Karen González

The message of assimilation makes me uncomfortable because it requires me to celebrate the loss of other people’s culture, traditions, and languages in order to alleviate the fears that white people, including Christians, might have about a diverse society where their position as power brokers of society may be threatened. It is akin to saying, “White Christians, please do not fear immigrants because they, too, will submit to white supremacy and blend into it as best as they can, even with their non-white skin and features.”

Rahab’s story deserves to be remembered, as do many of the films we encounter that address the nuances, joys, and sorrows of the immigrant experience.

“Compassion for the poor and marginalized is more important than efficiency, and is more important than profit ... The Bible affirms that in a Godly society, the people in the margins should be cared for.” 

Sermon preached at Saint Mo's Church.

AS A LATINA, I waited with eager anticipation for the publication of Robert Chao Romero’s Brown Church: Five Centuries of Latina/o Social Justice, Theology, and Identity . As a historian, Romero is the best person to take us through the history of the Latin American church, and he tells it truly, not wishing to shield the reader from the horrors of colonization. He begins with the exploitation and conversion “by the sword” that began under the rule of the Spanish conquistadores, who brought to the Americas their Roman Catholic faith—along with their hunger for gold and other resources. Early Catholic missionaries such as Friar Antonio de Montesinos and Bartolomé de las Casas sought to divorce the faith from the Spanish colonial project and condemned the latter with courage and fervor.

It is worthwhile to note that Romero brings his readers all the way to the present, introducing them to living Latinx theologians and their work. For many readers, his chapter on “Recent Social Justice Theologies of U.S. Latinas/os” will be a great resource for delving deeper into the works of living Latinx scholars and practical theologians. While the book heavily features male scholars and theologians, it was heartening to see this section highlight Mujerista theology and the work of Latinas doing theology—women such as Elizabeth Conde-Frazier, Sandra Maria Van Opstal, Noemi Vega Quiñones, and Zaida Maldonado Pérez.

IN ITS THIRD chapter, Hermanas asks: “What is your beautifully empowering narrative that may influence your hermanas [sisters] around you and those that are to come after you?” In the most wonderful way, the book’s three authors—Natalia Kohn, Noemi Vega Quiñones, and Kristy Garza Robinson—share their own stories to answer this essential question. Through the writing, they become the Latina mentors and role models many Latinas want and need, as many of us have no such examples in our communities.

What comes through these pages is how much these writers embrace their identities as Latinas, how much they love their communities, and how deeply they’ve experienced God through their identities.

They rightfully make no apology for writing this book for the many Latinas that may have had similar experiences with dominant white Christian culture. They read, interpret, and apply the Bible from the perspective of not just Latinx culture, but the specific experiences of Latinas who often find themselves doubly marginalized by racism and sexism and, thus, unheard. The authors provide examples of biblical women such as Esther, Deborah, and Hannah who embrace their ethnicity and challenges to become leaders and teachers in their spheres of influence, whether directly or indirectly.

ONE OF THE HARDEST things about being an immigrant and advocate for immigrants is an unspoken assumption that immigrating for strictly economic reasons is not as worthy of admission (and compassion) as doing so to flee war or persecution. Historically, this made refugees the “good immigrants,” until the current administration began to stoke fear against them. I love that Sarah Quezada turns that idea on its head by sharing the story of her relationship and marriage to an undocumented immigrant who didn’t leave his country for anything other than more opportunities and, to some extent, adventure.

Quezada tells a story that is part memoir, part biblical reflection, and part policy and data. She relates how she fell in love with and married an undocumented immigrant, Billy. As they make their way through the maze of the U.S. immigration system, she learns what immigrants know through experience: Gaining legal status is a complex, expensive, and lengthy process. She also reminds readers that many immigrants don’t have options to gain legal status, which might shock those who instruct immigrants just to “get in line and wait.”

What makes the story compelling is Quezada’s own hospitable rhetoric; it is easy to identify with her as she acknowledges knowing next to nothing about immigration before she began dating Billy. In fact, she barely knew people different from herself prior to a move to an urban Los Angeles neighborhood. The gentle humility of her storytelling makes this a book you can recommend to Christians new to the immigration debate. They will learn and come to greater awareness, as Quezada herself does through her journey.

I don’t mind being associated with the meaningful work that people like my abuelita do every day, whether it be housekeeping, landscaping, or childcare. What I do mind is being dehumanized by a racist, stereotypical assumption that robs me and other Latinxs of our dignity as image bearers of God.