Fresco by Alessandro Allori (1535-1607)

Read: Isaiah 43: 1-13

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you (Isaiah 43:2, NRSV)

If you’ve ever found yourself “between a rock and a hard place,” you’ll know what it feels like to be in a situation where there are no good options.

In the ancient world they had a story that described this in especially vivid terms. If you’ve read Homer’s Odyssey, you’ll remember the story of Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla was the 6-headed monster rock who guarded the eastern side of the straits of Messina at the southern tip of the Italian peninsula. Charybdis was an equally dangerous monster whirlpool who guarded the western side. Trying to steer clear of one meant your ship fell prey to the other—as Odysseus found out. His ship made it through, but not before six of his sailors lost their lives in the jaws of the six-headed Scylla—one to each head, presumably.

I hadn’t thought much about Scylla and Charybdis since my classics major in college. So, I was especially startled when my guide pointed them out to me as we drove down the coast of Calabria. “There they are,” he observed with a nonchalant gesture toward the sea.

“Wait,” I responded—straining my eyes toward the narrow straight that separates the toe of the Italian “boot” from the island of Sicily. “You mean that’s a real THING?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Very dangerous. Big rock; bad whirlpool.”

That Scylla and Charybdis are a “real thing” would not be news to the people who have come to Calabria to work in the orange groves. Even if they don’t know the ancient story, they know the danger of being in a situation with no good options.

Bear in mind that these people have already managed to escape the deadly whirlpool that is the Mediterranean Sea. In 2023 alone, the journey across the water claimed more than 3000 lives. Over the last decade, the total is closer to 30,000. There is good reason to suspect that the actual tally is even higher. Fleeing from their homes because of war, persecution, and poverty, these people risk everything for a better life. They do not risk the journey because they can; they risk it because they must.

Having escaped Charybdis, however, they still need to avoid Scylla. For those who find their way to the migrant camps in southern Italy, there are new dangers.

My guide me past one of these camps. There is no electricity, no running water, and to garbage service. If the men are lucky enough to have a bike to ride to the fields where they work, they risk being hit by a car on dark roads. Fires and fights break out on a regular basis. Once young man (age 27) was shot trying to help a friend bring back a piece of tin from a garbage heap. (They were trying to build a shelter.) Not surprisingly, many of the men who have been there for a while develop serious mental problems. Not to be overlooked in this litany of dangers is the ever-present prejudice, which greets these people around almost every corner and keeps them in such camps.

All of these dangerous conditions—like Scylla’s many heads—are attached to a powerful body. The unofficial—but very real—power here goes by the name of Ndrangheta. Considered to be one of the most powerful organized crime groups in the world (think mafia, only worse), this contemporary monster controls the port and traffics in all manner of things—including drugs and people. When people talk about this group, they avoid saying its name—or if they must, they say it in hushed tones. It’s as if there is an unwritten rule to refer to it as a monster that “must not be named.”

Are you beginning to understand why I said these men were caught between Scylla and Charybdis?

A lucky few of them have found a way to navigate safely through these dangerous waters, however. They are the ones who have found their way to a small hostel called Dambe So. The name means “house of dignity.” Dignity is precisely what this place provides for its residents. Their life is still very hard, but at the end of a day working in the orange groves, they can come back to a place of comfort and safety. Each two-bedroom apartment includes a bathroom and a kitchen/living room. There is also a common room downstairs where they can get a coffee after work and access to a laundry room. Occasional medical checks and regular Italian lessons are offered by volunteers.

Although the hostel is supported by Mediterranean Hope, it is run by the residents themselves. That’s part of what makes it a “house of dignity.”

You could also call it a small boat that’s helping a handful of men navigate some very dangerous waters.

Reflection/Action:

• The promise of Isaiah 43:1-14 was originally given to the covenant people in the Old Testament. Does it offer comfort for today? To whom? How?
• Use your own experience of being “between a rock and a hard place” to cultivate your empathy for others. Where might that empathy be leading you? What can you do to help someone else navigate a dangerous situation?

