Sacred Partnerships: When Faith Meets Action

The power of unexpected partnerships is beautifully illustrated in the relationship between St. James Episcopal Church in Upper Montclair and the Lighthouse, a ministry serving asylum seekers and immigrants. What began as a chance hallway encounter between Reverend Melissa Hall and Jill Singleton has blossomed into a sacred partnership that exemplifies what it means to truly live the gospel message.

The genesis of this relationship came from a simple moment of need - an immigrant family stranded in California needed transportation funds to reach safety. Without hesitation, Reverend Melissa offered assistance, not realizing this would be the first step in a profound two-year journey. The turning point came when they met the family in person, seeing a grateful husband, wife and their beautiful baby. "That's the ministry. There are the people," Reverend Melissa reflected, "We were hooked, as we should have been from the very beginning." This genuine encounter with real people in need transformed abstract charity into meaningful relationship.

The partnership deepened when Reverend Audrey Hasselbrook arranged for the church's confirmation class to participate in service at the Lighthouse. What began as simple cleaning tasks quickly evolved into something much more significant - doing things together with the residents. This collaborative approach shifted the dynamic from "doing for" to "being with," transforming both the young participants and the adults who accompanied them. The experience awakened in them a recognition that everyone has gifts and skills to share, establishing common ground between helper and helped. This revelation led church members to realize they could contribute in ways they hadn't previously considered.

One particularly touching story involved a cooking lesson provided to David, a guest from Ghana who had never learned to cook. Through this simple act of teaching someone how to prepare a basic chicken stew, dignity was restored and independence was fostered. David not only mastered that recipe but gained the confidence to expand his culinary skills through YouTube videos, even recreating dishes from his own culture. For the youth of St. James, this interaction transformed David from an abstract concept of "immigrant" into a real person with whom they formed friendship. Their enthusiasm sparked further engagement, with the children initiating a Christmas party for their new friends at the Lighthouse.

From a theological perspective, this partnership challenges parishioners to move beyond comfortable proclamations to responsible action. As Reverend Melissa powerfully articulated, "God, or Jesus, loves without condition. We're called to love our neighbors no matter who they are. We proclaim that every Sunday... If this is what you proclaim, then you need to take responsibility for it." The presence of asylum seekers confronts congregants with the lived demands of the gospel in ways they cannot ignore. Every corner of the church's ministry - from a pantry on the front lawn to AA meetings to the Lighthouse partnership - challenges members to put faith into action.

For churches wondering how they can make a difference despite limited capacity, the clergy of St. James offer profound guidance: focus on helping one person at a time. Referencing Jesus' statement that "the poor will always be with you," Reverend Melissa reframes this not as cause for despair but as an ongoing invitation to ministry. "You make a difference for one. You feed one hungry person... For that moment, for that day... dignity, respect, they are seen, they have been heard, and they've been cared for." This principle of starting small but acting meaningfully provides hope for congregations of any size to engage in transformative outreach.

From Detention to Determination: Jose's Unbreakable Will

Jose's story begins with a harrowing journey. At just 19 years old, he fled violence in Honduras and arrived at the U.S. border in October 2015, hoping to find safety and eventually join family members in Miami. Instead, he was apprehended by immigration authorities and thrown into a labyrinth of detention that would consume the next 18 months of his young life—with no explanation, no guidance, and initially, no legal representation.

The brutal realities of immigration detention in America are laid bare through Jose's experiences. After 11 days in a Texas facility, he was awakened at 3 AM, handcuffed at both wrists and ankles, and transported to an airport. No one explained where he was going or why. "I was afraid because I think they're going to deport me back," Jose recalls. This profound uncertainty—the feeling of having no control over one's fate—is a recurring theme in the lives of asylum seekers navigating the U.S. immigration system.

Upon arrival in New Jersey, Jose was placed in Delaney Hall detention center, where he would spend six months without legal counsel or visitation from family or friends. The isolation was crushing. With no money and no support network, Jose was entirely dependent on a system that offered him neither information nor compassion. It wasn't until he had been detained for half a year that he began to understand the process by observing other detainees' comings and goings. The absence of official information meant that detained immigrants were left to piece together their situations through observation and word of mouth, creating a community of the abandoned.

