Paul’s relationship to citizenship was complicated. In his heart, he was first and foremost a Jew. But of course the history of our Jewish siblings includes a significant amount of displacement and diaspora, and Paul was born in a town called Tarsus in the region of Cilicia, which would be modern day Turkey. Cilicia itself had been its own kingdom, but at the time of Paul’s birth, was a conquered province of Rome. And, also like many Jews, it seems Paul’s family moved back to Israel and Paul grew up – at least partially – in Jerusalem. So, was Paul an Israelite? A Cilician? A Roman?
Paul was all of these things. And he called himself any one of these things depending upon the situation. He related as a Jew to the Jews among him, as a citizen of the world when traveling and creating community across diverse cultures, and, notably, as a Roman citizen. Paul declared his Roman citizenship especially when being arrested – doing so to assert his rights of due process under Roman law. It might be tempting to write this off as merely strategic for Paul – but it seems very real to me: He was all of these things at once. How could he not be?
The reign of the Roman Emperor Nero was marked for its decline into chaos. After a great fire broke out in Rome and, among other things, exposed many of the faults in Nero’s leadership and issues with the so-called greatness of the empire, Nero scapegoated a small but visible cultural group as responsible for the fire – Christians. He began a campaign of terror, imprisonment, torture, and execution of Christians to show Romans how serious he was about making them safe. Paul was killed during this time.
His complex life, story, and identity did not matter. The fact that he had done nothing criminal did not matter. His legal status did not even matter: He was one of those dangerous Christians, living among us and destroying our way of life. An existential threat. He was executed.
Lorenzo Salgado Araujo’s relationship to citizenship was complicated. He was born and raised in Mexico, but came to the United States as a teenager, and lived here for 35 years. He spoke Spanish and English. He married here, he had children and raised them here. He started a small business here, employed people, built homes, paid taxes. He lived a life here, made a home here, created community here. He committed no crimes and had no criminal record. He was in a process to gain legal status that would make official what everyone who already knew him knew to be true about him: That he was as American as he was Mexican. That he was both things at the same time.
His complex life, story, and identity did not matter. The fact that he had done nothing criminal did not matter. His legal status did not even matter – after all, the agents who chased him down in unmarked cars and executed him weren’t even technically looking for him. They just said he looked like the guy they actually sought. And that was enough.
Johan Sebastian Duran Guerrero’s relationship to citizenship was complicated. He was born and raised in Colombia but moved to the United States just a few years ago while still in his early 20s. He was married and had a child here. He was a documented immigrant with permission to work and a Social Security Number. He paid taxes, worked as a custodian and a food delivery driver. He moved here to create a better life for himself and his family, and that was what he was doing. I wonder a lot about the courage it takes to decide to leave everything you know and try to create a new life from scratch – like Guerrero did.
His complex life, story, and identity did not matter. The fact that he had done nothing criminal did not matter. His legal status did not even matter – after all, the agents who chased him down in unmarked cars and executed him weren’t even technically looking for him. They just said he looked like the guy they actually sought. And that was enough.
The word martyr has come to mean someone who is killed in pursuit of a cause in which they believe. It comes directly from the Greek word “martureo” which literally means “to witness” or “to testify.” It gained its current significance during the early days of Christianity – the idea being that those who were killed simply for being Christian testified to the truth of their belief by refusing to pretend they were anything other than what they were even when threatened or killed. Their death was their testimony: a witness both to their true character and to the true character of the society that killed them.
We recognize Paul as a martyr. Will we recognize the martyrdoms of Lorenzo and Johan?
And if not, why not? Is their life any less brave? Is their death any less a testimony? Have we not seen in their sacrifice a witness both to their true character and to the true character of our own society?
Hiding behind questions of citizenship in times like this will not save our souls or purify our consciences.
Do you know who knew this? Paul. Paul understood fundamentally that national identity was a weak defense against the love of God and the demands of grace as embodied in Jesus. This is why he insisted on building communities across racial, cultural, and national difference. Because, as he said in one letter, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”
We often talk about Paul’s teaching as if it is just about which religious commandments we should continue to follow and which we are allowed to let go of – and that is certainly part of what he is doing – but we are quite capable of skipping the very real implications for our national and cultural identity upon which Paul’s theology insists.
In one letter he even addresses citizenship directly, saying, “Our citizenship is in heaven.” To call yourself a Christian, then, is to cast aside the false notion that national, cultural, and racial differences are barriers to our belonging. To call yourself a Christian is to see God’s heart as your one true homeland and recognize even yourself as the immigrant, refugee, and stranger on this beautiful and terrible planet.
Paul is clear that because of Jesus Christ, our national allegiances and cultural preferences are nothing compared to our belonging to one another as humans. This is not a sentimental notion or a utopian dream: It is the foundation of how he builds community on a practical level. Paul’s letters are stunning in their relentless insistence that taking Jesus seriously means giving up our nationalist and tribalist distinctions so that we can recognize our fundamental interdependence.
As Church of the Redeemer moves forward towards our borderland pilgrimage this Fall, I pray that we use it as an opportunity to examine the complexity of our life and identity – of our citizenship.
