A good God let me suffer

Suffering has a way of asking questions we never planned to answer. It has a way of slipping into our quiet mornings, our long commutes, our hospital rooms, our heartbreaks, our disappointments, and even our whispered prayers. And when it settles in too long, when it lingers like an uninvited guest who will not leave, many of us find ourselves looking upward and asking the question we never thought we would ask so boldly: How can a good God let me suffer? It is not a theoretical question. It is not a philosophical puzzle. It is the cry of someone who has believed, trusted, prayed, served, and still found themselves hurting. It is the cry behind the tears you wipe away before stepping into work, the cry behind the smile you force so others will not worry, the cry behind the silence when people ask if you are okay and you say you are fine, even when every part of you is breaking.

And yet, it is a question deeply rooted in Scripture. The Bible is not shy about pain. It is not embarrassed by tears. It is not allergic to hard questions. In fact, it is the place where the deepest cries of suffering are recorded for all to see. Job cried out, “Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him” (Job 13:15). David asked, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13:1). Even Jesus himself, hanging on the cross in agony, cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46). The Bible gives us permission to bring our honest pain before God. It shows us that faith is not pretending that everything is fine. Faith is bringing our wounds to the God who sees, even when we do not understand what He is doing.

So how can a good God let us suffer? The first truth Scripture shows us is that God’s goodness is not the absence of suffering but His presence in suffering. When the Israelites walked through the wilderness, God did not take away the desert. He did not remove the heat, the hunger, or the thirst. But He walked with them in a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. He provided manna every morning and water out of unexpected rocks. His goodness showed up not in removing the wilderness, but in sustaining them through it. Many times, we want God to eliminate the problem because to us that feels like love. But God wants to walk with us through the problem because to Him that builds trust, depth, perseverance, and intimacy. Isaiah 43:2 reminds us, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you… when you walk through the fire, you will not be burned.” God never said there would be no waters or no fire. He said you would not face them alone.

The second truth is that suffering is not always punishment. Many believers secretly carry guilt, wondering if their pain is somehow deserved. But Scripture repeatedly shows us that suffering often hits the righteous, not because they are guilty, but because this world is broken. Job’s suffering was not a result of sin. Joseph’s betrayal was not God punishing him. Daniel in the lions’ den was not because he had done wrong. Lazarus’s sickness was not because God was angry. Jesus told His disciples plainly, “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33). Trouble is part of life in a fallen world, but God’s goodness is part of life in His kingdom. The two coexist, but the kingdom will outlast the suffering. God’s goodness is not cancelled by your pain. It is revealed through it.

The third truth is that God uses suffering to produce something in us that comfort never could. This is not to minimize the reality of your pain; it is to remind you that suffering is never wasted. Paul writes in Romans 5:3–4 that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, and character produces hope. Think about that for a moment. Hope is not born in seasons of ease. It grows in the soil of difficulty. When you walk through hardship and discover that you are still standing, still breathing, still praying, still believing, a kind of hope grows in you that nothing can take away. It is a hope rooted not in circumstances but in the faithfulness of God.

If you look at the people God used in Scripture, you will notice that almost all of them were shaped by suffering. Moses ran for his life and spent forty years in the wilderness before he became a leader. David was anointed king but spent years hiding in caves before he could sit on the throne. Esther risked her life to save her people. Ruth walked through grief and relocation before God restored her joy. Peter wept bitter tears of failure before he became the rock of the early church. Paul suffered beatings, imprisonments, shipwrecks, loneliness, and betrayal, yet he wrote more words about joy and grace than almost anyone else. These people were not shaped by comfort. They were shaped by the God who carried them through pain. And the same God who shaped them is shaping you.

The fourth truth is that God sees the whole story while we see only the chapter we are living. We often judge God’s goodness by the page we are currently on. If the page is full of disappointment, we assume God is distant. If the page is full of loss, we assume God is punishing us. If the page is full of silence, we assume God has forgotten us. But God is the author, not the reader. He sees the ending before we experience the beginning. He understands how this chapter fits into the masterpiece He is writing with your life. Romans 8:28 does not say all things are good. It says God works all things together for good to those who love Him. This means He weaves pain and joy, tears and laughter, storms and sunshine into a story that ends with redemption.

