In a back bedroom of the house where I grew up, the previous owners had glued to the wall a large, detailed map of coastal Southeast Louisiana, dated 1931. I loved to study the map to learn the names of all of the lakes, islands and bayous south of my home in New Orleans. Places of beauty and rich aquatic life, many were named by French or Creole settlers, or indigenous peoples who have lived and fished there over the centuries. I was sad a few years ago when my mother had the room repainted and the map was stripped away. Tragically, the same thing has happened to much of the land it depicted. Over 2000 square miles has been stripped away by coastal erosion and sea level rise due to warming oceans. What was once named is now gone.
In Central Pennsylvania, with more subtle effects of climate change, we may not feel overly concerned by environmental crises, but if we’ve learned anything thing at all during the pandemic, it is how completely connected we all are. If something’s happening over there, it’s going to happen here, too. If there’s a disaster brewing in some faraway place, it’s going to have an impact on us, too.
One thing happening more and more is that people are moving away from hazardous areas which have been destroyed by wildfires in California or coastal flooding in the South, not to mention vulnerable areas throughout the world. People are moving. Many more will follow. Estimates place their numbers in the hundreds of millions by the middle of this century. A question that will become increasingly urgent is “where will all of these people go?”
Just as is the case with people in Ukraine or other war-torn places of the world, people fleeing climate disasters do not want to abandon the homes they love, but the dangers they face give them no other choice. The Rev. Bati Kirata, a close friend of mine, lives in the Republic of Kiribati in the Central Pacific. His homeland is made up entirely of low lying, climate sensitive coral atolls. He told me, “We do not want to be refugees; we want to be productive citizens wherever we go.” And that day will come, when it is time for his grandchildren or perhaps even his children, to leave their home.
Migration is as old as human history. We find the stories in the Bible and the Quran. Abram, an important figure for Christians, Jews, and Muslims, moves from his former home in Ur, then to Haran, and later to the land of Canaan. His descendant Joseph leads his family from Canaan to Egypt because of crop failure and widespread famine. A later generation will wander in the wilderness until God ushers them into a new land.
The Jewish people hold onto this memory of being without a home, forced to be on the move. Jewish law commands, “You shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” Jesus reminds Christians of this same obligation when he describes how the righteous will inherit the kingdom. “I was a stranger,” he said, “and you welcomed me.”
People of good will and people of faith would do well to ask, “Are we ready to welcome the strangers, accept them, and help them find a place? Can we offer not simply charity for refugees but allow them the dignity of participating in and contributing to our common good?” These are not easy questions to answer. After all, immigration and migration are perhaps the most conflicted political challenges of our era. Nevertheless, it’s time to ask the questions, because so much is at stake for them, and for us all.