Jesus was a refugee. Less than two years old, he fled to Egypt with his family, eluding Herod’s murderous wrath.
Some regarded Egypt as the promised land. The fertile Nile valley made Egypt a major grain producer, a key trading hub, a cradle of civilization. Yet once Herod died, Jesus’ family returned to poor Judea. Why? Because there were their family and friends, their songs and stories, the land they knew and loved. Because no matter now nice a new place, it’s not home. “How can we sing the LORD’s song in a foreign land?” the psalmist weeps from exile.
In the 1980s a group of us helped a family of Vietnamese refugees find housing, jobs and learn English. They still carried a deep grief, because it hurts to be ripped out of one’s native soil, even if that’s your choice. A “promised” land—no matter how nice—by definition never is one’s “home” land.
Thank God, the displaced have a friend in Jesus—one who’s been there: betrayed, exiled and ultimately executed by his government, yet still deeply in love with his homeland.
God, thank you for our homelands, with all their strengths and failings. Grant us the grace to stand by those who leave, and grieve, their homes. Amen. —