A kingdom of many immigrants

A hundred years ago Ellis Island saw millions of souls -- the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breath free, wretched refuse from distant teeming shores -- disembark from the perilous seas looking only for the skyline of New York to know at least this part of their long journey was over.

Now that we travel by air, spanning thousands of miles in a matter of hours, rather than weeks, it's hard to comprehend the journey, especially the journey of those of meager means, in steerage.

It's harder still to comprehend the emotional state of those arriving.

Because the journey was long, expensive and dangerous, few purchased round-trip tickets. When they bade farewell to friends and family in their homeland, whether young or old, sick or hearty, most knew it was the final farewell. These faces would not look back at one another ever again and never again would they hear the sweet music of a familiar voice speaking endearments in a familiar language.

Perhaps it was just as well that the journey was so arduous, requiring enormous reserves of strength for each new day. There was no time to lament all that had been left behind.

By the time the ships reached port, the passengers were so grateful to be on dry land, returning home had to have been the farthest thing from their minds. They prayed they passed the stringent immigration guidelines, if only because it meant they wouldn't have to get back on a boat and take to the sea again.

Such was the case for the Irish, English, French, German, Croatian, Czech, Swede, Spanish, Japanese or Chinese.

I don't include those from the African nations in this limited list because they did not make the trip voluntarily. Most weren't even afforded the opportunity for one last embrace, or a final kiss.

Both sets of immigrants, the willing and the enslaved, however, did have in common the permanency of their change of continent, their change in circumstance and the heart-rending understanding that their homelands were all but lost to them.

The intervening generations have melted the pot so that accents and pure blood lines are largely a thing of the past and culturally, although we have integrated many festivals and celebrations from all of the nations, we have been transformed into a uniquely American reality that cannot be duplicated.

Assimilation wasn't an issue. These immigrants had passed the point of no return when they first set sail. There was no going back.

We spent a hectic day in Denver recently that included a foolish trek up Federal Boulevard. I say foolish because it was bumper to bumper traffic for more than 40 blocks that took more than 40 minutes to traverse. I grew up in Denver and Federal, a major north-south artery, was one of several routes we used to take, depending on the "eye on the sky" radio reports, seeking to avoid the traffic jams.

To say that Federal has changed is an understatement of epic proportions. The changes have come about largely because of Denver's status as a "sanctuary city." As we coasted through the business district that Federal has always been, we were surprised by the number of billboards and businesses offering Spanish as the only language. This went on for miles. It made me stop and think.

It made me think about how the earlier immigrants assimilated themselves into this unique American nation, most working hard to learn the language, learn the laws, establish themselves and their families, not as Germans, not as Swedes, not as anything but American. Yet those who immigrate from our neighbor nations to the south don't seem to have that same desire.

I think its positional -- not necessarily intentional -- in both time and geography. Today we can go to sleep in New York and wake up in California. At the dawn of the 20th century that same journey took weeks, if not months. Crossing the ocean today is commonplace, with nary a single case of seasickness (though I won't rule out airsickness). There is little impetus to assimilate, to change who you are, how you speak or even your national allegiance if your nation of origin is just over the river or even just over the ocean, and you can "go home" on a whim. Only those, of any nation, who truly yearn to breathe free, take the steps necessary to do so, to become wholly American, a nation of many bloodlines.

So it is, also, within the Kingdom of God. It's largely a positional dilemma. For far too many who claim allegiance to a Risen King who reigns now and forevermore, it is too easy to "go home" on a whim. There seems to be no compelling reason to learn the language of faith, the precepts of sanctification, the customs of those who habitually turn the other cheek, practice hospitality, forgive their debtors, clothe the naked and feed the hungry. It is enough to travel from home, to church, and then back home again, unchanged in our thinking, in our actions or in our world view. Called out of the world, yet still inhabitants thereof, there is no change of allegiance possible if we continue to vacillate between the Kingdom of God and the kingdoms of this world.

The time is coming, and now is, for believers to bid a final farewell to the kingdoms of this world, not to be known any longer as Germans, Mexicans, Kenyans or Italians, but to be known as children of the living God, sojourners on the highway of holiness to a promised land beyond imagination where our allegiance is owed, having been purchased with the King's own blood, we of many bloodlines becoming one in his.

"But Jesus said to him, 'No one, after putting his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.'" Luke 9:62 (NIV)

I don't have all the answers, but I know the One who does. Let's walk together for awhile and discover Him; together.

Dawn