The conditions Jose endured at Elizabeth Detention Center, where he was transferred after six months, were particularly degrading. Forty to forty-five people were housed in a single large room with no privacy, even for using the toilet. For this naturally shy and gentle person, such conditions were especially traumatic. "All the time I was in my bed, laying in my bed because I don't want to speak to nobody," Jose explains. The psychological toll of seeing others released while he remained detained drove him into depression. Yet when he sought mental health support, he was dismissively told, "You don't have depression, what you want is to get out."

Perhaps most striking is the economic exploitation within detention centers. Jose worked in the kitchen for $1 per day, saving up for two weeks to afford a one-minute phone call to his mother—just enough time to reassure her that he was okay, concealing his true suffering to protect her from worry. The commissary charged exorbitant prices for basic necessities: $35 for a long-sleeve shirt in the cold New Jersey winter, with detainees given only a single thin blanket for warmth.

After 18 months, Jose was finally released with help from a pro bono lawyer and an LGBTQ organization that assisted with his $20,000 bond—significantly higher than the $5,000 typically assigned to others. Even then, freedom came with a price tag: $420 monthly to rent an ankle monitor, with the threat of re-detention if he failed to pay. The injustice of this financial burden on someone who had just endured 18 months of dollar-a-day wages exemplifies how the system creates nearly insurmountable barriers for those seeking asylum.

Jose found refuge at The Lighthouse, which became a lifeline during his transition. Eight years after his arrival in the United States, his asylum case has been approved, but his journey isn't over. He must return to Honduras—the country he fled in fear—for an interview to complete his green card process. The prospect terrifies him, especially given the violence that claimed his mother's life there. "I don't want to go back to my country... I feel so sad. I don't want to go back, but I don't have a choice," he says, highlighting how even "successful" asylum cases can involve re-traumatization.

Throughout this ordeal, what sustained Jose was thinking about his mother and his desire to create a better life. Now married and building a family in the U.S., he gives back by supporting current Lighthouse guests, bringing them clothing, food, and even taking families on outings. His story is one of extraordinary resilience and compassion—qualities that have allowed him to survive and ultimately thrive despite a system seemingly designed to break the human spirit.

From Ghana to Freedom: Kofi's Asylum Journey

The journey of asylum seekers to the United States is often misunderstood and oversimplified. Behind each asylum case is a human story filled with courage, sacrifice, and hope. In our latest podcast episode, we meet Kofi, a Ghanaian asylum seeker whose powerful narrative challenges common misconceptions and highlights the critical role of The Lighthouse.

Kofi's journey began not with the United States as his destination, but simply with the desire to find a safe haven for his family. Facing persecution in Ghana, Kofi, his wife, and their two young sons initially traveled to Nicaragua, where Ghanaians can enter without a visa. However, upon arrival, Kofi quickly realized that Nicaragua's high crime rates, frequent kidnappings, and significant language barriers made it unsuitable for rebuilding their lives. Through connections with other migrants, Kofi learned about the human rights protections offered in the United States and made the difficult decision to undertake the dangerous journey northward.

The family's trek from Nicaragua to the United States border represents one of the most perilous migration routes in the world. With financial assistance from friends, church members, and a professor back in Ghana, they traversed multiple countries: from Nicaragua to Honduras, then Guatemala, and finally Mexico. Each border crossing came with its own dangers and financial costs, requiring payments to guides and sometimes bribes to officials. Perhaps the most harrowing segment was crossing a river between Guatemala and Mexico, where the family had to walk across a narrow fallen tree. Kofi vividly describes his wife's terror and his own silent prayer that if anyone should fall, it would be him rather than his family. The visceral fear and determination in this moment encapsulates the impossible choices many asylum seekers face.

