Refugee Week Homily

Refugee Week Sermon Matthew 25:31-46 

A few years ago, someone asked a refugee who had finally reached safety after years of displacement what surprised him most about arriving in a new country.

His answer was simple.

“People looked at my paperwork before they looked at my face.”

I have never forgotten that.

People looked at my paperwork before they looked at my face.

Before they saw a father, they saw a file. 

Before they saw a mother, they saw a case. Before they saw a child, they saw a statistic. Before they saw a human being, they saw a problem to be solved.

And perhaps that is where our readings begin today.

Not with immigration policy. Not with politics. Not with headlines. Not with statistics.

But with faces.

Human faces.

Faces that bear the image and likeness of God.

Refugee Week invites us to think about people who have been forced to leave their homes because of war, persecution, violence, poverty, climate disaster, or fear. People who did not wake up one morning and decide that abandoning everything they knew would be an adventure.

People who left because staying had become impossible.

Yet long before there was a Refugee Week, long before there were passports, visas, border controls and immigration systems, there was a commandment from God.

In Leviticus we hear:

“Do not mistreat foreigners living in your country, but treat them just as you treat your own citizens. Love foreigners as you love yourselves, because you were foreigners one time in Egypt.”

Notice what God does not say.

God does not say, “Love the stranger if they deserve it.”

God does not say, “Love the stranger if they are useful.”

God does not say, “Love the stranger if they think like you, vote like you, worship like you, or speak your language.”

God simply says: love them.

And then God gives a reason.

“Because you were foreigners.”

Remember.

Remember what it feels like to be vulnerable. Remember what it feels like to need welcome. Remember what it feels like to depend on the kindness of strangers.

The spiritual life begins with remembering.

The people of Israel were told never to forget that they too had once been displaced, frightened, and dependent upon mercy.

And perhaps that memory is something many of us can understand.

Maybe not as refugees.

But as people who have known loneliness. People who have arrived somewhere new and felt out of place. People who have lost jobs, homes, relationships, health, or certainty.

There are many ways of becoming a stranger.

I suppose this theme is especially personal for me.

Many of you know that in my work beyond the church I have the privilege of leading asylum and migration services for the city council. Every day I meet people whose lives have been shaped by extraordinary courage, loss, resilience and hope.

I am also delighted that our council has recently been recognised as a Local Authority of Sanctuary, and we are now beginning work on a Sanctuary Action Plan to ensure that welcome, dignity and inclusion are not just aspirations but realities embedded in how we serve our communities.

I'm delighted to be a priest here at the Chapel Royal, a Sanctuary Church.

For me, this is not merely professional or theological.

I have skin in the game.

My own family story is bound up with migration.

My mother came from Franco’s Spain seeking relief from political persecution a d freedoms unavailable to her at home. My grandfather in arrived in the UK from Italy as a stowaway, crossing borders without papers and without certainty about what awaited him. My partner's father was from West Africa.

When people speak about migrants, refugees, asylum seekers or newcomers, I do not hear an abstract debate.

I hear echoes of my own family.

And I suspect many of us could tell similar stories if we go back far enough.

Most of us are here because somewhere along the line somebody moved. Somebody crossed a border. Somebody left home. Somebody hoped for a better future.

The truth is that migration is not an exception to the human story.

It is part of the human story.

Richard Rohr often writes that God is found at the edges, at the margins, in places where certainty breaks down and our need for one another becomes clear.

That is precisely where today’s Gospel takes us.

Jesus paints a picture of judgement.

It is a passage that can make us uncomfortable.

But what is remarkable is what Jesus chooses as the measure of a life.

He does not ask about theological sophistication.

He does not ask how many church meetings we attended.

He does not ask how many arguments we won.

He asks something much simpler.

Did you feed the hungry?

Did you welcome the stranger?

Did you visit the sick?

Did you care for those whom society overlooked?

And then comes the astonishing revelation.

“I was a stranger and you invited me in.”

Not “I was like a stranger.”

Not “I reminded you of a stranger.”

“I was a stranger.”

Christ is present in the vulnerable one.

Christ is present in the refugee family crossing borders.

Christ is present in the asylum seeker waiting anxiously for a decision.

Christ is present in the child trying to make sense of a world turned upside down.

Christ is present in every human being whose dignity is questioned or denied.

Debie Thomas writes that one of the deepest challenges of this Gospel is that God refuses to remain safely hidden in the places where we expect to find him. Instead, Christ meets us in those we might otherwise overlook.

The face of God appears in unexpected places.

And that changes everything.

Because suddenly hospitality becomes more than kindness.

It becomes sacramental.

A holy encounter.

An encounter with Christ himself.

The Psalm today sings:

“The Lord watches over the stranger in the land.”

Not merely notices.

Not merely tolerates.

Watches over.

Protects.

Accompanies.

Loves.

The God we worship is not neutral.

Again and again throughout Scripture, God is found standing alongside widows, orphans, foreigners and the poor.

Not because they are morally superior.

But because they are vulnerable.

And love always moves towards vulnerability.

There is another refugee story hidden within our faith.

Soon after Jesus is born, Mary and Joseph flee with their infant son into Egypt.

They escape political violence.

They leave home because staying is dangerous.

The Holy Family become refugees.

The Christ child begins his earthly life not in security but in displacement.

When we see refugee families carrying frightened children, we are not looking at strangers to the Christian story.

We are looking at a story that echoes the very beginnings of the Gospel itself.

Rev. Cecil Williams often reminded people that the Gospel is not simply about getting people into heaven. It is about building signs of God’s kingdom here and now.

A kingdom where nobody is disposable.

A kingdom where everybody belongs.

A kingdom where there is room at the table.

That vision feels especially important today.

Because we live in a world where more people are displaced than at any time in modern history. We think of those fleeing war in Ukraine. Families caught in the horrors of Sudan. Civilians enduring suffering in the middle east and the Holy land. People displaced by conflict, persecution and disaster across many parts of our world.

Behind every headline is a human face.

A grandmother.

A teenager.

A parent.

A child.

People who love and fear and dream exactly as we do.

The Gospel calls us back to those faces.

Back to the story.

Back to the person standing in front of us.

Not every one of us will work directly with refugees.

Not every one of us will influence government policy.

But every one of us can choose how we see.

Every one of us can resist fear.

Every one of us can challenge language that strips people of dignity.

Every one of us can support charities, community groups and churches that offer practical welcome.

Every one of us can help create communities where strangers become neighbours.

Because hospitality is not first about solving problems.

It is about recognising kinship.

It is about seeing another person and saying:

You belong here.

Your life matters.

You are not alone.

And perhaps that is the deepest truth hidden in today’s Gospel.

This Refugee Week, may we remember that we worship a God who watches over the stranger.

A God who commands us to love the foreigner.

A God who became vulnerable in Jesus Christ.

A God whose own Son lived for a time as a refugee.

And a God who still comes to us, often disguised as the very people the world is tempted to overlook.

For whenever we welcome the stranger, we welcome Christ.

Whenever we honour the dignity of another human being, we honour Christ.

Whenever we choose compassion over fear, generosity over suspicion and love over indifference, the Kingdom of God comes a little closer.

And in that Kingdom there are no strangers.

Only beloved children gathered around one table.

Amen.

Picture of Grandfather, Cesare Cretta