Every Thursday, I try to wear black to stand in solidarity with my siblings who are experiencing violence. Some days I forget, but working from home gives me the opportunity to correct it. But those who experience violence can’t forget, because they live with the trauma of it every day. What if we, in our daily lives, loved others like God in Christ loves them? Would we turn a blind eye to the violence and injustice we know is happening around us? What if we lived in a world that did not tolerate violence? What if the church stood as a voice against violence?
As a therapist, Ellen Jacobs knows something about the healing power that can be found in a hug. She also knows all too well the great need among young and old alike to feel loved. That is why Jacobs, a member of East Side Presbyterian Church in Ashtabula, Ohio, can often be found playing with stuffed animals. Well, maybe not playing, but rather inspecting and cleaning cuddly bears, giraffes, bunnies and more, before tying a tag on them and placing them in the church’s pews.
When migrants began arriving in large numbers, the Methodist Church Milan started discussions about how to create a culture of welcome. But members didn’t just talk. They are living fully within their own creation that has become a model for like-minded congregations around the world.
Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, many have migrated to Russia for a variety of reasons. People from countries of the former Soviet Union came because economic opportunities were better in Russia during this time. In the past 10–15 years, there has been a growing number of people being trafficked from African nations. Often, they have been told that if they can get to Moscow, they will have a gateway to Europe and ultimately to financial success. Traffickers lure with many promises that are, of course, never fulfilled.
Scripture is full of human desire for a sense of home, belonging, security: a mother lovingly placing a basket in the reeds to protect her infant son, a faith community’s journey through wilderness to find a promised homeland, a place to lay a baby’s head when there’s no room at the inn.
During my first year as a pastor, there were certain milestones I knew to look forward to. I looked forward to the first time I stood at the communion table and invited my congregation to share in the feast, and the first time I marked an infant with water and proclaimed how much God loved her in baptism. I looked forward to my first Christmas and first sunrise Easter service. But there were other firsts that I didn’t know about that caught me off guard with their beauty.
I was born in Nazareth, but spent five years of my childhood in Haifa, Israel’s third largest city, where my father was the Anglican priest.
In some ways, living on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea was idyllic. I remember with joy road trips to Nazareth and fishing excursions with my grandfather. But I also remember having to speak my mother tongue, Arabic, in hushed tones on the street, lest we attract unwanted attention from our Jewish Israeli neighbors and always sensing that somehow, we might be seen as different.
Six years ago, Nohemi Cuéllar and her husband, the Rev. Dr. Gregory Cuéllar, used a tried-and-true method to launch a ministry that helps young immigrants entering the U.S. through South Texas to express their stories, their fears and even the faith that’s sustained them.
