The Women who Pastor the World (and Why it Matters on Easter)

Earlier this year I stepped into a little church called “Camino de Salvación” or Way of Salvation in the heart of Tijuana, Mexico. I went with a team of faith leaders from around the country, to gain a more holistic understanding of migration at the southern border in light of abrupt shifts in U.S. immigration policies. After a long and bumpy taxi ride, we were greeted by a group of friendly Mexican women and handed a plate of grilled chicken, beans and homemade salsa.

As we dug into our food we listened to Pastora Adriana (the pastor) share about her decade-long journey turning the church into a shelter. In 2016, Adriana and her husband (the lead pastor at the time) along with ten other churches started housing a wave of Haitian migrants who were traveling through Tijuana. They were often disoriented by language and cultural barriers and had little resources to rely on.

A few years later a caravan of migrants came from Central America and though many churches in Tijuana started closing their doors because of fear and prejudice, Camino de Salvación stayed open. Soon the church was receiving people from around the world, from Asia and Africa, offering a clean bed and meal made with love. 

Through an interpreter Adriana explained, “We had a place where people could be away from the rain and the cold. And we only used this place on Sundays and maybe once or twice during the week. And that is the case with most churches.”

Photo by Nathan Hughes

In 2021, the shelter was hit with COVID and though guests and staff recovered from the illness Adriana’s husband tragically passed away. On his death bed he looked at his dear wife and partner in ministry and told her to “take charge.” Through the grief of profound loss, Adriana took those words to heart. 

Not only did Adriana keep the shelter open, she was ordained as a pastor. Despite losing funding and support from her denomination, she has continued to pastor the world in the wake of her husband’s death. To this day, she proclaims a message of salvation to all people, tribes and nations-through scripture, prayer and tangible means of care. No matter where people are going, she points people towards the way of salvation. 

This weekend we celebrate Easter and just like Adriana grieving the death of her husband, the women at the tomb were grieving the death of Jesus. It wasn’t a part of the plan. His absence was a blow to life as they knew it. But like Adriana was tasked to “take charge”, the women were also tasked by the angel to proclaim a message of the Risen Christ to those in their immediate circle.

These women could have thrown in the towel and they could have backed down when the disciples ridiculed them. When funding dried up, so could their spirit. But they carried on, playing an integral role in reaching the whole world with the message of Jesus.

Like Adriana and the women at the tomb, women who follow Jesus are called to “take charge.” That doesn’t mean we push men over or put ourselves on pedestals. Not at all.  It means we stare into an empty tomb and orient ourselves with truth. We turn towards the world around us proclaiming in word and action a message of hope to weary travelers. Women play a unique role in staring death in the face but with courage, hope and deep rooted faith, point others toward a resurrected Christ, who is the way of salvation.

Running, Spring Blooms, and the Periphery

I like to run, especially after snow melts and winter breaks. I’m not an avid runner by any means but I enjoy the crisp morning air bouncing around the cavern of my lungs from time to time. It helps me start my day (ahem) on the right foot. On a good day, I make a one mile trek to Lake Erie from my house and sit on the concrete steps in front of the water when I arrive.

 I always notice the mood of the waves. They are somewhere between calm and glass-like or full of angst as they crash and break with force over the rocks. I never know if the mood of the lake foreshadows my day ahead but either way, I say a quick prayer and then turn around to jog back home. I jog on a slight incline, up residential streets until I arrive at my blue colonial in time for morning coffee and sleepy kids wobbling down the stairs. I always feel satisfied with the slight burn in my thighs that follows. 

 I used to run more. In my 20’s I ran three (!) half marathons and would easily go out for a five mile run on the weekend, “just for fun.” That feels like a lifetime ago. I always tracked my time, pushing myself to be there and back quicker than before. But in my late 30’s, after birthing three children and now a decade of running errands, through parks and towards a career, I’ve grown content with a slow and simple jog. And my body thanks me for it. 

Yesterday I took my usual route and noticed the first signs of spring. I have been running long enough up and down the same streets, that I anticipate the first magenta blooms that burst onto the bare branches in front of the pale yellow house on the next block over. I am familiar with the embankments that showcase ivy year round and the ones where white and yellow tulips are the first to sprout. I can tell you about the houses that have traditional wood doors and the homeowners who gift the world with color, daring enough to go for entrances bathed in bright yellow, red or blue. 

Though I’ve personally not met all the neighbors along my route, I know the homes that are teeming with young children and the ones teeming with lifelong memories-where empty nesters often enjoy a glass of wine in the evening on their porch. I know where blue jays keep their nests. I know the neighbors who are lucky enough to have raccoon friends stop by to dig through garbage cans. I even know that the neighborhood deer who likes the long front garden in front of the pink house across the street. 

It dawned on me during my run yesterday that somehow all of this is symbolic. We have a route set before us, usually something mundane, constant and familiar. Just like I circle the same loop on my morning run, my days are often filled with putting one foot in front of the other, only to do it all over again. Oftentimes it can feel like running on the same boring cement sidewalk. 

