Communion at the border wall in Tijuana

There’s a spot at the edge of the continent where a wall plunges into the Pacific Ocean. The border wall between San Diego and Tijuana extends a good 50 feet out, far enough that you can see that if you tried to walk to its end, you’d end up past your depth. This portion of the wall has been there since the 1980s. If you drive east along it, farther into Tijuana proper, you’ll start seeing portions of the wall that have only been there since October and are already beginning to rust in the sea air. This place where the border wall falls into the sea feels like the height of human folly—a literal line in the sand that’s been defended to the death, the starting point of an empire.

I’m here at the wall, on the Tijuana side of the beach, at 1 p.m. on a Sunday. I walk up to it and think about stepping into the ocean, the waves up to my ankles, to rest my hands on the paint-clotted steel. There’s a low mist hanging over the water, and just now the sun is beginning to cut into it. I’m in Tijuana because I’ve seen news reports about tear gas, people sleeping in tents, and parents being separated from their children. I’m here to help do something, but just what that is seems unclear to me.

This afternoon, though, I’m here for church. With the other volunteers, I climb up the beach to Friendship Park, past where deported veterans have painted their names on the wall next to murals and Bible verses, past food vendors and blaring boomboxes and dogs on walks.