Prayer: Help us to respond to the immigration crisis in ways that offer dignity and safety to those in need.

Read: Leviticus 19:33-34

When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the native-born among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt; I am he LORD your God (Leviticus 19:33-34, NRSV – Updated Edition).

When I arrived in Calabria (the “toe” of Italy’s boot), my guide took me to a little restaurant full of Italians. It’s always a good sign when the locals eat frequent an eatery, and I soon discovered the reason for its popularity. The signature dish was a traditional pasta called stroncatura—made from the parts of the wheat that are usually thrown away. It was delicious, but it also proved to be a provocative metaphor for the rest of the day. So, bookmark that memory and come with me to the village of Camini.

Unlike so many of the small hill-towns in this region, Camini is thriving. This was not the case twenty years ago when Camini seemed well on its way to “ghost town” status. Enter Rosario Antoni Zurzolo and a few other locals, who refused to let their village go down without a fight. With the help of grants, they founded a co-operative based on welcoming skilled immigrants, and that has made all the difference. Today Camini hosts 120 immigrants—one for each of the native-born residents. While some of the locals were wary initially about this influx of “strangers,” most changed their minds when they began to see the positive impact on the town. The local elementary school—which had dwindled to only 5 children—now boasts 85 students. There’s a bus that comes to town 3 to 4 times per day. There’s an ATM. There are two doctors and a pharmacy. In light of all these improvements, it’s not surprising that some of the local young people who had fled in search of employment and opportunities elsewhere have begun to come back home.

Walking the streets of Camini is a bit like entering a delightful maze. Around each corner is a surprise. There are flowers, vines, new construction, shops, and best of all—hope.  Artisans from all over the world work in the same places they sell their wares. There are weavers, potters, woodworkers, and ceramic and fabric artists. Houses are being renovated with recycled materials. And from new, shady terraces, all can glimpse the sea.

One of the most remarkable people I met in Camini was a young man named Ibrahím Zakarie. Originally from the Kurdish region of Syria, Ibrahím now works for the cooperative. The war in Syria put his hopes to be doctor on an indefinite hold, but he now applies all of his intelligence and drive to support his adopted community. (The fact that he speaks seven languages comes in handy in place as international as Camini.) Not long ago, Ibrahím and his girlfriend took in an eight-year-old boy from Afghanistan. As I listened to the story, I couldn’t help but think of that verse from Leviticus: “…you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt” (Lev. 19:34).

Sometimes we forget that all of us were strangers at some point. Ibrahím reminds us of that. And the town of Camini reminds us that something truly wonderful can be made out of the parts of the wheat that are too often thrown away.

Discussion/Reflection:

• Have you ever been (or felt like) a stranger? If you were welcomed, what did it feel like? If you weren’t, what did that feel like? How might this experience inform your faith? Your attitude toward immigrants?
• What part of this story about Camini did you find most interesting or inspiring? What ideas does it spark for you and for how your country might approach the opportunity of immigration?

Action:

• Read more about the town of Camini by following these links “Without them, we wouldn’t be here anymore” (by Charlotte Oberti in INFOMIGRANTS, Oct. 20, 2022) and “When Italians Abandoned This Village, Refugees Brought It Back to Life” (by Alessia Melchiorre in Reasons to Be Cheerful, May 7, 2021). Learn more about Camini’s cooperative at eurocoopcamini.com
• Welcome someone who is a stranger to you.

Prayer: Give nations, leaders, and citizens all over the world the wisdom to address immigration with hospitality, compassion, and grace.

Story:

At the height of the Mediterranean refugee crisis in late 2015, an ecumenical group of Italian Christians banded together to establish Humanitarian Corridors. Since that time, over 1500 refugees have been given safe and legal access to new lives in a new country.  Priority is given to victims of persecution, torture, and violence, families with children, and people with illnesses or other disabilities. Similar efforts have also begun in France and Belgium, and there is reason to hope that another 50,000 people may be allowed into European host countries through similar “corridors.”

