Of Refugees and Christian Duties
Last week, I posted a reflection on the Syrian refugee crisis. It quickly became on of my most shared pieces--as well as one of my most controversial. To be honest, this surprised me; but it also reminded me of the importance of healthy dialogue. In that vein, I've asked my friend, Eve Marie Barner Gleason to offer perspective on how Christians must navigate the calling to be faithful citizens of their earthly countries and as well as citizens of Heaven.
As a director with Care Net, a network of crisis pregnancy centers offering alternatives to abortion, Eve faces this dilemma everyday--how do we promote Christian values within the framework of a highly bureaucratic and often, less than transparent, government? How can we tackle tough questions without resorting to either pragmatism or sentimentality? How do we pursue truly Christian solutions in both policy and practice?
If you are like me, the Syrian refugee crisis has dominated your news feed. In the days since the Paris bombings, I’ve actually learned a lot through the debate on blogs, social media and between friends. But these debates haven’t impacted me as deeply as the stories of people suffering in a region torn apart by war: 200,000 killed, roughly 11 million displaced, 60 percent of the population unemployed.
The arguments themselves can be overwhelming. Here is a brief summary of comments from my news feed alone (I offer these as examples of the debate; I haven’t independently verified all the statements cited as facts in these comments):
Christians should be as wise as serpents and as harmless as doves. Just because we care about displaced Syrians, doesn’t mean we should bring them all here. Wouldn’t refugees be better off nearer their homeland than adjusting to a new culture after such trauma? Maybe we should try to make them a safe space in the Middle East.
Jesus would welcome displaced people, so Christians should be filled with compassion and even willing to risk our own comfort and safety to love and share Christ with those who are suffering. Anything else is selfish and xenophobic. Even if some terrorists slipped through, shouldn’t we trust God’s protection instead of being fearful, cowardly, and hateful?
Refugees have committed acts of terrorism, including Bosnian immigrants charged with conspiring to fund terrorism.
Syrian refugees from the current war have not committed acts of terrorism.
Our screening process is woefully inadequate. ISIS is smart enough to train a terrorist posing as a refugee to defeat any screening measure we can come up with. And it only takes a fraction of a % to slip through screening and cause mayhem.
It already takes 2-3 years to enter the U.S. as a legal refugee. The process includes a background check and detailed personal interviews. In fact, the screening may be too strict, leaving refugees languishing in squalid camps vulnerable to the influence of terrorist recruiters. Besides, terrorists have easier ways to get to the US: across our southern border or with a student or tourist visa.
Since January, only 30 (1.6 percent of) Syrians who arrived on American were Christian, compared to 1,833 Muslims (97.8 percent).
Christians only make up 10% of the population in Syria. Very few now live in ISIS controlled areas of Syria because if they didn’t leave, they have likely been killed or enslaved already. This makes it hard to know how many Christians are even applying for refugee status.
We should prevent Muslims entering this country as refugees. Islamic faith condones violence and atrocities so we can never trust them.
We should welcome Muslim refugees. Because they are fleeing horrific violence and atrocities being committed in the name of Islam, they understand the evils of extremism more than anyone.
ISIS wants us to take in refugees so there will be more Muslims, who even if they aren’t terrorists, will eventually be loyal to an established Islamic state and caliphate.
ISIS wants us to refuse to take in refugees so they can show the world how selfish and inhospitable we are, and so they can continue to rape, torture, and kill them.
And then there are pictures: A boy washed up on a beach, a bloodied grandfather, bombed out homes, grieving widows and widowers, children sleeping on the ground, orphans trying to protect their younger siblings.
How do Christians process so much suffering? How should American Christians think about displaced people and how many we should allow into our country? Long ago, St. Augustine spoke of believers as having dual citizenship in the city of God and our earthly countries. So, how should our roles as both citizens of heaven and citizens of the United States inform this issue?
Our Duties as American Citizens
American citizens are in a unique position. Not only will the leaders we elect make decisions about how many refugees to accept, from where, and with what restrictions, we can also influence our elected representatives through letters, phone calls, and social media.
Citizens in many countries have no duty except obedience (or civil disobedience if asked to violate their conscience). But it is our duty and privilege as American citizens to think deeply about public policy issues and to pray for and seek to influence those who make policy decisions.
