Start with Welcome: The Journey toward a Confident and Compassionate Immigration Conversation

foreword

Over the last couple of years, my idea of what it means to be pro-life has been shattered to pieces. Growing up, pro-life meant that someone was against abortion. As a follower of Jesus, I believe that life begins at conception, and there isn’t a circumstance in which that life would not have value. Therefore, I am a faithful pro-lifer.

However, this idea of what it means to be pro-life has been tested for me personally in the last few years. Many circumstances, conversations, and interactions have shone a bright light on how shallow my pro-life narrative was. For me, and maybe for many of you, it was all about the unborn. How are we caring for the unborn? What are we doing to make abortion illegal? How do we stop the death of so many unborn children in our country? These were the only questions I heard being asked, and therefore, they were all I thought about when it came to pro-life issues.

But then, through various events, I drew closer to other life issues. I began volunteering at a local high school’s teen mom program. There, I saw many amazing, strong, beautiful girls who had chosen life for their children. Yes! They were pro-life like me! But though they had made the beautiful decision to carry their babies to term, their lives were very hard and they needed so much help. By walking alongside them, I saw firsthand that pro-life issues go beyond the child in the womb. Who was looking out for these girls? Where was the help for them now that many of them were single teen moms? As the church, we would celebrate these children not being aborted, but then what were we doing for these moms? It seemed like we were telling them to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and figure things out on their own. For me, the narrative around being pro-life began to widen. Being pro-life had to include supporting women too.

Our family spent a few years living in an under-resourced neighborhood in Austin, Texas, where I came face-to-face with people who had struggles in life that I’d never had to overcome as a middle-class white woman. Some of them were living in the US with a green card, and some were without legal documentation. Real people. My neighbors. Hardworking men and women who wanted the best for their families. This, too, challenged my single-issue pro-life narrative. Being pro-life had to include supporting my neighbors who were undocumented.

A few years ago, I met a college student who was a DACA recipient (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals—a program created to help children who were brought to the US by their parents). She said she was worried about her ability to finish nursing school because she wasn’t sure what the government would do with her status as a citizen. I had never met anyone in that situation. She had lived in the US almost her whole life and was studying on an academic scholarship, but now she was losing sleep worrying about her future. My proximity to her story widened my pro-life narrative. It had to include supporting DACA kids.

In 2019 I was invited to go on a trip to the US-Mexico border with my friends from Women of Welcome and World Relief. I was excited and curious. The media was spinning a narrative, politicians were too, and I wanted to see and hear what was really happening with my own eyes and ears. Listening to stories about exhausting journeys to the US to escape unspeakable violence and corruption continued to challenge my narrow view of being pro-life. Leaving El Paso, I was reminded that the life of every single asylum seeker and immigrant matters to God, and therefore, they should matter to me as well.

These experiences, plus more that I don’t have room for on these pages, have changed my heart about being pro-life. I’m still a pro-life evangelical Christian. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is how I define pro-life. I’m still against abortion and believe that every child matters, has value, and should be given the right to life. I also believe that every person who is already breathing matters and should be valued. Every person has a dignity given to them by our Creator, and we need to acknowledge that and apply it to their lives. This truth should change the way we treat people and talk about them. It should change the way we vote and which policies matter to us.

Over the last few years, as I have leaned in and listened more about these issues, Bri has been a lifeline for me. She has encouraged me and taught me. She has cried with me and been angry with me. She has allowed my journey to unfold in its own time and been gracious with my questions and fears. If you, too, are willing to lean in, listen a bit more, and get a little more uncomfortable, I believe your heart, too, can start to ache more for the least of these. If you let him, the Holy Spirit will move and convict and guide and take you in a more Christlike and loving direction than you may have ever experienced before. I’m so grateful for Bri, her leadership, and her wisdom, and I will be telling people to read this book for many years to come. I’m excited for you to dive in and see how Start with Welcome changes the whole conversation!

Jamie Ivey

introduction

Conversations about immigration can be intimidating. But hopefully after reading this book, you won’t be afraid to have them. Great books on immigration are already floating about in the world, so here’s my confession, right at the top: this book is not going to be a complete account of everything the Bible says on immigration. I’m not going to cram in an explanation of every immigration policy that’s been passed or is needed (although I will talk about that a bit). This book is meant to be an easy-ish conversation about a hard topic, a friendly conversation based in conviction and charitability. Hopefully it will recalibrate our hearts in Christ’s direction and apply to more than just your journey into the US immigration and asylum system.

Contrary to what you might think, I’m not writing to twist your arm about such things. That’s not my job. I don’t expect you to believe exactly what I do. But I want to consider some important things together. I’ve spent hours upon hours pretending you were on the other side of my laptop having tea or coffee with me, imagining us sitting down for a gracious and honest chat about the things that concern us, the headlines that scare us, and the images that have shifted our hearts.

