Sanctuary: Defending faith and humanity against fear

The sun had barely risen, casting a pale, hesitant light over a land that seemed unsure of itself, when the news came down like a hammer on an old anvil.

The announcement wasn’t made with fanfare, nor with the solemnity one might expect from something so grave. No, it was delivered with the cold efficiency of machinery, as if humanity were an afterthought in the wheels of government.

The incoming administration had decided—coolly, confidently—that the delicate and sacred spaces where people sought solace and refuge would no longer be protected. Schools, churches, hospitals—places where the world was meant to pause its cruelty—would now stand exposed.

Journalist shoots photos through border wall outside San Diego/ACLU

It was the kind of thing that made a person stop in the middle of their work, a wrench slipping from a grease-slicked hand, or a plow left to idle in the middle of a furrow. It wasn’t the surprise of it, but the weight. You see, people are rarely shocked anymore, but they are still wounded.

Churches, though—that was the part that stuck in the craw. You could hear it whispered in coffee shops and murmured after Sunday services, the question hanging heavy in the air: “If even the sanctuary is not safe, what then?” It felt like more than an infringement; it felt like a betrayal of something old, older than the country itself, older than politics, older than the idea of law.

Trump’s new ICE policy attacks the church.

We must actively resist policies that break up innocent families, deport people back to situations where their lives are at risk and create so much social strife.

For generations, the idea of sanctuary had been a sacred trust. It was not a thing that governments granted, but something that humanity, in its better moments, demanded of itself. The Hebrews had their cities of refuge, places where those who had erred could find safety and time to plead their case.

The early Christians had their open doors, their bread broken for the hungry, their arms open to the stranger. And always, there was the understanding that to shelter the vulnerable was not just a choice—it was a duty.

Even when the world grew darker, as it always seems to do, people still clung to that duty. The Quakers and their quiet rebellion, smuggling men and women to freedom beneath the noses of tyrants. The Ten Boom family, who sheltered Dutch Jews from the Nazis, and paid in blood and tears for their insistence that no law, however harshly written, could eclipse the call of the heart.

And more recently, the congregations that opened their doors to those fleeing violence in Central America, their faith stronger than their fear of legal reprisal.

Christians must show compassion to immigrants in the face of Trump deportations/Grapevine Graphics

Now, though, it seemed that history was turning a new corner, one where such courage might again be needed. It wasn’t the first time faith had been tested by power, nor would it be the last. But there was something particularly chilling about the way this new policy seemed to strip away not just rights, but the idea that kindness could still be found in the cracks of a hard world.

The man at the center of it all, the one with the firm handshake and the louder voice, wasn’t much for religion, not really. But he wore it like a borrowed coat, draped over his shoulders when the cameras flashed, held up as proof that he was something other than what he seemed.

And maybe that’s what made it sting all the more—that for all the talk of God and country, there was little concern for the people who believed in either.

So what now? 

The heart of the matter is simple, though its implications are not: When the stranger knocks, will we open the door? Will we be the refuge we are called to be?

There are those who will say resistance is futile, that the tide cannot be turned back. But history, if it teaches us anything, tells us that there is always a choice. And when the dust settles, it will not be the policies or the orders that are remembered. It will be the people—the ones who knelt, the ones who stood, the ones who opened their doors despite the risks.

The storm is here, and it demands much of us. But in the midst of it, there is still a chance to be something more, to live up to the words written deep within us. To be sanctuary. To be refuge. To be human.