Leadership Journal

I am a Harvard graduate and the son of immigrants. My story is not unique. In California, where I live, immigration has been an issue for decades. We've lived with it every day of our lives, long before it became a divisive political issue. In our state, even our governor is an immigrant. But most immigrants here are not from Austria. Most, like my parents, came from Mexico.

Today's debate over "illegal aliens" is not new, but perhaps a bit of historical perspective will be helpful.

My mother was kidnapped by her father when she was four. He told his mother-in-law that he was taking his daughter to the market to buy her shoes. He never returned. Instead he brought my mother to Bakersfield, California, where he supported her by picking grapes, cotton, and fruit. Eventually, he became a naturalized American citizen and was proud of it. He bought a house with white columns and a wide porch. That is where mama grew up.

My father came across the Rio Grande and was an orphan by age eleven. He wandered from family to family, boarding house to boarding house. Freight train cars were his home for many years. At age 27 Papa experienced a powerful conversion and later attended the Latin American Bible Institute in Southern California. But before entering the school, he received a call from Uncle Sam.

Despite being an immigrant, completely undocumented and without naturalization papers, he was sent to fight in World War II. The Bible school sent Papa his first year's books to study while overseas. I still have them. My father glued them all together with egg whites into one big volume that he carried to England, France, Belgium, North Africa, and then back home. Toward the end of the war, my father became an American citizen with hundreds of other soldiers in a massive swearing-in ceremony. He was always proud of his service in the army.

My father and mother entered the gospel ministry together. When I was a child, they founded two churches, including the one I pastor today in Carson, California—Mission Ebenezer Family Church. Many of our members are immigrants. In the beginning they were largely Mexican. Now we see second, third, and even fourth generation El Salvadorian, Guatemalan, Columbian, Peruvian, and other nationalities represented.

My heart is thrilled as they share their testimonies of how God brought them to the United States in a car trunk, under a truck chassis, walking, swimming, or through tunnels. Many risked death walking through the desert. But they all came with God's help and with ours. I do not believe we are being politically defiant by helping them to the land of promise. This is our religious experience. The stories of faith they share make God real, and our mercy right.

In 1983 I was newly ordained, and our church was very small—just 23 people meeting in a tavern. One of our members, Sister Benny, would often disappear for a weekend to perform a secret ministry.

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