Sounding the alarm against empire

“This morning we light the Candle of Peace, Hope, and Justice for the city of Washington and all who are feeling afraid, anxious, confused or concerned about our president’s aggressive ordering of a massive mobilization of the military and federal police while threatening a complete takeover of the city.”

I read aloud these words near the start of worship Aug. 17, just before a candle wrapped in barbed wire was lit while our congregation proclaimed, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome the light.”

Our congregation has been lighting this candle since February, continuing a tradition that started during apartheid at Central Methodist Church in Johannesburg. Led by the Rev. Peter Storey, that community lit a similar candle at every worship service to ensure they never forgot the suffering around them. Today, we do the same, because people are being displaced and dehumanized, tortured and terrorized, by the power of the state, once again.

I had written the words following President Trump’s press conference, first announced on Truth Social, when he promised to “make our Capital safer and more beautiful than it ever was before.”

Rather than feeling safer, I felt fear — not for myself, but for our unhoused neighbors, whom the president indicated would be moved “FAR from the Capital.” I wondered whether our church would become a target because of the people who gather outside our building on Sunday mornings waiting for our shower ministry to open.

Should banners advertising free showers be removed from our building? Were additional layers of hospitality needed to protect people who were not being seen as neighbors to embrace but as eyesores to remove?

At the time, I did not yet know that the blocks around our church building would show few signs of military vehicles or ICE agents hiding behind masks.

Nor did I know that the low drone of a helicopter circling above downtown would pale in comparison to the extensive police presence in other wards of the city. In areas with a high concentration of migrants, neighbors were reporting ICE raids and mandatory traffic stops.

While I could comfortably eat out or meet a friend in the city, many clergy colleagues and church members were afraid to drive or walk in Washington, fearing they would be targeted by plans increasingly proven to be driven by race. I did not immediately realize that my commitment to local restaurant workers, facing significant economic impact from a drop in business, was something I could confidently offer because of my white privilege. 

With the city now several weeks into the mass mobilization, most of our shower ministry guests arrive with shared stories about seeking to secure a few hours of sleep in the back of a bus or near a covered entrance. Others, across the city, have witnessed bulldozers scoop up their tents and belongings.

The additional care I imagined I would be providing to our shower ministry guests has been largely diverted to friends and congregants who have witnessed the work being carried out by deployed military personnel, ICE agents and police. They have texted a photo of an arrest taking place outside their apartment building, posted a video on social media of masked men shattering a window of an SUV and snatching a passenger afraid to unlock the door, and described witnessing a traffic stop in which the driver of a dry-cleaning delivery van was pulled out and handcuffed by ICE.

After witnessing this trauma, they have requested prayers as they process and ponder what they can do to prevent others from facing a similar fate. Imagine what is happening within individuals and communities who are the targets of this terror.

What, then, is the call of the church in this context?

As part of my preparedness for the moment I have a go bag in my car with a clerical collar and stole in it; one never knows when one might have to pray or protest. But it is a whistle — intended to alert anyone within earshot that danger is near — that has taught me the most about the difference I’m called to make.

Some people in our city now carry a whistle wherever they go. When they see police cars or masked figures in military fatigues, they blow it before yelling, “ICE is here!” to encourage people who might be subject to harm to shelter in place.

What if people of faith are called to offer similar announcements where needed, in hopes of providing protection from harm, while laboring for a tomorrow that is different from today?

When John wrote Revelation from a prison in Patmos, he compared Rome to a beast, a dragon and a prostitute. The empire was a seductive and violent force that whispered: “Come, give me your allegiance. I’ll make your life better.” People both worshipped the beast and felt powerless in its presence.

While John was angered by the empire’s actions, he refused to allow his heart to harden. He instead announced that a new heaven and earth were on the horizon, emboldening people to stand against empire and resist its false promises. While people might be overwhelmed and afraid, John testified about the one “who is and who was and who is to come” (1:8), “the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth” (1:4), and his power to make all things new (21:5).

John saw through the empire’s mask and blew a whistle — urging believers to wake up, to see the violence of the empire’s injustice, and to remember who sits in power.

The sirens of empire are sounding. But if we listen closely, so are the whistles of resistance.

Will we join the whistleblowers and protect our neighbors from harm while working tirelessly to reduce unnecessary mourning, crying and pain?

Will we be a light that shines in the darkness, revealing how the darkness still does not have the power to overcome the light?