Sometimes God lets us walk through suffering because there is something on the other side that we cannot see yet. Joseph could not see the palace while he was in the pit. Hannah could not see Samuel while she was weeping in the temple. The woman with the issue of blood could not see her healing while she spent twelve years in desperation. But God saw it all. And God sees what you cannot see. He sees healing where you see hurt. He sees growth where you see grief. He sees purpose where you see pain.

The fifth truth is that God Himself knows what suffering feels like. Christianity is the only faith where God is not distant from human sorrow but enters it fully. Jesus wept. Jesus was betrayed. Jesus felt hunger, exhaustion, rejection, loneliness, and agony. He knows the weight you carry because He carried it too. Hebrews 4:15 reminds us that we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses. Jesus does not watch you suffer from a distance; He sits with you in it. Every tear you cry is known to Him. Every fear you whisper is heard by Him. Every ache in your heart is understood by Him. You are never alone in your pain because God Himself has walked the path of suffering.

The sixth truth is that suffering does not have the final word. God does. Suffering may wound, but God heals. Suffering may last, but God restores. Suffering may break the heart, but God binds it. Psalm 30:5 reminds us that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Morning always comes, even if the night feels too long. Even if the tears seem endless. Even if the pain feels too heavy. Night does not stay forever. And neither will your suffering. God is a Redeemer. He never leaves His children in ashes without giving them beauty. He never leaves them in mourning without giving them joy. He never leaves them in despair without planting hope.

So when you ask, “How can a good God let me suffer?” perhaps the real invitation is to look for His goodness in the middle of it. Maybe His goodness is in the strength that keeps you going when you want to give up. Maybe His goodness is in the friend who checked on you, the prayer you prayed through tears, the courage that rose in you even when you felt too tired to continue. Maybe His goodness is in the gentle whisper that reminds you that you are still loved, still seen, still held. Maybe His goodness is in the quiet assurance that this season, painful as it is, is not the end of your story.

God’s goodness is not proven by how easy your life is. It is proven by how present He is in the hardest moments. He is the God who stays close to the brokenhearted. He is the God who binds wounds. He is the God who carries burdens. He is the God who turns mourning into dancing. He is the God who uses suffering, not to destroy us, but to refine us, strengthen us, deepen us, and draw us closer to Him.

The truth is, suffering will always raise questions. But God will always remain the answer. He does not ask you to understand everything. He asks you to trust Him through everything. Even when the path hurts. Even when the tears fall. Even when the prayers seem slow to be answered. Even when you do not know what tomorrow holds. The God who was good yesterday is good today and will still be good tomorrow. His goodness is not shaken by your circumstances. And neither is His love for you.

When you cannot see His hand, you can trust His heart. When you cannot trace the purpose, you can rest in His presence. And when life hurts more than you can bear, you can lean on the One who carried the cross and will carry you too. God is still good. Even here. Even now. Even in this.

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We pray but don't listen.

Christians pray every day. We pray when we wake up, when we eat, when we are about to travel, and when we face hard times. Many of us go to church faithfully every Sunday to pray. We kneel, we cry, we sing, and we raise our hands. We tell God about our troubles, our needs, and our dreams. We say, “Lord, speak to me. I am listening.” But the truth is, when God finally speaks, we don’t listen. We ask Him to give us direction, but when the direction comes, we find a reason to ignore it. We tell Him, “Lord, let Your will be done,” but secretly, we hope He will agree with our will.

It’s a strange thing that the same Christians who spend hours in prayer can be so quick to disobey the very God they prayed to. This is not something new. It has always been part of human nature. From the beginning, God has always spoken, but His people have always struggled to obey. In the book of 1 Samuel 15, we find a story that reflects this clearly. God gave Saul, the first king of Israel, a very clear instruction through the prophet Samuel. He told him to destroy the Amalekites completely — not to spare anything. But Saul, after winning the battle, decided to keep some of the best livestock for himself and for his soldiers. When Samuel confronted him, Saul said he had saved them to sacrifice to God. That sounds spiritual, doesn’t it? But Samuel’s response was piercing. He said, “Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams” (1 Samuel 15:22).