The drawing above has become the symbol of Humanitarian Corridors. The artist (or as he prefers to be called, “social cartoonist,”) is Francesco Piobbichi. Working on the front lines of the crisis, Piobbichi asks what, to him, is the obvious question: “How could we be indifferent to this pain? In front of all those coffins, we said we wanted to change things. That’s why we had to create “humanitarian corridors” (Drawings from the Border, p. 56).

Bible Reading: Job 29:16-17 (NRSV)

Pelted with a litany of false accusations by his so-called friends, Job responds with a list of his own. In that list, he names acts of kindness and justice that reflect the kind of person he truly is. “If I am guilty of anything,” he essentially says, “find me guilty of these things.”

Part of his manifesto includes the words:

I was a father to the needy, and I championed the cause of the stranger.

I broke the fangs of the unrighteous, and made them drop their prey from their teeth.

For refugees awaiting safe passage from torture, war, and despair, such words must seem as distant as the far side of the Mediterranean. Yet, they reflect the compassion and courage that created Humanitarian Corridors. They reflect the heart of all those who ask, “How can we be indifferent to their pain?”

Discussion/Reflection:

• A verse from the Talmud says, “Whoever saves one life saves the world entire.” How does this quote relate to the refugee situation? …to indifference?
• The Italian Christians who banded together to create Humanitarian Corridors were from the Community of Sant Egidio (a lay Catholic association), the Federation of Protestant Churches in Italy (FCEI), and the Waldensian and Methodist Church in Italy. Why is it so significant that this was an ecumenical effort? What might happen where you live if Christians worked together?

Action:

• Read more about the work of Humanitarian Corridors at the web site of Mediterranean Hope.

Prayer: Save me from the soothing sin of the empty cultic deed

and the pious, babbling din of the claimed but unlived creed.

Let my actions, Lord, express what my tongue and lips profess.

From the hymn, “As a Chalice,” by Thomas Troeger, 1984

Story:

Putting flowers on a loved one’s grave is one way to say, “I love you. I miss you. I remember you.”

Francesco Piobbichi’s drawing gives us a brief glimpse into a young boy’s grief. The boy stands at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea, which has become a mass grave for over 35,000 refugees in the last decade. The statistic is staggering, yet this glimpse into one young boy’s grief has the power to move us in ways that statistics do not. It makes us wonder who he lost—who he misses—who he remembers. And it may even make us wonder, “What can I do to help?”

Francesco Piobbichi is a relief worker with Mediterranean Hope—and organization that seeks to save and welcome refugees trying to make their way across the Mediterranean. One of the ways Piobbichi has answered the question, “What can I do to help?” is by reminding us that each statistic has a story. He describes it this way: “My drawings tell a story that otherwise would be consigned to the oblivion of the sea” (Drawings from the Border, p. vi).

Bible Reading: Psalm 72:12-14 (NRSV)

Psalm 72 is a prayer. In fact, it may be a prayer written by King David for his son and successor, Solomon. Yet, the author of the prayer is not as remarkable as its values. Verses 12-14 cut straight to the heart what makes a good ruler. They may not be what we expect.

For he delivers the needy when they call, the poor and those who have no helper.

He has pity on the weak and the needy, and saves the lives of the needy.

From oppression and violence he redeems their life;

And precious is their blood in his sight.

Mahatma Ghandi once observed that, “A nation’s greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members.” Psalm 72 seems to have a similar score card for political leaders.

In the caption for his drawing of the young boy with the flowers, Francesco Piobbichi suggests that we place a flower “for all the victims of this barbed sea made murderous by the selfishness of [human beings], from the hunger [for] profit that upsets the world…a flower for every innocent victim of this war of the rich against the poor” (Drawings from the Border, p. 55).

