Invisible Leftovers

ICE raids, faith, and holy anger

Last Sunday I preached about mustard-seed faith—about doing the hard things Jesus calls us to do, even when we don’t feel ready. (If you’re interested, you can read it here.) And I confessed that like the disciples who had just been told to forgive even seven times in one day and in response, asked Jesus to increase their faith, I too need Jesus to increase my faith. And I told what it was I am angry about right now.

Later, someone told me I should articulate who I’m angry at. So I’ve decided to do just that.

When the news broke about the ICE raid in Chicago — twenty minutes from my daughter’s apartment — I felt something twist deep inside me. Fear first. Then fury. My daughter was born in Mexico, and the thought of families ripped apart in the middle of the night hit too close to home.

So here it is. This is who I’m angry at.

I’m angry at every layer of this cruelty.
At Trump, who unleashed it.
At Stephen Miller, who refined it, called it policy, and is building the machine to keep it running.
At the charlatans — Pete Hegseth, Laura Loomer, Kash Patel, and the rest — who baptize it with talk of “security” while feeding on fear.

I’m angry at the men in tactical gear, masking their faces like cowards, dragging parents from beds, zip-tying children in the dark, pretending this is law and order.

At the bureaucrats who sign the orders and the politicians who look away.

And I can’t wait for our own Nuremberg trials when obedience will no longer be an excuse and “just doing my job” won’t wash the blood from anyone’s hands.

I’m angry at everyone who voted for this. Every single one. Who called us silly and accused us of exaggerating when we told them what we saw coming with Trump. Especially those who still claim to follow Jesus while supporting a government that brutalizes the poor, the brown, the stranger at our door.

And, I’m angry at my own parents. Because their votes helped build the world that now puts their granddaughter in the crosshairs.

But beneath the anger is grief. Grief that this is what we’ve become. Grief that cruelty passes for strength. Grief that I can’t do anything to prevent my daughter from being at risk.

And I’ll be honest: I don’t know how to forgive this.  Not yet.

Jesus says, “If they repent, forgive them,” and repentance is nowhere to be found.

But I do know that faith still has to move, even when forgiveness won’t. So I pray — not to erase my anger, but to keep hatred from taking root. To prevent bitterness from growing in my heart. To avoid the emotional fatigue from being on high alert at all times.

That’s my mustard seed for now.

If you call yourself a Christian and you’re not angry, pay closer attention. Change channels.  Read other news sources.  Seek out the stories mainstream media and cable news are not showing.  And join me in my anger.

But our anger must become fuel for mercy, not fire for vengeance. Otherwise, we’ll become what we hate.

So I’m still angry. I probably will be for a while. But I’m trying to let that anger stay holy, to be rooted in what I know to be true of the Gospel and what Jesus calls us to. I’m determined to let it drive me toward compassion, not contempt.

That’s the work of faith in a world like ours.

Rev. Dana