At the beginning of December, my students and I participated in a march in solidarity with migrants in transit through Mexico. We walked 20 miles along the train tracks from Huehuetoca to the Methodist church in Apaxco, joining two migrants from Honduras: a father and his 16 year old son.
We started out well, and I naïvely thought it wouldn’t be as difficult as I had imagined. After awhile, though, my backpack started to weigh on me and the sun grew stronger. I slipped on a greasy part of the tracks. I was okay (just covered in grease), but my water got carried off by someone who had stopped to help. My boots felt tight. I was thirsty. I began to wonder if I would make it the rest of the way. We were walking such a small percentage of the journey from Mexico’s southern border to its northern border, yet we were exhausted.
I felt tired and sweaty and thirsty, and as I observed homes and restaurants off in the distance, I felt far from everyday Mexican life. My anger grew. No one should have to live this way, traveling clandestinely and running into thieves, drug cartels, gangs, and exploitative government agents, but U.S. and Mexican immigration policies make it so. I felt in my body a little of what migrants feel every day, and that cemented my frustration with how we treat other people and what our governments have done to do cause this situation. I felt that pain and fatigue in my body, and I won’t soon forget it.
We walked north, towards Mexico’s northern border. The goal is the U.S. for most and Mexico’s industrial northern cities for some (they say there is plenty of work in cities like Monterrey). As we walked, I thought of the U.S. at the end of this 40-day journey—the U.S. on the other side of the border marked by walls and the unforgiving Sonoran Desert. The U.S., my home. I thought of my family waiting for me for Christmas. Some of the people that walk the train tracks towards the north also have family in the U.S. They also think of the U.S. as home. They walk day in and day out to get back there.
Before we began our trek, I had received good news. Isaac, my partner of three years, had gotten approved for a tourist visa to travel to the U.S. After two previous failed attempts and a few years of hoping, this time he had finally been approved. I felt ecstatic—he would finally know my home and my family—and yet on this walk it felt bittersweet. As we walked kilometer after kilometer with our faces towards the U.S., we knew in a few weeks we would fly there together, but we also knew that we couldn’t take along our new friends. Why were we more deserving of a safe travel than them?
When it came time to fly to the U.S., I also thought of my friends from Deportados Unidos en la Lucha. They go to the airport to meet the three planes that arrive every week filled with people getting deported from the U.S.. I was at the airport to fly in the opposite direction. My friends are deportees who call the U.S. home (or a home) and who have family still there who miss them every day. Why am I more deserving of a trip back home than them?
The truth, of course, is that I’m not more deserving. We’re in this situation because of the unequal political and economic power distribution between the Global South and the Global North. We’re in this situation because of xenophobia and racism and racial profiling. Therefore, we can and should give a blanket to a migrant in transit and offer work to a deportee, but we also have to work to dismantle our unjust systems.
Just a week ago in Mexico City, we experienced another series of earthquakes. There was little or no damage here where I am, but it was still scary given my memories of the September earthquakes. In honor of these recent earth-shakings, I’m finally getting around to publishing something I wrote about the ones a few months ago.
*****
On September 19, there was an earthquake of a 7.1 magnitude that struck Mexico, with the epicenter 75 miles/120 km away from where I live. This was the second large-scale earthquake in two weeks. Both caused great destruction, but 19-S’s destruction was closer to where I live, with dozens of buildings collapsed in Mexico City, thousands more condemned, and hundreds of deaths in the whole region.
I was fortunate in many ways: I was at home when it happened, and the minor damages that happened to my building were repaired within a few hours. Everyone I know was safe after the earthquake, although a colleague and his family did lose their home. Despite my luck, it was still a very significant experience for me and one I won’t soon forget.
There are many bad ways to respond to a disaster or any tragedy. Among them, is the idea “everything happens for a reason” or “this is God’s will” or even worse, “this is God’s punishment of you for your sins.”
I do not think everything happens for a reason. Most things just happen—whether as direct effects of the choices of human beings or because of biological and scientific processes—and we have to deal with those events and decide what the meaning will be. I do not think suffering is God’s will. I do not believe God wishes suffering upon us. I do not think that God punishes sin through destruction. Events like earthquakes and hurricanes are naturally-occurring phenomenon that are a part of how the Earth works.
