Caela's Sermon Blog: "Yoked With Christ"

July 6, 2014

First Congregational UCC – Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Imagine with me that you are the parent of two children. Alfonso is your oldest. He is 16 years old and loves to play soccer. He likes to read books. He loves to help cook in the kitchen. When he sleeps at night, you look in on him as he sleeps – you can almost see a tiny trace of that baby from years ago. No one else would see it, of course, but you can. Because you are his mother and mothers do not forget.

Maritza is just 11 years old. She loves to run down the street with her friends, going into their secret place by the creek to throw rocks, dream dreams, tell stories. You can still remember those sleepless nights when she was an infant. You would rouse yourself from bed and gently lift her in your arms. You would walk the floor for hours. You were tired and sometimes frustrated. But, it’s funny – remembering it now you mostly remember the pleasant weight of her tiny body in your arms and how good it felt to be curled up together. No one but you has these memories because you are her father and fathers do not forget.

Of course, Maritza hasn’t been doing as much running these days. It’s not safe for her to be on the streets. Your neighborhood, your town, your nation are swept up in violence. Gangs control every part of your community. You can’t stand on this corner unless you are loyal to the M-18s. You can’t ride this bus line unless you are with the MS-13s. For the past few weeks you haven’t even been able to send your children to school, which means you also haven’t been able to go to work. Every week you hear of another child who has disappeared or finally given in and joined a gang. The gangs start recruiting children as young as five or six. By the time the children are 18 they are almost certain to have joined a gang or they are dead. There really aren’t other options.

It’s like living in a war zone. Worse, in fact. You heard someone say on the news the other day that the homicide rate in your country, Honduras, is almost twice what it was a few years ago in Iraq during the height of the war there. And yet the police do nothing. Other nations do nothing.

But you have a plan. Your cousin has connections with someone who can take your children away. To a better place. North. You have an inheritance from your parents. It’s a lot of money. You were hoping to use it in your old age, but if your children die your old age will mean nothing. It’s a lot of money – more than a year’s salary, in fact. But it will be worth every penny if your children make it to the United States, where you know they will have a chance at safety. You have no idea what they will do there. Will they be able to find work? Will you eventually find a way to join them? Will some kind person take care of them? There is no way of knowing. But you know that to stay here means almost certain kidnapping, rape, death. And so it is the only way. Alfonso will have to be brave. Maritza has to grow up too fast – way too fast. But this is the way it is. You have no other options.

And so you make your plan. And you pray to God for their safe passage. You beg Jesus to travel with them. And you kiss your beautiful children goodbye. And you wonder if you will see them again.[1]

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I wish that this story were completely made up. I wish that there were not thousands of versions of this story playing out in Central America today. But, sadly, some version of this story has happened thousands and thousands of times over the past few years. The numbers of unaccompanied children arriving in our country seeking assistance has skyrocketed in the past few years. Since October, over 50,000 children have arrived in our country. Mostly they are teenagers, but some come with their younger siblings, toddlers, even. Some come in an attempt to reunite with their parents who are already in the United States. Others have been sent by their parents who have paid enormous fees to complete strangers promising to give them safe passage. Often these child-smugglers horribly abuse the children as they are transported.

As these children arrive, our government has scrambled. We are required by our own laws and international treaties to attempt to reunite the children with their parents, take care of their basic needs, hear their stories. Because they are from countries not immediately adjacent to ours, we are not allowed to immediately deport them as we would with children from Mexico or Canada. But Obama has recently asked Congress for the ability to move the children out of our country, back to their home countries, more quickly. Back to the violence. Back to the gangs. Our system is overwhelmed and children are being housed in makeshift cells on military bases in Texas, California, and Oklahoma. Churches in those areas have attempted to step in and help, offering volunteers, toys, blankets, food. But FEMA has refused offers of help.[2]

If these children were to arrive on a boat, as many thousands did before them, they might have come into this country at Ellis Island. Had they come that direction they would have been greeted by that poem The New Colossus written in 1883 by Emma Lazarus. You know these words:

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Instead, they were greeted by mobs of angry adults shouting things like “Go back home!” “Deport! Deport!” and “USA!”[3] Because, you know, shouting “USA!” should be synonymous with things like “Go back home!”

And in some places like Lawrenceville, VA they weren’t even allowed to show up. The government is attempting to open a camp there on a recently-closed college campus, but local residents want nothing to do with these children. The Sherriff Brian Roberts says he is concerned with public safety, “500 kids unaccounted for — illegal alien children in my little sleepy town — I just don't think it's the right fit for this community.”[4] The words we use matter. A child cannot be illegal. A child is a person – a beloved child of God. I can’t help but wonder if these children would be greeted the same way if they were white.

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“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free….”

Doesn’t sound like we’re quite living up to those words, are we? What are we to do when we are faced with the reality that we so often fail to live up to our ideals as a nation?

Well, I don’t know about you, but on those days where I find myself shocked and appalled at the callousness of our elected and appointed officials, a frustrated and outraged citizen at a total loss as to how I can help make this nation a safer and kinder place for all….on days like that, I find myself incredibly grateful that I have another book to read, another song to sing, another story to tell, another name to claim.

I give thanks that I am a follower of Christ and that you are journeying alongside me. I look to our shared stories for hope and guidance. I look to the witness of our sacred texts for strength as I contemplate what I might be called to do in the face of fear and hatred.

In today’s Gospel we have a somewhat-cranky Jesus reprimanding his followers for acting like quarreling children. You’ve seen this play out before – some of the kids want to play one game and the others want to play another. They can’t agree on the game or the rules, so they end up playing nothing at all – just shouting back and forth at each other, “Let’s do it MY way!” “No, MY way!” I’m sure none of us adults have ever been involved in a situation like this as adults, right? Just the kids act this way.

Right.

So it turns out the adults in Jesus’s time were a lot like adults today – they argued, they fought, they couldn’t agree over who to follow or the best way to get things done. And after chastising them Jesus breaks into a prayer of thanksgiving. Jesus gives thanks to God for the close relationship they share. Jesus thanks God that even those who are knuckleheads sometimes get it. And after he finishes praying, Jesus gives these words of comfort to those listening, “Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-burdened and I will give you rest.”

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

More than just offering shelter and refuge, Jesus offers partnership. He invites those listening to team up with him, to put on his yoke and work together, side-by-side. He promises that the yoke will help ease the burden of the shared labor. He promises to teach by example and to show the way. He promises not to leave even though the work will be difficult.

And it is in these words of comfort that I find hope this morning. I know that Christ is sitting with those children as they huddle under those mylar blankets in makeshift shelters that look like prisons. I know that Christ stands outside the buses with the angry mobs, weeping and shouting back at them from time to time. I know that Christ is with the parents who are waiting for contact from their children. I know that Christ is with the lawmakers as they face this humanitarian crisis. And I know Christ is here with us, whispering hope, new life, and radical actions of hospitality.

Christ is in all of these places. And Christ beckons to all of these people. The work may not be easy, but Christ offers to share God’s yoke. Christ wants to partner with us, to walk alongside us and share the work of living up to that great call of welcoming the stranger. Christ invites us to put on the yoke of compassion and love, to share each other’s burdens and make this life more livable. And Christ does not leave any of us to labor alone.