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Illegal Immigration - Political & Social Issues From A Scriptural Perspective

Posted on April 3, 2025 by Minister AJ Wisti
Spirituality The Illegal Immigration Issue
An image of Mrs. Tina Wisti, wearing a tiny black dress and laying on some grass.

A House Without Borders? A Biblical and Balanced Look at Illegal Immigration

As ministers of truth, we are called not to conform to political winds, but to the wisdom of Scripture and historical understanding. When it comes to the matter of immigration—legal or otherwise—we must begin by asking: What does the Word of God say?

The Amplified Bible offers this guidance: Leviticus 19:33-34 says, “When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress him. But the stranger who resides with you shall be to you like someone native-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

Yet, Romans 13:1-2 reminds us: “Let every person be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, [granted by His permission and sanction], and those which exist have been put in place by God.”

Therefore, the believer is called to honor both hospitality and the rule of law—a tension we must navigate with prayer and discernment.

Not every undocumented immigrant is a criminal. Many flee persecution, poverty, or violence. They work hard in jobs many citizens won’t do—especially in agriculture, where the U.S. economy has long depended on immigrant labor. Deporting all undocumented workers would devastate farm operations, raising food prices and potentially causing shortages.

But we must also acknowledge our laws. The Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) makes unauthorized entry into the United States illegal. By law, those entering without inspection or overstaying their visas are subject to deportation. However, the system is not one-size-fits-all. Asylum seekers, visa over-stayers, and undocumented laborers are all lumped together under one label: “illegal.”

The political left has often been seen as “soft” on immigration. Under Presidents Clinton, Obama, and Biden, enforcement varied—ranging from deportations to executive protections like DACA. These policies provided short-term relief but often lacked long-term solutions.

Meanwhile, the Trump administration's hardline approach—building physical barriers, enforcing “zero tolerance,” and even separating families—was seen by critics as both harsh and reactionary. History warns us of the dangers of such responses: the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II serves as a sobering reminder of what happens when fear overrides wisdom and compassion.

So where does that leave us, as citizens of heaven and of earth?

Independent thought calls us to step away from polarized politics. A potential solution: allow undocumented immigrants who have remained crime-free, contributed to society, and established roots in our communities the chance to earn legal status. Vet them. Background check them—both in their home country and the U.S. Let them prove their worth and loyalty to a nation they already serve in silence.

This path honors the biblical call to welcome the stranger while upholding the laws of the land. It does not excuse law-breaking, but neither does it ignore mercy. In truth, this isn't a liberal or conservative idea—it's a human one.

Let us remember: borders may define nations, but compassion defines character. We must strive to be neither blind enforcers nor reckless welcomers—but faithful stewards of justice and grace.


In ancient Israel, strangers or "sojourners" were to be treated with justice and love. This law was countercultural in ancient times and shows God's heart for the marginalized. The application today includes immigrants, refugees, and all outsiders.

Romans 13 emphasizes order and respect for law, written during a time of imperial Rome. However, Scripture also provides precedent for civil disobedience when laws contradict God’s will (Acts 5:29). Christians are to uphold righteous laws while being mindful of justice and mercy.

Studies by the American Farm Bureau and USDA warn that removing undocumented laborers would create severe disruptions in food production. Crops would rot, and consumer prices would skyrocket. The economic cost could reach billions.

The First Welcome: A Lesson in Generosity and Survival

When the first European settlers arrived on these shores, many came unprepared for the land’s trials. The winters were harsh, the soil unfamiliar, and the forests teeming with dangers they did not understand. Without guidance, their journey might have ended in despair. But in their time of need, some Indigenous tribes extended a hand—not in conquest, not in servitude, but in kinship.

The Wampanoag people, among others, saw the strangers struggling and, instead of turning them away, chose to teach them how to live in harmony with the land. They introduced them to the Three Sisters—corn, beans, and squash—planted together in a way that nourished both the earth and the people.

The tribes shared their knowledge of tracking, trapping, and respecting the creatures they hunted. They taught their European guests to acknowledge the spirit of an animal before taking its life, offering gratitude and using every part of the creature—meat for food, hides for clothing, bones for tools—so that nothing was wasted.

They also passed on traditions of **communal living**, where survival was not an individual struggle but a shared responsibility. Whether bound by blood, marriage, or chosen family, the strength of the people was measured not by what they took, but by what they gave. Their laws of kinship extended beyond genetics—brothers and sisters were made, not just born.

Even in spiritual practice, the Indigenous people of these lands understood something that many would later forget: that the world is not meant to be conquered, but cared for. That harmony is not found in walls, but in understanding. That survival is strongest when shared.

Sadly, as history would unfold, the kindness of these first teachers was often met with betrayal. Lands were taken. Treaties were broken. Those who had once extended their hands in welcome found themselves pushed to the edges of their own homeland.

