...But do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like one day. The Lord is not slow about his promise, as some think of slowness, but is patient with you, not wanting any to perish but all to come to repentance. But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be destroyed with fire, and the earth and everything that is done on it will be disclosed.
Since all these things are to be destroyed in this way, what sort of persons ought you to be in leading lives of holiness and godliness, waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be set ablaze and destroyed and the elements will melt with fire? But, in accordance with his promise, we wait for new heavens and a new earth, where righteousness is at home.
Therefore, beloved, while you are waiting for these things, strive to be found by him at peace, without spot or blemish, and regard the patience of our Lord as salvation.
~ 1 Peter 3:8-15a
My name is Shannon Baker, and I am in the midst of a year of service with Young Adults in Global Mission through the ELCA, serving alongside La Iglesia Luterana Mexicana (the Mexican Lutheran Church) as well as a migrant center called El Refugio. At El Refugio, my role of service often consists of cooking and serving food, whether during mealtimes or whenever a new guest shows up, weary and (almost always) hungry; other times, I’m washing, folding, and hanging clothes; other times, like after dinner when those who have been working can finally rest in the little patio outside, I listen to stories and share my own.
When people come to El Refugio, they sometimes stay for a week and work; others will stay for months, depending on whether they’re seeking refugee status in Mexico or heading to the U.S. border. But El Refugio is different than many other centers, too, because while they wait, they are often working jobs to earn money for the journey, or they’re serving in El Refugio with their own gifts: construction, helping newcomers get their sheets and towels, etc. They—those migrating—are a part of the home and the welcome that gets extended to others like them.
To get to the U.S., migrants apply for immigration appointments, called citas. These citas can take weeks, even months, to get scheduled. And no one ever really knows when theirs will come. By applying for a cita, they’re signing themselves up to wait. It’s hard to wait when you’re in that in-between place of leaving home and seeking another. It’s hard to wait when you have young kids that are impatient and tired of the journey. It’s hard to wait when you yourself have crossed through jungles, countless country borders, and unfair systems to get where you are, only to be told that there’s a line. It’s hard to wait when the thing you’re waiting for feels like a saving hope… if only it would just come now.
And yet, when I’m told these stories of difficult border crossings, nights in the jungle, and impatient children, I also hear this common thread from those who stay in the walls of El Refugio: "I didn’t mean to come here—I took a wrong train and ended up on this route through Guadalajara, and when it stopped, I got off, and now here I am. But I’m starting to think this detour was a blessing from God. Because here, there’s space (a lot of the migrant centers in other cities, like la Ciudad de Mexico, don’t have that), there’s food, there’s kind people, and I just feel… peace."
I’m starting to lose count of the number of times I’ve heard the above story. And it’s not lost on me that the place where peace has been found—if only for a week or a month—is here, at El Refugio…at “the refuge.” A refuge of peace.
The people that were waiting for Jesus’s coming thousands of years ago had a cita of their own. They, too, waited a long, long time. They were waiting for a saving hope, a Messiah, but they had no idea when their hope would come. We too are waiting. We’re waiting for Jesus to come again, we’re waiting for the kingdom of God to not just be glimpsed or made manifest through us—because it is, here and now—but we’re also waiting for it to fully destroy the systems of injustice and power of sin that still run throughout the world. It’s easy to clamor, “God, how much longer? When will our cita, that appointed time, come?” And as Peter reminds us, this longing, this hastening as he says, is good. Because the waiting is not passive. We don’t just sit in El Refugio, doing nothing. We’re working towards peace; we’re working to lead others to peace we’ve found. And as we wait, we look towards the thing we’re waiting for: Is it here yet? Can I catch a glimpse of that righteousness? In the mission of YAGM, can I see some of that ultimate Peace I’m waiting for? A mixture of now and not yet? In my own congregation, in the prayer group, in the fellowship meal, in the sharing of winter clothes with a local shelter, in inviting my bereaved friend to join me and my church family for a Christmas service—in these things, can I see a glimpse of righteousness? Can I make a home for this righteousness, a refuge for it, while we wait for the ultimate Peace to burst through this world once and for all?
A day with the Lord is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. But God does not delay. Unlike the imperfect immigration system, the cita that God has promised will come right on time. It might be like the baby Jesus—not as we expect. But we’re not asked to concern ourselves with the when or the how. We’re asked to strive for peace in the refuge of now. Because of this baby whose birth we’ll be celebrating so, so soon, we are not just passive waiters of a peace to come. We are active bringers of a peace that is here. A peace that we carry, that we can share in our actions and our stories. And it is this peace that Peter wants to remind us to carry with power, knowing that the patience of God is for a purpose, a purpose so deep and so good and so beyond what our eyes can see.
“This wasn’t where I thought I would be,” say so many of the people who migrate and stay at El Refugio. “But I’m starting to see that this is the place of peace that I needed.” My prayer for all of us this Christmas season is that we would recognize the refuge of peace that lives in all of us, that God has given us through his Son. And that, while we wait for our own appointment—for eternal righteousness without blemish once and for all—for the “not yet” to become “now,” we would recognize the power in us to extend invitations of peace—glimpses of God’s righteousness—to those around us. God’s peace be with you this Christmas.
The nativity scene at El Refugio (no baby yet!) - December 2023
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