God Talk and Tea

Which of us are God's children?

In a recent Facebook exchange about our treatment of immigrants at the border, I wrote, “America will suffer for the mistreatment of God’s
children.” A Christian gentleman replied, asking, “How are we mistreating God’s children?” saying they have no right to feel mistreated if they come into this country illegally, and shared the story of his grandparent's legal entry into the country.

First, I would preface my answer with my belief, as a Catholic and an American citizen, that we certainly need a well-thought out, well-structured and well-financed immigration plan that will process immigrants quickly while providing safety for them, and for us.

However, any time we deprive people of their dignity, inflict fear and degradation, and deprive them of necessities to meet their basic human needs, we are hurting God’s children.

How does separating children, as young as infants, from their parents, or taking fathers or mothers from their families, whether new immigrants or established families living in the US, ensure our safety?  It doesn’t.  How does it make our lives better? It doesn’t.  

We are actively dehumanizing people. That can never be the goal of a great nation or a great people.

My grandparents on both sides were also immigrants who came here legally, but at that time, throughout the history of Ellis Island, only 2% of immigrants were deported.  While they were sometimes detained, usually for medical reasons, none were kept in cages, denied basic necessities or had their children taken away.

 Upwards of 10,000 immigrants a day were processed at Ellis Island, and though it was opened more than 100 years ago, they managed to do a better job than we do today. A writer in 1905, describing the process at Ellis Island, and other points of entry wrote: “Not only are the laws for our protection strictly enforced, but their enforcement is marked by humane and kindly treatment of the Alien.” We could learn a lesson from that.

Sadly, all was never gold when it came to our immigration policies, when, so often, there was an attempt to curtail immigration of those who were not “white.”

But most disturbing to me was the ideal of eugenics, which today would be, or should be, an anathema to American values.

The eugenic ideal was widely embraced in America, particularly in the early 20th century. This attempt to improve the genetic pool by excluding those who were considered inferior was practiced in our immigration policy by excluding those immigrants who were believed to have physical (those that couldn’t be healed), mental or moral defects.

My fear is that, with a  sitting president who has no qualms about sowing seeds of hatred and division among those he is meant to serve, and who has blatantly given evidence to his racism and obvious belief that those of other nationalities and cultures are somehow inferior,  it won’t be long before an attempt is made to malign and endanger those who are mentally or physically challenged.

The value of history is that we have the opportunity to study it and learn what ideals we should hold on to, and those we absolutely need to replace for the growth and well-being of our country.

But we are prone to boiling frog syndrome, expressed in the figurative tale about a frog dropped into boiling water but immediately jumps out. When the frog is dropped into cold water which is slowly brought to a boil, the frog will stay in the water until it dies.

As people of faith, and as citizens, we must continue to be vigilant, to be attentive to what is really happening, to work and to pray for a country that evolves into the unified, inclusive, spiritually diverse and welcoming country it was meant to be. That is where our strength lies.

 

Annie Spratt photo on Unsplash

 

Following Christ is bound to make us uncomfortable

As a child I grew up in a house without air-conditioning, a small, three-bedroom ranch with few windows. Air-conditioning made my mom sick, so there was no chance we would have any in the house. One year my dad finally convinced her to let him put a window unit in the garage, which, in the warm weather, became our summer room.  When my mom said, “Yes,” my dad and I could barely contain our excitement.

The comfortable, cool times lasted about a month before my mom came down with bronchitis. So, we went back to wet towels around our necks and cold drinks on the shaded patio, aware that comfort is relative, and many times our feelings of being physically uncomfortable are more minor inconveniences than serious problems.

I forgot that lesson when the air-conditioner in my car stopped working last fall. Navigating the cooler weather was fine, but with summer upon us, I found myself whining every day:  “I am so uncomfortable!,” bemoaning the fact that I could not afford to fix the problem or buy another car.

In those times of feeling sorry for myself, I felt my conscience being challenged by the reality of so many people who live everyday with a level of discomfort that I will likely never experience, those whom Pope Francis has described as “faces marked by suffering, marginalization, oppression, violence, torture and imprisonment, war, deprivation of freedom and dignity, ignorance and illiteracy, medical emergencies and shortage of work, trafficking and slavery, exile, extreme poverty and forced migration.”

For the rest of us, if we are lucky, our occasional discomforts lead us to a state of spiritual discomfort necessary for our growth in faith. Scripture was clear that Jesus was a master at making people feel uncomfortable, especially those who needed a radical change of heart and mind.

Years ago, one of my adult students reminded me that in life, as in faith, there is nothing more dangerous to our development than being comfortable.

A small group of my students had gathered to discuss conversion and view the movie, “Romero,” the powerful story of Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero of El Salvador and his commitment to social justice and the poor. It is a disturbing movie, not only because of the violence, which was an historical reality, but because it challenges us as Christians to a moral vision that moves us from complacency and calls us, as Church, to live what Jesus lived and preached through a preferential option for the poor.

A timid, orthodox, predictable bookworm, Bishop Romero was elected as archbishop by conservative bishops who believed he would not make waves in a land ravished by conflict in the struggle for land reform.  Just one month later, following the brutal death of his friend, Father Rutilio Grande, along with two parishioners, Archbishop Romero experienced a turning point that would stir up its own storm leading to his assassination on the altar three years later as he raised the consecrated host and prayed.

Soon after Father Grande’s death, the archbishop would say, prophetically, “We must learn this invitation of Christ: ‘Those who wish to come after me must renounce themselves.’ Let them renounce themselves, renounce their comforts, renounce their personal opinions, and follow only the mind of Christ, which can lead us to death but will surely also lead us to resurrection.”

When the movie was over, I found one of my students sitting in silence, tears streaming down her face. I sat down next to her and asked if she was OK. She took my hand and said, “I hate when you do that. I was comfortable with the way I lived my faith. Now I’m not.”

The cost of discipleship.

Mary Morrell is the author of “Let Go and Live,” and “Things My Father Taught Me About Love,” both available as ebooks on Amazon.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash