountability means
that our holiness
is more than personal piety.
It is deeper than sympathy,
more valuable than charity,
more effective than the nebulous desire
to “do good.”
Holiness is the wholehearted embrace of God’s vision,
even when that vision
leads us into unchartered territory.
This vision has significant,
and sometimes dangerous repercussions.
It dismantles power structures
and re-arranges hierarchies.
It overturns carefully laid plans.
It places those who exploit,
those who exclude,
those who circle the wagons,
those who profit from war
or grow rich from the world’s misery,
on notice.
This vision requires that we engage in
difficult conversations
about immigration,
about protecting borders
about international diplomacy,
about violence and hatred
about the economics of poverty and war.
This vision means
that we begin to see Biblical hospitality
as something beyond coffee and donuts
after the 10:30 mass--
that we see Biblical hospitality
as the ongoing work
of creating space at the table
for the outsider.
Embracing this vision
doesn’t make us progressives,
or socialists,
or bleeding-heart liberals.
It makes us Christians.
Because here’s the thing.
We are—all of us—
migrants, aliens, sojourners.
We are—all of us—
wounded,
hurting,
and at times, weak.
It doesn’t matter that some of us
are skilled at spackling over scars.
It doesn’t matter that some of us
can point to generations
dwelling on a particular plot of land.
The truth is,
as Christians,
regardless of our official immigration status
or legal standing,
we are sojourners.
We may be “citizens” of the land we occupy
but we are also migrants
journeying to a new place—
a place yet to be—
a place with a distinct set
of values and behaviors,
and a very different definition of residency.
“You were once aliens yourselves
in the land of Egypt.”
As Christians,
no matter how strong and secure
we may appear,
no matter how long and distinguished our pedigree—
we cannot heal ourselves;
we cannot save ourselves.
We cannot enter the Promised Land alone.
We are aliens,
immigrants,
wanderers who must rely on God’s mercy.
When we find the courage
to reach out to others,
we will mirror and multiply that same mercy.
This is a hard passage to read,
especially this week,
when the world sounds like it is cracking open,
when hatred appears to hold the upper hand
when peace feels far away.
It is a hard passage to read,
and a harder passage to live.
But it is a timely reminder
that for us,
and for the world,
there is another way.
"Mass exodus" by Doc Kazi is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
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