Full transparency: I do have a goal for this book, but it’s pretty painless.

My goal is simply not to leave you where you are.

What I want most is for all of us to see people first. To do this, we must get closer to the issue and, more importantly, to the people. Particularly, we need to get close to the neighbors we may have disregarded because of their circumstances, the way they came to our communities, or their lack of proper documentation. Perhaps you’re afraid—and maybe you have forgotten where that fear came from in the first place. We’ll talk about all this too.

The conversation I want to have with you is challenging, but no one will be yelling. This isn’t an argument or a game. It is more of a heart-to-heart for those of us who remain curious. We’ll be challenged to choose people over politics, compassion over comfort, and welcome over worry. You might already feel compassion for immigrants and refugees. If so, this book aims to attach confidence to that compassion—to help you feel seen, assure you that you’re not crazy or alone, and give you confidence that your pursuit of proximity in this space is well justified and honoring to God. Others of you might be nervous, skeptical, or confused. Great! Come sit with me. You’re in the right place. Stay curious, ask the hard questions, and keep going. God is not afraid of your doubts or your questions. He simply asks for a humble heart and a life willing to constantly recalibrate and reconnect with his mission to choose welcome for the least of these.

For as we’ve done unto them, we have done unto Christ himself (Matt. 25:40).

Just writing that sentence sobers my mind in a fresh way. I hope reading it does the same for you. We’re going on a journey together, and it doesn’t matter to me where you land: that’s between you and God. But I hope we’ll learn new things together, grieve hard things together, and ask for forgiveness together when we realize we’ve missed the mark. This is a good conversation to have, and neither of us is alone in wondering where to go with all this God-given compassion.

Helpful Language

Throughout the book I’ll use a few phrases interchangeably; others that you might be expecting I won’t use at all. Here’s why: In an effort to see people better, how we talk about and refer to those made in the image and likeness of God is important. Yes, our US policies, and even our Bibles, might use words that are accurate in their context and definition and yet don’t help us (in today’s context and cultural meaning) refer to people in the most humane ways. If we can talk about our neighbor, whom we are commanded to love as ourselves, in a more dignifying way, we should make every effort to do so.

Alien is a great example of this. While the word is correctly translated in our Bibles and not incorrect in referencing a foreigner or noncitizen, it’s also a term that has come to refer to extraterrestrial, nonhuman life and usually carries a negative connotation. The term distances us from the humanity of a person, making it too easy to think of someone as other, or not like us. We have better, more humanizing words we can use instead, like immigrant, refugee, or asylum seeker. Also, undocumented immigrant or immigrant without status will always be used here instead of calling someone illegal. Here’s why: The action a person committed may be illegal, and it will be called such, but I will not refer to a human being as illegal. I will always choose the more humanizing terms, and I hope you will too. Today’s demands to use the exact right words or labels can be frustrating. I get that. But before you think me oversensitive, all I’m saying is that if we can do better (when talking about fellow image-bearers), we should. Humanizing words and phrases don’t dilute the truth; if anything, precise language elevates the truth (of any situation or people group), and much of that is helped by using people-first language.

Since many words in the immigration conversation have become muddled, their meaning changing based on who is using them, it’s best for us to be on the same page up front. Here are a few definitions for words I will use:

• Immigration: The act of traveling into a country for the purpose of permanent residence there.¹

• Emigrate: To leave one’s place of residence or country to live elsewhere.

• Immigrant: A person who comes to a country to take up permanent residence.

• Refugee: One that flees; a person who flees to a foreign country or power to escape danger or persecution.

• Asylee/asylum seeker: Someone who has been granted asylum (safe stay in a foreign country) or who is seeking asylum.²

• Ger: The Hebrew word translated in our Bibles as alien, foreigner, immigrant, stranger, or sojourner depending on the translation (I will use these interchangeably).

Deconstructing versus Detangling

Here’s one more thing I want to clarify right away: talking about this subject matter doesn’t mean we’re deconstructing our faith. I’m often told that my involvement in conversations about human dignity—especially immigration—is a slippery slope to extreme liberal policies or unorthodox, progressive theology, that wading into these waters is a dangerous drift from a conservative perspective and way of thinking. Maybe you’ve heard this too. From the outside looking in, I can see how my journey might look like deconstruction or something like it. But contrary to what some people might think, looking carefully at this conversation from a biblical perspective doesn’t mean you’ve lost your anchor or that you’re taking a sledgehammer to your faith. This isn’t a smash-and-grab job. It’s a thoughtful examination, an intentional surgery that may require painful resetting of structures and perspectives we’ve relied on for far too long. After engaging the topic of immigration more closely, I love Jesus more than ever, and I’m still orthodox in my interpretation of the Scriptures. I’ve been told I’m a little too passionate about some of these issues. But I’m okay with that. You can be too. We can be passionate about people and their flourishing; Jesus certainly was.

