Episcopal Church Foundation Vestry Papers - for leading congregations

I walk to church from my home, about a mile and a half away, a couple of times a week. Lately I've started using a new route, which led to the discovery of a small mystery.

Every morning, hundreds of people line up on the sidewalk of a side street just south of the main thoroughfare of Wilshire Boulevard. Literally hundreds, stretching all the way down the block. The line leads toward a nondescript large office building.

I first noticed the people around Christmas. I imagined a food or toy giveaway, of which there are quite a few at that time of year. But this morning, deep into January, there they all were.

I usually walk on the other side of the street. It's shadier, and there are too many people in the line to pass easily.

Today, something made me cross the street. I waded awkwardly, upstream through the crowd. Up close, I could see that most of them were clutching folders or envelopes full of paperwork. I made my way toward the back of the line, gathering my courage. I'm an introvert, after all, shy with strangers and crowds. Finally, I asked a group of women what one waited for in this place.

Passports. Guatemalan ones, to be specific. LA is home to the largest population of Guatemalans outside Guatemala, and apparently the consulate occupies an office in the building -- a small one by the looks of it.

My inquiry gained the attention of the surrounding crowd, which was long on time and short on entertainment. I quickly learned that sometimes people wait all day. One person summed up the whole unfortunate situation by explaining that Guatemala is the worst country in Central America. Another joked that they (consular officials, presumably) were probably hoping that "la migra" would come and take care of the line for them.

I chatted for a few minutes more, wished the Guatemalans God's protection on their day of passport waiting, and headed on my way.

As I walked, I heard the story of the Good Samaritan in my head, or it might have been my heart. Who was a neighbor? The one who crossed the street and cared for the injured man.

It would have been a whole lot simpler not to cross the street. But having done so, I'm left with a squirmy, Jesus-y feeling about those patient neighbors, lined up with their paperwork, sandwiched between a country that wants to boot them out and a country that can't manage a waiting room and some chairs for the people who are its most lucrative export.

I don't know where that unquiet feeling will lead. Mostly the people in that line need things that I cannot provide, except by adding my voice to advocacy for a more just immigration and trade policy. But I am increasingly convicted by the hunger for hospitality in my fractured neighborhood. I suspect a little might go a long way on that crowded sidewalk. Just the small act of noticing and inquiring led to a rich response of community spirit.

What are the small mysteries of your neighborhood, the places you might not yet have dared to cross the street? How might you be called into the broken spaces of your neighbors’ lives? How might you be a neighbor?

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