Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor

During my devotional time this morning I read these words from Psalm 9:

But the LORD abides forever;
He has established His throne for judgment,
And He will judge the world in righteousness;
He will execute judgment for the peoples with equity.
The LORD also will be a stronghold for the oppressed,
A stronghold in times of trouble;
And those who know Your name will put their trust in You,
For You, O LORD, have not forsaken those who seek You.

I have to admit that, during this sweet time of meeting with God, the first image springing to mind while pondering these words was the busload of undocumented immigrants being turned away by angry citizens in Murrieta, California.

The whole thing makes me incredibly sad. What did these men, women and children - with English skills limited to prepared statements of politically correct answers prepared by those who had teased them with the promise of a better life - what did they think when they were greeted with this terrible reception? 

Had they dreamed of open arms and smiling faces and a community prepared to provide jobs and for their physical needs as they assimilated into American culture? 

Did they understand that the anger in Murrieta wasn't personal, that it was born of frustration? That their presence was simply the match thrown on very dry tinder? 

Many years ago in high school choir I was introduced to this poem by Emma Lazarus:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

These words are mounted on the inner wall of the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty. My ancestors - tired, poor, hoping for the opportunity to make a better life - crossed the Atlantic in the bottom of big ships and came through Ellis Island in the shadow of Lady Liberty. A descendant of immigrants, I ache for the people on that bus. The glimpses I got of them, huddled there behind the windows, looked like poor, desperate people yearning for something better. For the freedom and prosperity we have become so accustomed to that we barely think about it anymore. 

But I also know that there is plenty of blame to share for what occurred in Murrieta. Perhaps our elected officials could spend more time solving problems such as this and less time worrying about things like the next election and making the other party look bad. They could stop padding the budget with pork, and pouring so much of the incredibly large amount of tax money they collect down the you-know-what, and leave some resources in local communities so that genuine, human problems (including those with our neighbors to the south) could be addressed.

I didn't call my congressman this morning. I didn't write the governor a letter. Pretty sure they would just end up in File 13. I understand that such issues as immigration are very, very complex. 

I did, however, pray along with David, the psalmist, that God, Himself would be a stronghold for the oppressed, and that He would show me what my part in all this mess is.





'Give Me Your Tired Your Poor', set to music by Irving Berlin