Jesus left his Father’s house to sojourn among us—as St.
John’s gospel says, “To his own he came, yet his own did not accept him.” (John
1:11) In Jesus’ incarnation, God gave us an
opportunity to welcome his son, but he didn’t force us; instead, he invited us to welcome him. He wanted us to see
divinity in the poor, simple stranger.
From the
beginning of scripture, we see God’s concern for the stranger, the outsider, the
immigrant. Mosaic law says, “When an
alien resides with you in your land, do not molest him. You shall treat the alien among you no
differently than the natives born among you, have the same love for yourself,
for you were once aliens in the land of Egypt.” (Leviticus 19:33-34) Again, in Exodus 22:21, “You shall not
oppress or molest an alien, for you were once aliens yourselves in the land of
Egypt.”
And this brings
us to the story of why the people of Israel were once aliens in the land of
Egypt. It was because of natural
disaster, a famine, that Jacob and his sons left their homeland and traveled
to Egypt. Eventually, of course, they
were enslaved by the native peoples, and the experience of those years of
exile, of enslavement and eventual freedom, would fundamentally shape the
religious outlook of the children of Israel.
The plight of Jacob and his family as victims of natural disaster is
repeated today in the lives of those who are still forced to flee both
human-made and natural disasters. So
many who are migrants bring with them to a new land not just hope and dreams,
but scars, scars left by natural disasters, famine, floods and earthquakes, and
by political persecution, by genocide, and the loss of family members and
friends.
Jesus, like Jacob,
like Ruth and Naomi, like so many others in scripture, was a refugee, a
migrant, a victim of political persecution.
Jesus, who shared fully in our humanity, who experienced all the good
and the bad of human life, knew what it was to be a stranger. Think about it, no sooner is Jesus born than
he and his family are forced to flee their homeland. Jesus’ foster father, Joseph, receives word
from an angel in a dream that the king is searching for his child in order to
kill him. What a thing to learn! Being told that your child is in danger creates the most raw, black terror one can possibly imagine. I think of what Mary and Joseph must have
been going through, how they must have asked God, “How can you let this happen? Why don’t you strike down this cruel tyrant
who is killing infants and children?
You’ve put the hope of the whole world in our hands and now you’re
telling us we have to protect him from a madman who has spies and armies and
secret police and a terrified populace in his grip who might sell out our own
child to save theirs. How can we leave
our homes, our families, and our livelihood, and cross the cruel desert with a
baby?” But God simply answers, “Take the
child and flee into Egypt.” Joseph was a
carpenter; he and Mary weren’t educated persons, so I’m sure they didn’t speak
Egyptian. What could they take with them
on a journey like that but the clothes on their backs? I think of the scene of the flight into Egypt
in Pasolini’s beautiful The Gospel
According to St. Matthew (Il vangelo secondo Matteo). In that film,
Jesus and Mary leave their humble dwelling and take to the road, and the last
shot is of the hearth, which is still burning.
Without even having a chance to extinguish the fire, Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph were literally forced to run for their lives.
Jesus and his family eventually returned to
their homeland, but I’m sure that for Jesus those words of Exodus, “You shall
not oppress or molest an alien, for you were once aliens yourselves in the land
of Egypt,” always had a special meaning.
Today, and every
day, we can welcome Jesus into our nation, our neighborhoods, and our lives--in
the persecuted, the stranger, the migrant and refugee. Or we can once again turn him away from our door, we can refuse hospitality, by not finding it in our hearts to make
room for him at our inn.
