Reflection
I’m grieved, and I also feel a responsibility to speak from proximity.  

Some of the people I call friends have walked the refugee and asylum journey firsthand. I’ve sat with those who were forced from their homes—not because they wanted to leave, but because staying was no longer possible. I’ve watched people fight for dignity while carrying grief, hope, and exhaustion all at once. Survival was never abstract for them. It was daily. 

This reality shapes how I’m experiencing this moment. 

Right now, many of our immigrant neighbors are living under a weight most of us do not carry. Ordinary choices are loaded. Visibility is risky. Silence is safer than presence. Fear is shaping how people move through their days.

Scripture does not ask us to ignore that difference. It asks us to respond rightly to it. That response begins with truth. 

What Our Faith Requires of Us
Justice in the Bible begins with truth-telling, not accusation, not simplification, but truth. It calls out when power protects some and leaves others exposed. God speaks plainly about this: “You shall not wrong or oppress a foreigner, for you were foreigners yourselves” (Exodus 22:21). God knows how quickly fear isolates, and how easily those who feel secure can fail to notice the weight others are carrying. 

And we are sitting in this tension. 

The tension between what we can actually do and refusing to pretend this isn’t happening. Between a church where many experience stability, and neighbors for whom stability feels fragile at best.  

Righteousness, in Scripture, is not about being right. It’s about the right use of what we’ve been given. Stability. Safety. Voice. Scripture calls this tsedaqah—the faithful use of power so others are not crushed by what they lack. It asks those who are steady to pay attention to those who are not, and to let that awareness shape their response. 

As a majority-white church, we need the humility to acknowledge this gap. Many of us do not feel the same exposure our immigrant neighbors feel. Systems that fade into the background for some can feel overwhelming and threatening to others. That difference matters. Love requires us to see it, not explain it away. “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it,” (1 Corinthians 12:26).

Proximity reveals things distance never will. 

When Proximity Changes the Question 

We are connected to families whose lives are being shaped by the current landscape; friends navigating complex legal processes, doing what they’ve been asked to do, and still living with heightened fear. The strain shows up in small ways first. Conversations grow shorter. Plans are canceled and trust becomes cautious.  

So, I find myself checking in—not to pry, not to make a point—but simply to make sure people are still here. I’m helping cover legal fees when I can. I’m calling representatives. I’m reaching out to people I haven’t seen in a while, aware that absence doesn’t always mean disengagement; it often means fear. 

That proximity has changed how I understand this moment. It’s no longer an issue to be debated. It’s a set of lives we care about.   

So the question becomes not what do we say, but how do we remain faithful. 

Jesus and the Way of Nearness 

So, what does the Church do when answers are limited and the stakes are high? 

We draw near.
 

We resist the instinct of rushing toward statements or solutions. We do not retreat into comfort, abstraction, or neutrality. Instead, we remain close. We stay present to people, not problems. We attend to our neighbors. We notice who is missing. We allow proximity to shape our response before certainty does. 

This is the pattern of Jesus.


When God chose how to enter the world, He did not remain distant or protected. He drew near. God-with-us stepped into vulnerability, constraint, and dependence. Jesus’ early life was marked by displacement. Forced to flee with His family as a child, He knew what it meant to be protected by others in a fragile and uncertain season (Matthew 2:13–15).



Hospitality as Covenant Faithfulness
Hospitality in Scripture is not politeness or social warmth. It is covenantal faithfulness.
The Bible names this posture ḥesed—God’s steadfast, binding love that acts for the good of the vulnerable. Ḥesed is love that shows up, stays present, and takes responsibility when another person is exposed or at risk. It is expressed through presence, protection, and provision, especially when systems are confusing, hostile, or failing. 

Biblical hospitality appears precisely where fear narrows voices and power is uneven. It is the deliberate choice to draw near when withdrawal would be easier and to use one’s stability for the sake of another’s survival. This is a faithful witness. 

Jesus did not wait for safety, clarity, or agreement. He began by sharing life. In doing so, He revealed that righteousness and hospitality are not an optional virtue, but the shape of God’s faithfulness among us.

Throughout His ministry, He moves toward people. He draws near to those on the margins. He eats in their homes. He walks their roads. He allows interruption. He remains present even when the outcome is uncertain.


Presence, in this sense, is not passive. It is costly. It requires time, attention, and vulnerability. It asks us to be available rather than efficient, responsive rather than reactive. 

 

The Work Before Us
To draw near is to participate in God’s kingdom on earth.


It means showing up with consistency. It means listening before speaking. It means staying when others move on. It means allowing our schedules, assumptions, and comforts to be disrupted by real people and real needs. It is an active posture of shared life, not commentaries from a distance.


This kind of nearness is where faithful witness takes shape. It is relational and it reflects the way of Christ.

Not to be louder, but to be nearer.
 
Not to be reactive, but to be rooted.
 
Not to look away, but to remain engaged.

That is the work before us.

And it is not small. It is the slow, steady work of participation by choosing presence again and again, trusting that God is already at work in the spaces where we are willing to stay.