This verse strikes at the heart of what it means to pray and yet not listen. Saul had done what many Christians do today he prayed, he fought for God, he gave offerings, but he didn’t obey. He performed all the outer acts of devotion, but his heart was not aligned with God’s instructions. And this is the same attitude many believers carry into their walk with God. We want God’s blessings, but not His boundaries. We want His voice when it comforts, but not when it corrects. We love to hear “You are favored,” but not “You are wrong.” We love to sing, “Where You lead me, I will follow,” but when God leads us into uncomfortable obedience, we suddenly lose the melody.

Imagine a Christian praying for God to open a door for a new job. They fast, they cry, and they wait. Then, God gives them a quiet instruction in their spirit: “Forgive your former boss. Make peace before I open another door.” But instead of obeying, they argue. They say, “Lord, You know what that person did to me. I cannot forgive.” Then they return to prayer, asking again for the same job. They forget that the prayer was never the problem; obedience was. God cannot build a future on disobedience. The promise cannot rest on rebellion.

It’s easy to think that prayer is what changes everything. But prayer without obedience is empty. The power of prayer lies not in the words we speak, but in the life that follows them. You can pray all night, but if your heart is closed to God’s instruction, your prayer is just noise. Jesus said in John 14:15, “If you love me, keep my commandments.” That’s where the relationship with God truly lives not in our repeated words, but in our response. The mark of a genuine Christian is not how long they pray, but how quickly they obey.

Think about Peter. When Jesus told him to cast his net into the deep after a whole night of failure, Peter had every reason to doubt. He could have argued, “Lord, I’m a fisherman. I know the waters better than You. I’ve been here all night.” But instead, he said, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets” (Luke 5:5). That sentence “because you say so” — is the language of obedience. And what happened next? The nets broke with abundance. Peter’s obedience opened the door for his miracle.

Many of us want the miracle without the “because You say so.” We want the harvest without the humility. We want the open doors without the discipline. We want to be used by God, but we resist His shaping hand. We pray for revival, but we don’t repent. We pray for clarity, but we don’t obey what we already know. We pray for strength, but we refuse to release the things that weaken us. Sometimes we even use prayer as an excuse to delay obedience. When God speaks, we say, “I will pray about it.” But the truth is, we are not praying; we are postponing obedience.

There is a kind of prayer that brings us closer to God, and there is a kind that only fills time. The first one is followed by surrender; the second one is followed by self-will. God is not impressed by how long we stay on our knees if our hearts remain stiff-necked when we rise. The real test of prayer is seen in our actions after we say “Amen.” When we finish praying, do we forgive the one who hurt us? Do we return the money that doesn’t belong to us? Do we stop gossiping about that person in church? Do we make peace with those we avoid? Do we follow through when God says, “Wait”?

The Bible is full of men and women who learned that hearing God is only half of the journey the other half is doing what He says. Abraham was told to leave his country and go to a place he did not know. He obeyed. Noah was told to build an ark before there was rain. He obeyed. Mary was told she would carry a child supernaturally. She obeyed. Every great move of God begins not with great prayer alone, but with great obedience.

The danger of modern Christianity is that we have replaced obedience with religious activity. We are more interested in being seen in church than in being changed by the Word. We want the appearance of holiness without the cost of surrender. We join prayer meetings, we attend conferences, we post Bible verses online — but when the Spirit convicts us to forgive, to let go of pride, or to confess sin, we resist. We act like Saul, trying to offer sacrifices to cover disobedience. But God is not moved by outward acts when the heart remains unyielding.

Sometimes, God’s instructions are not dramatic. They are gentle whispers in the ordinary moments of life. He may tell you to apologize, to give to someone in need, to pray for your enemy, or to let go of a toxic relationship. But because we are waiting for thunder and lightning, we miss His quiet voice. Elijah learned this in 1 Kings 19. God was not in the wind, not in the earthquake, not in the fire He was in the gentle whisper. And when Elijah heard it, he covered his face. That whisper still speaks today, but many Christians drown it with noise the noise of endless requests, the noise of complaining, the noise of self-will.

When we disobey God, we lose peace. We may still go to church, we may still pray, but something feels empty. The joy of salvation fades because obedience and joy are married. David understood this after his sin with Bathsheba. In Psalm 51:12, he prayed, “Restore to me the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.” He realized that joy doesn’t leave because we stop praying it leaves because we stop obeying. A willing spirit is what keeps the flame of prayer alive.

