Standing Firm in the Way of Love

In part one of this Lenten reflection, we journeyed into the wilderness and were confronted by the harsh realities faced by the marginalized. In this second installment, I return to a moment outside the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) field office in Atlanta—a place where power and vulnerability collide, where the machinery of exclusion grinds away at the lives of immigrants and asylum seekers. It was there that I met two Venezuelan men desperate to return home.

The cousins had come to ICE with a desperate request: they wanted to turn themselves in, hoping that deportation would be their way back home.

One of the men had unknowingly sealed his fate with a simple mistake—he had moved and, in the disorienting shuffle of trying to build a life in a new country, failed to update his address with immigration authorities. Because of this, he never received notice of his court hearing. There are no public defenders provided to immigrants in removal proceedings, no one to guide them through the bureaucratic maze. He subsequently missed a hearing, his absence resulting in an automatic deportation order. Now, stripped of options, the cousins had come to ICE with a desperate request: they wanted to turn themselves in, hoping that deportation would be their way back home.

Wrestling with the Moment 

Their request outside the goliath ICE field office would lead me to wrestle with my own inner temptations. I questioned whether my intervention was truly enough—or worse, if it might even be complicit. When the men confided that they wished to ask ICE to deport them, I laid out the grim possibilities: indefinite detention, hardship and suffering, a humiliating, shackled deportation potentially to a land not their own, a future steeped in uncertainty. In the urgency of their plight, I reached out to a trusted immigration attorney who restated our shared concerns. Together, believing that these men were making an informed, though agonizing, decision, and with no assured route back home, I watched as they chose to surrender—with the one with a deportation order being detained and the other released.

As I reflect on this moment with deep introspection, I can affirm a few truths. First, that my calling is one of solidarity rather than saviorism. Second, I am summoned to offer small acts of great love, not to topple giants disguised as formidable institutions.

Yet, I must admit, there were opportunities I missed. I could have invited them to return to Casa Alterna with me for deeper discernment. I could have recorded the detained man’s name and identification number (“A number”) for follow-up. I might have sought the wisdom of a friend who spent over two decades in the United States without legal status—a perspective rich in resilience and hope.

Lent is a time to acknowledge our fragility—that we are, in the end, dust—and to resolve to act with greater compassion and commitment next time.

But Lent is not a season for wallowing in self-pity or self-loathing. It is a time to acknowledge our fragility—that we are, in the end, dust—and to resolve to act with greater compassion and commitment next time.

Greatness is found in standing firm in the Way of Love.

The Way of Love 

If Jesus teaches us anything in the wilderness, it is that true greatness is not found in wielding power. It is not achieved by bending to authoritarianism or the demands of empire. Rather, greatness is found in standing firm in the Way of Love, in resisting the allure of compromise even when the cost is steep.

And so I ask myself: How will I respond when faced with the struggles of the vulnerable—immigrants and asylum seekers yearning for dignity? Will I stand strong against oppressive systems, or will I succumb to complicity? What does it mean to embody the Way of Love in my daily life, especially when it demands personal sacrifice? I invite you to ponder these questions in your heart, too.

A Call to Action 

The work of hospitality and justice is never easy. It will lead us into the wilderness time and again. Yet, we do not walk this path alone. We journey with the Spirit, with one another, remembering Jesus and so many others who have trodden this difficult road before us.

Written by Anton Flores-Maisonet

This essay is part two of a two-part series based on a sermon Anton preached on March 9, 2025, at Oakhurst Presbyterian Church in Decatur, GA. To read part one, click here.
To watch the sermon, go to bit.ly/GreatnessInTheWilderness.