Leaving one’s home and family behind to seek a new life, or to escape from violence or natural disaster, is an act of hope. But how is it possible to maintain hope when immigrants who have lived and worked in the United States for years are being snatched from their homes or off the streets to be detained and deported, often without due process? Or when others already vetted and approved for refugee resettlement have instead been stranded abroad, unable to come to the US? Those who have hoped for a just and inclusive reform of the US immigration system likewise may be tempted to despair as legislative action seems as distant as ever.

Today’s second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews presents a classic explanation of the theological virtue of hope, linking it with faith: “Faith is the reality of all that is hoped for; faith is the proof of all that is unseen” (Heb. 11:1). The eleventh chapter of the letter points to several figures from the Hebrew Bible, such as Noah and Moses, who exemplify faith and hope, all of whom, it says, “were searching for a better country, a heavenly one” (v. 16). Today’s excerpt, however, focuses specifically on Abraham and Sarah, who were not only spiritual pilgrims, but who also, quite literally, “went forth” from their homeland “not knowing where they were going” (v. 8). Their trust in God’s promises was deeply intertwined with their status as migrants. 

The first reading from the Book of Wisdom gives us another example of hope. The Israelites had come to Egypt to escape famine, but generations later they were enslaved by the Egyptian pharaohs. On the night of the Passover, when God had promised their liberation from slavery, the Israelites “were given the courage to trust your promises” (Wis. 18:6). The people of Israel “awaited the salvation of the just and the destruction of their enemies” (v. 7). Hope not only strengthens those who journey far from home, it also promises liberation for those who are oppressed and seek to return home.

Finally, in the Gospel reading from Luke, Jesus recounts three related parables – that of a homeowner returning home late from a wedding, a homeowner protecting their home from a thief, and a steward left to care for a house while the owner is away – that have traditionally been interpreted as eschatological warnings to be prepared for the return of the Messiah. In the last of these parables, however, Jesus provides an interesting insight. He asks his listeners to imagine the steward musing, “The owner is slow in returning,” leading the steward to “abuse the other staff members” while eating heartily and getting drunk (v. 45). Jesus here suggests that the oppression of the vulnerable is rooted in a lack of hope; without hope, we are tempted to look out for ourselves, even at the expense of others. Jesus adds that when the homeowner does return, the steward will be punished and exposed as the one who is untrustworthy. The Gospel reading and the reading from Wisdom, then, are interconnected, one highlighting the hope of the oppressed, the other the oppressor’s lack of hope. As the author of Wisdom explains, God “used the same means to pull down our oppressors as you used to lift us up when we heard your call” (18:8). 

In all of today’s readings, we see spiritual longing mixed with the worldly hopes of migrants, refugees, and the oppressed, but we should not find this surprising. In his essay “Utopia and Prophecy,” the Spanish-Salvadoran theologian Ignacio Ellacuría, SJ argues that our hope for the eschatological fullness of the Reign of God should not lead us to otherworldliness, but rather to critique our present situation in light of the fullness of God’s Reign (“prophecy”) and to work toward constructing a closer approximation of that Reign in the world (“utopia”). Through Christ, salvation takes place in history, and so the Reign of God becomes present in our midst, even if it transcends our historical reality. Ellacuría, who served as rector of the Universidad Centroamerica in San Salvador, was acutely aware of the suffering of the Salvadoran people during that country’s civil war, and he, along with five fellow Jesuits and two workers, were assassinated by the Salvadoran army in 1989 because of their stance on behalf of the poor. He was under no illusions that utopia was around the corner or that there would be no suffering or setbacks on the journey to God’s Reign. Like today’s readings, however, he believed that our hope for a better future for the poor is grounded in our hope in God’s promises, giving us the strength to continue the journey.

The Hope Border Institute in El Paso, Texas is an organization established in 2015 that combines community organizing, policy research and advocacy, and humanitarian aid. During the first Trump administration, the Institute documented the impact that policies like the separation of immigrant families and the Remain in Mexico policy (which required asylum seekers to stay in border cities or informal camps in Mexico while awaiting a chance to apply for asylum) and advocated against these policies. The Institute has continued to conduct research on immigration policies and their impact on border communities and has issued several policy papers, amicus curiae briefs in important legal cases, and other reports. The Hope Border Institute also runs a medical clinic serving immigrants on both sides of the US-Mexico border and manages a Border Refugee Assistance Fund used to support local shelters and service-providers, and to offer emergency assistance to migrants in need. As its name suggests, the Hope Border Institute seeks to encourage hope among those undertaking the harrowing experience of crossing the border and offers a glimpse of the Reign of God’s presence in our midst.