Let’s be honest. Sometimes God’s instructions are hard. They go against our comfort, our plans, and even our feelings. Obedience is not always convenient, but it is always worth it. Jesus Himself prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, “Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me. Yet not as I will, but as You will” (Matthew 26:39). Even the Son of God wrestled with obedience. But He submitted. And because He obeyed, salvation came to all humanity. That’s the power of obedience it produces life, not just for us, but for others.

If you truly want to grow spiritually, stop asking God to speak and start doing what He has already said. The Bible is full of instructions we have not yet practiced. Love your neighbor. Forgive those who hurt you. Give thanks in all circumstances. Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Do not repay evil for evil. These are not suggestions they are commands. And when we walk in them, we experience the presence of God in ways that prayer alone cannot produce.

Obedience opens the heavens. It aligns our hearts with God’s purpose. It turns ordinary believers into vessels of divine power. God cannot trust a disobedient heart with His secrets. He speaks clearly to those who listen sincerely. When we learn to say, “Yes, Lord,” even before we know what He will ask, we position ourselves for divine favor. The Bible says in Isaiah 1:19, “If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land.” The blessing is attached not just to willingness, but to obedience.

So, the next time you go to pray, don’t just speak listen. Don’t just ask surrender. Don’t just cry comply. Ask yourself, “What has God already told me that I have not yet done?” Maybe He told you to start that ministry, but you’re afraid. Maybe He told you to end that unhealthy relationship, but you keep holding on. Maybe He told you to give, to serve, to forgive, or to rest. Obedience is the bridge between the prayer you pray and the answer you long for.

Christianity is not about how much we say to God; it’s about how much we allow Him to shape us. Prayer is the beginning of conversation, but obedience is the proof of relationship. The power of your Christian walk is not measured by how often you go to church, but by how deeply you allow God’s Word to take root in your heart. We go to church not just to pray, but to be changed. And true change begins when we take God at His Word not when we understand it fully, but when we trust Him completely.

Let this be our prayer today: “Lord, teach me to listen. Give me the grace not only to speak but to obey. Let my heart be quick to respond to Your voice. I don’t want to be a Christian who prays but never listens. I want to be one who prays and then obeys.” Because at the end of the day, it’s not the prayers we say that prove our faith it’s the life we live after prayer that tells the truth.

To obey is better than sacrifice. And to listen is better than to pretend we did not hear.

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Leadership

It is possible to occupy a position and not be a leader, and it is possible to be a leader without any position. This is a truth I have wrestled with both in ministry and in everyday life. There have been moments when I sat in a place of responsibility, with a title next to my name, yet felt powerless to influence or to truly lead those entrusted to me. There have been other moments when I held no title at all, when I was just another face in the congregation, another commuter on the bus, another guest at the table, and yet God gave me opportunities to guide, to speak truth, to comfort, to show an example that quietly led someone toward Him. This paradox has taught me more about God’s view of leadership than any book or seminar ever could. It has exposed my own temptation to equate leadership with recognition and reminded me that what God is most interested in is faithfulness, not fame, and obedience, not office.

I remember one Sunday when I had just been ordained, standing at the front of the church wearing my clerical collar. People looked at me differently. Suddenly, I was “Reverend.” People greeted me with a kind of respect they had not shown before. It felt good at first, but later I realized how heavy the title could feel. There were moments I could sense that they were watching me, not just on Sundays but in the market, at the roadside, even in moments when I wanted to be unnoticed. It made me realize that a position can amplify your life so that your mistakes are more visible, but it cannot give you the heart to truly lead. That heart must be cultivated before God in the secret place. Jesus reminds me of this when He says in Matthew 6:6, “But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” True leadership begins here—in the secret place, not on the stage.

Yet I have also known seasons when I had no title, when I was a student sitting quietly in a classroom or just a visitor in another church, and still I found that God was using me to influence others. Sometimes it was through a simple word of encouragement, sometimes through a prayer whispered for a struggling friend, sometimes through the example of perseverance when life was hard. I think of how Paul tells Timothy in 1 Timothy 4:12, “Do not let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith and in purity.” There is no mention here of a title. Leadership is in the example, in the life lived openly before God. I have seen young believers with no position at all inspire entire congregations because of their zeal for God. I have seen grandmothers who never stood on a pulpit lead prayer meetings that shook heaven because of their faith. These moments remind me that leadership in the kingdom of God is not about holding a microphone but about carrying a mantle—the mantle of servanthood, of obedience, of influence.