While I do not think that tragedy is something that God wills, I do think that these sorts of events can be important moments for us. They shake us awake. They make us realize things we didn’t realize before. They show us things we may not have noticed otherwise. These are often moments of great pain, trauma, and loss. And sometimes, they can also be moments of learning.
I can’t prescribe what this event’s wake up calls were for other people; I can only mention what I myself have realized through this experience:
The Earth inspires awe, and we should be concerned about how we treat it. After the earthquake, while I sat alone in my house without cell phone battery or electricity waiting for someone to get there to inform me of what had happened, my thoughts immediately turned to the Earth. With all the hurricanes and earthquakes of the recent days, I was impacted by the destructive (creative) power of the Earth and I was humbled and ashamed how humans contributed to destroying our benevolent place of residence.
Sometimes I can’t be there. My body’s reaction to the earthquake was to get sick straightaway. The stress was too much for it, and it shut down via a cold. Once the power came back on at 9 pm and I actually learned about the magnitude of what had happened and what there was to be done, my body said, “No. You can’t go out there.” It was hard for me to stay inside while the rest of the city was coming together to rescue people trapped and to support those who had lost their homes, but I knew my sick body would just be in the way. Staying inside felt similar to the feeling I get when I see people in the U.S. taking to the streets (literally or figuratively) to protest the injustices happening: I want to join, but I’m not able to be there. Sometimes I can’t be there physically, and I have to find other ways of getting involved.
I am grateful for my life and for the lives of my friends and family. A few days after the earthquake, I started crying out of the blue. I cried because of the gravity of what I had lived through—the death and the destruction that was so close to me yet that I had somehow evaded. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my own life and for the lives of my friends, and I felt led to tell them so. In some ways, it seems hard to have fun after such a tragedy, but it has also been important to celebrate the life and friendship that we’ve all been given.
Human beings are capable of so much when we work together for good. Without a doubt, people in Mexico really came together to help their communities (and beyond). Immediately, regular people went to work moving debris and helping get survivors out of collapsed buildings. With the power out, young people began directing traffic. Professionals from different fields (doctors, nurses, psychologists, engineers, architects, lawyers) offered their services for free. Churches, schools, and other organizations set up donation centers to collect food and hygiene items for those affected. Local hardware stores and pharmacies sold their products at cost for relief efforts. There were many reports of there being too many volunteers in some places. The power of the people is inspiring.
You can’t always be prepared. Being prepared is exhausting. The day of the earthquake, a lot of information came out about how we could prepare ourselves for future aftershocks or other earthquakes. Make an emergency backpack with a first aid kit, water, canned food, a blanket, and important documents. Leave a pan on the edge of a table so it will fall and wake you up during an aftershock. Keep a jacket and shoes handy. Always have your phone charged and have a back up battery charger. For a few days after the earthquake, I was obsessed with being prepared. I followed the above advice. I started to worry if I couldn’t find my shoes in any given moment. I was obsessive about keeping my phone charged (my phone had lost charge shortly after the earthquake, so I had learned my lesson). Even now, as I walk down the street or go to a new place, I think, “What would I do if an earthquake happened right now?” and I take note of any cables or tall buildings and look for the familiar earthquake gathering place symbols. In all my efforts to be prepared, I quickly realized that being constantly alert and prepared was exhausting. Life fights to get back to some sense of normalcy. My feet have to go barefoot at some point. My phone will lose its charge.
I can channel my gifts and my training. Back in March I went to a training by the United Methodist Committee on Relief (UMCOR). I went because I work with ministries related to migrants, and I learned a bit about how we could partner on migration-related projects, but I also learned a ton more about disasters, disaster relief, and disaster prevention. At the time, I did not know that all that information about disasters and relief would prove as helpful as it has to me and my community after the earthquake. It has been nice to share my knowledge and written resources with the team from la Comunidad Teológica de México as we develop and implement a disaster response program. Being bilingual has also been very helpful in this work, since many disaster relief funding organizations speak primarily English and I have been able to translate important documents to send to those organizations.
This tragedy calls to mind the passage in Mark 13 in which Jesus warns listeners to “Beware, keep alert.” At the beginning of the chapter, Jesus says that the temple will be destroyed. When some disciples ask more about this destruction, he also warns of wars, famines, and even earthquakes (!). He says that his disciples will be put on trial and beaten and will have to bear witness to the gospel. Their family members will die, and they will be hated. During these and many more tribulations, they should always be “on guard” and wary of those who claim to know the truth. After these difficulties, “they will see the Son of Man coming in clouds with great power and glory.” Jesus finishes saying,
“Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come… or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly.”
