Hello, Maria: When the Gospel Wears a Face

Today I visited María at a detention center. Of course, her name is not really María. María does not attend my church and, honestly, I do not know whether she attends any church. But there is one thing I do know: María is part of my community.

For a long time, at least once a week, after our morning prayer, my wife and I would go to La Michoacana for breakfast around 6:30 a.m. María was always there. She started work at 5:30 in the morning and finished around 4:00 in the afternoon. She welcomed us and served us breakfast. She already knew what I wanted: two chicharrón tacos in green salsa, with plenty of spicy habanero salsa.

And that detail is not insignificant.

I am originally from Venezuela. I did not grow up eating tacos for breakfast, and spicy food is not naturally part of our cuisine either. But being an immigrant taught me something beautiful: when you arrive in another land, you do not simply learn its streets and customs; you also learn to sit at its table, enjoy its flavors and, above all, love its people.

Today, I did not find María behind a counter.

And this is where something happened that I will never forget.

During all that time, I never told María that I was a pastor. She never knew. To her, my wife and I were simply that couple who came in early for breakfast. She always treated us like any other customers, without titles, without positions, without knowing who I was beyond that table.

María also had no idea who had requested to visit her today.

I had gone through the process with the detention center as a member of the clergy and requested a pastoral visit with her. When I walked in wearing my clerical collar and María saw me, her expression changed. She looked at me in surprise and said, “Wow!” She began to cry, hugged me, and wept like an inconsolable child… “What a surprise!” she said. “I didn’t know you were a pastor.”

For a moment, the woman who had served me so many mornings realized that this time, I had come to serve her.

I found her detained, waiting for a deportation flight.

María is over 65 years old. Based on what I know of her situation, she committed no crime, she never failed to appear for her immigration appointments, and she was not running from justice. She was simply that hardworking woman who, morning after morning, got up earlier than most of us to serve breakfast to others.

Today I embraced María.

And we cried together.

There are moments when you discover that the Gospel ceases to be only something we preach from a pulpit and becomes the person standing in front of us.

Today, María could not serve me my two tacos.

Today, it was my turn to serve her with the only things I could bring through those doors: my presence, my embrace, my prayer, and the assurance that, even behind those walls, her life still carries all the dignity God gave her.

Because before an immigration case file, before a number, before a deportation order, there is a human being created in the image and likeness of God.

And today, the words of Jesus have another face for me:

Matthew 25:36: “…I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

Today I went to visit María.

But perhaps, in some way, it was Christ who was waiting for me there.