Misrepresented: A Christian Reflection on Migration and Compassion
“Whoever loves much, does much.– Thomas à Kempis
You know the story of Nero who spread the rumour that it was the Christians who burned down Rome. Nothing new. I heard a brief comment on the radio this week; the kind of careless sentence that slips by in a hurry and claiming that Christians are among those most eager to end migration to Britain. It sounded authoritative, but it was wrong. And not just wrong in detail, but wrong in spirit. It reduced a living, breathing faith to a caricature. It painted over centuries of Christian compassion with a single, broad, misleading stroke.
The truth, known to anyone who has walked beside a church community in this country, is very different. I know of no Christians who are hostile to migrants as people. Quite the opposite. Across Britain, churches quietly run food banks where hungry families — many of them newly arrived — find not just bread but dignity. Volunteers give their evenings to teach English classes in draft driven halls. Congregations collect clothing and furniture for those starting again from nothing. Christians sit with the lonely, comfort the traumatised, and help them navigate bureaucracies that even the strong find bewildering. If that is not compassion, what is.
The recent marches in London that some commentators have hastily labelled “anti-migrant” were, in fact, driven largely by concerns over free speech and the erosion of open debate. Many Christians were there, not to close Britain’s borders but to keep its conscience awake — to insist that the freedom to speak, question, and even disagree is essential to a healthy democracy. They marched not against migrants, but against the silencing of voices — their own and others’ — in a time when labels like “hateful” or “extremist” are too easily thrown at those who simply ask difficult questions.
And there are difficult questions. No Christian is naïve about the complexities of migration. Among those seeking refuge from war and persecution, there are some who exploit the system, some who arrive with criminal intent, and some whose cultural attitudes towards women and the vulnerable clash painfully with the values we hold dear. It is not unchristian to recognise these realities. In fact, discernment — the ability to “test everything and hold fast to what is good” (1 Thessalonians 5:21) — is part of our calling. To ignore wrongdoing or excuse injustice is not compassion; it is negligence. A love that is blind to evil is not love at all.
But acknowledging such realities does not make Christians enemies of migrants. It makes them realists — people who believe that mercy and justice must walk hand in hand. The Christian vision is not one of unguarded borders or unthinking policies; it is one of hearts open to those in need and societies wise enough to protect the vulnerable from harm. That balance is not easy, but it is essential.
It is also worth remembering that Christianity itself is a migrant story. From Abraham leaving his homeland to follow God’s call, to Moses leading a people out of oppression, to Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with their infant son, the Scriptures are filled with journeys. Even the church’s birth was marked by scattering — apostles and disciples carrying good news across borders and continents. To follow Christ is, in many ways, to embrace movement, to live as “strangers and pilgrims on the earth” (Hebrews 11:13), seeking a better country.
That is why so many Christians feel an instinctive kinship with the displaced and the uprooted. They see Christ in the refugee who arrives with nothing but hope. They remember his words: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35). And they act on them, often without fanfare or recognition, because love is not a political slogan but a command.
It is deeply unfair, then, when Christians are painted as the architects of hostility. Such portrayals ignore the daily acts of service that define church life across Britain — the meals prepared, the donations gathered, the friendships offered without condition. They erase the countless quiet conversations where trauma is heard and healing begins. And they betray a misunderstanding of what motivates Christian concern: not hatred of the stranger, but love of truth, love of neighbour, and a longing for a society that is both welcoming and just.
We should challenge false narratives wherever they arise. They flatten the rich, complex reality of Christian engagement into something crude and cynical. And worse, they risk discouraging the very compassion they claim to champion. If those who serve are constantly told they are suspect, some may lose heart. It is better, surely, to tell the fuller story — one that honours both the kindness Christians show and the wisdom they seek.
The migration debate is not going away. It will remain a test of our values, our policies, and our hearts. But as Christians, we must not allow ourselves to be misrepresented or silenced. We must continue to welcome the stranger, to help those in need, and to speak honestly about the challenges we face. Compassion and caution are not enemies; they are partners. And when held together under the lordship of Christ, they can shape a society that protects the vulnerable without losing its soul.
The radio claim was wrong. Christians are not the ones turning their backs on the stranger. More often than not, they are the ones standing beside them — with food, with language lessons, with friendship, and with prayer. That is the story worth telling. That is the faith I know.
Image by Copilot
