Christopher Moraes, a Seminarian of Westminster Diocese, spent three weeks helping out in JRS UK in January 2026, he turned his hand – and admirable height! – to all sorts of practical tasks, effectively helping with the running of the Hurtado Centre, especially the shop.
When I was asked to reflect on my experience with JRS UK, the first image that came to my mind was a door. Not a metaphorical idea at first, but a very concrete one: the door you walk through when you arrive at the Hurtado Centre in Wapping. A simple door, often unnoticed, yet profoundly meaningful. For our refugee friends, that door marks a sharp contrast with much of what they experience outside: suspicion, rejection, indifference, and sometimes open hostility. Inside, the door opens onto something different — welcome, safety, and recognition.
For many refugees, doors have not been symbols of hospitality. They have been closed borders, locked offices, slammed opportunities. Doors that say no, not here, not you. Against this background, the open door of JRS UK speaks a different language. It says: you are expected, you are valued, you belong. Even before a word is spoken, that door communicates dignity.
As a seminarian, this image has taken on a particular depth for me. My experience with JRS has taught me that at the heart of ministry lies something far simpler and far more demanding: the ability to open a door and remain present. In welcoming the stranger, I am continually reminded of the Gospel call to encounter Christ in those who are displaced, wounded, and forgotten. What strikes me most is how deeply this welcome is felt. You can see it in the way people enter — sometimes hesitantly, sometimes with visible relief. There is often a mixture of tiredness and hope in their eyes. Many carry stories of loss that cannot be told quickly or easily: separation from family, the trauma of conflict, the humiliation of being treated as a problem rather than a person. And yet, when they cross that threshold, something shifts. The atmosphere changes. They are no longer reduced to a label. They are welcomed as friends.
For those of us who have the privilege of opening that door, this is not a small thing. It is a responsibility and a gift. Opening the door means choosing encounter over fear, presence over distance. It means allowing ourselves to be interrupted, challenged, and enriched by lives very different from our own. What happens beyond the door is not the erasure of pain. JRS is not a place where suffering magically disappears. The wounds are real, and many might remain unresolved. Conversations often touch on uncertainty, waiting, and grief. Yet, within that shared space, something else emerges: joy. Not a naive or superficial happiness, but a joy that coexists with pain. A joy born of being seen and heard, of laughing together, of sharing food, stories, and moments of lightness even after everything that has been endured.
I have been deeply moved by how much generosity exists among people who have so little. Despite their own suffering, refugee friends often show remarkable kindness, humour, and concern for others. The door opens both ways. While we may think we are the ones offering welcome, we soon realise that we too are being received — into their resilience, their cultures, their wisdom, and their hope.
In the end, that door remains for me the strongest symbol of JRS. An open door that does not deny the harshness of the world outside, but refuses to let it have the final word. A door that creates space for encounter, restores dignity, and allows love to take flesh in simple, everyday ways. And every time it opens, it reminds us that hospitality is not just something we offer — it is something that transforms us all.