On the complex issues surrounding refugee resettlement, it is important to remember that government does have a responsibility to protect the country. Romans 13:4 refers to civil authorities as God’s servants for the purpose of punishing evildoers. Citizens and leaders alike are called to be just and impartial by Scripture (Leviticus 19:15; Jeremiah 22:11-17; Deuteronomy 16:18-20).
Each elected official in the United Sates takes an oath of allegiance that includes a promise to “support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Because the duties of rulers involve justice, wisdom, and restraining evil, it is entirely appropriate for Christian citizens, policy makers, and Christian citizens who are also policy makers, to carefully examine the conditions under which refugees are resettled in the U.S., to identify where security vulnerabilities may exist, and whether the risks of resettling certain people within our borders are acceptable related to the intended outcome of justice and compassion.
Our Duties as followers of Jesus Christ
What about those Christians who are not policy makers (which is most of us)? We may not have a particularly large say in the resettlement of refugees from Syria or elsewhere. But that doesn’t mean we don’t still have clear duties and privileges: to love our neighbor, to speak up for the defenseless, the foreigner, the stranger in our midst.
“Love your neighbor as yourself...” (Luke 12:33)
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven . . .If you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” (Matthew 5:43-48)
“For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing. And you are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:17-19)
We remember that Jesus was a refugee in Egypt as his parents fled from Herod’s slaughter of innocents. So, we love our neighbor: our immigrant neighbor, our Muslim neighbor, our refugee neighbor, our unborn neighbor, our unpopular neighbor. And, yes, even those who hate us and would do us harm.
Such love must be intensely practical. We must start by praying for displaced Syrian people, but we must not stop there. We may post opinions about the refugee crisis, but opinions aren’t life-transforming love.
How do we love? If you have a refugee or an immigrant in your community, welcome them with respect and kindness, rather than suspicion or judgement. Listen to their stories, offer a meal or a cup of tea, or invite them to a community gathering.
And if you have been moved by the stories and pictures of those caught up in what has been called the “greatest ongoing humanitarian crisis”, resolve to show Christ’s love, whether from near or far. One way to help is to give as generously as you can to organizations who are already helping in Jesus’ name, such as Operation Mobilization, World Vision, or Samaritan’s Purse.
Together with her husband, Ryan, and their dog, Coco, Eve makes her home in Loudoun County, VA. She serves as Director of Center Best Practices at Care Net. Eve and Ryan seek to grow in grace in fellowship with other believers and service to their community. Eve would also like to thank Ashley Trim for her skillful editing of this post.
Not Afraid
I try not to be political. Don’t get me wrong: I have plenty of opinions about government policy and cultural issues; but for the most part, I try to keep them to myself--if only because online conversation is rarely productive. But occasionally, something will happen that moves me to speak. Things like the atrocities at Kermit Gosnell's abortion clinic or those in Syria and Iraq.
Today, we’re facing a similar cultural crisis. This time, however, the tables are turned. Instead of being “out there,” the dilemma is much closer to home: In the wake of the Paris attacks, I’ve seen a groundswell of anti-refugee rhetoric among Christians.
I'm not talking about nuanced conversations about the hard work of integrating refugees into western society. I'm not talking about the challenges to properly vet and approve those who have been waiting for 2-3 years for entrance. I'm not talking about the legitimate responsibility of the government to protect and provide for her citizens. I'm talking about the full-blown fear-mongering that links the terrorist attacks in Paris with all Syrian refugees.
Honestly, I’m not surprised when it comes from political campaigns. If the candidacy of Donald Trump has taught us anything, it’s that playing to our instinctive nativism is politically expedient. But what has surprised me are the memes and Facebook posts and xenophobia I’ve seen from Christians. Despite being people who are “strangers and pilgrims” ourselves; despite being people whose very faith rests on a middle-eastern man who had no place to lay his head, Christians have been among the most vocally opposed to accepting Syrian refugees.
But what's surprised me more than anything, I think, is how quickly we've thrown away our pro-life values.
