“‘WHO is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers’” (Matthew 12.48-49).
The Ministry of Defence recently documented the largest number of migrants crossing the English Channel during the period of one day. Almost 1300 young men arrived in several small boats, along with some children clad in woolly hats and gloves.
We can envisage the infants and toddlers who are coming over as nephews, nieces, or children whom we might spot on their way to school. We can feel concerned, however, maybe even a little afraid, about the volume of men arriving.
What chance have they got to gain our consideration? The cost-of-living crisis is driving anxieties up and generosity down, as charities report a steep drop in donations as people tighten their belts.
It can make it next to impossible to feel that we can accommodate more mouths to feed when we are struggling to fuel our vehicles and warm our homes. The cost-of-living crisis pushes against our natural altruistic instincts and silences our better angels.
Let us think about the framing. Because the Ministry of Defence provided the statistics, we can view the men through the defensive lens of those making the report, and believe that we are under threat.
Those men morph into a slow invasion of brown Vikings arriving in batches, only to reassemble and defeat us within our own shores. They transform into a “fifth column”, with secret loyalties set against the national interest.
These are men escaping hardship. It is no longer safe for them to remain where they were. Some of them challenged their oppressive governments. A number are at risk of losing their freedoms, many their livelihoods, and some their lives.
How might the reporting look if it were our nation’s football fans escaping from an unstable country in need of rescue? Or our students fleeing the outbreak of hostilities where they were taking a year out, for example?
In the novel Les Misérables, a young man, Marius, was involved in anti-government riots, putting himself in danger. In the musical, a prayer is sung by the older man, Jean Valjean, “Bring him home.” The prayer implores God to intervene on Marius’s behalf. What if we looked at the faces of the young migrants with these lyrics playing in our thoughts? “He is young, He’s afraid, Let him rest, Heaven blessed.”
Can we call these young men our brothers or our sons? Jesus was a refugee escaping a harsh regime. What if he were on board one of those boats — would we bring him home, or send him back?
The Revd A. D. A. (Azariah) France-Williams is Rector of the Ascension, Hulme, in Manchester.
Canon Angela Tilby returns next week.