It’s been a minute since I’ve written here.
Honestly, the words have been hard to find.
The recent surge in ICE activity across Los Angeles hasn’t just disrupted communities—it’s unsettled the soul of the city. The chaos, the fear, the constant hum of helicopters and rumors has pressed pause on so many of the things that usually help us feel grounded—including this space.
At the Cecil Hotel, where I serve as chaplain, the fallout is visible and painful. This isn’t just an “immigration” issue. It’s something deeper, heavier, and more insidious. Fear doesn’t check immigration status. It spreads indiscriminately—through our halls, through our systems, through every space where people already live in the shadows.
The recent ICE raids—while labeled as “targeted”—have created an atmosphere of trauma and panic. And it’s not just undocumented folks feeling this anymore.
One resident told me they didn’t want to leave their room—not because they had done anything wrong, but because they weren’t sure who would be picked up next.
Another asked if the sirens from a nearby commercial fire were “for us.”
This fear doesn’t just hurt immigrants.
It wounds anyone who’s been made to feel disposable.
Anyone who’s ever had to whisper to be heard.
Anyone whose existence has been labeled too complicated, too messy, too costly.
We’re seeing it in real time:
People skipping medical appointments out of fear.
Youth avoiding public transit or staying home from school.
Families missing court-mandated check-ins.
Trans and queer folks diving back into the closet to protect themselves.
Elders refusing social services because they no longer trust what’s safe.
This is more than a policy failure. It’s a spiritual crisis.
This kind of fear is spiritual violence.
So today, I say this plainly:
We stand with the undocumented.
We stand with parolees.
We stand with the unhoused, the addicted, the trans, the queer, the mentally ill, the survivors, the system-weary, the working poor, the people with records, the people with no family left to call.
We stand with everyone who hears a knock at the door and freezes.
Because no one deserves to live in fear—not in this city, not in this country, not in the Kingdom of God.
Fear is contagious.
But so is courage.
So is solidarity.
So is love.
Let’s spread that instead.
Before I close, I want to say a word about Jacob.
Jacob recently had some conflict at his program and was off the radar for a bit while trying to figure things out. He’s now on his way to a new program that he feels more comfortable with.
I may not agree with every choice he made during that transition. But I support him in his process—and I’m deeply grateful he found a place that feels safe, even if the road to it was rocky. That kind of resilience matters. That kind of discernment is holy too.
Finally, a small call to action:
Our dog food campaign—which helps the many beloved companion animals living alongside folks at the Cecil—is struggling right now. Donations have slowed, but the need hasn’t. If you’re able to chip in, or even share the campaign, it would mean a great deal to both the residents and their four-legged family members.
Thank you for reading. For standing with us. For showing up in the ways you can.
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