In the midst of starkly negative political rhetoric surrounding African Americans and immigrants in 2016, Bucher envisioned a welcoming, multilingual sign as a way to support their neighbors in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Now, more than 1,500 signs were spread throughout the U.S. and the world in the past three years.
Even with the sign’s proliferation, its simple message is greatly informed by Bucher’s experiences and continuously re-enacted in the way he treats others. His life serves as a testament to his deep-rooted belief in those words: “No matter where you are from, we’re glad you’re our neighbor.”
“I came up with the words, but I really think it grows of out of my parents’ teaching, extended family, my time in Egypt and the teaching I received in this neighborhood and this church [Immanuel],” Bucher said.
Living on a small dairy farm in Pennsylvania, Bucher’s parents hosted a number of foster children both before Bucher was born and continued to do so throughout his childhood, striving to provide a model of restorative justice for their children.
“I saw them modeling Christian love, I saw them modeling restorative justice. I didn’t know what it was called at that point,” Bucher said.
Listen to: "A Lesson from His Parents.”The farm was also where Bucher got his first tastes of the world’s diversity. Visitors from all over the world — including his sister’s friends from college, a foreign exchange student from Japan and numerous people from the Church of the Brethren in Nigeria — spent time at the house with the family.
“I got to meet people from around the world and throughout our community on the farm,” Bucher said.
While studying at Messiah College, Bucher minored in peace studies, which allowed him to learn about social justice, war and peacemaking from a Biblical perspective. For his practicum, he went on a trip to Bethlehem and Hebron with Christian Peacemaker Teams, an experience he calls “formative.” They explored what it means to be “in the way,” a term with dual meanings. Early Christians were referred to as being “in the way,” but the group also wanted to explore what it means to put one’s body “in the way” of violence.
When he graduated, Bucher applied to Mennonite Central Committee (MCC), and was offered a position working with a Coptic Orthodox Church in Egypt. Experiencing the hospitality offered to him during the four years he lived in the Bishop’s residence—where he frequency met other visitors from Egypt and around the world—inspired Bucher. The church looked to a story in the Bible as their motivation to show hospitality: Joseph, Mary, and Jesus came to—and were received in—Egypt as political refugees.
“It’s this place that is highly shaped by hospitality 2,000 years ago, and it continues to permeate even today,” Bucher said.
Post-Egypt, Bucher moved to Harrisonburg to attend Seminary at Eastern Mennonite University, where he earned master’s degrees in conflict transformation and divinity. He began attending Immanuel, and he started an internship during the fall of 2013.
That interest in peacemaking and racial inequality led him to try to understand Newtown, which is only a block away from Immanuel, and the factors that have impacted its current state. During his internship, he knocked on every door in the neighborhood to meet members of the community. Even though not everyone answered, he was impressed by the hospitality he did receive.
When he moved into Newtown and became the pastor in July 2015, he was already accepted by the community because of the positive reputation of the church.
“I am extended trust in this community because of connections folks have handed me,” Bucher said. “That’s an incredible gift.”
Although he did inherit some connections, Bucher has forged his own relationships in the community. Denominational and racial differences often cause demonization and disunity between congregations, but Bucher has refused to let happen between Immanuel and surrounding churches. He has built strong relationships with First Baptist Church, which is a primarily African-American church whose original building was destroyed during urban renewal, John Wesley United Methodist Church and Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church.
“Sharing those services has been a really amazing way of being together, even though there are denominational differences,” Bucher said. They openly acknowledge their differences in beliefs and “name Christ as primary in our worship and life, even amidst differences.”
It’s not just other Protestant churches that Bucher tries to connect with. He attends meetings for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) and open houses at the local Mosque.
Listen to: “On the Other Side of the Sign”
While giving the neighbors a message of acceptance was one of his original intentions, his reasoning was two-fold.
“I really meant it as a challenge, quite honestly, to my own congregation,” Bucher said. “It’s a blessing because the congregation was already doing this.”
As the sign has grown in popularity, some have misinterpreted its message as a political statement. When someone on Facebook challenged Bucher, claiming that the sign was political, Bucher responded in a rather unconventional way: he invited them to sit down and talk. By taking the time to have a conversation at a local coffee shop, Bucher was able to communicate what he couldn’t online:
“This is not a red [Republican] sign or a blue [Democrat] sign,” says Bucher. “We feel called as followers of Jesus to live this way.”