Dianne Garcia is the lead pastor and one of the original founders of Iglesia Cristiana Roca de Refugio, a church community committed to belonging and belovedness for people from all over the world. In 2024, the church launched Nuevos Vecinos, a ministry building communities of hope alongside immigrant families. She offered the keynote presentation for our 20th Anniversary Festival of Hospitality and Resistance. Below is the full text of Dianne’s reflection.
I’m so grateful to be here, celebrating these 20 years of hospitality with you all today. Sometimes I’m nervous walking into a new crowd. But just reading Anton’s book and listening to some of your stories yesterday, I feel like actually we have already known each other for a long time. Our hearts are beating to the same rhythm. It’s an honor and a privilege to share with you today.
When I was in my 20s, I did a lot of hiking on the east coast where I lived. One sunny April day, I decided to go with a friend of mine and my two dogs up into the mountains.
We started up the trail planning to camp out that night and summit the mountaintop the next day. After a couple of hours, I started to notice small patches of snow dotted around the
woods. I didn’t think much of it at first, but gradually as we kept going the patches joined together and got bigger and bigger. At some point, we found ourselves walking on snow, unable to see the ground at all. We realized too late that it was just going to
keep getting worse, but that we weren’t going to be able to turn around and make it back to the car before nightfall. The temperature was dropping and the snow was
getting deeper.
Our only hope was to make it to a small shelter that had been built at the intersection of our trail with the summit trail. So we pressed ahead. By the time we made it to the shelter, we were sinking into snow up to our waist. I was so grateful to climb onto a
dry floor, out of the snow. It was still the coldest night I have ever spent in my life. I remember sleeping with one dog on my chest and the other by my side with an emergency blanket on top of us and the sleeping bag zipped all the way up. Even so I
woke up early, shivering and put on boots that had frozen solid. We managed to descend and were fine, thankfully.
But I learned two lessons that night. First, the weather on top of a mountain has no relation to the weather at the base of a mountain. And second, people who build and maintain sanctuaries, do life-saving work. Shelters like that are dotted all over the mountains. But they also exist in all types of wildernesses, to provide shelter from all types of storms. And I’m so grateful to be here in this sanctuary together with all of you while outside this storm of injustice and dehumanization is raging out there.
Let’s just take a moment to appreciate this sacred place and all that it has meant for so many. Let’s take a moment to remind our souls that here we can rest. That here we can
bring our full selves, and not just the activist parts or the compassionate parts or the parts that convict us that everyone belongs, but also the imperfect parts and the insecure parts and the parts that have been on a journey that is long and difficult.
Because here we are in a place of welcome for people on journeys of all kinds, and ithas been a place of welcome for these 20 years. (Welcome has seeped into these rooms. It is woven into the tablecloths and the carpet. It is in the air we breathe.)
Let’s take a moment to receive that and to receive one another. I’d invite you to turn to the person next to you, greet them, and thank them for being here and being a part of
this sanctuary space. Now when you finally make it to the shelter out of a storm, it’s natural to turn to one another and say, can you believe that?! What is going on out there?! That’s how I feel right now.
We are living through a time in which those who harbor hostility, racism, intolerance
are unafraid to act in our public spaces, where indeed our government at every level is
developing and strengthening systems of injustice. There’s a constant barrage of
falsehoods, violence, and assaults on any number of things that we thought we had
agreed on (the constitution, human rights conventions, basic moral codes). I have a
constant sense that one injustice slips through my fingers as another one comes
chasing right after it.
We are being faced with a moment that also requires us to navigate risk for deciding to
live out our most fundamental values. We are each having to make choices about
discomfort and safety and moral red lines.
We who wish to choose love are constantly faced with its antithesis. We are constantly
made aware of our insignificance in the face of powerful forces of dehumanization. And
our choice to lean in instead of looking away, carries with it the burden of bearing
witness to terrible suffering.
Why does it feel like choosing love right now also means I have to carry my passport
with me and I have to learn what to do if I get pepper sprayed and I have to decide
how many children I can agree to take care of if their parents are kidnapped and
Disappeared?
Worry keeps us up at night. Witness weighs down our hearts. I know I weep at
inopportune and unpredictable times. I find myself wondering, why is it such a struggle
right now to be someone who believes in love?
Love is the simplest thing. Hate takes work, but love comes naturally. Or it should.