There was a time I struggled deeply with this truth. I longed for a position because I thought it would give me a platform to be useful to God. I thought that until I was given a role, I could not make a real difference. Then God humbled me by showing me the power of hidden obedience. I was serving quietly in the children’s ministry, no title, no recognition, just storytelling and cleaning up after restless little ones. One Sunday, a parent approached me and said, “My child talks about Jesus at home now. She prays before meals because of what you taught her.” In that moment, I felt the Spirit whisper to me that this was leadership, even though no one had installed me into a position for it. Leadership was happening because someone’s life was being shaped toward God through my small act of service. Jesus said in Luke 16:10, “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much.” I realized that God was training me to be faithful in the little so that I could be trusted with more later.

Still, there have been seasons when I occupied a position and felt painfully aware that I was not leading well. Sometimes I was distracted, sometimes afraid of conflict, sometimes so eager to be liked that I refused to speak hard truths. It reminds me of the prophet Ezekiel’s words in Ezekiel 33:6, where God says, “But if the watchman sees the sword coming and does not blow the trumpet to warn the people and the sword comes and takes someone’s life, that person’s life will be taken because of their sin, but I will hold the watchman accountable for their blood.” That verse has often sobered me. A position comes with responsibility, and failing to lead faithfully can hurt those who depend on you. I have learned to repent when I fall short, to ask God to make me a shepherd after His own heart like He said of David in Acts 13:22, “I have found David son of Jesse, a man after my own heart; he will do everything I want him to do.” True leadership, even with a position, means listening for God’s heart and then guiding people according to His will, not my convenience.

When I look at the life of Jesus, I see the perfect example of what it means to lead without relying on position. Before He began His public ministry, He had no followers, no platform, no recognition. He was just a carpenter’s son from Nazareth, and yet heaven affirmed Him at His baptism: “This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). His identity and authority came from His relationship with the Father, not from any human title. Even when He did begin His ministry, He led by washing feet, by touching lepers, by speaking to outcasts, by feeding the hungry. He rarely sat in the places of honor; instead, He went to the margins. And when the disciples argued about who was the greatest, He brought a child before them and said in Matthew 18:4, “Whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.” This has reshaped how I see leadership. It is not about climbing higher but about bowing lower.

There have been moments when I have felt invisible, as though my work was unseen and unappreciated. In those times, I take comfort in knowing that God sees what people do not. Hebrews 6:10 assures me, “God is not unjust; He will not forget your work and the love you have shown Him as you have helped His people and continue to help them.” Whether I have a position or not, God sees my faithfulness. That alone is enough reason to keep leading, to keep serving, to keep influencing in small ways. I have learned that sometimes the most powerful leadership happens in prayer, when no one is watching, when no one will ever know. Interceding for someone, carrying them before God’s throne, can shift things in their lives even if they never know you were the one praying.

I have also learned that leading without a position can be risky because it can challenge the status quo. Jeremiah had no official seat of power, but he spoke truth to kings and priests. Sometimes, I have felt that inner nudge to speak when others are silent, to stand when others sit. It has cost me at times—misunderstandings, criticism, even isolation. Yet I am encouraged by the words of Paul in Galatians 1:10, “Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.” Leadership without position is about fearing God more than man, about speaking even when your voice shakes, about loving enough to tell the truth.

At the same time, I must guard my heart when I am given a position, lest I rely on it too much. Positions can tempt us to pride. They can make us forget that leadership is service. Jesus’ act of washing His disciples’ feet in John 13:14–15 continues to challenge me: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.” Every position I occupy must become a platform for service, not self-promotion. Otherwise, I risk becoming like the Pharisees, who Jesus said loved the places of honor and the greetings in the marketplaces but neglected justice, mercy, and faithfulness (Matthew 23:23).

As I reflect on this paradox, I realize that God is more interested in forming me into a servant-leader than in placing me in high offices. The position may come, or it may not, but my calling to lead through influence, through example, through service remains. This truth frees me from striving for recognition and instead calls me to strive for faithfulness. When I wake up each day, I ask God to help me lead well in whatever sphere I find myself—in my conversations, in my work, in the way I treat strangers, in the way I handle disappointments. Leadership, I am learning, is not a season of life; it is a posture of life.

