Finding the goodness of God wherever we are
Photograph courtesy of Border Church. Used by permission.
Rev. Mindi Welton-Mitchell
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. – Psalm 27:13
In February, I had the honor and privilege of being invited by Rev. Dr. Seth Clark, pastor of First Baptist Church, National City, California, to a “Warm-Up Weekend” at the U.S.-Mexico border. Pastor Seth is also one of the pastors involved in the Border Church, a congregation that meets on both sides of the border in San Diego and Tijuana at Friendship Park. He is also the author of “Church at the Wall: Stories of Hope Along the San Diego-Tijuana Border” (Judson Press, 2022), and he shared with us the history of the Border Church. Established in 1971, Friendship Park was the dream of First Lady Pat Nixon: a place where people from both countries could come together in friendship. The story goes that she made the Secret Service cut a hole in the chain link fence so she could cross over and hug those on the Mexican side. But for many years, a chain link fence is what separated the two countries. There was a shared garden, places to spread a picnic basket, and ways for families to unite even if there was a fence between them.
That all changed in 2006, when the U.S. federal government seized Friendship Park from the state of California through eminent domain. Walls went up (both along the border and another wall several meters away on the U.S. side) enclosing the U.S. side of Friendship Park. However, in 2011, U.S. Border Patrol began opening the gate for a few hours on Saturdays and Sundays. A Methodist minister began meeting the people there and offered communion through the slats of the wall, and the Border Church was formed. Nonetheless, after a few years, metal meshing was added to the wall, so they began only sharing the “kiss of peace” by touching pinky fingers through the mesh since they could no longer share communion. Since I visited in February, razor wire has been added to the wall instead of the wire mesh. Since 2020 and Covid, the park has been closed, with no plans to reopen.
There is a stark difference between the Mexico side and the U.S. side. The Mexico side has green grass and picnic tables, colorful murals and palm trees, with a lighthouse towering above. The U.S. side is all dirt. Every plant has been ripped out, there are no benches, no colorful signs, and a security tower beyond the second fence makes it clear that no one is welcome there.
When crossing the border, I was confronted with the feeling that the U.S. side is evocative of a police state. Border entry aside (which is much easier going into Mexico than coming back to the U.S.), the bleak reality of militarism in the United States is present most fully at the border with Mexico. On the weekend we were in Tijuana, I read in the New York Times that the U.S. was sending three thousand more troops to the border. The Border Church gathering on the U.S. side has shrunk down, moved to a location miles away from Friendship Park, and the only way we were able to have service together as a church was through technology for a brief greeting and prayer. U.S. Border Patrol guards drove by as they prayed with us online.
God is present, alive, and active in the people in Tijuana, in the shelters and the churches, and at the border.
Nonetheless, on the Tijuana side, the Border Church gathers faithfully every Sunday afternoon. Invitations to worship are given, songs are sung, scriptures are read, a sermon is preached and translated, communion is shared, and prayers are lifted up. At the Border Church in Tijuana, we were fed after worship by Casa de Luz, an LGBTQ+ migrant shelter in Tijuana. Some were deported from the U.S., others hoped to someday come to the U.S. Nonetheless, the people of Casa de Luz made a wonderful meal for us to share at the Border Church.
Pastor Guillermo, a Methodist lay minister, leads the service on the Tijuana side. He told us he began his time at the Border Church in 2013 because he read in Scripture about how Jesus went to where the people were gathered. He went to the lakeshore; he went to the rivers; he went to the towns and villages. Pastor Guillermo saw the people gathering at the border and knew Jesus was there, too.
One of the regulars at the Border Church is Rocky, a deported U.S. Army veteran we first met at the Deported Veterans Resource and Information Center. Rocky was interviewed by a delegation from ABHMS in October 2024. Rocky asked if any of us were from Wisconsin, and it turned out he lived in the state I now serve as regional executive minister (and is a hockey fan like me). What struck me about Rocky’s story is that he was deported to a country he had left before he was six months old, and he didn’t speak a word of Spanish. He had given his life for our country and was treated most inhumanely.