God’s love formed us. God dwells in all of us. We are made of love. We are made to
love. Believing in the worth of every human being shouldn’t be radical. And yet, right
now, believing in love, especially believing in love for people who aren’t related to you
and who don’t look like you or talk like you or share the same life experiences as you, is
a revolutionary act.
If we are to survive and maybe even thrive through this time of upheaval, we must heal
even as we are going through this communal trauma. We must lean on one another.
We must nurture these sacred, sanctuary spaces. But also one of the key elements of
healing from trauma is being able to name the false narratives that that trauma
experience tells you are true. We have to create safety for healing, but we also have to
write and tell our own truths for one another.
So in that vein, I’d like to name three false narratives that we are being surrounded by
right now. Let’s look at them, see them for what they are, and reaffirm together the
stories that we know are true.
The first falsehood that underlies every message we have heard to justify the mass
deportation campaign is that peace is only possible through exclusion. A community
can only be safe if it is homogenous, and I think it’s pretty easy to make a case that
those in the government define safe community as not just homogenous, but specifically as white and english-speaking. The unspoken claim is that you can’t have people of color and safety. You can’t have people who speak multiple languages or come from different cultures and safety. Therefore, removal by whatever means is justified to protect this small group of people who supposedly are the ones who belong.
You don’t have to read far into scripture to find God’s call to welcome and care for all,
especially for those that you might think of as different, those on the margins. But,
even more deeply, Jesus is constantly calling people into inclusive, diverse community.
He’s constantly restoring people to community that had been seen as outcasts or
untouchables. The invitation is for everyone to be a part of creating beloved community
Together.
We are meant to be workers now in building the new world that will be fully realized
when Jesus returns, a world where people of all nations and backgrounds live together
in peace. We are meant to not only believe that peace includes everybody but to
embody that belief in our actions today.
What we learn when we participate in that kind of kingdom-building work is that our
differences make us stronger. Our differences make our lives richer. And coming
together, learning together, being transformed together across the barriers and
boundaries that normally divide us actually only makes us safer as we step into
liberation together.
I was thinking, how do I illustrate the thousand small acts that create a beloved
community and decided to pick one image for each truth. So this is a turkey berry
plant. Known as zanmoret in Haitian Creole. One of our church founders, Gina,
originally from Haiti, found a cutting here in the US and asked me to grow it for her,
because I used to be a gardener. This plant is known in Haiti for its healing properties.
Gina comes to my backyard to cut leaves and make tea. She has offered the tea to other members of our community with various health issues and many of them have found relief from their symptoms. This plant grows in my backyard and is helping so many only because of Gina and her unique wisdom. Without her there would just be bare earth here.
So when we’re confronted by the not-so-disguised racism coming from those in power,
I want you to think of this plant and remember that God’s love is radically inclusive
because God understands the gift of people from all over the world living together in
Peace.
The second pervasive false narrative is that we have to prioritize our love. The vice
president, JD Vance talked publicly about his belief in amoris ordo or the ordering of
love. He drew on his understanding of Catholic theology, saying, we need to love
ourselves and our families first and those that are the most like us. Those that are
outside of our community come last.
The thinking goes that there isn’t enough love to go around, so we have to save it for
those that “deserve” it. Love is a zero sum game, in other words. If you use it up, you
don’t get more. This scarcity mindset rules not just our government and immigration
policy but all areas of our society. Get more, keep it for yourself, take care of your own,
because there isn’t enough….fill in the blank (time, money, goodness, space) for
Everyone.
The pope himself roundly rejected Vance’s understanding of ordering love. Indeed, if
Jesus were to order love at all, it’s clear from scripture that those that were the farthest
on the margins would be first in line to receive compassion and hospitality. But also,
God’s love operates outside of the bounds of our physics. What we find is that when
we choose love, love actually multiplies around us. When we set another place at the
table, the table and the food on it grows. When we give away what we have, we
receive more unexpected blessings. When we invite someone in, then they turn around
and not only enrich our lives but spread that hospitality to more people than we ever
could have by ourselves. God’s love is abundant and expansive. It is generative.
God creates more out of what seems like nothing. When we trust in that abundance, we become participants in God’s creative power.