In this passage, Jesus warns us of the suffering that is a part of life. Wars, famine, earthquakes, people who are against us, family members that die… and much more. In the past several months, this hemisphere alone has seen great tragedy—hurricanes, earthquakes, mass shootings, and more. In the midst of the difficulties of life, we have to be “on guard.” We have to beware, be alert. Many people will try to claim they know the truth about God and the world, but we have to be cautious about who we trust and believe. Do we believe those who claim our suffering as punishment for the sins they impose on us? Or do we make our own meaning and draw our own realizations from our experiences?
Jesus cautions us to be awake and alert and even to leave space for hope (leave open the possibility of Jesus coming in on the clouds). As I discovered after the earthquake, it’s extremely difficult to always be prepared for the next thing coming our way. We can’t always be alert or awake or “woke.” The doorkeeper for the man’s house cannot stay awake all night every night until the man comes home.
It’s hard to maintain a state of constant awareness, especially during this time of social media and a 24-hour news cycle. Sometimes we need to take a break and re-center and de-stress. But I think being prepared isn’t that you always know where your shoes are, but rather that you’re always open to being shaken awake when you fall asleep.
We can’t always be alert, but we must always be willing to be awakened by our own experiences and by the world around us. We must always let our experiences move and shape us. But we must also take care of ourselves in the midst of our alertness.
What will you learn from tragedy? How will you take care of yourself in your times of tribulation? How will you see the hope that appears even during these difficult times?
On Sunday, February 18, we celebrated Migrant Sunday in the Methodist Church of Mexico. In preparation for the day, I wrote a liturgy and an essay that were sent to all Methodist pastors in Mexico. Below is a translated version of the essay I wrote:
*****
Every year when we as the Methodist Church of Mexico celebrate Migrant Sunday, we have the opportunity to reflect upon what has happened this year for the migrants among us.
Unfortunately, this year brought us a lot of bad news. The U.S. government continues to deport Mexicans (among others) in impressive numbers. In Mexico, these deportees receive little or no help from the government or civil society. In September, the United States announced that it will cancel the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, which protected from deportation certain undocumented youth. Because of this decision, many Mexican young people are at risk of deportation from the U.S. In November and recently in January, the U.S. government declared that it would end Temporary Protective Status (TPS) for Nicaraguans, Salvadorans, and Haitians, in addition to the Sudanese. The members of these communities with TPS could be deported once their protection ends and eventually could try to transit through or live in Mexico. There are already communities of Haitians that have established themselves in Mexico—especially on the northern border—when they were not able to enter the U.S.
The demonstration “One Year with Trump” was organized by Deportados Unidos en la Lucha and took place outside the U.S. embassy in Mexico City. The group brought articles collected from deportees arriving to the Mexico City airport, including the white plastic sacks given to migrants to hold their belongings.
Mexico continues to be a difficult trajectory for migrants in transit. From the southern border to the northern border, migrants in transit face violence—including sexual violence—at the hands of Mexican society, drug cartels, the government, and sometimes other migrants. The Mexican government continues to deport more Central Americans than the U.S. Many people suffer human trafficking or are mistreated by the coyotes that guide them (for example, the cases of more than 100 people dying of thirst and abandoned in the back of semi-trucks).
Thousands of migrants every year walk along the train tracks of the train nicknamed “La Bestia.” On this journey, they face extreme conditions, including violence.
Throughout this year there were also many happy and hopeful stories: the visas, residencies, and citizenships that were approved; the graduations of im/migrants or their children; the migrants that have found home in their new place of residence; the groups of migrant activists that have come together to fight for their rights; the new opportunities for work and education; and the communities that have welcomed foreigners. It is important to recognize the injustices, but it also important to celebrate the victories and the beautiful moments.
The gospel reading this week is Mark 1:9-15. In this passage, Jesus is baptized by John and receives confirmation that he is the son of God. Afterwards he spends 40 days in the desert, where he is tested by Satan. Following the desert, Jesus goes to Galilee to proclaim that the Kingdom of God is drawing near.
