Living in Honduras for the past few months has felt especially difficult and intense. What started as a labor dispute between teachers’ and doctors’ unions and the government has become a multi-sector agitation against government corruption and economic desperation.
Classrooms from elementary to university have been closed at various times, and public hospitals have not been attending patients. Taxi and bus drivers have been occasionally involved in blocking streets and shutting down cities. University students, some of whom graduated in early June with little hope for finding jobs, have marched. Military police have shot at student protests. Commercial trucks have parked outside cities, refusing to enter, and some trucks have been burned during protests. The U.S. Embassy was vandalized and has been partially closed.
It is difficult for me to see God in this environment. If God is in the rule of law, there is little of that. If God is in social and economic justice, there is even less. If God is in peace, compromise and goodwill, there is almost none.
Some days I have had to look very closely for the smallest sign of God’s presence. Mark’s gospel gives me an image that I can hold onto: “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade” (4:30-32). What can I take from this seemingly simple image? The kingdom of God is very small. It is planted in earthly soil. It doesn’t necessarily put an end to the burning, life-threatening sun scorching the earth. But it does provide shade, a sanctuary, open for all.
I recently accompanied a delegation from the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) Advisory Committee on Social Witness Policy, which is completing a General Assembly directive to write a comprehensive study of Central America. In Honduras, we visited a government reception center for migrants deported from North America, heard from individuals and families directly affected by the push and pull factors of the immigration process, and interviewed international officials and organizations working in anti-corruption and social justice.We heard from Joana, a Scalabrinian nun, an immigrant from Brazil herself, who serves migrants at the Honduras government center, which receives up to 10,000 deportees weekly from the United States and Mexico. She and her team of volunteers were once up for four days straight receiving flights of 250 passengers each that arrived at all hours of day and night. Her message as 150 young men and women disembarked wearing U.S. Customs Enforcement-issued gray sweats and white T-shirts, their possessions in garbage bags? “God loves you. I love you. You are worthy of love.” And she gave them coffee, a little food, and a smile.
We witnessed the secondary trauma of a Mennonite social services agency worker who had accompanied October’s much-publicized caravan of migrants through Mexico to the U.S. border. She had walked alongside mothers with babies and people with amputated legs, trying to find them strollers or wheelchairs to replace the ones that had fallen apart after days of constant use. She had tried to provide a little solace for families, making ad-hoc playgrounds for kids while parents looked for a phone, or water, or transportation. She shared a picture of a five year old taking a broom to sweep the dust off the tarp on the ground where her siblings were sleeping while their mother was taking care of errands and gathering food. “The first loss is dignity,” Yanina Romero said.
As I wrote this, my friend and colleague, a Honduras church leader and theological student, was in Mexico. He left Honduras in March, looking for work because low coffee prices left his farm in debt he can’t pay. He was away from his wife’s side for the first time in their marriage. Traveling with a guide he trusted but who was extorting his family for more money for “safe passage” to the United States, my friend was in what seemed to me a hopeless situation. Each day he weighed the risks and rewards of continuing his attempt or returning home. “God is with us, God is here, sister Dori,” he told me on the phone. “I have my Bible with me. The word of God is here among us, and I’m able to share it with lots of people here with me. I have faith.”
A couple of weeks later, my friend’s wife called me with “the best news ever.” Her husband was on his way home. For him, crossing the border was a failed attempt, a financial loss. For her, success was the reunification of her family. “Pray for a job for him,” she said.
The kingdom of God is so much more complex than we imagine. In a bleak and hopeless landscape, we find little spots of light. Amid oppression and desperation, we find the hope cultivated by family connection. We find dignity — shady spots for our nests — under the tree of God’s presence in our created world.