It’s easy to quote “love your neighbor” when the neighbor looks like you, talks like you and brings over banana bread. It gets harder when that neighbor is walking through the desert with their child, trying to cross an invisible line drawn by politics.
At some point, loving our neighbor became conditional—qualified by citizenship status, political opinion or whether someone entered the country “the right way.” And yet, the words of Jesus haven’t changed. He didn’t offer exceptions for international borders or immigration policy. He simply said: love them (Matthew 22:39).
In today’s America, immigration isn’t just a policy debate. It’s a moral test. And for Christians, it’s one that strikes at the heart of our calling.
Borders exist. That’s a reality. They serve a purpose in national governance and few are arguing otherwise. But when the Church starts treating those lines as if they define who deserves our compassion, we’ve stepped out of the Gospel and into something much smaller.
The Bible is full of stories about displaced people. Abraham left his homeland with no destination (Genesis 12:1). Moses fled Egypt. Ruth migrated to survive. Jesus, as a child, became a refugee in Egypt to escape political violence (Matthew 2:13-15). Scripture doesn’t just make space for immigrants—it constantly centers their stories.
In fact, God repeatedly commands His people to care for the foreigner. “Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt” (Exodus 23:9). The prophets echo this over and over again—real righteousness, according to Isaiah, looks like “seeking justice, defending the oppressed” (Isaiah 1:17).
So when Christians build their worldview in a way that shrinks our circle of concern to “people like us,” we’re no longer reflecting the Kingdom of God. We’re protecting a comfort zone.
Jesus told a story about a man who was beaten, robbed and left for dead on the side of the road (Luke 10:25–37). Religious leaders passed him by. A Samaritan—someone considered an outsider, unclean, unqualified—was the one who stopped and helped.
The point wasn’t subtle.
Jesus didn’t just tell His listeners to “be nice.” He redefined who our neighbor is. And He made it clear that our job isn’t to evaluate worthiness. It’s to show mercy. “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor?” Jesus asked. The answer? “The one who had mercy on him.” And Jesus replied, “Go and do likewise.”
It’s hard to imagine the Samaritan pulling out a clipboard and asking for the man’s immigration paperwork. He saw suffering and responded with care. That’s the model.
Let’s be honest. A lot of Christian silence—or outright resistance—around immigration doesn’t come from deep theological conviction. It comes from fear. From comfort. From not wanting to complicate life with stories we don’t understand.
But the Gospel isn’t built on comfort. It’s built on sacrifice. “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Luke 9:23). Jesus didn’t call us to love our neighbor when it’s convenient. He didn’t suggest it. He commanded it.
That command doesn’t disappear when loving someone challenges your politics, makes you uncomfortable or costs you something.
You don’t have to agree with every detail of immigration reform to care about immigrants. You just have to care.
Real people are at the center of this conversation. Families fleeing violence. Kids trying to reunite with their parents. Workers risking everything to survive. Many are believers. Many are showing up in churches looking for community and hope.
And when they arrive, the Church has a choice: Will we meet them with hospitality or with suspicion? Will we make room or quietly suggest they worship somewhere else?
Scripture couldn’t be clearer: “The Lord watches over the foreigner and sustains the fatherless and the widow” (Psalm 146:9). If God is watching over them, the Church should be too.
If we believe the Gospel is good news for everyone, then we have to live like it. That means acknowledging the humanity of people our culture has turned into political props. It means refusing to reduce image-bearers of God to “illegal” or “burden.”
No one is asking you to solve the immigration system singlehandedly. But loving your neighbor starts with refusing to look away.
Start with this:
- Listen and learn. Educate yourself on how the immigration and asylum process actually works. Avoid oversimplified memes or political talking points
- Support organizations on the ground. Look for ministries and nonprofits that serve immigrants and refugees with practical care
- Challenge the rhetoric. When you hear dehumanizing language, especially in Christian spaces, say something. Silence is complicity
- Push your church to care. Ask how your community is serving immigrants. If there’s no answer, help create one
- Make it personal. If immigrants live in your neighborhood, school or church, take the first step. Relationships change narratives
Loving your neighbor doesn’t always feel heroic. It might look like tutoring someone in English or helping them navigate paperwork. But it matters. It tells the truth about the God we follow.
Because the bottom line is this: If Jesus didn’t let borders stop Him from loving us, we don’t get to let them stop us either.
