I am a member of clergy. And I am also a citizen. I write this because silence in this moment is not neutrality — it is abdication.

The church has a role in democracy. Not a partisan role — but a moral one.

Democracy does not sustain itself, it is not self-executing. It lives only through truth-telling, witness, and participation from us, including from the pulpit.

And the church is not meant to be a refuge where we hide, heads in the sand, while the world around us continues to crumble.

We are living in a moment when empire — as expressed through this administration and through ICE — wields fear and violence as tools of control. This is not abstract. This is happening in real neighborhoods, to real people, right now.

Renee Good was her name. She was murdered at the crossroads of 34th and Portland.

Alex Pretti was his name. He was murdered at the crossroads of 26th and Nicollet.

These are places where mercy met a movement. This is where pain became purpose. Where love refused to stay quiet. Where compassion took public form.

Taken at the hands of empire responding to dissent with force, moments like these confront faith communities with hard questions: What are we here for? Do faith communities still have a role?

My answer is yes — but only if we are willing to move beyond words. Faith communities matter only when faith becomes embodied. Our spirituality anchors our morals. And our morals must anchor our actions. Otherwise, they are just ideas we admire from a distance.

So the real question is: Are we living our morals?

Here is what I believe faith communities can — and must — be doing now:

  1. We use our pulpits not to soothe, but to tell the truth — naming cruelty when it shows up, and refusing the false idol of Christian nationalism wherever it disguises itself as faith.
  2. We educate our congregations — about people’s rights, about the realities of immigration enforcement, about how fear is manufactured and used — so no one can claim ignorance as innocence.
  3. We offer our buildings and our bodies as places of sanctuary, as sites of accompaniment, as visible witnesses when vulnerable neighbors are targeted. Presence matters. Visibility matters.
  4. We organize, not just pray — partnering with immigrant-led groups, legal advocates, and community organizers, following their leadership rather than centering our own comfort.
  5. We show up publicly — nonviolently — at city council meetings, court dates, vigils, and protests — wearing our collars, our stoles, our faith symbols, so the power of the empire knows it is being watched by a moral community.

And we care for one another — because courage requires community, and burnout helps no one. We build practices of grounding, grief, care and resilience, so this work can be sustained.

I would remind those engaged in the empire’s cruel and violent tactics that they have agency. That they are not powerless cogs in a cruel machine. If they are not in the military, they can say “no more.” They can walk away.

So I stand here today at the crossroads of conscience — not with fear, not with resignation, but with resolve. We refuse fear as a governing strategy. We refuse cruelty as policy. And we choose love — not as sentiment, but as disciplined, public, costly action.

I will not be silent. I will not look away. I will continue to stand with communities at the crossroads — where mercy still meets movement, and where love, justice, and courage are not ideas, but lived commitments.