Since June 4, we have had yard signs posted on the blocks around the Dominican Sisters Motherhouse. These signs are based on Catholic Social Teaching principles which come from the Gospel and the living tradition of the Catholic faith.
I am quick to say that these messages are not unique to our faith tradition. Many if not most faith traditions believe in the dignity of all persons, our responsibility to care for those who are impoverished, our obligation to stand up for human rights and workers’ rights, our call to be peacemakers, the urgent call to protect our common home Earth, knowing that we are one global human family – and the need for concern for our immigrant sisters and brothers.
That concern for our immigrant sisters and brothers is facing strong opposition these days. While that has been true for many years, it is increasing in many ways. Justice advocates in the Chicago area can share stories of all that they are encountering in our state. A woman leaving a church parking lot after attending daily Mass was blocked by two vehicles with the occupants promptly exiting with rifles drawn and demanding proof of her citizenship. A mother sitting on a bench watching her two children wading in the water at the Millennium Park fountain was surrounded by ICE agents and taken. Cars on Interstate 55 are being stopped by ICE agents, and occupants taken.
You can read more stories in the news highlighting the racial profiling, the militarized pursuit and the fear that it engenders. But here in this column, I’d like to reflect on our religious tradition and migration and what it might say to us.
A few months ago, I was fortunate to join a retreat, “A Theology of Migration.” It was based on a book of the same name by Dan Groody, a Catholic priest of the Holy Cross order. He currently teaches at Notre Dame but has a life of experience with migrant persons and their experiences.
He has had decades to mull over those experiences and what meaning they have in relation to our Christian faith. He has come to see that migration is a central theme of the Bible.
Think of Adam and Eve and their migration from the garden, and, even something more fundamental, a movement from being at home with their true selves to living in a state of alienation. Abraham and Sarah migrated from the land of Ur to Canaan. Hagar migrated from the home of Abraham and Sarah. Joseph was sold into migration, basically being trafficked by his brothers. Moses, hearing from God in the Burning Bush, was called to “migrate and liberate the people from Egypt.”
Jesus crossed the border from divinity to humanity and migrated to live among us. And after his birth, he and his family were forced to migrate to Egypt to escape a massacre.
John 1:14 says that “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” There is a Bible translation called The Message by Eugene Peterson. Peterson says it this way: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.”
This passage of John is about the God who first migrated to our world in the Incarnation, moved into the neighborhood, and about the God who calls us through Christ to migrate back to God. I love that image of God’s migration to us so that we can migrate to our true home with God.
Reading these biblical texts in light of the current political geography sets up a striking contrast between the God who migrates to the human race to break down walls that divide and the present climate that erects them to separate one people from another.
The narratives from this latter action move the human community from oneness to otherness. “Othering” people sets them apart – not one of us – and leads to dehumanizing them.
The central focus of the gospel call is centered on the movement from otherness to oneness. Can we turn to one another, have conversations of depth and listen to learn? Can we, instead of building bigger walls, build longer tables so we can include others?
That is my hope.
Sister Marcelline Koch is a board member of the Springfield Immigrant Advocacy Network.
This article appears in October 2-8, 2025.