Bottom line, we’re not deconstructing here in these pages, we’re detangling.

Detangling is a careful kind of work, slow and steady. We’re sorting out the long, strong thread of our faith from all the other things that have gotten bunched up together. Too many things have been attached to Jesus that don’t belong. Too many contradictions have killed the faith of so many, and they can take years to unwind. Too many voices of people who look and sound just like us have been our only influence in this space. We can do better. That’s why at the end of each chapter we’ll hear stories from people who have done life and ministry with immigrant populations or are immigrants themselves. There will also be reflection and discussion questions so you can start this journey privately or with your friends, asking good questions along the way.

Be encouraged: this journey gets us to a good place—one that honors God and those he’s created. At the beginning, we may feel unsure of stepping out onto this ledge, but eventually, we’ll feel our hair blowing unobstructed in the wind, and it will feel great. The newfound viewpoint will be worth it. Life is hard. The world is full of pain. But Jesus is not afraid of our questions, tears, and rants. So let’s ask what truly furthers his kingdom and detangle it from our own. This is a holy pursuit, and we’ll be better for it.

But where do we start? This is a vastly complicated subject. The answer might seem too simple, but for the Christian, we always look to Jesus first, remembering that it was his welcome toward us that changed everything. Everything about our lives is and should be different because of the welcome he extended to us. He didn’t start with our sin or our shortcomings. He didn’t invite the thieves and tax collectors to dinner to demand they quit their way of life. All our new ways of living eventually came about from one simple approach: welcome. It doesn’t mean the other details don’t matter; it simply means that Christlike welcome changes things. It changes what we say, how we think, and who we deem worthy of our compassion.

Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God. (Rom. 15:7)

If Christ started with welcome, as his followers, let’s start there too. I can do this. You can do this. We should do this together.

Let’s go.

CHAPTER 1

how did I get here?

On a hot afternoon in southern Mexico, two thousand miles from home and in a fenced-in courtyard full of kids, I stood next to two young girls, listening as they told a story I found difficult to comprehend. It isn’t like me to be speechless. It isn’t like me to retreat. But my head started spinning and my confident countenance shifted into an unsettling fog.

I needed a moment, somewhere out of sight and away from the conversation.

Smiling, I excused myself from the group. Wandering down a cement hallway, I pushed open the first door I saw and slipped inside an old storage room.

Alone inside that musty, stuffy closet, I broke down.

I buried my face in my hands, and my body doubled over as I gave in to uncontrollable sobs. I cried and cried as these words raced through my head: How could I have missed this?

The Invitation I Didn’t See Coming

My personal passions and career paths have always revolved around pro-life advocacy. But when we adopted our second child, I stepped back from my much-loved role as director of sanctity of human life at Focus on the Family to make space for my own family. That’s when I received an interesting invitation. America’s newsfeeds were (and always seem to be) full of stories of migrant caravans, invasions at the border, and unaccompanied minors, so World Relief—a global Christian humanitarian organization I had partnered with in the past—was taking an immersion trip to Oaxaca, Mexico. They would listen to local city and church leaders talk about the realities of immigration, explore the cultural dynamics of the region, and visit shelters housing families and unaccompanied migrant children.

I think you should come and invite some of your friends, Michelle, the trip host, announced confidently during our initial meeting. Think anyone else you know would be interested?

I paused at the question. My life, work, and education all took place in conservative evangelical circles. Who would come with me? The conversations happening around immigration and the opportunity to join in intrigued me, but I wasn’t sure who else would feel the same. Even asking felt risky.

But as an Enneagram Eight, I am not afraid of hard conversations, so it was impossible for me not to try.

This was back in 2017, when the rhetoric around immigration and asylum seekers was intense. The plight and care of refugees—a topic conservative Christians had passionately advocated for and acted on for decades—was becoming too political. My evangelical community started distancing themselves from this once-uncontroversial people group. You may remember fiery rhetoric about the border wall, increased security spending, ending DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals), and outlawing sanctuary cities. I scrolled through my long list of friends and colleagues thinking, Who wants to get into all of this?

For me, being a Christian and being pro-life have always gone hand in hand. As I understood it, the sanctity and dignity of every human life weren’t in question; they were a banner under which all followers of Jesus fell in line. I had grown up in the church as a happily devoted pastor’s kid, learning about God’s love and compassion long before I could articulate such things. Like many in the evangelical culture, I only heard pro-life defined in the traditional sense, as against the practice of abortion. But as an adult, I started working professionally in pro-life spaces and was mentored into an expanded definition that took my pro-life commitments beyond the preborn and adoption space.

As a lifelong Christian, I thought this expanded definition made perfect sense. In my advocacy work, I