A Migration with Dignity Reflection

Exodus 3:1–15 • Jeremiah 15:15–21 • Psalm 105 • Romans 12:9–21

There are moments when the ground beneath our feet becomes sacred—not because the place itself has changed, but because suddenly we see what has been there all along.

Moses discovers this in the wilderness.

He is far from Egypt, far from Pharaoh, and far from the life he once knew. He is himself a displaced person, living in Midian after fleeing violence in Egypt. And there, tending another man's flock, he notices a bush burning without being consumed.

God calls: “Moses, Moses!”

And then comes the command: “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”

But what makes this ground holy?

The answer comes almost immediately. God says, “I have observed the misery of my people… I have heard their cry… Indeed, I know their sufferings.”

Holy ground is where God hears the cry of people who suffer.

That is an important starting place for those of us committed to Migration with Dignity.

We live in a time when migrants are too easily reduced to categories: documented or undocumented, legal or illegal, asylum seeker, refugee, detainee, deportee, statistic.

Scripture keeps returning us to something more fundamental.

Before there is a category, there is a person.
Before there is an immigration status, there is a human story.
Before there is a border, there is holy ground.

And God says:
I have seen.
I have heard.
I know.

The Burning Bush Is Still Burning

Perhaps the burning bush is not only an ancient miracle.

Perhaps burning bushes surround us.

A family afraid to leave home.
A worker wondering whether returning from work will mean encountering immigration enforcement.
A child wondering whether a parent will still be home tonight.
A congregation trying to decide whether compassion is worth the risk.
A neighbor quietly asking for help with rent, groceries, transportation, or legal expenses.

An undocumented person in process attending a scheduled administrative hearing and instead being arrested and deported.

The question is whether we notice.

Moses could have kept walking.

Instead, “I must turn aside and look.”

That may be one of the most important spiritual practices of our time: Turn aside and look.

Look at the person whom our political rhetoric has taught us not to see. Listen to the story hidden behind the statistics. Pay attention to the places where fear and suffering are burning.

Because that may be precisely where God is waiting.

 

“I Will Send You”

But God does not allow Moses merely to observe the burning bush. God sends him back toward Egypt.

“So come, I will send you to Pharaoh.”

That changes everything.

Compassion becomes vocation.
Seeing becomes responsibility.
Prayer becomes action.

Moses immediately objects. Who am I to do this? What if they don't believe me? What will I say?

Those questions sound familiar.

Who are we to challenge systems larger than ourselves? What difference can one congregation make? What happens if our advocacy becomes controversial? What if speaking publicly carries a cost?

Jeremiah knows that cost.

In today's reading, the prophet speaks with remarkable vulnerability. He has tried to speak God's word faithfully, but faithfulness has brought conflict, loneliness, and suffering.

Yet God tells Jeremiah: “They will fight against you, but they shall not prevail over you, for I am with you.”

Neither Moses nor Jeremiah is promised safety. They are promised presence.

I am with you.

That is different.

The biblical call is rarely an invitation to remain comfortable. Again and again, God calls people toward the places where human dignity is being threatened.

Love Must Become Public

Then Paul brings the question directly into the life of the Christian community: “Let love be genuine.”

Romans 12 may be one of the most demanding descriptions of Christian public life in the New Testament.

Paul does not describe love as sentiment. He describes love as practice.

“Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.”

“Bless those who persecute you.”

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.”

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil.”

“If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.”

And finally: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

This is not passive Christianity. It is disciplined resistance to the forces that diminish human beings.

Migration With Dignity cannot simply mean that Christians should “be nice” to immigrants. It asks something deeper.

Will we practice hospitality when hospitality becomes politically controversial? Will we accompany families when accompaniment carries risk? Will we challenge language that turns neighbors into threats? Will we refuse to allow fear to determine whom we love? Will we resist systems that treat human beings as problems to be removed rather than neighbors whose dignity must be protected?

And perhaps most difficult of all: Can we resist injustice without becoming what we resist?

Paul’s command is extraordinary: “Do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with good.”

Christian resistance cannot simply mirror the anger, contempt, dehumanization, and fear it opposes.

Our resistance must reveal another way. The Way of Jesus.

From Holy Ground to Public Witness

Moses stands barefoot before the burning bush. Jeremiah stands wounded yet persistent before those who oppose him. Paul imagines communities practicing a love strong enough to resist evil without reproducing it.

Together these readings suggest a pattern:

See.
Listen.
Stand.
Act.

See the human being.
Listen to the cry.
Stand with those whose dignity is threatened.
Act in love.

That is where Migration with Dignity becomes more than a statement or a political position. It becomes a spiritual practice.

It becomes discipleship.

And perhaps the great question of Exodus is still being asked of us.

God says:
“I have observed the misery of my people.
I have heard their cry.
I know their sufferings.”

And then God says: “So come, I will send you.”

The burning bush is still burning.

The cries are still being heard.

The ground beneath our feet is still holy.

The question is whether we will turn aside long enough to see—and whether, having seen, we are willing to be sent.

The Reverend Rex McKee is a Deacon in The Episcopal Church in Minnesota, serving at Saint John the Baptist. He is a co-leader of ECMN Immigration Caucus, MWD Task Force, Caucus and Episcopal Migration Response Network. Rex describes himself as an aging radical hippie beat poet theologian philosopher peacemaker;  “If I start from a place of love, more times than not I will find what is "right," but if I start from a position of "right" I will rarely find love.” You can find more of his writings on Substack:  https://rexmckee.substack.com/