Category: Race and Diversity Page 1 of 3

What I would tell Allie Beth Stuckey about her response to Matt’s post on immigration

When I read Allie Beth’s response to Matt Walsh, I immediately thought of a Christian family in my city who, for twenty years, did exactly what Allie says is stupid and evil: They invited every homeless person in Redlands into their home. Every Sunday, their home was open for church (I had the privilege of visiting three times). These unhomed folks took showers in their bathroom and washed clothes in their machines and sometimes slept in their beds. They showed up every day of the year and at any time during the day or night. This couple wasn’t unwise–he is a retired police officer and their children were grown when this ministry started. 

But instead of looking stupid or evil, they actually look a lot like Jesus. (More coming about them in my book.) After all, it was Jesus who said,

 “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me’ (Matthew 25:35).”

So I’m not sure Allie Beth’s comparison works. 

Is compassion dangerous? Yes, actually, it can be. Should every Christian family with small children take in “all the homeless people in the city?” Of course not. But one family can make a difference in the life of one single mom. One foster kid. One ex-convict. One refugee. One addict. And corporately, as the global (or even American) Church, we can feed all the hungry and house the homeless and minister to the convicts. 

We must be wise, but we also must take risks for the kingdom of God. That’s what it means to pick up our cross and follow him. 

I think Allie’s point, however, is more about the government’s role, since the government makes decisions about immigration. The government, indeed, must think about safety first and not be swayed by compassion. The safety of its citizens is the government’s highest priority. 

So I agree that the government needs to robustly vet immigrants, and even carefully limit the number of immigrants that join our society. I completely understand that the United States cannot invite in every needy person, and I don’t expect it to. 

But why does that translate into a “blanket ban” against “third-world” immigration? And why is compassion the only reason we would invite in immigrants from developing countries? As I’ve already argued, what if it’s actually in the United States’s best interest to do so? 

As American Christians, we’ve got to be really careful not to confuse the government’s role (safety) and the Christian’s role (compassion). This is complicated because, in some respects, we are the government. So when we’re voting or calling senators about immigration, we may need to put compassion aside and think about safety. Americans might disagree on what that should look like, and that’s okay. 

But as Christians, compassion is non-negotiable. After voting, we’ve got to set aside our “government hat” and personally welcome and love our neighbors–whether immigrants, homeless people, or whoever God calls us to. That is our highest priority. Even when it’s costly. Even when it’s dangerous. 

As an American, I want to welcome immigrants to my country, including the poorest of the poor. With the right vetting, structure, and support, they are what will help our country continue to be prosperous, innovative, and free. And as a Christian, I want to show compassion wisely and sacrificially to whoever God brings into my path. 

What I would tell Matt Walsh about a blanket ban on “third-world” immigration

I don’t know it, actually. 

Here’s my argument against a blanket ban on all “third-world” immigration. 

If I ever had the ear of Matt Walsh, I would encourage him to spend a year or two (definitely more than a few weeks) in my beloved Tanzania, one of those “third-world” countries affected by a blanket ban. I would arrange for him to stay with my friend Lucy, who would, no doubt, happily welcome a complete stranger in her home. 

He would get to stay in a concrete block house with one outdoor spigot, an outdoor (spotlessly clean) outhouse and bucket shower, and only the electricity provided by a couple of solar panels. He would experience the inconvenience of living in a house that floods at least twice a year, the tedium of traveling as a sweaty sardine in a bus that takes an hour to travel ten miles, and perhaps feel the desperation of trying to find reliable wages in a city where education and employment are not guaranteed.

But he would also laugh till his sides hurt at Lucy’s sense of humor. He would taste her astonishingly good cooking, despite having access only to a charcoal stove. He would see how hard she works, how physically strong she is, and how smart she is, despite her lack of education and opportunity. He might be tempted to think, “I would love for this woman to be my neighbor. I would love to get a front-row seat to see what she could do with the American Dream. She would make America a better place.” 

Conversations with Grace: Black History Month

I hope you enjoy this conversation with Grace (who is currently 19 and a freshman in college). Like the last time she and I did this, remember that her perspectives are her own and don’t represent all others like her (or even her siblings). But I know you will find her thoughts informative and interesting!

When you were a Tanzanian kid growing up in Tanzania with American parents, what did you know about American Black History? Did you feel any connection with it?

