When Compassion Goes on Trial

As a young adult in the late 1960s and early ’70s, my father dreamed of living in the U.S. But he was advised by American missionaries in Brazil that, as a Black man, he should reconsider. The dream, they implied, was not meant for people like him. And yet, that dream would find its fulfillment in the lives of his children. In 1996, when the World Methodist Council gathered in Rio de Janeiro, a new opportunity emerged: Afro-Brazilians were invited to study at Rust College, a historically Black United Methodist institution in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Between 1996 and 2007, Rust College welcomed 11 Brazilian students—six of whom carried the Furtado name.

To move to another country—whether by plane, boat, car, or on foot—is never a simple journey. It is an act of hope, often born out of necessity. It is also an act of profound courage. Some imagine that learning the language is the greatest challenge immigrants face, but I would argue that adapting to a new culture—with unfamiliar values, social cues, and unspoken rules—is even harder. Those who leave home, whether by choice or by force, do so yearning for more: to grow, to contribute, and to support loved ones who remain behind.

As I listened to the reading from Acts and heard the Spirit say, “Never consider unclean what God has made pure” (Acts 10:15b, CEB), those words echoed deep in my soul. They stand in sharp contrast to the rhetoric that often surrounds immigration today. In our state and across the nation, immigration is discussed not with compassion, but with suspicion. Too often, people with dreams and dignity are reduced to political talking points—viewed not as neighbors, created in the image of the Divine, but as problems unworthy of care or mercy.

My own immigration story includes both joy and struggle. Though I came to the United States on a student visa, the path to citizenship was long, complicated, and costly. What many assume to be a straightforward process is, in reality, a riddle—filled with bureaucratic twists, hidden costs, and legal uncertainties. It is a journey that can move people in and out of legal status, jeopardizing their presence even as they follow every rule. As a college graduate and working professional, my path toward American citizenship spanned ten years and required legal assistance, the support of a community, and the grace and generosity of individuals willing to walk with me every step of the way.

My story is just one among many. Immigrants across our communities carry stories shaped by sacrifice, resilience, and faith. And yet, in the public square and at times in the Church, those stories are ignored or flattened into stereotypes. When we fail to hear these voices—or worse, when we treat our neighbors with suspicion instead of solidarity—we miss the movement of the Holy Spirit. Peter’s vision wasn’t just about food laws; it was about people, about rethinking who belongs at the table of grace.

Compassion, like Peter’s vision, is always on trial. It challenges our assumptions. It calls us to risk proximity to those we’ve been taught to avoid. It compels us to open our hearts—even when it’s not politically expedient or socially convenient.

If the Church is to bear faithful witness, we must recover Peter’s willingness to say yes when God calls us to redraw the lines. We must proclaim with boldness that no human being is unworthy of dignity, belonging, or love. Because when compassion is on trial, the gospel is at stake.