Build the Wall. Open the Door.

Justice without love is cruelty. Love without law is chaos. We must refuse both.

Most people talk about immigration like it’s a fight between two values: security or compassion, law or love, justice or mercy. But what if that’s the wrong framework entirely?

What if the greatest danger isn’t picking the wrong side — but thinking we have to pick at all? What if the greatest injustice is refusing to demand both?

That’s the argument I want to make here:

• Not for balance

• Not for compromise

• Not for “living in the tension.”

I’m arguing for something far more uncomfortable. I’m arguing for a radical commitment on both sides — 100% justice and 100% mercy. Absolute border enforcement. And absolute compassion. Not half of each. But full, disciplined versions of both. Because anything less is not justice. It’s another form of harm.

Injustice is (also) what we refuse to do.

We’re used to thinking of injustice as something active: cruelty, prejudice, violence. But the truth is, injustice also happens through neglect. When we refuse to tell the truth. When we look away. When we choose policy paralysis instead of moral clarity.

And that’s exactly what has happened with immigration.

A government that refuses to protect its border commits an injustice — not only against its citizens, but against the people seeking refuge legally through the front door. A porous system erodes public trust, punishes the rule-followers, and rewards those who jump the line.

But a government that builds a wall while locking the door also commits an injustice. Because it forgets that behind every knock is a face — a child, a father, a family, not unlike our own, made in the image of God, following a path many of our ancestors also walked before us.

When We Abuse Generosity, Everyone Pays

America has always had a generous heart. Historically, we've led the world in welcoming the refugee and the migrant. But we have forgotten that our generosity always depended on something fragile: trust.

When leaders stop enforcing the law, and our borders feel wide open, Americans feel manipulated, like their compassion has been weaponized for a nefarious political end. In good faith, Americans agreed to a deal — “If you welcome the hurting, if you open your home, we will only take who we must. Who we can.” When that deal is violated, the pendulum swings. And when it swings, it hits the most vulnerable first.

I’ve been to the border. I’ve watched this cycle with my own eyes.

I spoke with a Mexican father who had lived in Mississippi for years. He worked hard, paid taxes, and raised daughters who are now U.S. citizens. But one day, after rolling through a stop sign, he was deported and hasn’t seen his children in ten years. Some would say justice was finally served. But it didn’t feel like justice. It felt like the punishment for our own cowardice, a country that allowed him to build a life for a decade without ever requiring him to resolve his status. We delayed truth. And then we acted with sudden, brutal precision. Two wrongs. Nothing right.

And then there was the father from Honduras — traveling with his wife and daughter, walking and hitchhiking through cartel territory to escape gang violence. The left side of his body completely limp from a failed gang execution, this man hobbled thousands of miles with only one regret, “that I didn’t save the bullet to show the judge, so I can prove my story”. Again, this didn’t feel like a typical border crosser. It felt like a testimony of resilience, one that in today’s charged climate will likely end in rejection.

But not all stories call for compassion. Some require the law. On another trip to Honduras, I met a tattooed young man who bragged that he had crossed the border more times than he could count. He worked under the table (construction, drugs, whatever paid) then returned home to live like a king. He wasn’t escaping anything. He was exploiting a broken system. And the more we allow it, the more cynical Americans become, not just toward men like him, but toward men like the one fleeing gang violence.

These three stories point in different directions. But they all reveal the same truth: we’ve lost our ability to see clearly. We've allowed political malice to replace moral reasoning. We've flattened complex human lives into slogans and tribal positions. We don’t want to parse. We want to punish.

In one case, we created the harm, delaying justice until it became cruelty.
In another, we allowed the harm, a man cheating a system we refuse to fix.
And in the third, we’ll likely deny justice to a man who actually deserves it because someone else broke trust before he got here.

These aren’t abstract problems. These are people. And they deserve more than our outrage. They deserve clarity. Discipline. Generosity. And above all — justice that doesn’t swing with the headlines, but stands firm in truth.

The Lie of the Middle Ground

Let me be clear: I’m not advocating for some “nuanced tension” or a soft, palatable blend of left and right. I hate that kind of talk.

I’m not talking about balance. I’m talking about radicalism. I’m talking about a zero-tolerance border, real enforcement, without loopholes or delay.

And I’m talking about a radically generous immigration policy, one that demands sacrifices from everyday Americans to welcome every single person we can afford to help, without compromising the care we owe to those already here.

This is not a centrist compromise. This is a politically inconvenient kind of righteousness. A Christianity that doesn’t fit into parties.

Jesus didn’t walk a squishy middle. He pushed the radical edge. He said lust is no longer just physical but can also occupy your mind. He said anger is no longer just an emotion, it plants the seeds of murder. He raised the bar on the covenant of marriage, saying Moses permitted divorce because we were too hard-hearted to obey the real standard. He didn’t let us off the hook when it came to the tithe; instead, out of our compassion, He told us to sell everything we don’t need and give it away.

Christ calls us to more than ideological consistency. He calls us to moral extremism. Full of grace. Full of truth. Nothing less.

To the Reader Who Feels Trapped

If you’re reading this and feel torn between extremes — like you’re being asked to choose between justice and mercy — know this: You’re not alone. And you’re not wrong.

It is not bigotry to demand a strong border. It is not cruel to enforce the law. It is justice.

But it is also not just to live in abundance and deny others the opportunity that gave us this life. To do so is to forsake the legacy we’ve inherited.

So don’t compromise. Don’t balance. Be radical. Call for accountability. Insist on order. And demand that our nation set a generous example, using our abundance to bless others.

Let the world argue over left and right.
Let the Church be known for truth and grace, in full.

That’s not politics. That’s true discipleship.