Yet in our time in Tijuana, we found an antithesis to the stark, barren, harsh reality of the border on the U.S. side. We found joy. Everywhere we went, from migrant shelters to Deborah’s House (a domestic violence shelter supported by International Ministries), to the streets of Tijuana and Casa de Luz to the Border Church, we were fed delicious food. We heard stories of hardship but then stories of God’s love. We felt the peace that everyone carried with them. There was singing, laughing, and an abundance of food in our fellowship. It felt very much like the presence of the early church in Acts 2:43-47.
In reflecting on my time in Tijuana and especially at the Border Church, I have thought about my theology of place. Since moving to Wisconsin, a home that Rocky is unable to return to, I’ve spent time at Holy Wisdom Monastery, an ecumenical monastery in the Benedictine tradition outside of Madison. Benedictines follow the practices of Benedict of Nursia (who died in 547 C.E.), founder of the Benedictine Rule, a set of guidance for monks to live in community. Benedict was concerned with people’s relationships with one another as spiritual beings and deeply rooted to a sense of place and purpose. Benedictines focus their spiritual community and growth in the place where they are at. Benedictines work to shape a culture and spirituality that is connected to the earth and the greater community, and once they join that community, they join for life.
Maybe God is calling us into the streets, out on the plains, down by the lakes, or even at the borders that exist in our communities, where we can gather and proclaim that God is present, with us, now.
What I witnessed in our Baptist communities in Tijuana reminded me of the Rule of St. Benedict. When migrant caravans arrived in Tijuana, two Baptist churches we visited decided to open their doors and rip out their pews. One is tearing down its entire building to build a new shelter specifically for Haitian migrants and a community shelter with mental health and medical care for the neighborhood the church is in. Another has plans to build on the second story to have more rooms to house migrants from Central and South America, to expand its library, and provide resources for education. And at Casa de Luz, we found a loving, caring community forming among people who have been outcast from all over the world, finding a place of respite and welcome. God is present, alive, and active in the people in Tijuana, in the shelters and the churches, and at the border.
In what I can only describe now as one of the most powerful spiritual experiences I have had in a long time, Pastor Guillermo invited us into the prayer of confession. He called us to reflect upon the places where we have gone astray from God, and to raise our hand and place it on the wall, what he called the altar. As a U.S. citizen, I confessed my own sin of ignorance, of turning away from the suffering and hardship of others, of not seeing where the boundaries are in my own life, walls of separation from those of different backgrounds than my own.
This experience helped inform my own theology of place, of belonging and purpose here in Wisconsin. I continue to share Rocky’s story here, because he lived here once and has fond memories of this place. I think of the immigrants who are here in Wisconsin and how we can better welcome and help provide resources. I think of our churches that are often bogged down with questions of individual survival instead of asking the question, “What is God doing right now, in this community? And are we part of it, or not?”
Pastor Guillermo saw the people gathered at the border and knew Jesus was there. I know some churches see the people in need on the streets in their own cities and go out to meet Jesus there. I know pastors who have found Jesus in the crowds showing up to protest injustice. I know lay people who find Jesus at the local food pantry or among gatherings of university students. But sadly, I know far too many churches that are not connected to their community, do not know the people who are new to their neighborhood, and are too concerned with issues of self-survival such as building upkeep and paying bills. And this is not to disparage those churches! It is so hard these days, and I know far too many pastors and lay leaders who feel like failures. Instead, I wonder if we can root ourselves in our communities, and read through the stories of Scripture, such as the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5-7), or when Jesus taught parables by the sea (Mark 4:1-34), or when he fed the five thousand men (plus women and children; John 6:1-15). Maybe God is calling us into the streets, out on the plains, down by the lakes, or even at the borders that exist in our communities, where we can gather and proclaim that God is present, with us, now. Maybe we, too, can see God’s presence in the land where we are living, now.
Rev. Mindi Welton-Mitchell is executive minister, American Baptist Churches of Wisconsin.
The views expressed are those of the author and not necessarily those of American Baptist Home Mission Societies.
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