Fourth Week of Lent

For my little niece, Angelina, whose art rests at the heart of this composition, and in whose joy we glimpse the Kingdom of God—alongside her sisters, Angelika and Ariana.

At the center of this work is a drawing made by my five-year-old niece, Angelina. I watched her joyfully scribble it in under three minutes, churning out drawing after drawing and handing each one to me with an eager smile. In this piece, she first drew a self-portrait (her wearing a crown), then graciously decided to include me (taking some creative liberties in giving me a third arm!).

I imagine the scene in Matthew 19: toddlers wailing, little ones slipping from their parents' arms, parents offering apologetic glances toward the frowning disciples as the scene around Jesus grows increasingly disorderly and loud. Those of us who've participated in group infant baptisms and baby dedications (when one cries, the chain reaction begins!), have led children's sermon moments with restless kids squirming about, or had the joy of watching our little ones participate in a kids' choir performance that goes delightfully rogue, can easily relate.

The disciples, feeling the weight of being seen as serious leaders alongside their rabbi, Jesus, may have tried to preserve a sense of reverence by shooing away the parents bringing their children to him. Yet here, Jesus reorients his disciples (and us) away from the illusion of control and reminds us that it is the joyful, unruly, sincere presence of a child to whom the kingdom truly belongs. Just a chapter earlier, in Matthew 18, Jesus tells his followers that unless they become like little children, they will not even enter the kingdom. Surely the disciples thought Jesus couldn't mean that literally—right?

While I've been busy making art, Angelina has been busy being an artist. I surely could learn a thing or two from her about inheriting the kingdom.

—Carmelle Beaugelin Caldwell

They keep taking my neighbors. Chicago and other cities associated with the Democratic party are going through a humanitarian crisis under a fascist regime. Cars are being left vacant on random blocks and parking lots. People are being disappeared while their children are being zip-tied at 3 a.m. We clergy and religious leaders have been shot with pepper spray and rubber bullets while demanding the freedom of our neighbors. No one deserves to live like this. This piece does not truly capture the pain I hold every day, between keeping track of what is happening in Gaza, resisting fascism, and dealing with yet another economic collapse under capitalism.

But let me tell you something good. . . I still believe in humanity. When I watched people in Gaza prepare basic meals to break their fast during Ramadan during a genocide, I saw something good. When local neighbors saw our public vigil for disappeared people and chose to join us for a time of lament, I saw something good. When Colin Kaepernick paid for the independent autopsy of one of the Black men recently lynched, I saw something good. The good is people still choosing to be empathetic and compassionate in times of crisis. That is what Christ calls us to be.

The stranger who enters foreign land is often forced to flee their own home. It is rare for people to risk their entire livelihood and their family for anything other than necessity. For that reason, each portrait has a halo deeming them holy, sacred, and divine. I used sparkling gold paper to break up each distinct image. Look deeply at these portraits. The top left is inspired by the Maasai people, a nomadic group that dwells across borders. The top right image is an indigenous woman and her child, a nod to Mary and Jesus. She has a red palm across her mouth which is a tribute to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and "Two-Spirit" people. The bottom left is a slightly aging man from Mesoamerica. The bottom right is a woman in hijab, which is commonly targeted in Islamophobic spaces. Look at the people some consider to be a threat. Look at our neighbors. Migrants are sacred. Fuera ICE.

—Rev. Nicolette Faison