From Ottawa County to Iran: The same beloved dust

Below is my column in today's edition of the Grand Haven Tribune.

In this season of Lent, the church paused at Ash Wednesday to hear the ancient words: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We are reminded of our mortality, yes, but also of something deeper: that we all are formed from the same elements of the earth, stamped with the image of God, and summoned to live accordingly, in humility and in love.

Yet in these days, we see too clearly how fragile that image has become in the eyes of many. In our own Ottawa County, immigrant neighbors and residents of color live with a palpable fear – fear of enforcement, fear of misunderstanding, fear of not being seen as fully human. In response to that fear, last month sixty pastors in Ottawa County published an open letter to our County Commissioners and County Sheriff. That letter, and the ensuing petition, has now drawn hundreds of area resident signatures. (You can view it online at https://c.org/GG8sZYyfvQ).

One response from leaders was fear that speaking out more forcefully might provoke our federal government to proceed with a crackdown locally. However, when leaders choose silence or a muted response out of fear that public reassurance might somehow put a bullseye on us, they reveal their own privilege.

After all, the truth is that immigrants and people of color in Ottawa County already feel targeted – and not only by the rhetoric of some on the right but by local immigration enforcement action right here in Ottawa County. People want to know that their county leadership cares about, supports, and will protect them.

I hear this from families who ask not for special treatment but for clear words from their county government: You belong here. You are valued here. Your life and safety matter here. Such reassurance is not political, it is pastoral. And it is necessary for the flourishing of our whole community.

But this question of human dignity is not only local – it is global.

Across the world, war and violence shatter lives and betray the very things Lent calls us to remember. In recent days, the United States and Israel have conducted airstrikes in Iran that have killed scores of civilians and sparked profound international alarm. Reports from Iranian authorities and global observers indicate that more than 700 civilians have died, including children. One of the most harrowing moments was a strike on a girls’ school in southern Iran, where over 100 school children were reported killed in an attack that shocked the world, drew condemnation from humanitarian organizations, and has resulted in United Nation calls for an investigation.

This violence – whose toll extends far beyond battlefield statistics – reminds us that power without restraint inflicts suffering on the most vulnerable. Abroad, families are losing children. At home, families tremble at the thought of reporting a crime or seeking help for fear of immigration enforcement. In both places, human beings made in the image of God are made to feel less than human.

Our sacred texts are unambiguous in their demand for compassion: “When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the native-born among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33–34). And Jesus leaves us no room for neutrality: “You who are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels, for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me” (Matthew 25:41–43).

Hospitality to the stranger is not an optional extra for the pious. It is the heartbeat of faithful discipleship. To look away from suffering, whether across oceans or at our own doorsteps, is to ignore the Gospel’s core. Lent invites us to repentance: not merely private remorse, but public change. It challenges us to see the stranger not as an abstraction but as someone formed from the same dust as ourselves, worthy of dignity, of welcome, and of protection.

The conflicts unfolding globally, and the fears experienced locally, are reminders that humanity’s shared fragility must be met with shared compassion. If we are to be agents of healing, we must confess the ways we have contributed to systems of violence, whether through silence or complicity, and choose instead to live into the vision of Beloved Community.

For in the end, remembering that we are dust is not a devaluation. It is a summons. A summons to see every person as kin, every life as sacred, and every act of love as resistance against the forces that would divide us.

The Rev. Dr. Jared C. Cramer serves as rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Grand Haven. Information about his parish can be found at www.sjegh.com.