We are all exiles. Not immigrants, although some of us are immigrants as well. Exiles. When I was growing up in the early '60's we heard a lot about exiles. It was the time when Fidel Castro had taken power in Cuba, and plenty of folks, a lot of them Catholic, fled to Miami to escape what they expected would be persecutionof supporters of the former government in Cuba. They congregated in a part of town that quickly became known as Little Havana. They lived in Florida, even became U.S. citizens, but their intention was always to go back to Cuba when they could. Cuba was where their heart was, where they belonged, what they called home. The Middle East is full of exiles, people who live where they live not by choice but because they were forced to do so. It is their intention to go "home" when they can. That's what makes an exile, as opposed to an immigrant. Immigrants leave their home for a better life, often voluntarily. Most of us are decendants of people like that, people who left Europe not because they were forced to do so (although that certainly did happen sometimes) but because America promised opportunities that Europe lacked. I can recall my grandmother, who spent a lot of time with her German-speaking grandparents, talking about how her grandparents marvelled at all the land in late-19th century Wisconsin that no one owned, that could be yours if you were willing to live on it and work it. Nothing like that existed in their native Germany. My great-great-grandparents were immigrants. They had no intention of going back to Germany. Sometimes the distinction can get pretty blurry these days. There are plenty of people who come to our southern border whom we call immigrants-- because they are coming to the U.S. voluntarily to try to establish a better life-- who could more-properly be called exiles. I talked to one man from Honduras at the Hennepin County Jail on Wednesday who was full of information about how violent and dangerous life is in his native country. Sure, he left "volunatrily" in some sense, but I'll bet he would love to go back home if and when conditions permit it. He's just not sure they ever will. But there is no doubt about our situation as human beings-- we are exiles, although we often forget it. Our home is not here, our heart is not (or should not be) here, our longing is to be elsewhere. Our longing is to be with God in heaven. Sure, we sometimes act like immigrants. We make the best of our life here on earth. We often prioritize getting along in our new country, as opposed to imagining our heavenly existence. We can even get so taken with the glitz and pleasure, and even pain, of our temporary home that we forget the fact of our exile. But exiles we are, and that comes out very clearly in today's Gospel reading about the Transfiguration (Mk 9: 2-13). Jesus takes Peter, James and John up on a high mountain, and gives them a glimpse of His heavenly existence. Moses and Elijah appear with Him, conversing with Jesus. The disciples are both terrified and overwhelmed with a desire to stay there. Peter says: "Rabbi, it is good that we are here!" It is so good, in fact, that Peter wants to built tents for Jesus, Moses and Elijah so they can all stay in this experience. It is a touch of home. It is, for a brief moment, a return to where the disciples belong, an end to their exile. Yes, we have a life to live on this earth, and we should live it as well as we can. But let's resist the urge to think that this is other than a time in exile. Let's resist the urge to think our life here is permenent, that we should put down roots on earth and put our real home out of our mind. When we first existed, so long ago, we were with God in perfect peace and happiness. We have endured a long exile, an exile which Jesus came to end. He wants to lead us back to where we truly belong. He wants us to be exiles no longer.