We read books as a family about the black struggle in America, like Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and The Watsons Go to Birmingham. But I didn’t feel a connection to them. I remember thinking that Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglas were really cool, but I was not African-American so they weren’t my people. 

I knew about the East African slave trade because we visited museums in Zanzibar and Bagamoyo, which were places that were a part of the slave trade. It was flabbergasting to see that it really happened to people, because even now, as a history major, it’s amazing that we as a human race treated other humans like that. But East African slaves did not go to America. [They primarily went to the Middle East or were enslaved within Africa for exports of ivory or other goods.]

Related post: What Your Grandmother’s Piano Had To Do With Slavery in Zanzibar

How did that change when you moved here?

[We moved to the United States in the spring of 2020, shortly before the George Floyd riots that summer.] When we first moved here, I was in Target walking around without Mom, and this guy who was an older white man in a motorized wheelchair, stopped me. He said, “I just want you to know that Black Lives Matter and I believe that.”

I said, “Thank you.” But I wanted to say, “But I’m African.” Because I didn’t feel a connection with the movement at the time. 

People assume that I am African-American. I don’t have an African accent; I sound like my parents. My love for other accents may have gotten me into trouble because I do use African-American vernacular all the time. So I can sound as if I’ve been raised in an African-American home. But I don’t always have the heart to explain the entire story, so I let them go ahead and believe that. 

When Kisa joined my school sophomore year, that changed a lot for me. [Kisa was an international exchange student from Tanzania.] She helped me to embrace that part of myself and be proud of my identity as a Tanzanian. 

How do you see the distinction between African-American and African?

If you have an ancestry of your family coming here due to slavery, then that’s what I count as African-American. African-Americans have their own culture of music and food. There’s also the impact of GI Bills and other forms of racism that have affected them. Things like gang life have been a part of African-American culture but not African immigrants. 

African immigrants (like me) have a different culture. They stay much more African. 

Thoughts on Foreign Aid, Immigration, and American Privilege

I’ve been lamenting this week. 

I went to church in Tanzania with Americans who worked for USAID. So when I think about foreign aid programs abruptly cut off, I think about those American families who uprooted their children to make a difference in developing countries and suddenly have no job. I think about local people employed by those agencies who suddenly have no way to feed their families. And, of course, I think about the impoverished people who benefit from those programs. 

I hear Americans saying that this is justified because we need to help our own people first, that we have people in poverty here, people suffering from natural disasters. But then I consider how America’s foreign aid to other countries last year was only about 70 billion dollars. Which sounds like a lot until you consider that 70 billion dollars is less than 1 percent of the Federal Budget. Which still may sound like a lot until you realize that Americans spent 960 billion dollars on Christmas in 2024. 

The United States has 4 percent of the world’s population and 30 percent of the world’s wealth. So do we have an obligation to help other countries? I think so. Especially when you consider that much of the world’s poverty contributes to our wealth — as in the cobalt industry in Congo.

On the other hand, living overseas has also made me very aware that government aid programs need much reform. I’ve read Dead Aid. I’ve read When Helping Hurts. But is drastically yanking the funding out under their feet the most effective way for reform? That just seems like a good way to create more instability and poverty.

I know hundreds of immigrants by name. I have Tanzanian friends who won the Green Card Lottery and now live in the States. As a school principal in Tanzania, some of my students were “anchor babies”—African or Asian children whose mothers flew to the U.S. to give birth solely to get their children U.S. citizenship. I’ve helped in after-school programs for children whose parents were undocumented. I’ve met refugee families who have built beautiful lives in America. 

Even my children are immigrants, for goodness sake. I am intimately acquainted with the I-130, the N600K, the I-600, the I-485, and the B-2 visa applications, and I spent thousands of dollars to get them approved. I’ve scoured the instructions for these visas so carefully that I’ve sometimes known more about them than embassy consular officers or USCIS officers. The gray hairs on my head are named after visa applications. 

So when I sense this mood of anti-immigration swirling around me, I take it personally. I see the faces of friends. I see the faces of my own children. And I know people would never say that my children aren’t welcome here. That my children aren’t those kind of immigrants. But that’s my point – all the clampdowns, loss of funding, and careless denigrating comments about immigrants don’t specify that there are many different kinds of immigrants. Refugees are not the same as asylum seekers which are not the same as illegal border crossers which are not the same as anchor babies which are not the same as adopted children. 