Discussion/Reflection:

• How would you grade your leaders against the rubric of Psalm 72? Why?
• Why is it so hard to respond to a statistic like the one cited in the story above? Was the 35,000 number a surprise to you?
• How do you respond to Piobbichi’s words about selfishness, profit, and “this war of the rich against the poor”?

 Action:

• Listen to this story from NPR’s Morning Edition from June 7, 2024 about President Biden’s asylum restrictions, and this story, also from NPR on June 18, 2024, “Biden’s plan will shield undocumented spouses of US citizens from deportation.” How would you grade these policies against the rubric of Psalm 72:12-14?
• Read and respond to this March 19, 2024 story by Maic D’Agostino: “As migrants from ‘all over the world’ enter U.S., churches must go to meet them, says Arizona pastor.”

Prayer: Help us to hold our leaders accountable, O God.  Give us the courage to imagine the stories behind the statistics.

Story:

At first glance we see only the boy with the ball. He could be the kid down the block. We smile at his exuberance. We marvel at his skill. We worry for his safety, since he seems more intent on scoring a goal than on landing well.

But then we look more closely. The “net” is made of barbed wire. And why is he suspended over the waves? Look more closely still. The waves, the sky, and even the sunset are filled with barbed wire. What kind of a game is this?

It is not a game at all. This is a heroic attempt to break free from oppression, poverty, and war. This is a beautiful child who is willing to risk everything for a new life. The barbed wire is the border that binds his future and scars his soul.

Maybe that’s why Francesco Piobbichi calls this drawing, “Kick the Fear.” Here is what he says about his drawings in general:

My drawings are conceived and end in a matter of minutes [using] vivid colors that

give hope mixed with the pain they recount. The colors, scrawled onto the page,

swirl as in the vortex of a storm; they almost tear the paper on which they are drawn.

My drawings reveal the hatred that surrounds the migrants and the barbed wire that

sticks in their skin, barriers so oppressive that the migrants will always live with it

wherever they go. My drawings are an act of love for humanity—I would consider

them emblems of justice and freedom (Drawings from the Border, p. vi).

Bible Reading: Isaiah 61:1 (NRSV)

The “Suffering Servant” of Isaiah’s prophecy announces good news to the people imprisoned in Babylon:

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me;

he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners.

The messenger may have been new, but the message was not. This was the theme-song of the exodus, after all. And if we trace the trajectory into the New Testament, we can hear the Suffering Servant singing the same song there. Our God is a god who liberates captives and binds up the broken-hearted. Second verse, same as the first.

Once we learn the melody of God’s theme-song we begin to recognize it in all sorts of places. One of the places I hear it is in these stories from the border. It makes me want to join God in that liberating song.

Discussion/Reflection:

• Where do you hear God’s liberating song? How might you join in?
• Had you noticed the barbed wire in Piobbichi’s drawings? What does that image evoke for you? How might we be contributing to it?

 Action:

• Look for the “barbed wire” in your community and find some ways to start cutting it down.
• Learn more about what Protestant Christians are doing to join God’s liberating song: Humanitarian Corridors Agreement Signed (Dec. 2023) & An Appeal to Christians and Faith-Based Organizations

Prayer: We, created in your image, would a true reflection be of your justice, grace, and mercy and the truth that makes us free.

Story:

When I visited the island of Lampedusa in 2018, artist Francesco Piobbichi took me to a sun-drenched cemetery where we visited the grave of the young woman at the center of this picture. Her name was Welela. Here is her story in Francesco’s own words:

Welela was in prison in Libya when a gas cylinder exploded and burned her body.

She was not treated but loaded onto a dinghy. I think of her burned skin with the salt

of the sea and the pain that she could have felt and none would [ever] tell. I think of

her friends singing to say goodbye to her. Welela stared at Europe and at our European

rulers from a dinghy of fire over this sea of barbed wire. Welela will give us her eternal

accusing eyes.

From Drawings from the Border (Claudiana, p. 22)

Bible Reading: Galatians 6:9 (NRSV)

Paul encouraged the Galatian Christians to “not grow weary in doing what is right.” For the people who work on the front lines of the refugee crisis, this is easier said than done.

