When Children Are Dragged Naked from Their Beds:

Chicago’s Immigration Crackdown and the Imago Dei

It started before sunrise in Chicago.
Helicopters overhead. Doors broken in. Flashbangs. Children dragged from their beds—some naked, crying, terrified. Agents stormed a South Shore apartment building, moving room to room. Parents shouted for their children. Belongings scattered. Neighbors detained. Some of them citizens.

I’ve read the reports in mainstream outlets. I’ve seen the photos and firsthand accounts shared by friends in Chicago—people I know and trust—describing what’s happening in their neighborhoods. This isn’t distant or abstract. It’s real. It’s happening right now in a city filled with churches, families, and people just trying to live their lives.

Rodrick Johnson was one of them. He pleaded with officers to check his ID. He told them he was born here. Still, he was zip-tied and held for hours before being released without charge. No apology. No explanation. Just fear.

Not far away, a flower vendor was handcuffed while setting up his stand. Another man was taken from a bus stop. Protesters outside an ICE facility in Broadview were met with tear gas and pepper balls. Even an alderperson—an elected city leader—was handcuffed in a hospital hallway for questioning what was happening.

These aren’t isolated stories. They’re the fruit of a system that’s forgotten the image of God in the people it detains. We’re told these raids are about public safety, about “the worst of the worst.” But the children dragged naked from their homes did nothing wrong. The flower vendor wasn’t a threat. The citizen in zip-ties wasn’t a criminal.

Here’s the thing. Justice that forgets mercy isn’t justice. It’s just power with better PR.

Scripture starts with this: every person bears the image of God. Every one. That means the undocumented mother, the day-laborer, the child in pajamas standing in the cold—they all carry divine worth. When we treat them like intruders instead of image-bearers, we desecrate something sacred.

There’s a line that keeps echoing in my heart: Is this the way?

Is this the way of Jesus—the one who fled his homeland as an infant refugee, who crossed every social and political boundary to bring people near? Is this the way of a nation that claims liberty and justice for all?

Or have we learned to turn up the noise of our own comfort so we don’t have to hear the cries from the margins?

The Church has been here before. In every generation, we face a moment when silence feels safer than solidarity. But following Jesus has never been about safety. It’s about love in action. It’s about proximity to pain.

That’s where transformation happens.
That’s where the Kingdom breaks in.

We also have to name something deeper.
National politics have discipled us more than Jesus has.

Too many believers filter compassion through party lines. Too many justify cruelty because it came from the candidate they once supported. But following Christ means something higher than partisan loyalty.

It doesn’t matter who you believed was the better choice in the last election. Some voted one way, some another. That’s democracy. But no citizen—especially no follower of Jesus—should feel obligated to defend the immoral actions of the person or party they voted for.

We are not called to blind allegiance. We are called to prophetic faithfulness.

Democracy and discipleship both demand discernment. We choose candidates as best we can, but our ultimate allegiance isn’t to them. It’s to Christ and His Kingdom. And that means when those in power act unjustly—no matter who they are—we speak truth in love and push them toward righteousness.

Silence for the sake of loyalty is not faithfulness. It’s fear disguised as wisdom.

So what can we do?
Outrage isn’t enough. Love without works isn’t either. If our compassion never leaves the pew or the post, it isn’t discipleship—it’s sentiment. We need to operationalize empathy. To activate our faith in ways that move toward the hurting, not away from them.

Here’s some ways how to start.

1. Get proximate
Transformation starts with proximity.
Spend time with people directly affected by immigration enforcement—visit an immigrant congregation, volunteer at a local immigrant resource center, or attend a community prayer vigil.
Learn names, hear stories, build relationships. You can’t love from a distance.

2. Partner, don’t rescue
Identify trusted organizations already embedded in the work—legal aid groups, advocacy coalitions, church networks serving immigrant families.
Ask, “What do you need from us?” instead of assuming.
Offer your church’s space, financial support, or volunteers to serve under their leadership.

3. Advocate from conviction, not outrage
Contact local, state, and federal representatives about due-process violations and humane policy reforms.
Frame advocacy as a discipleship issue: defending the dignity of image-bearers, not defending a political side.
Use your pastoral or community influence to convene forums, write op-eds, or host prayer gatherings that model grace and truth.

4. Build support systems in your church
Help your church prepare to offer temporary shelter or support for families facing sudden detention.
Train volunteers in accompaniment ministries—people who show up at court dates, provide transportation, or care for children when parents are detained.
Create an emergency response plan: who to call, how to communicate, how to mobilize quickly.

5. Disciple toward empathy
Integrate stories like those from Chicago into sermons, small groups, and youth discussions.
Teach the theology of the Imago Dei, hospitality, and the refugee Christ.
Use questions like, Who are the strangers near us? How might our comfort be keeping us from compassion?

6. Practice economic solidarity
Hire or contract with immigrant-owned businesses.
Support bilingual or multicultural ministries.
If possible, set aside benevolence funds specifically for legal fees, rent relief, or family care during detentions.

7. Pray with your feet
Join peaceful demonstrations when rights are violated.
Attend city-council or school-board meetings where local policy impacts immigrant neighbors.
Walk your neighborhood intentionally—pray for families living in fear, ask God to show you how to be present.

8. Equip your people
Offer workshops on “Know Your Rights,” trauma-informed care, and pastoral responses to fear.
Resource small-group leaders to have hard conversations about faith and justice—these aren’t partisan political stances but love-centric compassion.
Provide spiritual-formation tools that move people from guilt to grace-driven action.

9. Model Kingdom culture
Celebrate diversity intentionally in worship, leadership, and storytelling.
Publicly affirm that your community stands for the dignity of all people.
Create rhythms of repentance and renewal—because justice work is long and we all need to stay grounded in grace.

We can’t all solve this crisis, but we can all be faithful in our corner of it. Living sent means refusing to look away, choosing proximity over distance, compassion over convenience, and courage over silence.

Because when we follow Jesus into the places where fear reigns, love starts to multiply.
And that’s where the Kingdom takes root.

Continue Reading:

• Welcoming the Stranger: God’s Heart for the Immigrant — the spiritual foundation for hospitality toward immigrants.
• Justice and Mercy: Can We Uphold the Law and Still Love Our Neighbor? — wrestling with the tension between justice, law, and compassion.
• Salvation as Creation Healed — exploring redemption as the healing of creation itself.
• Shalom and Justice: Love Made Public — how peace and justice intersect as public expressions of love.

Let’s not just read. Let’s act. Let’s lean in where there is pain. Let’s multiply love until systems tremble.