When the Stranger Is Raided
Last week in Chicago, a massive immigration raid shook an apartment building. According to WBEZ, federal agents from Border Patrol, the FBI, and ATF stormed the property and arrested 37 people. Some were accused of crimes; others were simply undocumented.¹ Families woke up to doors being battered down, armed officers filling their hallways, and neighbors disappearing. One resident said, “I feel defeated.”²
As Christians, we cannot ignore stories like this. We are called to live in God’s kingdom vision—where justice and mercy walk hand in hand. When government power presses down on the vulnerable, we must speak up, not as partisans, but as truth-tellers. If we stay silent, we risk drifting into something much darker: an authoritarian culture where fear rules and human dignity is trampled.
The Law and the Limits of Power
Let’s start honestly. Governments do have a role. Scripture affirms that governing authority exists to uphold justice and protect people from harm (Rom. 13:1–4). But this must be understood carefully: Paul is not giving governments a blank check. The reason authorities “bear the sword” is to restrain evil and protect the innocent. When governments abandon that purpose—when they target the vulnerable, trample due process, or abuse power—they cease to fulfill their God-given task. At that point, Christians are not only permitted but required to dissent, to speak up, and to hold our ground.
And here in the United States, our role is even clearer: we are the government. “We the people” is not just a slogan. Our voices, our votes, and our advocacy shape how power is used. Christianity has thrived under oppression and tyranny, but in this country, we still have the responsibility of participation. If we look the other way when due process is ignored, or when vulnerable people are treated unjustly, then we are complicit. Silence allows overreach to harden into practice.
Beyond the ethical concerns, we must also face the reality that these raids reveal how the government is skirting the intent of the very laws it claims to uphold. The Constitution was designed to place limits on power, not to grant unlimited authority. When enforcement actions disregard due process, bypass the Fourth Amendment, or rely on profiling, they move outside both legal boundaries and moral legitimacy.
Due process is not optional. Every person, regardless of status, has the right to fair treatment before the law (Fifth Amendment). Yet raids like the one in Chicago often sweep up people indiscriminately—neighbors who weren’t named in warrants, men and women detained just because they were present.³ That’s not careful justice; that’s overreach.
The Fourth Amendment protects us against unreasonable searches and seizures. It requires warrants from neutral judges, not just papers signed internally by an agency.⁴ When agents break into homes without clear judicial warrants, or when they hold people longer than necessary, they cross the line from enforcement into violation.
Profiling by appearance is never justifiable. A Border Patrol commander admitted that some people were arrested partly “based on how they look.”⁵ That is not policing; that is discrimination. It recalls darker chapters of history where whole groups were targeted for how they looked, not for what they had done.
The destruction of property is deeply troubling. In the Chicago raid, residents described broken doors, shattered locks, and widespread damage across the building. This wasn’t targeted enforcement against specific individuals but collateral harm to dozens of families. A broken door might seem small compared to an arrest, but it communicates something larger: the state’s willingness to harm everyone in its path. Force replaced precision. Fear replaced fairness. When enforcement leaves households damaged and entire communities traumatized, it ceases to serve justice and instead becomes a tool of intimidation.
What we are seeing is not just about immigration. It’s about whether we still believe in limits to power. Each time we let heavy-handed raids go unchecked, we move another step toward authoritarianism. And history teaches us: once fear-driven state power expands, it rarely retreats without resistance.
The Witness of Scripture
The Bible is full of reminders that God’s people know what it is to be displaced, vulnerable, and mistreated.
“Do not wrong or oppress a foreigner; you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt.” (Exod. 22:21)
“Love the foreigner as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.” (Lev. 19:34)
“Do no wrong or violence to the foreigner, the fatherless, or the widow.” (Jer. 22:3)
Israel’s story was one of deliverance from oppression. God told His people, “Never forget where you came from. Never forget how you were treated. And never repeat Egypt’s cruelty in your own land.”
Jesus carries that same ethic forward. In Matthew 25, He identifies Himself with the stranger: “I was a stranger and you invited me in.” To ignore the vulnerable is to ignore Christ Himself. To mistreat the stranger is to mistreat the Lord of the Church.
