In search of sanctuary
When my church opened its doors to an immigrant family, we had to reimagine the meaning of sacred space.
“There’s a family in sanctuary at St. George’s right now,” my priest texted me midmorning on an ordinary day in June. We had declared ourselves a sanctuary church four years earlier, but it wasn’t until this particular day that we had been called upon to act.
I biked over to the church as quickly as I could. The food pantry was open in the back, and a line of pantry visitors snaked down the sidewalk spaced six feet apart by traffic cones. Our church administrator sat on the front steps.
“I’m just sitting here,” she said, looking at me meaningfully. “Just in case. Just keeping my eye on things.” Despite the Trump administration’s nearly constant attack on immigrants, ICE activity in our community had been fairly quiet. But we tried to stay vigilant.