But it’s whats on the periphery that makes running so enjoyable. It’s when I notice color, spring flowers and animal friends. It’s noticing people. It’s saying hi to neighbors I know and smiling at neighbors I don’t know but often see. It’s seeing the bird above my head bringing a piece of straw to its nest and it’s greeting the vastness of the lake with curiosity and reverence for what the day might hold. 

You and I are jogging through life. We are in a loop with our families, our friends, our goals and our jobs. But there is beauty that often lies on the periphery of our route. Are we moving slow enough to notice the details and perhaps God’s grace and love in it all? Do we believe that it’s the periphery that often makes it worth it and points to something much bigger than ourselves?

I’m going to keep running, or at least doing my best. Whether you are physically or metaphorically running, I hope you notice the tree blossoming in magenta on the next street over. For it’s the peripheral that reminds us that the world is so much bigger than what we often think.

Photo by Milkshop Photoraphy

Yours is the Kingdom: A message to migrants at the Southern Border

Earlier this month I traveled to the Southern border with a group of faith leaders from around the country. The trip was hosted by World Relief and designed to give all of us a broader and deeper understanding about the history of migrant crossings, shifting border policies and ultimately how God is and has been at work in and through the movement of people.

On the first morning we were there, we gathered at the San Diego World Relief office and with our metal chairs in a semi circle, opened our Bibles to the Sermon on the Mount and read together from Matthew 5:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”

I tried my best to let the words of Jesus speak to me in a new way but I was restless. I’d heard this passage many times but it didn’t necessarily spark a new thought or provide an “a-ha” revelation. After some brief reflection we moved on. 

Later that day we drove to a remote area of the border wall that separates San Diego and Tijuana, Mexico. We were standing on the California side and immediately I noticed the tangled barbed wire that stretched for miles on top of the pillared cement beams. Border Patrol vehicles were circling on a sandy hill up ahead and though it felt like we were standing on a remote plot of land, the surveillance equipment above reminded me we were not alone. 

Pictured: Liliana Reza, Director of U.S Mexico/Border Engagement with World Relief. Photo by Steven Eng

I walked closer to a different part of the wall, with steel beams shooting close to 30 feet into the air. With my nose almost touching the metal, I peered through and saw a man’s jacket tangled on the ground. The barren stretch of land on the other side led to another wall (yes, there were two walls) and from there I could see cars zipping home on their evening commute in congested Tijuana, like nothing was out of the ordinary. 

We were touring an open air detention center that just a few months ago was full of a steady stream of migrants from around the world-people fleeing from war, failed states and desperate situations. It was now empty, in part due to the most recent restrictive border policies enacted by the Trump Administration. 

After often dangerous journeys lasting months, migrants made it to this point and would be held between the two walls until they encountered border patrol, often with the hope of seeking asylum on coveted U.S. soil. The wall, the barbed wire, border patrol and surveillance equipment communicated much about what it means to try and enter the U.S. In order to step foot in this land of promise, one must quite literally face many giants and even then, there are no guarantees of a world made right. 

Propped against the towering steel wall sat humble make-shift tents where over the last several months volunteers and relief organizations have shown up with supplies, food and toys to pass through the bars as migrants waited-sometimes for hours and sometimes for days. Mothers, fathers, and at times unaccompanied minors waited in the open air with nothing more than a backpack on their backs and a portapotty planted in the dirt. 

Photo by Nathan Hughes

And as I stood there, literally between two countries and two kingdoms, it hit me. 

These are the mourners who weep because their journey is long and they have said good-bye to their beloved home and family, not knowing if they will ever return. These are the mourners who have nowhere to sleep. These are the mourners who shutter at the unknown ahead- the danger of detention centers, and the risk of losing everything they own. These are the poor in spirit, battling depression, fatigue and discouragement. These are the meek- skeptical to lift their eyes to receive a cold drink because their trust has been battered, bruised and taken advantage of by bad actors along the way.

And as I stared at this now empty plot of land, once full of the mourners, the poor and the meek in search of tangible signs of welcome, Jesus’s words came alive. I could picture him sitting on the sand, just like he did thousands of years ago, with border patrol circling in the background.

This time HIS nose was touching the cold steel wall and boldly declaring to everyone past, present and future:

“Blessed are you who are poor in spirit, for yours is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you who mourn, for you will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for you will inherit the earth.”

While federal policies have greatly altered access into “the Kingdom” of the United States, I serve a God whose Kingdom is a safe haven for all. There is no barbed wire, steel beams, or men and women with guns. In fact, there are no border walls at all. All are welcome, celebrated and profoundly loved by the humble King himself. 

We long for the day when the world is made right for good, and when suffering has permanently ceased. In the meantime, we hold out in faith, as Jesus whispers throughout history to the mourners, “Yours is the Kingdom.”

Oh we long for that Kingdom to come. We work for it. We pray for it. We hope for it.