Yet each has a face, a name, a story. Each is made in the image of God. 

I think we all can agree, without a doubt, that we are not in favor of criminals and drug dealers and rapists immigrating to our country and that we need better ways of keeping them out. But when all the bad guys are thrown into the same pot as the vast majority of people who just want freedom and justice and a place to live without bombs and the Taliban and drug lords, I am indignant. On behalf of my friends. On behalf of my children. 

As an American, I believe that strength comes from diversity of perspective and culture. With falling birthrates, the U.S. needs immigration to be sustainable. Plus, the U.S. economy is projected to increase by 9 trillion dollars in the next ten years because of the immigration surge. 

As a Christian, I’m thrilled by the opportunities to live out the gospel in the lives of millions of people on our soil who might never be introduced to Jesus in their own country. 

I can believe these things and still believe that an open border is not wise and that our country desperately needs immigration reform. (Trust me, I’ve experienced the dumpster fire of U.S. immigration up close and personal.)

I realize I may regret sharing these thoughts with the world. Our country has reached a frenzied pitch of political tension and the last thing I want to do is add to the noise. My prayer is to add perspective. 

My fellow American Christians, I implore you:

Remember that to whom much has been given, much will be required. We are living in the most powerful, most wealthy country that has ever existed in the history of the earth. Even Americans who are struggling financially are still richer than more than 90% of the world’s population. We are the aristocracy of the world. It is true that we, as a nation and as an American Church, cannot help everyone. But when our country holds 30% of the world’s wealth, we wield an extremely powerful influence.  

Let us not be flippant. Let us be sober-minded, recognizing our power and the responsibility that comes with it. Let us consider this responsibility with grave, thoughtful, careful, prayerful mindfulness. Let us not be guided by fear or by anger, by entitlement or selfishness, but let us hold the weight of what we have been given, remembering that one day, every American Christian will be held accountable for how we stewarded or squandered the vast freedom and wealth we have been given. 

Let us remember that those of us who were born American and have access to a U.S. passport did nothing to deserve it. We won the DNA lottery. In God’s sovereign grace, He has chosen us to belong to this privileged country and time in history. Let us live as those who recognize the depth of the privilege we possess. And to whom much has been given, much will be required. 

We may not have control over government policies or executive orders, but there is much we can control. We can cheer on reform but still speak well of immigrants, welcome and befriend them well. We can give generously and then give some more to international development projects. If we are involved in international business, we can choose justice and integrity over profit. We can advocate for America to welcome refugees – arguably the most deserving, most vetted, and the most vulnerable immigrants out there. And we can live our lives in a way that prioritizes the kingdom of God so much more than a kingdom on earth.  

I love this movie about refugees: The Good Lie and look forward to watching this one: Between Borders. I also love these books: Everything Sad is Untrue, After the Last Border, and Nowhere Boy (great for a read aloud with kids).

* Pictures by Gil Medina on Zanzibar Island

On Transracial Adoption

There was a lot I didn’t know when I adopted my children.

Since then, I’ve wondered a hundred times if we did right by our children when we adopted them. Adoption heals a wound, but I underestimated the depth of the wound and overestimated the ease of healing it. 

Several months ago, I was asked to do a webinar on my advice for raising adopted children overseas. I turned it down. I can’t give advice on this because I’m still raising my children. Ask me again in ten years, and I’ll see if I have advice. Maybe only once I’ve heard what my adult children have to say about it.

For the bulk of their childhoods, Haven of Peace Academy shielded my children from the pain. They were different by being raised by white parents, but lots of children at HOPAC were different for lots of other reasons. Most were born in one country and raised in another, many were biracial, almost all knew what it felt like to navigate various cultures. My children were stuck between worlds, but so were all their classmates. 

I ripped my children from Tanzania and dropped them into America in the spring of 2020, when the world had shattered into uncertainty, and racial anger that had festered for decades was exploding to the surface. We lived like hobos that spring with no place to call home, and the night in June that we arrived at my in-law’s house, there was a curfew over all of greater Los Angeles because of George Floyd rioting.

I wondered what world I had brought my Black children into. 

Imagine telling your children about the things that people who look like you have done to people who look like them in the country you brought them to live in.

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