United in Exile
"Love the sojourner, therefore, for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt."
Deuteronomy 10:19
Every Wednesday afternoon, my work calendar is blocked so that I can gather my own two preschoolers and head to Preschool Circle. My kids call it "Wednesday Friends," and it's one of their favorite activities of the week. Our first stop is to collect 5-year-old Elias* and his 3-year-old cousin Zuri* at the apartment they share. After several rounds of knocking, Elias finally swings the door open with an ear-to-ear grin and says, with a thick accent, "Teacher! I love you!"
All four children are delighted by some unique point of novelty the car ride offers them — for mine, it's sitting in the "way back"; for Elias and Zuri, it's the eccentricities of car seats. After the two-minute commute, the five of us hold hands so that we can safely traverse the parking lot. "But not in a circle!" they all remind each other, recalling our first awkward attempt at this ritual, in which my directive to "hold hands" resulted in no hand left unheld, and we traveled together in more of a duck-duck-goose formation than a setup meant to avoid cars.
Once we arrive, we enjoy some free play — trucks, blocks, Magna-Tiles — and then gather for circle time. We sing a welcome song to each of about ten friends; learn a shape, a color, and a letter of the day; sing a song about the weather; read a book; pray; and read a Bible story. Afterward, we divide into groups and rotate through centers focusing on different skills built around our theme of the day.
If you peeked inside, you wouldn't think that these happy children, learning their English alphabet and playing with kinetic sand, are living in exile. But they are. They wouldn't even be in the room if horrific circumstances had not forced their parents to flee their home countries of Burma, the DRC, Eritrea, Congo, Burundi, and Bhutan. Everything is foreign to them. We speak a language that isn't spoken in their homes, and that many of the kids barely speak themselves. The most benign customs, like walking through the parking lot, confuse them. Our food smells and looks and tastes funny to them. I've sent several worksheets home to be finished, only to hear that there are no markers at home. Most live in poverty, wearing fourth-use hand-me-downs that don't fit and that were intended for the opposite gender.
But for an hour on Wednesday afternoons, we attempt to help transition them out of exile and into their new home here — not only by bringing them language and culture, but also by introducing them to Jesus.
Through the comfort and privilege of living a safe life just a few miles from where I grew up, I can forget that fleeing brokenness and landing in the already-but-not-yet of exile is more familiar to me than it appears on the surface. I have been affected by many of the horrific realities that plague a sin-ravaged world: illness, betrayal, self-sufficiency, disaster, broken relationships, idolatry, apathy, pride, death. Christ chose to leave paradise to enter that gruesome reality, absorb the high cost of reconciling it, defeat sin once and for all, and extend a homecoming invitation to me and anyone willing to accept that gift. Surely, accepting His invitation gives birth to a "hope [that] does not put us to shame" (Romans 5:5). But although victory has been accomplished in eternity, the effects of sin still sting. It is daily evident that I don't belong here — that my true "citizenship is in heaven, and from it [I] await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ" (Philippians 3:20).
Jesus knows what it's like to live in exile. He was in exile during his 33 years on earth. He was exiled in the desert where for 40 days He withstood temptation impossible for any other human to bear. He was exiled from the Father in his death. All these experiences qualify Him to be our empathetic high priest, who intimately understands our plight and gives us the tools to navigate our time in exile.
So, too, does my own sojourning equip me to love these little sojourners. Like these kids, I am disoriented by my surroundings and confused by the culture of the world that I call home, all the while living in exile and trying to make sense of it. Rather than dividing us, we are united in our exile.
As I finagle Elias back into his car seat, he exclaims: "Jesus loves me!" "Elias, that's right!" I respond. "Jesus does love you!" I ask my girls to lead us in their church-taught rendition of the Gospel (complete with hand motions) that Elias and Zuri are now learning too:
Jesus came down.
He was born as a little baby.
He lived a perfect life.
He died on the cross for our sins.
He was buried in a tomb.
And on the third day, he rose from the dead.
And that's the Gospel truth!
As we approach Resurrection Sunday, may the love of the One who willingly chose violent exile for the sake of our deliverance compel us to make Him known to our fellow sojourners.
Written by: Natalie Parker
Edited by: Emily Thompson
*Names have been changed to protect privacy.