Encountering Christ on the Other Side of a Border Wall

As my feet hit the pavement of Monument Mesa, my long-awaited exhale is interrupted by the onslaught of gray.

It’s all gray.

When I last stood here in February 2020, I was immersed in the vibrant murals that adorned this stretch of the southern border wall—a continuously evolving tapestry offering voice and dignity to the migrant community’s experience here in Tijuana, Mexico.

But now, the once open-air cathedral feels like a prison yard. A new wall twice the size, authorized by our previous administration stands in its place. Cold and gray.

I’m one of twenty-some other Americans, many from my church, who’ve embarked on a two-day pilgrimage with Journey Home to grow our empathy and learn from peacemakers in the crucible of the immigration system. This is our last stop, affording us an hour of downtime to rest and sit with the pain, complexity, and resolve we’ve encountered.

The group gathers to hear from a local who tends the binational garden, Friendship Park. My capacity exhausted, I retreat to a nearby concrete table, but my thoughts are interrupted by a man shouting orders to another.

“A la derecha!”

A man stands near a makeshift scaffold erected against the thirty-foot-high steel beams. Halfway up, another kneels on a wooden plank, slathering bubblegum-pink paint onto the wall’s façade.

I reflect on their fortitude. Armed with tarps and cans on a Saturday afternoon, they confront the endless gray austerity, the aftermath of a violent erasure.

I’m inspired by their holy audacity, their sacred stubbornness, but I’m hesitant to approach. I’m an unscheduled visitor and my physical presence may represent a nation state that has caused them significant pain. 

“Hey, I’m Pat.”

“I’m Javier. Nice to meet you, Pat.”

I notice a sign that reads Deported Artist. 

Still feeling tentative, I ask him about it. He tells me he was born in Mexico. His family relocated to the United States when he was three months old. He grew up in Oakland, thirty minutes from where I live. His wife still lives there. We talk about A’s baseball, riding BART, and the Oakland music scene. Oakland was his home for over thirty years until he was deported “back” nine years ago. He hasn’t been able to return since.

“Aqui?!”

Javier consults the sketch of his vision being actualized on the thirty-foot beams–a giant pencil eraser man wiping away the wall to reveal a painted blue sky. 

“Si, bien!”

But as I look over, the man on the scaffold is no longer alone. A handful of our folks have enthusiastically joined, hoisting paint-soaked rollers onto the steel canvas. 

The invisible borders in our social dynamic were overcome in minutes by these two men who not only welcomed the presence of strangers from el otro lado, but invited us to participate in their act of sacred resilience, our paint brushes tools of embodied prayer. 

The beauty and absurdity of what’s unfolding reminds me of a common refrain from my spiritual director, Nish:

“The Spirit in you will always recognize its counterpart in another.”

Here, at the end of our pilgrimage, we didn’t find conclusion, but connection. 

Connection characterized by the Divine resonance, the reciprocal notice of Christ’s presence in another. 

The space was still a cathedral, just a different kind than expected.