In November of last year, we had the first family from our community detained while
checking in at the ICE office. Yuliana was sent to Dilley with her 3-year-old. She was
devastated when I went to visit her a couple of days later. She cried through our visit
with the recognition of how little of it mattered that she had tried to work hard, take
care of her child, and do things the right way. She grieved the loss of her community
and her sense of normalcy. She struggled with the fear of being sent away forever at
any moment.
At the end of our visit, I offered to pray. We reached across the table to hold hands and
I started to say, God thank you for Yuliana and her life and her strength, and please
protect her and provide for her. And in the middle of a sentence Yuliana interrupted me
and started speaking over me. Listen, you don’t interrupt the pastor praying. But she
did. She started speaking over me and she said, God thank you for the life of everyone
here. Please protect everyone here. Please provide for everyone here.
Sometimes we need to be interrupted to remember that our hearts are big enough to
include everyone. God’s love is abundant enough to hold all the people we know and
everyone we have never met. When I’m tired or feeling overburdened, I remember
Yuliana’s interruption, I remember how she lived that trust in abundance out, helping
everyone she could there (when she was released as she walked down the hall,
everyone waved and said, bye, jefa, picture). We are living in a world overflowing with
God.
I want to address one final falsehood. There’s been an idea circulating that empathy is
toxic, that caring about others puts one in a vulnerable position and, therefore, should
be avoided at all costs. The falsehood here isn’t that love isn’t vulnerable. Love
requires us to be changed, to let others lead, to step into the unknown, to cede control.
The falsehood is that that vulnerability should be avoided. Love without vulnerability
isn’t love at all. It’s just self-protection and self-aggrandizement.
In the spring of this year, I visited a father who had been detained at that point for over
6 months far from San Antonio, separated from his wife and three girls. He had only
talked to them over video call in all of that time because of their fear of going out there
and the distance. But one day we decided to make the trip. His wife hadn’t told him
that we were visiting at all in case something happened and we weren’t allowed in.
The detention center that he was at was particularly oppressive. A double fence
covered in rolls of barbed wire surrounds the low concrete buildings. You have to go
through multiple thick automated metal doors to get to the visitation room. And when
we came in after all that, the girls jittery with excitement, the guard sternly reminded
us that just one short hug was allowed and nothing more.
And then Yeferson stepped into the visitation room and saw his family standing in front
of him. He did something startling. He collapsed to the floor crying. His daughters ran
to him and hugged him. I heard him saying, te amo over and over again as he kissed
each of his daughters. The guard stood to one side and said nothing. (picture)
It was in that moment that I understood how the total vulnerability of love is actually
more powerful than any wall or any cruelty or any weapon. I saw how the vulnerability
of love is the only way to restore and redeem our shared humanity. Interdependence,
having to rely on one another along with all of our fragility and imperfections, is our
best antidote to authoritarianism, division, dehumanization. God says, yes, be weak.
Yes, be vulnerable. That’s where you’ll find me.
The beauty of a place like Casa Alterna is that it is a place for tending to these true
stories. Stories about people who believe in love. Stories about people who aren’t
afraid to risk their comfort or their security to step into the unknown with people
they’ve just met. Stories of people showing up for one another, learning from one
another, serving one another. Casa Alterna has not just been a place of sanctuary for
people, it has also been a place of sanctuary for love, truth, and grace. It has been a
place where hope is nurtured and nourished.
When we come through a process of healing, after re-affirming our rewritten
narratives, what we realize at the end is that we can’t control the false stories. We
can’t just make them go away. In one form or another racism and hatred will continue.
And trying to selectively forget those falsehoods doesn’t serve us because it also
erases all the good that came out of our struggle. What we realize instead is that we
can hold our grief and our hope together. We can hold and protect the true stories even
when we are still surrounded by the false ones. That tension is not ours to resolve.
Instead it’s an inheritance to tend. We tend to our collective memory and we tend to our collective hope. We tend to our ongoing transformation. For the 20 years that have passed and for the 20 years to come.
Benediction
Senor, gracias por tu fidelidad y tu amor. Gracias por la vida y salud que tenemos.
Gracias por esta familia que has creado, todas las personas que has mandado a este
hogar. Gracias por todas las bendiciones que has derramado sobre esta comunidad en
esos 20 anos.
May this house continue to be a place where people find rest, where stories can be
heard and remembered, where hope is daily renewed even as it sits in the midst of our
grief. May the door always be open, the tables always full, and our hearts always
strengthened. May the welcome never end.