III. The Stranger as Neighbor

Growing up in Caracas in the 70-90s, we were in the receiving end of the missionary work. There were families who committed and went to live in various places in the country to carry the message in diverse ways. There was also the idea of short-term mission trips, meaning using spring breaks or vacation times for a brief period of young people doing activities in public places, considered a way to spread the gospel. Street evangelism, mimes and clowns, and all kinds of activities these lovely people would do.

I understand that the impulse is real. For some, there might be a genuine sacrifice in terms of saving money and using it for this purpose. They go to different countries, take many pictures, and come back talking about how kind the people were there, how hospitable and joyful, and they have many positive things to say. But when those same people are fleeing death, deprivation, autocracy, persecution, or any condition that originally drew missionaries in their direction, it becomes a completely different story.

It is fine for us to go there with the gospel for a few days. What is not fine is for them to come here with their lives. We do not want that kind of trouble. We will visit you, but that is about it.

Most Christians have an idea, an image, of heaven. The one in Revelation is very normative in the imagination of many of the same groups that engage in this kind of traveling: every nation, every tribe, every tongue, together worshiping the Lamb.

But it raises a very uncomfortable question: if we are genuinely bound for an eternity like that—where every nation, every tribe, every tongue are together—why are we so determined to avoid the preview, the living here and now, as it will be in the life to come?

Some people even bring this reality into the immigration debate. They talk about the description in Revelation of the New Jerusalem as a walled city. It is there in Revelation, and it even has measurements. It is imposing and real. But when you read the whole passage, it is not really about the walls. The wall is there to protect those inside, but it has many gates, and they are never shut.

Inside, there are no inner walls. There are no subdivisions, no ghettos, no sorting by ethnicity, culture, language, or rank. None of that. The wall faces outward. The community within is undivided.

The very image of the city used as a justification for exclusion describes the most radically inclusive community in all of Scripture. We focus on the wrong thing—the wall around it—and do not notice that the wall is keeping everyone together without distinction or separation.

We are at peace with the idea of an eternity of togetherness. I have not heard anyone talking about different heavens for different people. We think about it, we preach it, we send our kids to summer camp to memorize it. But here, now, in this country, in this city, it is different.

Heaven can have them all, but we would rather not. It becomes a kind of “not in my backyard.” In heaven it is fine, but here we want to keep things clearly marked, who belongs and who is out there.

And honestly, that is not a political position; it is a theological contradiction. It will not resolve itself on the other side of death. It is something we need to deal with right here and right now.