If we read these passage with the lens of migration, the first thing that draws our attention is the desert. The desert is an image and experience extremely present for Mexican and Latin American migrants that have crossed the desert to reach the United States. In addition, it is an important symbol in the Judeo-Christian imagination: the time that Jesus spends in the desert reminds us of the experiences of Moses and Hagar in the desert and of the 40 years that the Israelites spend there. All of those biblical figures are also migrants. Hagar is an Egyptian woman that is thrown out of Abraham’s home twice (the first time pregnant and the second time with her son) and experiences thirst in the desert as a result. Moses is an Israelite but lives in Pharaoh’s house and flees to the desert, where he lives for years, gets married to someone outside his community, and builds a whole new life. In the end, he returns to liberate his community from slavery, and he guides the Israelites for 40 years in the desert but never enters the Promised Land.
With his experience wandering in the desert, Jesus shows us his identity as a migrant and an aspect of his incarnation: he experiences with us the difficulties of life and temptation. The theme of Jesus as a migrant can be found throughout the gospels. Other gospels tell us of migrant baby Jesus born in Bethlehem, of migrant child Jesus that flees to Egypt, and of Jesus the adult who does not have a place to lay his head (Mt 8:20).
Jesus’s time in the desert follows his baptism. Baptism in the Christian life announces the end of an era and the beginning of a new era. It is significant that the time in the desert goes together with his baptism because the desert is often a space of liminality and transition. For Jesus it is a part of his transition to enter his ministry. For the migrants on their way to the U.S., crossing the desert is a rite of passage; the space of the desert marks the change between their place of origin and their destination. For those that transit through Mexico, the path of the train “the Beast” is a part of their rite of passage and their transition.
It is following his time as a migrant in the desert that Jesus goes to announce the gospel—that the Kingdom of God draws near. His good news come out of his suffering, his tribulations, and his temptation. After such a difficult and heavy experience, perhaps you and I would have offered a more pessimistic or hateful message. After a year of such injustice for migrants of all kinds, we could draw negative conclusions—that the situation will never improve. However, Jesus comes out of the desert with a message of hope and justice. His hope and his fight for justice are based on a drawing near to the human reality, and that’s how we realize that his gospel is not something empty or shallow. Jesus knows our context, but he also knows that the Kingdom of God—a kingdom of justice, love, peace, and equality—will prevail.
In the same way, we can familiarize ourselves with the situation of the migrants among us, seeing all the injustice, division, violence, and sadness, without concluding that all is lost. We can follow the example of Jesus and of activists by recognizing the reality but at the same time seeking to change the world. The migrant journey through Mexico is difficult, but there are churches like the Methodist Church “La Santísima Trinidad” [1] in Apaxco, State of Mexico, that have organized themselves to offer hospitality to migrants. There are borders that divide us, but El Faro: the Border Church[2] meets on both sides of the wall between Tijuana and San Diego to celebrate a binational Eucharist. There is human trafficking, but Dreams[3] goes into various migrant detention centers in Mexico to accompany migrants and to detect victims of trafficking. Deportations interrupt lives and divide families, but groups such as Deportados Unidos en la Lucha[4] in Mexico City and Dreamer Moms[5] in Tijuana are fighting for their rights. I invite you to investigate and get to know the reality and the inspiring work of migrants in your region.
The challenges are great and the realities are complex (Jesus knows it well), but Jesus invites us to participate in bringing the Kingdom of God on earth. This Migrant Sunday, let us celebrate the victories and the beautiful moments, let us recognize the injustices and the suffering, and let us commit ourselves to seeking the Kingdom of God and fighting for a better Mexico and a better world.
To close, I offer a litany that I wrote:
For welcome upon arriving to a new community, we give you thanks. For the feeling of being at home, wherever that may be, we give you thanks. For work and educational opportunities, we give you thanks. For policies that open doors to us, we give you thanks.
For bridges, we give you thanks.
For generalized violence that causes us to flee, we ask you for justice. For governments that deport migrants and divide families, we ask you for justice. For human trafficking and coyotes that abuse us, we ask you for justice. For communities that don’t accept deportees and returnees, we ask you for justice.
Growing up, I was never one to get homesick. Other kids would go away to camp and talk about how much they missed their families, or they would go on a church trip and call home every night. I, in contrast, relished the new opportunities and the time away. It was the same when I first moved away from my hometown of Louisville, KY: at 18, I was eager to go on my college adventure in Birmingham, AL. And when I spent a semester and a summer abroad in two different countries while in college, I felt very little homesickness.