So whether I am sitting on a church council or simply sitting with a hurting friend over a cup of tea, I want to be faithful. Whether I have a microphone or just a listening ear, I want to be present. Whether anyone ever calls me a leader or not, I want my life to quietly point others to Jesus. Because in the end, that is the true measure of leadership—not how many followed me, but how many followed Him because I was willing to lead. And one day, I long to hear Him say what He promised in Matthew 25:21: “Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness.” That, to me, is the highest affirmation any leader could ever receive.

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Sojourner

In every age, history echoes with the footsteps of the displaced. Whether through conquest, famine, persecution, or political manipulation, the movement of people is not new. But in our time, we face a chilling rhetoric and a harsher reality: a desire to erase, exclude, and remove. The proposed mass deportations in the United States, under the banner of national security and sovereignty, point to a more sinister ambition—a systematic attempt to redefine who belongs and who does not. This is not merely a political issue. It is a theological crisis. When deportation becomes a policy and cleansing becomes a goal, the Church must see with prophetic eyes and speak with the voice of Christ. We are not merely citizens of nations, bound by passports and borders; we are sojourners, pilgrims, and above all, image-bearers of God. We are all refugees in this world.

The biblical story is deeply shaped by displacement. From the exile of Adam and Eve from Eden to the enslavement of Israel in Egypt, from the deportation to Babylon to the Holy Family fleeing to Egypt to escape Herod’s wrath, Scripture is filled with people on the move—not by choice, but by necessity. And yet, in every case, God moves with the displaced. He is not simply the God of a promised land, but the God who walks with exiles, shelters wanderers, and makes covenant with strangers.

One cannot read Scripture honestly and miss this motif. In Genesis 12, God calls Abram to leave his country, his people, and his father's household, to a land God would show him. The father of faith is, first, a migrant. Later, in Genesis 23, Abraham describes himself as “a foreigner and stranger among you” as he seeks to buy a burial site for Sarah. The identity of God’s people has always involved movement, exile, and being outsiders. Hebrews 11 recounts this identity in language that challenges nationalistic impulses: “They admitted that they were foreigners and strangers on earth… they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one” (Hebrews 11:13–16). Faith, according to Scripture, carries with it a confession: we do not finally belong to the nations of this world.

Jesus himself embodies the vulnerability of displacement. His birth was under imperial occupation; his early childhood, spent in exile. “Get up,” the angel told Joseph, “take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt, and stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him” (Matthew 2:13). The Savior of the world began his life as a refugee, driven from his homeland by the threat of political violence. In fleeing to Egypt, Jesus stands in solidarity with all children ripped from their homes by fear. He is not distant from the agony of those who cross deserts, rivers, and borders. He knows the terror of a knock at the door in the night, the ache of longing for a place to call home, and the heavy uncertainty of exile.

But Jesus also flips the script on belonging. In his ministry, he dismantles the walls between insider and outsider, chosen and rejected. He praises a Roman centurion’s faith, touches the unclean, and converses with a Samaritan woman. He chooses Galilean fishermen, tax collectors, and zealots to be his disciples. His message is scandalously inclusive. When asked, “Who is my neighbor?” he tells the story of a Samaritan—a despised outsider—as the moral hero (Luke 10:25–37). In doing so, he confronts our tribalism. He teaches that the true mark of godliness is not lineage or nationality, but mercy.

Paul takes this further. In Ephesians 2, he declares that Christ has “destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility,” making one new humanity from Jew and Gentile. “Consequently,” he writes, “you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household” (Ephesians 2:19). This is the radical redefinition of identity that the Church must reclaim. If Christ has made us one, then to build walls, literal or metaphorical, between peoples is to deny his work. National boundaries may still exist for the sake of order and governance, but they cannot define the limits of Christian love or responsibility.

The language of “cleansing,” whether stated overtly or embedded subtly, is the language of empire, not the Kingdom. It is a theology of exclusion masquerading as patriotism. It is what led Pharaoh to fear the growing Hebrew population in Egypt and to enslave them (Exodus 1:9–10). It is what led Herod to slaughter innocent children. It is what led Babylon to destroy Jerusalem and exile its people. Time and again, Scripture shows us that the logic of power is to fear the Other and to destroy difference. But the logic of God is to love the stranger and to welcome the foreigner.