And yet, the lessons remain. Their wisdom lingers in the soil, in the rivers, in the ways we still plant and harvest. Their teachings whisper in the wind, reminding us that this land was never meant to be claimed by one people alone—but to be honored by all who walk upon it.

"Do not forget to extend hospitality to strangers [especially among the family of believers], for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it." Hebrews 13:2

If those first settlers had been left to their own ways, many would have perished. Their survival was not won by force, but by **grace given freely**. That grace came not from a government, nor from a king’s decree, but from a people who understood that life is strongest when shared.


The "Three Sisters" planting method was a sustainable agricultural technique used by many Indigenous tribes, particularly the Iroquois. Corn provided a natural trellis for beans to climb, beans fixed nitrogen in the soil, and squash leaves covered the ground to reduce weeds and retain moisture.

Many First Nations tribes practiced rituals of gratitude before and after a hunt. It was common to offer thanks to the spirit of the animal and to use every part of its body to ensure that its sacrifice was honored and waste was minimized.

Long before barbed wire fences, border patrols, and immigration courts, this land we now call the United States was home to hundreds of sovereign tribal nations—each with its own boundaries, languages, and laws. These First Nations, including the Lakota, Apache, Navajo, Iroquois, and Maya, governed themselves with systems that ranged from warrior cultures to democratic councils.

Some nations, like the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois Confederacy), practiced representative governance and influenced the framers of the U.S. Constitution. Others, like the Comanche or Aztec, were structured around might and conquest. In all, they were civilizations rich in history, tradition, and land stewardship. Their claim to this soil predates any colonial charter or border treaty.

The arrival of European colonizers initiated centuries of displacement. Borders were redrawn—first by force, then by legislation. Treaties were signed and broken. Families and tribes were separated from their lands and each other. The United States, as it exists today, rose upon lands that were not empty or ungoverned, but occupied by thriving societies who understood this land as sacred.

Today, as citizens from Mexico, Central, and South America make their way north—often risking life and livelihood—many see them as "invaders." But history offers a more nuanced lens. The territories of the Aztec, Maya, Inca, and Pueblo peoples once stretched deep into what is now Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California, and beyond.

From this minister's perspective, what we are witnessing is not merely an immigration issue, but a historical echo—a reclamation. A return. Not through armies or treaties, but through generations seeking safety, stability, and opportunity on ancestral land.

According to the Legend of the Seven Generations , the choices made by a people ripple through time. If that is so, then perhaps we are living through the return of seeds planted centuries ago. Ironically, those labeled "illegal" may have a deeper ancestral right to this land than many who hold birth certificates.

This is not an argument against borders or for open-door policies. It is, instead, a call for understanding. A reminder that behind every policy debate stands a people with memory. A people whose history cannot be undone by legislation or rewritten by sound bites.

As caretakers of faith and truth, we are called to compassion, not just compliance. To wisdom, not just warfare. Scripture tells us to love the stranger, to seek justice, and to walk humbly with our God.


A core belief in many Indigenous traditions, particularly among the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois), the "Seven Generations" philosophy teaches that decisions today should consider their impact seven generations into the future. It also speaks to the enduring memory of ancestors and the long arc of justice and return.

Present-day U.S. states like California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas were once part of larger Indigenous civilizations and, later, territories of Mexico. Many Latin American migrants have ancestral ties to these lands, predating the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (1848) and other border-defining events.

In many First Nations traditions, prayer is not a performance. It is not a transaction or recitation. It is a conversation—with the land, with the ancestors, with the Creator whose breath lives in all things. Their prayers are not bound by walls or written words, but are carried by smoke, by song, by silence, and by movement through the sacred web of life.

Today, we do not close this sermon with a single doctrine or political solution. Instead, we invite the spirit of listening. To sit, as many tribal elders once did, in a circle where no voice is above another. Where wisdom rises in the space between speaking and hearing.

Let us honor the truth that this land remembers. Let us walk gently, knowing that each step carries the weight of those who came before us—and those who will follow. If we are to be caretakers of this land, let it not be through dominion, but through stewardship. Let it not be through fences, but through understanding.

"The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness of it, the world and those who dwell in it." Psalm 24:1

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute." Proverbs 31:8

If we are truly the people of the Creator, then we must walk the path of truth, even when it challenges us. Let us neither cling to the past out of fear, nor erase it out of convenience. Instead, let us learn from it. And in learning, let us heal.

May this sermon not end here, but begin a quiet revolution of hearts and minds. One where justice is rooted in memory. One where policy is guided by compassion. One where no child of God—no ancestor of the land—is treated as less than sacred.

In the spirit of the circle, let us leave space for contemplation. No altar call. No closing hymn. Just breath, and thought, and the open road ahead.

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Legacy of the Seven Fires

In the town of Dunlowe, where wheat and sage grew side by side and the wind carried stories whispered for generations, the days following the blood moon were anything but quiet. The town, still reeling from revival, found itself at a crossroads. Among the citizens were descendants of the Akonwehna People—those whose ancestors had once fished the rivers, sung to the wind, and honored the land with reverence deeper than written word.

