Everything Will Be Made Right—But This Isn’t Right

“What all Christians should appreciate is that the more they can grasp about migration and the experiences of immigrants, the more they will understand their faith—that is, the truths of such convictions as the reality of having another (heavenly) citizenship and the rejection that can come from being different, as well as the vulnerability that surfaces with needing to be dependent on God. Sadly, it is not uncommon for Christians to not feel like ‘strangers in a strange land’; their place of residence has lost its strangeness, and now they join others in wanting to keep strangers out.”

M. Daniel Carroll R., Christians at the Border: Immigration, the Church, and the Bible

For generations, Christians have wrestled with what it means to belong in the world. Every tribe, tongue, and nation must navigate the struggle of self-understanding amid a culture of false identities. We live on a planet that tells us countless stories about who we are—stories that often leave us restless and confused. Yet Scripture teaches us that this world is not our final home. God has promised that heaven will one day envelop the earth (Revelation 21:1–4), and until then, we live in the tension of what is and what will be. As followers of Jesus, we hold fast to this truth: “our citizenship is in heaven” (Philippians 3:20). One day, everything will be made right—but this isn’t right yet.

Ruth, weighed down by grief and loss, chose to rebuild her life alongside her late husband’s family. Her story begins in the shadow of tragedy—her husband gone, her future uncertain, and her heart heavy. Things weren’t right. Yet even in her sorrow, Ruth trusted the Lord. Turning to her mother-in-law, Naomi, she declared, “Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16).

With those words, Ruth left behind her homeland, her culture, and her gods to follow Naomi into an unknown future in Bethlehem. In a new place and among a new people, she chose faith over fear, trust over comfort, and devotion over despair. Her resilience reveals the quiet strength of those who believe that God’s providence is still at work, even in the ruins of loss. Ruth’s story reminds us that faith is not the absence of sorrow but the presence of trust—that God’s redemption often begins in the most ordinary acts of steadfast love.

After the Communist Revolution, Christian missionaries were forced out of China and the Church that remained was forced underground. Under government oppression, Chinese Christians lost access to their buildings, clergy, public spaces, and even families. Resiliently, their marginalization empowered them to rethink what it meant to follow Jesus underneath unthinkable conditions. One million Christians were forced into obscurity in 1949. Today, more than 60 million follow Jesus through a brilliant network of unsanctioned micro (or house) churches. 

Iraqi Christians, already scarred by years of persecution, were forced to flee ISIS in 2014 and found themselves in makeshift refugee camps. In places like Erbil, where loss and fear hung heavy in the air, the light of faith didn’t grow dark. Priests were ordained in tents, worship rose from the rubble, and many became followers of Jesus even while displaced from every familiarity and any sense of normalcy. What the enemy meant for destruction became a place of renewal (see Genesis 50:20). In their suffering, the Church remembered that God’s presence isn’t bound by buildings or borders but he meets his people wherever they go (see Matthew 28:20).

Everything will be made right, but this isn’t right.

Today federal troops are in our city. Against the wishes for state and local authorities, ICE and the National Guard are making their presence known. From a national level, we’re told this presence is for our safety. But what many of our neighbors, friends, and what many of us feel is fear and anger. Our time and place are different from Ruth's and our Chinese and Iraqi brothers and sisters, but we’re facing the same tension of faith in a broken world: everything will be made right, but this isn’t right. By his providence, God is inviting us into the same formational process. As we learn to seek truth, show love, and stay curious in our city, now is a good time to deepen our self-understanding and what it means to call Chicago home. 

Throughout the Western world, Christians are facing a dilemma of home and identity. As leaders call our home a war zone and military forces are deployed on our streets, we feel a variety of emotions. Some of us may spring into action, perhaps protecting the marginalized or cheering on law and order. Some may protest an authoritarian streak or celebrate the removal of people who are undocumented. Others may feel paralyzed by fear or uncertainty.

The writer of Hebrews teaches us to take comfort from those who have gone before us. 

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.”

Hebrews 12:1-2

So, what does our historical and global community of fellow Christians teach us about who we are and where we live? How does this cloud of witnesses teach us to endure?

Well, at the very least, they teach us to “lay aside every weight” of this world. They help us to discover that in Christ, our identity and citizenship aren’t bound to this life but to a world when and where everything will be made right. Home isn’t about borders, it's about belonging. Identity isn’t about legal status; it’s about grace. But they also teach us that this isn’t right. The truth of our spiritual citizenry shouldn’t lead us to care less about our and our neighbors' sense of personhood and place on earth. It should make us care more. After all, Ruth and Chinese and Iraqi Christians, as well as our undocumented neighbors, are forced from their homes and cultures. Something or someone else has and is exerting power over them. Whether death or government oppression, people are suffering the loss of self and home through worldly powers. 

We love our neighbors.

We invite our groups to respond with courage and compassion.

We lament the pain and the chaos.

We pray for families torn apart to be reunited.

We ask God to give wisdom to our leaders.

We long for peace and protection for every officer on the ground.

We want God’s kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven.  

Journalist Caroline Bologna recently wrote about what many have described as vertical and horizontal morality. Vertical morality, she explains, is guided by pleasing authority alone. Horizontal morality “prioritizes the well-being of neighbors.” This is where the tension always lies when we are facing the dilemma of home and identity. For those with a vertical mortality, the idea is that everything will be made right. This can lead to a sense of apathy and permissiveness. For those with a horizontal morality, they often observe that this isn’t right. As followers of Jesus, there’s merit to both perspectives which must equally guide our response in such trying and volatile moments. After all, Jesus said the greatest commandment was to love God, and that the second was to love your neighbor. In other words, to be his disciples means that our morality is shaped horizontally and vertically.

With faith in God, we know everything will be made right. 

With love for our neighbors, we know this isn’t right.