Indeed, the Law itself, often caricatured as rigid and unfeeling, contains strong protections for the outsider. “Do not mistreat or oppress a foreigner,” God commands Israel, “for you were foreigners in Egypt” (Exodus 22:21). In Leviticus 19:34, the instruction is even clearer: “The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself.” Why? “For you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” The ethical rationale is rooted in memory: remember where you came from. Remember your own vulnerability. Remember the grace that found you when you were weak.

What then does it mean when a nation founded by immigrants forgets its story? What does it mean when the Church, the Body of Christ, aligns itself with policies that exclude, deport, or dehumanize? It means we have traded our theology for ideology. It means we have forgotten the Exodus and ignored the exile. It means we have chosen Caesar over Christ.

To be clear, every nation has a right to secure its borders and maintain order. But when that order becomes a tool of fear, when it targets the vulnerable and casts whole groups as threats, it ceases to be just. The prophet Isaiah condemned rulers “who make unjust laws, to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed” (Isaiah 10:1–2). Justice is not measured by the size of one’s army or the height of one’s walls. It is measured by how we treat the least among us.

Jesus will judge the nations not by their economic output or national security, but by how they treated the hungry, the stranger, and the imprisoned (Matthew 25:31–46). “I was a stranger and you invited me in,” he says to the righteous. And to those who did not, he says, “Depart from me.” The stakes are eternal. Hospitality is not optional. It is the measure of our faith.

To speak of a coming “American cleansing” is to acknowledge the terror of an ideology that seeks to purify a nation by removing the Other. This is not new. History has seen it before—in Nazi Germany, in Rwanda, in the Balkans, in Myanmar. Cleansing is a dangerous word because it presumes that some people are a stain. It is a dehumanizing logic that sees lives not as sacred but as disposable. For Christians to remain silent in the face of such language is to betray the Gospel.

We must recover a theology of exile. Not as something to be avoided, but as something to be embraced. The early Church thrived in exile, not in empire. Peter writes to the believers as “God’s elect, exiles scattered” (1 Peter 1:1). He exhorts them to “live as foreigners here in reverent fear” (1 Peter 1:17). Exile reminds us that we are not home. It teaches us to resist the seduction of power and to align ourselves with the marginalized. It helps us to see Christ not in the palaces of politicians but in the tents of the displaced.

We are all refugees in this world. Whether we live in comfortable homes or wander without papers, our true citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 3:20). We wait for a city whose architect and builder is God (Hebrews 11:10). And until that city comes, we are called to live as ambassadors—welcoming, sheltering, protecting. This is not naive idealism. It is costly discipleship. It may require us to risk comfort, reputation, even safety. But it is the way of the cross.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer once wrote, “The Church is only the Church when it exists for others.” In a time when others are being cast out, hunted down, or dehumanized, the Church must be sanctuary. Not just in word, but in action. This means advocacy, hospitality, legal aid, accompaniment, and protest. It means preaching a Gospel that confronts hate and embodies hope. It means resisting the temptation to align with political powers that promise safety in exchange for silence.

The world may see migrants as a threat, but we see them as kin. The state may define some people as illegal, but we know that no human being is illegal in the eyes of God. Deportation may remove people from a country, but it cannot remove them from the heart of God. Cleansing may try to purify a nation, but it only reveals its impurity. For purity, in the Kingdom of God, is not the absence of difference—it is the presence of love.

So we stand with the displaced, because we too are displaced. We welcome the stranger, because we too were once strangers. We advocate for justice, not because it is popular, but because it is right. And we live as pilgrims, always remembering that our final home is not behind a border, but beyond it. The Church must not bow to the powers of this world, but bear witness to another world—a world where swords are turned into plowshares, where walls become tables, and where every tear is wiped away.

In that Kingdom, there will be no deportations. No checkpoints. No exclusions. Just a welcome that echoes the voice of Christ: “Come, you who are blessed by my Father. Inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.” Until then, we carry the cross, walk the road, and open our doors. We are all refugees in this world. But in God’s Kingdom, we are finally home.

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