Among them was the Walker Clan, led by a gentle matriarch named Lela, whose voice had been used to calm storms in her youth and spark protests in her age. Her family had welcomed new faces from the southern lands—relatives from the old trade routes and sacred paths, tracing lineages back to the lands now labeled Mexico, Guatemala, and Peru.

Though some Dunlowe residents opened their arms to these returning descendants of the land, others recoiled. In hushed meetings behind the clapboard walls of the old mission church, seeds of fear were sown—fear disguised as patriotism, cloaked in righteousness, spoken through smiles and hymns.


Embers of Division

On a day meant for unity—a festival honoring the spring equinox—a man known only as Shepherd James took to the community stage. Clad in denim and an old army jacket, his words dripped with charm and veiled fire. He praised the town, uplifted the people, then twisted his speech toward division.

"You’ve let strangers return and claim what was never theirs," he proclaimed. "We were born here. We built this town. They come now to take, to rewrite, to erase."

Cheers rose from pockets of the crowd. But few noticed when Shepherd James and his inner circle slipped away minutes later, leaving a simmering fury behind. A group of teenagers—some stirred by pride, others by fear—began to shout. An elder was shoved. The festival crumbled into shouts and distrust. Police presence, late and uncertain, only deepened the divides.

The headlines the next day mimicked those of the Capitol riots: “Cultural Clash in Dunlowe.” But it was no clash—it was a manipulation.


The Fireside Stand

In the days that followed, Brutus and Mysti invited the townsfolk—regardless of background, belief, or bloodline—to their modest fire circle at the edge of their homestead. There were no pulpits, no microphones, no flags. Just flame, flicker, and truth.

"This isn’t about who belongs here more," Mysti began, her voice as soft as ash and just as resilient. "It’s about acknowledging the harm we’ve carried in silence. About standing on ground that has cried beneath the boots of conquerors and welcomed barefoot kin alike."

Brutus followed, his voice steady. "The Trail of Tears didn’t just happen to Cherokee feet. It happened to the soul of a nation. And when we allow wolves like Shepherd James to stir our fears, we march in those footsteps—only this time, we’re marching others out."

They spoke of Malcolm X’s call to defend dignity, and Martin Luther King Jr.’s plea for peaceful change. They drew lines between the Indian Removal Act and today’s immigration policies, asking: What makes a border sacred? A map? Or memory?

One elder wept. A young woman in uniform stood tall. A boy who had thrown a stone at the equinox festival came forward, eyes downcast. “I didn’t know,” he whispered.

Brutus knelt beside him. “Now you do. And now you choose.”


Echoes From the River

Summer brought drought and a stillness over Dunlowe. The river that once carried the voices of the Akonwehna now whispered warnings through its shrinking banks. Lela Walker sat by the river’s edge with a group of local children—descendants of both settlers and the First Nations—sharing stories in both English and Akonwehna. One of the children asked, “Why do they hate us?”

Before Lela could answer, national headlines broke: a nationalist-led militia had stormed a federal site in protest of new heritage recognition laws. Their symbol—an eagle clutching a cross—was burned into fences, walls, and minds. They had claimed it was their duty to preserve 'true American heritage' from ‘foreign and tribal overreach.’

But as their violence echoed through the nation, so too did the stories from Dunlowe. When floods struck the East Coast and wildfires razed the western plains, it was the tribal knowledge of water routes, medicinal plants, and old architectural ways that saved towns. The Akonwehna people, and others like them, led rescue efforts, coordinated food distribution, and re-established ancient communication networks that predated the internet: oral traditions carried over land and spirit.

From these traditions rose a hidden strength—echoes of the Navajo Code Talkers, whose unbreakable languages had once saved a nation now divided by its own ignorance.


Children of the Fires

A new generation stepped forward. Led by a young girl named Nayeli—whose name meant "I love you" in her ancestral tongue—the children of Dunlowe organized a community showcase of cultural songs, stories, and reenactments. They wrote a play, “The Seven Fires,” about the unity of tribes and settlers who had once stood together during times of famine and plague.

At first, many of the nationalist families scoffed. But when a new economic collapse loomed—brought on by deregulated land use and polluted waters—their anger gave way to desperation. It was the tribal stewards who had preserved the soil. It was the Akonwehna elders who remembered which fields healed faster after flood. And it was Nayeli’s voice that filled the town square, singing a lullaby passed down through mothers who had seen their homes burned but never their spirits broken.

Dunlowe was spared the worst of what was coming. Other towns were not so lucky. The ones that mocked tribal knowledge found themselves at the mercy of foreign governments who now sought to divide and conquer America—much like America had once done to its own First Nations.

In the ashes of industry and the silence of lost data centers, it was oral tradition that remained. The language of the land returned. The people remembered.

And this time, they chose not to forget.


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