I wanted to let you hear Welela’s story in Francesco’s own words because, in the telling, his pain is so intertwined with her own. Just as the salt-water must have seared Welela’s wounds, so memories of tragedy sear the souls of the rescue workers. How can one not grow weary? How can one not be angry?

For Francesco, the drawings are a way to “harness that anger” without forgetting what made him angry in the first place. As he puts it, “Drawing means getting inside yourself to narrate what is happening inside you: A picture…becomes a key to open the door of a tale that crosses borders” (Drawings from the Border, p. vi). Perhaps it is also a key to not growing weary in doing what is right.

Discussion/Reflection:

• What part of Welela’s story is hardest for you to hear? Why?
• Sometimes the secondary traumatization experienced by those who work with victims of tragedy is called “compassion fatigue.” Have you ever experienced this or known someone who has? What was it like?

Action:

• The young man cradling a refugee baby in the photo below is a young Italian Protestant, Daniele Naso. This photograph was taken on his fifth volunteer assignment on a ship doing search and rescue operations on the Mediterranean. Pray for people like Daniele as well as for those they seek to help.
• Risk your own comfort to help someone else today.

Prayer: Help those who help, O Lord. May they draw from the inexhaustible well of your compassion, so that they may not grow weary of well-doing.

Story:

Imagine not knowing whether your child is alive. Perhaps you haven’t heard from them for months. Or maybe all you know is that they boarded a crowded boat days or weeks before. Then your phone rings, and a beloved voice says, “Hi, Mom—I’m alive!”

This story strains imagination for most of us. Yet, it’s not uncommon for the families of refugees making the perilous trip across the Mediterranean. If the young refugees are lucky enough to make it, the first thing they want to do is “call home.” In his book, Drawings from the Border, Francesco Piobbichi writes, “In Lampedusa, I have heard children say to their mothers, ‘Ciao mamma—sono vivo!’ their white-toothed smiles lighting up Lampedusa’s main street.”

Of course, the poster in Piobbichi’s drawing reminds us of the kids who didn’t make it. How many parents are still waiting, I wonder, for a call that will never come?

Bible Reading: Genesis 1:27 (NRSV)

So God created humankind in his image,

in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.

This verse is so familiar we may have become numb to it. But its message is shocking. It tells us that human beings are created in the image of God. Think about that. If we had any sense, we would break out the brass band, light some fireworks, or even better—fall to our knees.

In view of this verse’s claims, it would also make sense to think hard about turning away from tragedies that leave human beings dying along our world’s borders.

Paola La Rosa puts her finger on the pulse of this tragedy when she writes, “…whether we support the political left or the political right, whether we are religiously unbelieving or believing, whether we consider ourselves to be moral people or immoral people, in ways we may not be aware of, we continue to deny [the refugees’] personhood” (Drawings from the Border, p. vi).

No one has to remind the mother waiting for that phone call that her son is a person. But maybe we need a reminder. Maybe we need to be reminded that each of those people whose bodies litter the beaches and borders of this world were, in fact, created in the image of God.

 Discussion/Reflection:

• How does the reminder that all are created in the image of God change or reinforce the way you think about refugees and migrants?
• What were your thoughts and feelings as you read the story, “Hello, Mom—I’m Alive!”?

 Action:

• As you listen, watch, or read the news today, mentally insert the phrase “in the image of God” as people are named. Take note of how this affects your thoughts, words, and feelings.
• Make eye contact with a stranger you encounter today, remembering that they are created in the image of God. See if it makes a difference in how you regard them. Afterwards, talk about this experience with a friend.
• Read about this ecumenical conference held in Rome at the end of January, 2024 on the topic of migration and refugees Immigration Debate Is Not Unique to U.S.

Prayer: We fall to our knees, gracious God, when we remember both the honor and the responsibility of begin created in your image.