However, since then, every move has been fraught with emotion. When I left Birmingham and moved to Boston three years ago, one of my friends told me I would get used to leaving; it would become easier. While I believe my friend when he says that has been his experience, that has not been mine. The older I get and the more I leave, the more sentimental I get. The more I get attached to “my people.” “My people” is an ever-expanding group, but I still grow ever-more in love with them. With each leaving “my people” become more and more scattered.
I spent this summer at home with my parents. I slept in my childhood bedroom that is still decorated with green and purple butterflies, I hung out with childhood friends, I explored the city, and I spent a lot of time with my family. I have a reputation among family friends of always being everywhere but Louisville and of only staying in Louisville for a week at the most, but this time I stayed for three months (albeit with travel breaks in between). In preparation for leaving for Mexico City, I wanted to return.
Recently, returning home has taken on greater significance for me than just family bonding and nostalgic foods. I return because as a theologian, I realize the significance of my past, of my family, and of my ancestors for who I am, what I believe, and how I live. I return because as a migrant, living elsewhere and engaging intimately with other cultures makes me want to learn more about who I am and where I come from. I return because as an activist, I feel hyper-responsible to and for the city where I grew up: for learning from, awakening, encouraging, and accompanying my Louisville people.
After returning this time, leaving was even harder than it has ever been. It was hard for many reasons: I appreciate family more now as an adult, I was going to a different country, my job restricts how much I can go home, and I’m emotionally tired from moving so many times. On a philosophical level, I had a hard time leaving because I felt called both to return and to leave at the same time. Simultaneous returning and leaving may sound strange, but I think it is a very human experience.
Three months ago, I embarked on a very human journey: one of love, separation, migration, adaptation, identity reformation, and expansion of “my people.” Now I am here in Mexico City living in the very human tension of caring about my city and my country while knowing Mexico, too, is home.
As I leave, return, leave, and return, may I always remember where I have been and may I always love people well in the places that I go.
Amanda Cherry
Methodist Church of Mexico (Iglesia Metodista de México)
La Posada is a venerated Christmas tradition across Latin America. In Spanish Posada means “lodging”, “inn”, or “accommodation.” Las Posadas are a re-enactment of the Bible story of Mary and Joseph who, while sojourners in Bethlehem, were forced to seek shelter on the night of Jesus’ birth.
In many Latin American countries, La Posada is truly re-enacted. Two people will dress up as Mary and Joseph, and certain houses are designated to be an “inn.” The head of the procession will have a candle inside a paper lampshade. The procession walks from house to house asking if there is space for them in the inn. At each house, the resident responds by singing a song until Mary and Joseph are finally recognized and allowed to enter after having asked many houses for lodging. Once the “innkeepers” let them in, the group of guests come into the home and kneel around the Nativity scene to pray. In some places, the final location may be a church instead of a home. The procession is followed by musicians who sing traditional posada songs, which is then followed or accompanied by Christmas carols (villancicos). Children will break open star-shaped piñatas to obtain candy and fruit hidden inside, and there is a feast of a variety of traditional foods and sweets.
Having just come through my second Christmas season living in Tijuana, Mexico, I have had the opportunity to attend several Posadas. However, I have to say that my favorite one yet has been the “Posada Sin Fronteras”—the Posada Without Borders.
At this annual event, we gather at the border wall that divides the United States from Mexico. People come together on both sides of the wall to read the nativity story, lift up our prayers, and unite our voices in songs of seeking refuge.
And as we gather here, at this infamous symbol of division and fear, this binational Posada takes on added significance. In our current time, when the idea of welcoming the stranger—and immigrants themselves—are so much under attack, the image of two nations coming together to honor the pilgrimage made by Mary and Joseph is a powerful witness to how we continue to be called to treat our neighbor with compassion, justice, and mercy. This beautiful tradition reminds us of the incredible importance the Christian faith places upon having hospitality towards the stranger.
In the traditional Posada song, after Mary and Joseph are finally given refuge, it says:
“Are you Joseph? Your wife is Mary? Enter Pilgrims, I did not know you/Fortunate the house that shelters this day the pure virgin, the beautiful Mary/ Fortunate this house that gives us shelter; May God give it its sacred happiness.”
As I stood in that sacred space, listening to those holy words, I was reminded that every single day we are each an innkeeper who gets to decide if there is enough room for Jesus.
My prayer is that every chance we have to say yes, we will.
And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me.’
The Book of Fellows 