The Migrant Baby: Allá en la puerta un niño se llama Jesús

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, German theologian and martyr, wrote Advent reflections that later appeared in God Is in the Manger, a work that helps the church contemplate the nearness of God in Christ. Advent, for Bonhoeffer, is the season in which we learn again that “God is in the manger, wealth in poverty, light in darkness, succor in abandonment.” [1] In our own historical moment, marked by displacement, border crises, and mass migration, those lines resound with renewed force. The God who enters history in the manger is also the God who enters human vulnerability. The child we behold in the stable is already the migrant baby, the one who comes into a world of danger, tears, and uncertainty.

Advent Through the Eyes of a Child

The Gospel of John tells us that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.” [2] Yet the glory we behold in the infant Jesus is unlike the glory of earthly rulers, for it is the glory of divine humility. Bonhoeffer describes this paradox with characteristic intensity, insisting that “nothing greater can be said, God became a child.” [3] Advent therefore trains the eyes of pastors, lay members, and theologians to see divine life concealed in smallness and vulnerability. To contemplate the Christ child is to encounter the mystery of a God who draws near through fragility rather than force.

This fragility is not sentimental. It is historically concrete. When Herod’s violence threatened the life of the infant Messiah, Joseph and Mary fled with the child to Egypt. Matthew tells us that “he arose, took the young Child and His mother by night and departed for Egypt.” [4] Their escape was not a spiritual metaphor but an urgent migration. The Holy Family crossed borders under the shadow of political violence, carrying the migrant baby who would become the hope of the nations. In this story, Christians discover not only a theological truth but an ethical summons.

Glenn Butner, dogmatic theologian and ethicist, writes in Jesus the Refugee that “in common usage, the word refugee is taken to refer to anyone fleeing danger, but in law, to be a refugee is to possess a status that guarantees certain rights, protections, and opportunities.” [5] The migrant Christ child exposes the distance between the protections refugees should receive and the harsh realities many actually face. Butner goes so far as to wonder aloud, “I wonder if the Lord Jesus Christ was treated in the way refugees are treated in the modern world.” [6] It is a question that should press on pastoral consciences, academic theologians, and ecclesial communities. If Advent is the season in which we await the coming of the Lord, are we prepared to receive Him when He arrives in the form of the migrant and the displaced?

In many societies, fear shapes the response to migration. Bonhoeffer recognized the destructive power of fear when he wrote, “human beings are dehumanized by fear, but they should not be afraid. We should not be afraid.” [7] Fear narrows the moral imagination and obscures the image of God in the face of the migrant. Butner reminds us that “solidarity is rooted in the image of God, which all people bear (Gen 1:26-27).” [8] For Christians, this truth is not an abstract principle but a foundational confession. The migrant at the border is a person made in God’s image, deserving of dignity that governments often fail to honor.

Scripture warns that the presence of Christ may come unrecognized, even rejected. Butner captures this tragic reality when he writes, “Christ is daily turned back after being intercepted outside of our borders, sometimes violently.” [9] Advent reveals that the church does not prepare for a safe or comfortable Christ. Instead, we prepare for the Christ who identifies with “the least of these” and who comes to His people in deeply vulnerable disguises. For this reason, Butner insists, “for Christians, this solidarity is especially owed to refugees, who are among the least of these in solidarity with their Refugee King.” [10] To refuse the migrant is, in some real sense, to refuse the One who became a child for our sake.

Advent Through Puerto Rican Eyes

My own Puerto Rican heritage offers a cultural lens through which the migrant Christ child can be seen with fresh clarity. A beloved Christmas song begins, “A las afueras hay un niño que se llama Jesús, con calzones rotos, descalzo y pelú.” [11] The image is deeply incarnational, a picture of Jesus as the poor child at the edges of society, the one at the door whom many do not want to see. The song continues with painful honesty, speaking of  those who close the door on the child because they are too busy, too afraid, or too prejudiced. It is a musical parable of Advent’s challenge, revealing how easy it is to celebrate Christmas while refusing Christ Himself.