The early church, too, lived under Rome’s heavy hand. And yet they insisted: Jesus is Lord, not Caesar. When state power demanded unquestioning obedience, Christians responded with faithful resistance—not violence, but witness.
Brothers and Sisters, Our Call to Action
So, my brothers and sisters in Jesus, what do we do? How do we respond as those who belong to His kingdom before all else? Our loyalty is not first to a party, a nation, or even our own comfort—it is to Jesus and His heart for the least of these.
Listen and stand with those affected. Our immigrant neighbors are not statistics; they are image-bearers. We must listen to their stories, pray with them, and stand beside them in practical support.
Demand accountability. It is not anti-government to call the government back to its own laws. Scripture commands rulers to act justly. We should urge officials to use judicial warrants, avoid discriminatory practices, minimize collateral harm, and report publicly how raids are carried out.
Educate ourselves and our congregations. Many Christians simply don’t know how these raids unfold or what rights exist. We can teach biblical hospitality alongside practical awareness.
Speak out, even when it’s uncomfortable. Silence in the face of fear is complicity. We don’t need to shout. But we must use our voices in pulpits, conversations, and civic spaces.
Pray boldly. Pray for the detained, for their families, for agents tempted to cruelty, and for leaders tempted to authoritarian shortcuts. Pray that God would soften hearts and restrain injustice.
Choosing the Way of Christ
In times like these, my brothers and sisters in Jesus, we are faced with a choice. Will we accept raids like the one in Chicago as “just the way things are”? Or will we remember that we are a people shaped by God’s deliverance, commanded to love the stranger, and called to speak truth even when it is unpopular?
We are not naïve. We know governments wield the sword. But when the sword begins to cut indiscriminately—leaving broken doors, broken families, and broken trust in its wake—we who belong to Jesus must not look away.
And beyond the ethical concerns, we must remember: when those in power skirt the very intent of the law, the law itself becomes hollow.
Here in the United States, we as Christians have a unique responsibility. Unlike the church under Rome or other oppressive regimes, we are not voiceless. We have a say in how our government acts. We may feel that voice diminishing year by year, but it remains. Christianity has thrived under oppression and tyranny, but in this nation, we are given the opportunity to shape laws, challenge abuses, and advocate for those who are silenced. That is not something to squander.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer saw this clearly in his own time. In Germany, he watched the slow creep of authoritarianism, the growing fear that gripped ordinary people, and the chilling indifference of the church—and, at times, even the ringing endorsement of the church. By the time the swastika flew over pulpits, the silence and complicity of Christians had allowed evil to harden into law. Bonhoeffer’s witness reminds us that authoritarianism rarely arrives with a shout—it arrives quietly, step by step, as people convince themselves that “this is just how things are now.”
So, my brothers and sisters in Christ, let us use our voice—our votes, our letters, our advocacy, our public witness—to speak on behalf of the oppressed. Not out of partisanship, but out of faithfulness to Jesus. To be salt and light in this moment is to refuse to be silent when neighbors are treated unjustly.
If we do not speak now, we may find later that the road toward authoritarianism has carried us farther than we ever thought possible. But if we use our voice—fairly, pastorally, prophetically—then perhaps the church can still be a beacon of hope in a fearful age.
The stranger in our midst is Christ Himself. May we treat Him with the justice, mercy, and love that our Lord deserves.
Let’s Pray
Lord Jesus, You were once a refugee, carried into Egypt to escape the violence of a ruler who feared losing power. You know what it is to be vulnerable, displaced, and unwanted.
We lift before You our immigrant neighbors, those who live in fear of raids, arrests, and broken homes. Protect them, comfort them, and remind them of their dignity as Your image-bearers.
We pray for those in authority—that they would wield power not with cruelty but with justice. Convict them when they abuse the trust given to them. Call them back to the responsibilities You require of all leaders: to protect, to serve, and to uphold righteousness.
We confess our own silence and indifference. Forgive us when we look away because the suffering does not touch us directly. Give us courage to use our voices, our actions, and our votes to defend the oppressed.
And we ask, Lord, that You would make Your church a beacon of hope in fearful times—faithful, compassionate, and bold in declaring that Jesus is Lord, not Caesar.
We pray this in Your holy name. Amen.