Upon reaching the United States, Kofi and his family encountered another formidable challenge: navigating the complex and backlogged asylum system. After nearly two years in the country, Kofi's case is still pending, with his next court date scheduled for 2026. This extended legal limbo is typical for asylum seekers, who must wait at least 150 days before even becoming eligible to apply for work authorization. During this critical waiting period, asylum seekers receive no government support, creating a seemingly impossible situation for those without established connections in the country.

This is where The Lighthouse became a lifeline. Kofi emphatically credits The Lighthouse with his family's survival and progress, calling them "my backbone" and "our life wire." The Lighthouse provided essential support: food, clothing, school supplies for the children, health insurance, and even funding for Kofi's wife to become a Certified Nursing Assistant. This comprehensive support enabled the family not just to survive but to begin building productive lives while awaiting their asylum determination. Kofi himself has obtained work authorization and is now employed, while his children are thriving in school, with his oldest son even receiving academic excellence awards.

Kofi's story powerfully counters the harmful narrative that immigrants and asylum seekers are criminals. As he eloquently states, "The perception about immigrants being criminals is false, false, false. It's never true." His family's journey, struggles, and success with the support of The Lighthouse demonstrate how asylum seekers can become valuable contributors to their communities when given the opportunity and appropriate support. Kofi's aspirations for his children – including his hope that his oldest son becomes a lawyer to "fight for the immigrant" and "fight for people who are less privileged" – reflect the profound gratitude and desire to give back that many asylum seekers feel toward the country that ultimately provides them refuge.

Lighthouse provides asylees with a home away from home in a new land

As Usman (a pseudonym) was describing his harrowing 10-week journey from Ghana through 10 countries to get to the U.S., Mama Jill was kindly asking the Spanish-speaking children running around the living room to calm down en espanol. It worked for a few minutes. A Guatemalan mother brought me some tea and a snack from the kitchen.

It felt like being in a home where there is a lot of love shared by grateful people.

Immigrants Tell Harrowing Tales Of Crossing U.S. Southern Border Before Relocating In Tri-State Area

About 6,000 people show up at the U.S. southern border each day. It has led to an unprecedented border crisis.

CBS2's Kevin Rincon has a look at why so many immigrants are willing to leave everything behind, and what those in our area are doing to help give them a new beginning.

The trip across the southern border is dangerous.

For Maria and her teenage daughter, it felt like their only option.

New home for refugees and asylees opens in Union City

Rev. Deacon Jill Singleton is the chaplain at the Lighthouse. The Lighthouse, a new home for refugees and asylees in Union City, is welcoming its first tenants.

In Union City, ‘a beacon’ for asylees who need a home

In 2016, Hoboken resident Jill Singleton, a deacon at the Episcopal St. Paul’s and Church of the Incarnation in Jersey City, had what she describes as the “one true vision that I’ve ever had in my life.”

The Asylum Paradox

Ilbouto Micheline began listing the countries represented by the little flags lined up on the mantelpiece of the former church rectory where she lives: Cameroon, Guatemala, Ethiopia. These are the places where Micheline’s current and former housemates fled from — immigrants who have won asylum from 42 countries over the past year.

Micheline pointed to the flag of Burkina Faso, the western African nation that she escaped amid life-threatening violence four years ago. Today, she lives in and manages this two-story home known as The Lighthouse, a temporary residence in Jersey City, for those released from immigration detention after seeking asylum to stay in the United States. 

"I Was Just Looking for Safety": Applying for Asylum in America

Cesar Garcia, 18, asylum seeker from Honduras, sits on his bed at 'The Lighthouse,' an organization in New Jersey that provides shelter to immigrants released from detention facilities. ( Fred Conrad / WNYC )

A parish opens its doors to asylees

Monsy Alvarado, Staff Writer, @MonsyAlvarado

"Abu Kassim and Mahmud Horsa fled Ethiopia in September to escape the persecution and killings targeted at their ethnic community. Around the same time, Selvin Martinez headed north from his home country of Honduras after he said he was robbed and beaten while working as a cabdriver."

(Photo: Michael Karas/Northjersey.com)