Below, for your consideration and reflection, is the sermon from Bethel's April 2, 2006 Sunday worship service.

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This week, it’s been hard to miss the fact that immigration has been much in the news. While I can’t purport to know all of the nuances of the proposed legislation before Congress, it seems that battle lines have been drawn over what should happen to those people who have immigrated to America but who do not have legal status. Should anyone here illegally be rounded up and deported, many back to Mexico and various Latin American nations? Should there be a crackdown along the borders, particularly our border with Mexico? Should those already here be granted amnesty of some sort? Should temporary worker status, but not full citizenship privileges and responsibilities, be granted? Critics say that the loss of these immigrants would stall the U.S. economy since undocumented workers do many jobs that few native-born Americans will do.

12 million is their estimated number. We saw this week, in Los Angeles, for instance, 500,000 people demonstrating for the right for undocumented immigrants to live here, 100,000 in Denver, and many more in various other protests across the nation.

I know that there are all sorts of questions this immigration issue raises about the cost and delivery of human services, the role of schools, fair taxation, Spanish as a second national language, and so forth, but, on the other hand, people need jobs and ways to support their family. Polls shows that we are very much a divided nation on this issue, a third saying let them stay, a third saying give them temporary worker status, and a third saying send them back to their native countries. In terms of basic human dignity and the universal right everyone should have to a decent standard of living, affordable health care, and opportunities for educational advancement, can there be a convincing moral argument for not having an open door policy?

Think about our national history. From 17^th English Protestant Puritans escaping religious persecution, 19^th century European Jews fleeing pogroms, and Irish Catholics desperate for a new start during the potato famine of the 1830s, all the way to 1960s legislation that opened up opportunities for US citizenship to folks from Asian countries like India, Indonesia, and China, immigration has been a defining category for our national self-identity.

Of course, there were also those immigrants forced to come here against their will, African slaves and there have been tragic expressions of nativism when xenophobia has been the national sin, but on the whole, the moral consciousness of the nation has sided with welcoming strangers to our shores. For instance, between 1892 and 1924, 22 million passengers and ships’ crews came through Ellis Island and the port of New York City. Our national history is the history of immigration. We’re all immigrants.

While the arrival of various immigrant groups to his land has not been without turmoil and opposition, many of us wouldn’t be here if it were not for the tone of welcome signified, perhaps best, by the Statue of Liberty, and even the American flag itself.

I know that the issues today are complex and legal questions are not to be disregarded, but one wonders, “who we are to sanction the removal of 12 million people now living in this land and the vast majority of whom are making important contributions to our society?”

It’s a bit of an anachronistic question, but I do wonder if we could turn the clock back 200-300 years, what native Americans would have thought about our ancestors who immigrated here from European nations, and who, if those native people could have had more of a say-so in what happened, would they not have, perhaps, labeled we white folk “illegal immigrants.”

When it comes to the commission of national sins, ancient Israel, too, was no exception. The prophetic ministry of Jeremiah was one filled with poignant moments of deep grief over just how far God’s chosen people had strayed from the original covenant promises. From neglect of widows and orphans to political alliances with all the wrong kind of people, Jeremiah repeatedly warned the nation’s monarch and priests not to renege on their part of the covenant that bound them to Yahweh as their God.

The proof that God would keep God’s part of the bargain was represented by a single word that we heard repeated in today’s scripture reading. Whenever a text from the Old Testament mentions “Egypt,” one thing and one thing only is intended: to take the corporate memory of the people all the way back to that primal moment in time when deliverance from Pharaoh’s slavery came in the form of the angel of death who “passed over” the Hebrew homes whose doorposts had been sprinkled with the blood of the Passover lamb – a sign that God would not destroy the first born child within that household, and a sign that freedom would mean immigrating to a new land and finding a new home.

Just as with the people of ancient Israel, the covenant idea runs deep in our national history as an American people. From the days of our founding, the belief that God had elevated this nation for a special purpose has been engrained in our self-consciousness. John Winthrop, first governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, declared in 1630 that “we are to be a city set upon a hill; the eyes of all people are upon us.” Since then, preachers, politicians, and pundits have celebrated America as God’s “redeemer nation,” “the chosen people.” “as the agent of Christ’s conversion of the world,” as “the world’s last best hope,” This belief that we have been elevated in God’s grand purposes has meant both gestures of extraordinary generosity and humanitarianism but also it has meant frightening expressions of arrogance and self-righteousness.

But if we remember our heritage and claim anew our Judeo-Christian roots, remembering that we all were homeless immigrants at one time, then we will hardly be satisfied with turning our backs on those who come to our land seeking a home.

For Jeremiah, the covenant was more than just a pact made with kings, priests, or prophets. Each person needed to have a change of heart, a new way of thinking about his or her relationship with God and with one’s neighbor – whoever that neighbor might be.

A writer who has lived in Texas his whole life talks about the respect and admiration ordinary Texans have for the men and women who make the treacherous journey north, looking for work and a better way of life. “The politicians are always upset about illegal immigration,” he writes, “but regular people shake their heads in admiration, understanding that gumption like that is a rare thing and deserving of our compassion and respect.

He writes about his friend Roger who has a ranch about 40 miles north of the border with Mexico, 25 miles from the nearest town with no paved roads leading to his property a place Roger visits on weekends about twice a month. On his ranch there is a simple house made of wood with a kitchen, some bunks, and a bathroom. When Roger goes home at the end of the weekend, he leaves the door to his ranch house unlocked and puts cans of food on the counter. There is a sign on the door written in Spanish that says, “Please turn off the water and close the door when you leave. Thank you.”

“Many people,” the author continues, “ report destruction of property by illegal aliens, but in the eight years Roger has owned his ranch he has not had a single incident of vandalism or theft. When he comes by the house the door is always closed, the water is never running, and the food is always gone. How many of God’s children have received a cup of cold water and an ounce of hope there? They are hungry. Their tortillas are moldy, their water is gone. They stumble upon Roger’s home, read the sign, and go inside to find not only water but also food and a restroom. Imagine the stories that are told in shacks and adobe homes of the water and miracle of food found in the nick of time. Can you hear their prayers of thanks for the blessed saint whose name they do not know? (Christian Century 4/4/06, p.10)

Our ancestors, too, were pilgrims in a strange land, and it was, no doubt, the kindness of strangers which allowed them to survive and even for us to be here today. As we gather at the table, let us remember that we’re all immigrants, thirsty and hungry and in search of a place to call home.

Amen.

As we receive today’s offering, let us hear anew Christ’s call to discipleship – the call to share out of our abundance, to offer the cup of cold water, to share hospitality with strangers, and together to be the kind of nation that shows forth God’s mercy, justice, and love.