Already and Not Yet

A year and a half ago, a small faith community in central New Jersey found themselves in the midst of despair, with little hope of relief. The Reformed Church of Highland Park is a modest worshipping community comprised of young families, students, and a burgeoning group of undocumented Indonesian refugees. For years, the church had walked alongside its undocumented brothers and sisters--offering legal assistance, advocating with Congress, and even offering sanctuary when deportation orders were issued. And what did they have to show for their efforts?

Where was society when they were young and vulnerable? Many stories indicated racism, abuse, abandonment, adoption, addiction, dysfunctional families and communities, of lives spiraling out of control on urban streets.

There are many reasons Central Americans choose to migrate North. However, the violence and risk many Central Americans face while migrating is often just as terrible.

It was an early morning during the second week of August, a typical day like most others. I said goodbye to my family, then drove away. My destination, a conference in Wyoming, MI. Driving along US 131-South, and making good time, I heard a loud noise, and saw a dense cloud of black smoke in my rearview mirror. I knew there was something seriously wrong. By the grace of God, I made it onto the 44th Street exit where the van stopped at the exit light.  

On the last afternoon of Christ at the Checkpoint conference several hundred of us stood on the ancient, stony terraces among the olive trees to celebrate a Eucharist of solidarity with the people of Beit Jala (pronounced ‘bait-yala’) –Bethlehem’s smaller sister. It was icy cold and rainy. “Why don’t we do this inside the nice warm monastery?” I thought to myself.

I would find out why a little later.

We have come to Kenya (on the We Have Faith Environmental Expedition) to hear our brothers and sisters bear witness to the ways environmental degradation and recent changes in the climate are harming them. Their testimony is disturbing and compelling. We are privileged to hear their stories, and honored by their trust in us as bearers of the message that they and their land, water, and air are suffering. Their words are a painful reminder of the brokenness of our world.

I have decided to fast on the first day of every month in solidarity with vulnerable people who are going hungry as the impacts of climate change worsen. I’m joining this global action as a way to prepare myself for — and participate in — the necessary changes that a more hospitable and just planetary existence demands.

Longing for justice is a struggle to which God calls us. As NT Wright says, “Christians...have heard, deep within themselves, the echo of a voice which calls us to live [with a dream for justice].” But behind the call for justice there is a little secret, something I don’t think we like to admit.

I had to re-read the opening sentence of the news report: “Meeting in the sanctuary of the Christian Reformed Church of North America’s headquarters, a coalition of Michigan fruit and vegetable growers said their crops are rotting in the fields because U.S. immigration policy lacks a workable system for migrant workers.”

At the tail end of this season of Advent people seem to have more emotional space for attention to both the brokenness of the world and the hope hidden in Christ.