Over the last several months, my Facebook and Twitter feeds have been flooded with videos documenting Planned Parenthood’s trafficking in infant body parts. We have been sickened. We have wept. We have become angry. As we should. The violence being perpetrated against the “least of these” is horrific and anti-God. So, in His name, we have rallied. We have called our senators and representatives. We have cheered when Congress finally set up hearings. We have shamed those who turn their backs and ignore the bloodshed.
But when similar atrocities are being perpetrated on human beings outside the womb, we are willing to turn our backs, shut the door, and “put it in God’s hands.”
I understand that we cannot solve every geo-political crisis. I understand that we may not choose to involve ourselves in a ground war in Syria. I understand moral proximity and the order of loves. I understand that refugees must undergo a strict process to enter this country, whether they are Syrian or not. But what I cannot understand is how easily we can turn a deaf ear to the wounded man lying on the road to Jerusalem just because of ethnicity. I cannot understand how quickly we’ll cross to the other side. I cannot understand how, like the young lawyer, we can justify our lack of compassion by asking “Who is my neighbor?”
Your neighbor is anyone who God brings into your life--Muslim, Christian, Syrian, French, or Iraqi. When someone is lying bruised and beaten beside the road and you’re taking that same road, he is your neighbor. Run to him. When someone knocks on your door legitimately seeking sanctuary, open it. And if we don’t, don’t be surprised if that same God doesn’t come down in judgment because we’ve failed to reflect his own hospitality. We may fear the possibility of a terrorist slipping through the cracks, but Jesus reminds us that we’d do better to fear Him who can throw both body and soul into hell.
Being pro-life is not about holding onto our rights, protecting ourselves, or insisting that a choice is legitimate simply because it is legal. This is the rhetoric of the pro-choice movement: Protect yourself first. Don’t risk your sense of security to provide a safe place for another human being.
Instead, being pro-life means having the faith to believe that the God who calls us to do difficult things is big enough to care for us in the midst of them. Being pro-life means being people of courage and self-sacrifice. Being pro-life means being people of hospitality.
So, friends, I’m asking you to display the same welcome that you would ask a pregnant teenager to show to her unborn baby. Instead of succumbing to fear, I’m asking you to open your hearts to the potential of new life. I'm asking you to model God's heart for the stranger and pilgrim. Who knows--He might just be using this refugee crisis to bring more people out of darkness into his marvelous light. It’s happening in Europe. It could happen here.
So let me go on record: Because God is both strong and loving, I am not afraid. I am pro-life. I am pro-immigrant. I am pro-refugee.
For a more extensive overview of the challenges of integrating refugees into western society, please read this piece by Alastair Roberts. Alastair clearly notes the difficulties, but also provides a thoroughly Christian framework about why and how we accept those difficulties as part of our Christian vocation. My hope is that we can silence the fear-mongering, roll up our sleeves, and get to work.
Home
Our second, a converted two-car garage that made the perfect newly-wed cottage… until baby made three which led us to…
Our third home, the rental house that my husband leased and moved in to one weekend while I was out of town for a wedding… without my knowing about it.
Our fourth home was a borrowed house in Hastings, New Zealand complete with an ancient pony, two dogs, and fields of neighboring sheep.
Our fifth, the townhouse we quickly rented on our return to the States when I was thirty-five weeks pregnant with #2 and we didn’t yet have a place to live.
Our sixth home was a parsonage we moved to with two weeks notice, a parsonage on the church’s property that had a three-thousand gallon coal-fired boiler in the basement…
And our latest home is the apartment we came to when we had to quickly leave aforementioned parsonage, the apartment in the town (three states away) that I had never even seen until we pulled up in our rented Penske moving truck.
And now nearly eleven years, seven moves, three states, and two countries later, we’re heading to our eighth home and our first house.
This week several friends have asked me how I’m coping with the moving and packing. Their question is usually accompanied by a compassionate empathy, the commiseration of a species who fundamentally hates to be uprooted and understands far too well the work and hassle of transplanting family. I simply reply that in all probability this will be our easiest move yet. Having actually seen this house and being familiar with the area, I feel well ahead of the game.
