Praying with our feet
On
Monday I joined others from our community on the first leg of a Holy Week
pilgrimage to honor immigrants. We
started at the Church of the Holy Cross Catholic Church in Atlanta and walked three miles to
the Church of the Open Table into Chamblee, an Atlanta suburb.
This walk, a call to pray with our feet, began six years ago by members of the
Alterna community in LaGrange, GA and now has several hundred
participants and the support of many local congregations. Each day of Holy Week people remember Jesus’
last days leading to his crucifixion and carry in prayer our brothers and sisters
who, like Jesus and our ancestors, are immigrants. Every year the procession is led by an
immigrant who carries a wooden cross. The
cross this year had the names of children whose lives were
directly affected by our detention and deportation system.
After morning Mass a few dozen walkers gathered outside in
front of the church. Anton Flores read
the story of Jesus overturning the tables of the money changers. He pointed to Jeremiah 7 where the Lord
demands that we not rob the outcast, the orphan, the widow, the strangers among
us of their dignity. He challenged us to
consider this question: If we separate
justice from worship are we turning our houses of worship into robbers dens? You can read his reflection here.
We then formed a line and walked two by two along the narrow
sidewalk past the strip malls and highways that could be anywhere in the United
States. Two police officers followed us
to provide protection as we crossed the streets in safety. Just this morning I heard this story on NPR that
a man who had lived and worked in the US
for eleven years was arrested in LA and deported. His crime: jaywalking. During the Holy Week pilgrimage immigrants
cross the street with police protection.
On most days, many of our sisters and brothers cannot casually cross the
street in this land without fear.
I brought my four year old daughter. Our neighbors also came along with their two
young children. Their daughter had just
injured her ankle and couldn’t walk so they brought the double stroller. They carried their one year old in a back
pack so that my daughter could hitch a ride.
Since we had a stroller and rain was in the forecast, I went ahead and brought umbrellas, raincoats
and water. Before I had kids I used to
look disdainfully at four year-olds being pushed in strollers like royalty. But I knew we couldn’t keep pace with a large
group of adults in normal weather and knew it would be even harder if it rained. Here we were pushing our children and all our
extra gear while the people around us walked empty handed. My daughter walked for part of the way but
soon her legs grew weary and we fell to the very back of the line while I
carried her. I imagined doing this in
the desert, without water, with invisible prickly pear thorns in my ankles and
doubted that we would be able to keep up.
I thought of all the mothers who make the journey across the border with
young children without strollers, coffee, diapers, sippy cups, cell phones,
snack trays, sunscreen, umbrellas or toys.
All they carry is an eight ounce plastic water bottle and hope for a
better life.
We travelled to Atlanta in a fifteen passenger van. Even though it was only a two hour ride, when we needed to use the bathroom we stopped. For those who make it safely across the border on foot the next leg of the journey for many is to be smuggled from the border to a city in the interior. This could mean being packed like sardines into the cab of a pickup or the back of a truck and told to be still and quiet while the truck drives, non-stop to its destination. My bladder can’t stand the thought of a 9 hour drive, with kids, without a pit stop. That is why they are told not to eat or drink before the trip. This is what people will go through to work in chicken plants, pick our fruit and vegetables, clean our messes, keep us bringing home cheap bacon.
We stop in the
parking lot of a Mexican supermarket. A
young woman with a guitar and nails in her ears greets us with a smile and
sings praise songs in Spanish. Those who
are able sing along. My daughter later
tells me that her “best day was the lady with the guitar.”
We arrive at the church and are served bread and soup. Just as it is time to go home the sky opens
and the rain that waited so we could walk on dry ground, begins to pour.
Yesterday, on Maundy Thursday other members of our community
joined in the 8 mile leg of the pilgrimage.
About 250 people walked through the city of Atlanta. The walk ended with a ceremonial foot
washing. Twelve US Citizens were given
the honor of washing the feet of twelve immigrants.
On the night that Jesus was betrayed he said to his
disciples, “So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also
ought to wash one another’s feet. For I
have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” (John
13:14-15)