This song echoes the witness of Scripture and the long Christian tradition that sees Christ in the hidden, the hungry, the vulnerable, and the displaced. Jesus Himself teaches that whatever is done “to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.” [12] The song dramatizes what Butner describes when he writes, “we do not visit, clothe, and care for such migrants because we do not know that they exist.” [13] Or perhaps, as the song suggests, we refuse to know. We close the door and claim that the Christ child is safely in heaven, while ignoring the child who knocks on the doorstep of our conscience.

Bonhoeffer warns that “the lowly God man is the scandal of pious people and of people in general.” [14] Advent spirituality confronts this scandal head on. God chooses to identify with the lowly, the neglected, the unseemly. Bonhoeffer writes, “God is near to lowliness; he loves the lost, the neglected, the unseemly, the excluded, the weak and broken.” [15] The migrant baby is not an optional metaphor but a Christological truth that shapes Christian ethics and ecclesial identity. When the church forgets this, it forgets itself.

I have described in the past that the church is a “pilgrim, Spirit led community” that embodies Christ’s presence by offering “sanctuary, compassion, and justice to those who are marginalized, displaced, or in need.” [16] This is Advent ecclesiology. The church exists for others because Christ came for others. The church becomes a sign of God’s kingdom when it creates spaces of welcome for migrants, refugees, and all who journey through danger. Such hospitality is not sentimentality but mission, not charity but fidelity to the incarnate Lord.

The song El Niño Jesús deepens this point through its narrative movement. The people reject the child, accuse Him of being a thief, and insist that He belongs to the margins. “Ciérrale la puerta, no lo quiero aquí” [17] they say, echoing the attitudes Butner critiques. Yet the song refuses to let listeners distance themselves from the child. The repeated refrain reveals the truth: “Jesús, hermano. Jesús, amigo. Jesús, extraño. Jesús, vecino.” [18] These lines are a form of doxological proclamation, insisting that Jesus is found in the neighbor, the stranger, the barrio, and the everyday life of the people. The migrant baby is none other than Jesus Himself.

Butner warns that “a closer examination of justice reveals that the paradigm of humanitarianism is insufficient.” [19] The church’s response to migrants cannot rest on generalized goodwill or seasonal generosity. It must flow from theological conviction, from the recognition that “the mere existence of common grace prohibits our viewing of any culture or people as only a threat.” [20] Advent calls the church to repentance, for “the challenge of Jesus the Refugee is a call to repentance for many Christians that they might show solidarity with Jesus the Refugee by seeing modern refugees as Jesus and act accordingly.” [21] Repentance becomes a form of Advent readiness, a turning of the heart toward the One who comes hidden and vulnerable.

Bonhoeffer reminds the church that “holy theology arises from knees bent before the mystery of the divine child in the stable.” [22] Advent requires contemplation, but it also demands conversion. “Advent creates people, new people. We too are supposed to become new people in Advent.” [23] When we behold the migrant baby, we behold the God who creates new beginnings. Bonhoeffer proclaims that “the throne of God in the world is not on human thrones, but in human depths, in the manger.” [24] Only where God is can there be a new beginning. [25] Advent reveals that God is in the margins, the borderlands, the shelters, and the places of displacement.

Conclusion

The church, therefore, must open the door where others close it. Bonhoeffer asks with piercing simplicity, “Christ is standing at the door, he lives in the form of a human being among us. Do you want to close the door or open it?” [26] Advent places that question before every congregation and every theologian. The migrant baby stands at the threshold of our liturgical season and our ethical decisions. He asks to be seen, welcomed, and loved.

Advent celebrates the coming of the One who journeys toward us. It remembers the God who became a child so that humanity might become new. It invites the church to see in every migrant, every refugee, and every vulnerable child the face of Christ. The song of El Niño Jesús, the witness of Butner, and the prophetic voice of Bonhoeffer converge to proclaim a single truth. Allá en la puerta un niño se llama Jesús. The migrant baby is at the door. May the church have the courage to open it.