And yet, there’s a sadness about moving even when it’s on to bigger and better (and hopefully, more permanent) things. A sadness that comes from leaving new-found friends and leaving the house that sheltered my family, even if ever so briefly. For me, it’s saying good-bye to the walls that watched my children play, the windows that shined sunlight on their waking faces, and the rooms that were silent witnesses to the love and joy and pain of being family.
And I find I leave a bit of myself in each place.
**(The picture above is not our new house but isn't it lovely? Perhaps one day, when we're sixty-years married, my husband and I can nest there.)
Hospitality: Freely Have You Received, Freely Give
In broken English, he welcomed us warmly to his city, to his Jerusalem, assured us of his particular love for foreign visitors and his persistent sadness over the divisions between Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Arab, Christian and Muslim.
“Ah, if only we could all just live in peace,” he sighed. After a moment, he asked “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Surprised, we declined at first not wanting to impose on his generosity; but he insisted and quickly waved his young assistant toward a back room. He quickly returned carrying a tray with a small bowl of sugar and cups of steaming mint tea. With the first sip, its sweetness and aroma flooded my senses and in combination with the heady scents drifting from the spice stall next door, created the definitive Proust moment. So this was the famed Middle Eastern hospitality I had heard so much about, that ancient tradition that welcomes strangers as brothers and resolves differences over steaming pots of coffee and tea. Here, cradled in my hands, were millennia of generosity distilled into one piping cup of sweet tea, complete with a sprig of mint.
I began to walk around the small shop,scanning the bits and pieces on display. The shelves held much everything the same as the other shops we had passed: nativity sets carved from olive wood, brass and silver menorahs, and Armenian pottery brightly colored in a distinct blue and red mosaic.
Suddenly I saw a small olive wood statue of the Holy Family. Carved from a single stock of wood, it depicted Joseph protectively embracing Mary as she cradled the vulnerable Christ child. The three figures merged into one at the base, emphasizing the tenderness and intimacy of the young family. It was the only one in the shop; it was the only one like it I had seen all day.
I had to have it.
Hiding my enthusiasm, I casually asked my host how much he intended to sell it for. He replied, “Fifty shekels.” I went back to sipping my tea. After walking around the stall for a few more minutes, I turned to the shopkeeper to begin another longstanding Oriental tradition - bargainingand soon with the help of our Israeli friends, we settled on a price of 30 shekels. While his assistant wrapped my purchase, I paid him and he handed back my change. Like any good American, I glanced at it before returning it to my pocket, and like any good American, I was startled when I realized he had returned only eight shekels instead of the expected ten.
Not wanting to offend such a liberal host I shyly I held out my hand, displaying the eight lonely shekels. “But sir, you said the statue would cost only thirty shekels, and I gave you forty."
“Yes," he quickly replied, "Thirty shekels for the statue. And two for the tea.”
Hospitality: Light in the Darkness
Believe me, I don’t intend for this blog to be consumed with angst or metaphysical struggle. And I really didn’t anticipate it becoming what someone described as “a Christian blog - often deals with problem of suffering (has an emphasis on depression).”
That wasn’t exactly what I was going for.
But I want to be honest, and the truth is that this life can get pretty difficult and the darkness can seem overwhelming at times. So overwhelming that our first instinct is to tuck ourselves away with the people we love, where we are warm, secure, and at peace. When the days are cold and dark, when life is more challenging than we ever knew it could be, all we really want to do is huddle up in our dens and count the blessings that we already have.
But there’s another truth about this life. The truth that Light penetrates the darkness, that grace is alive and working, and that we have a hope that carries us through it all. And so maybe, instead of shutting ourselves in from the darkness, we should throw our doors wide open to let the Light shine out.
Because when we open our doors, when we welcome others in, we offer them a haven from their pressing cares, rest from their journey, and fellowship along the way. We offer them warmth and security, joy and beauty, and maybe for the briefest of moments, we offer them Light. And when we sit together around a table, and laugh and love, we tell each other that the evil of this world will one day be less than a memory. We remind each other of that greater feast day yet to come when the greatest Host will welcome us into His eternal home.
So serve each other the same way: prepare a place, make room, and say, "Welcome. Come away from the cares of this life, come away from the burden of your work, come away from the cold and dark. Come inside, sit down, be warm, be blessed. And rest.”