the least of these
Our bishop adjusted his coat as he began to speak. His fidgeting reflected the anxiety that typically comes with the subject matter he was about to discuss.
I leaned forward in our pew, easing the ache in my back that most women experience at 38 weeks pregnant. It was early February. My son would be born four days later.
Clearing his throat, the bishop began to speak. In Spanish, of course—our congregation of Latinos is one of the largest in Utah County. He said, “We know a lot of you are worried about the current state of… things. After hearing that authorities are now allowed to enter churches and schools, I immediately called our stake president, who instructed me to get in touch with the Church lawyers.”
My hand instinctively reached down to touch my belly. My husband draped his arm across my back as I leaned further forward, this time in eagerness rather than in an attempt to dull the ache. This message would pertain to us. More specifically, it would pertain to my husband, who has lived in the US as an undocumented migrant since he was nine years old.
Blood rushed to my ears as I listened to the bishop share what he’d learned from the legal representation. Something along the lines of, “Although the laws may be unjust, we are still obligated to follow them.” Something about the twelfth Article of Faith. Something about needing to comply in the event of a raid. Something about returning to optional Zoom meetings.
Whether the tears streaming down my cheeks were due to hormones or the news I was receiving, it didn’t matter. They were there, accompanied by loud sobs, and they weren’t stopping. As I gasped and sputtered, trying to quiet my own grief, I caught the bishop's defeated eyes. He attempted a weak smile, then bore his testimony of the Atonement of Christ. Something about easing our burdens. Something about trials in this life. Something about joy in the end. I know it all. In fact, I deeply believe it all. But nothing prepared me for having to apply it all at that specific moment.
As the congregation closed the meeting singing “Más cerca, Dios, de ti,” the sniffles and untimely pauses in the lyrics cued me in to the fact that I wasn’t the only member crying. I leaned back and settled into the crook of my husband’s arm. My unborn son was kicking his tiny feet into my left side—he’s reacted this way to music since the moment his flutters turned to real, detectable movements. In that moment, I was grateful he was tucked deep away.
I sorted through my thoughts on our way home, then some more once the five-minute drive was over. What about this announcement was causing such an ache? I’m no stranger to insults or legislation regarding undocumented migrants. My mother, who is now a citizen, traveled through eight countries before crossing the US–Mexico border in the bed of a truck with a false bottom. For as long as I’ve lived, I’ve picked up on how curt cashiers are with her due to her heavy accent. I’ve buried my anger as teachers didn’t even try to hide their impatience when she asked them to repeat themselves. I’ve seen her squirm as members of my family (who had the blessing of coming to this land of milk and honey with visas), the very ones who asked her to join them and sponsored her unceremonious entry to the country, slandered the “filthy criminals” coming into this country illegally.
None of it was new. So why did it hit so deeply today? Why did this announcement feel like we were defiling the walls of the temple, tearing the veil in two?
Perhaps it was estrogen or progesterone, but I don’t think it was only that.
No, I think it had to do with history rhyming and sanctuary being pulled from beneath us like a cloth from a set table. I wondered how many times messages such as those were shared in churches during the Civil Rights era, or following the announcements that Japanese Americans had to be interned. Something along the lines of, “Although the laws may be unjust, we are still obligated to follow them.” Something about the twelfth Article of Faith. Something about needing to comply. Something about Christ easing our burdens. Something about trials in this life. Something about joy in the end.
For months since the previous November, my friends told me the only migrants at risk are the criminals. Those who had done heinous things and deserved to be kicked out. Whether they said those things to comfort me or to ease their own guilt for enabling mass deportations and brazen family separation, only God knows. But this announcement at church symbolized a clear shift in narrative for me. I knew from the beginning that the title of “criminal” would be applied to anyone in the country without a current visa. And those “harboring” them.
It is now December, my baby is ten months old, and I’ve seen that prediction fulfilled. Over 70% of detained individuals hold no criminal record. Racial profiling seems to have been legitimized in the Supreme Court. Innocent families have been separated. It was the beginning of holding nothing sacred—not church; not desperate families; not the gathering of Israel that was prophesied to bring people from many different nations, kindred, tongues, and peoples to this land. None of it would be protected.
That day demonstrated to me that what is happening now is different. Being demonized inside these church walls, seeing their holy status as a sanctuary revoked, felt like a violation.
Since that day in February, I’ve been jerked between sorrow, anger, fear, and disgust. I sometimes feel I live with a constant internal wail.
Sometimes it’s silent, though. Sometimes, as I hold my son and my recently deemed “criminal” husband with no criminal record holds me, I feel calm. I remember my in-laws retelling how they felt God guide them through the desert. I remember my mother telling me in hushed tones that nothing can stop what God has promised is for us. And I remember that includes a border. Or a visa. Which of those two can stay the hand of God? Which can hold a candle to a Divine Being leading His children to a promised land?
I still feel the anger. I doubt it’ll go away in the next four years. But I feel something else too. Something about eternal families. Something about a gathering. Something about justice and mercy and a sweet balance called grace. Something about sanctuary. Something about a Savior.