When Parents Don't Come Home: About the Raids in Immokalee

I woke up yesterday morning to heartbreaking messages out of Immokalee, Florida—eyewitness accounts and urgent posts from people I knew during my years there. Before the sun was up, immigration officers and state agencies were sweeping through farmworker neighborhoods. Mothers were taken. Fathers were taken. Kids were getting ready for school and didn’t know why their parents suddenly weren’t there.

Here's one of the early news reports, for broader context.

​Immokalee is not just a dot on a map to me. During my time living on the Gulf Coast, it was a place where I learned how community is supposed to work—where people shared food before sharing opinions, where faith took the shape of mutual aid, where I saw what it looks like to carry each other’s burdens. When my own world was falling apart, I’d head to Immokalee for a few hours to serve however I could, because the act of showing up there helped me believe that kindness could survive. All of this is why the news hurts in a very particular way.

The Ethics of Power and Those Who Bear the Cost

Days like this force us to face the difference between law and justice.

We can debate immigration policy all day, but nothing theoretical prepares you for standing beside a child who suddenly doesn’t know where their mother is. There is nothing abstract about a child coming home to an empty house with no one left to care for them. Whatever someone believes about borders or policy, the intentional separation of families carries moral weight that people of faith cannot shrug off. This is a form of harm done to real bodies. Real children. Real lives.

And to be clear, calling for justice in the way families are treated is not an argument against law. It is an argument against using law in ways that violate due process, proportionality, and basic human dignity.

Many of those detained had valid work papers; and even for those who may be undocumented, we’re talking about a civil or misdemeanor offense—nothing remotely proportionate to the trauma inflicted when parents are taken from their children without warning.

Scripture is remarkably consistent about how God views the use of power: it’s supposed to protect the vulnerable, not frighten them. The prophets were unrelenting about this—warning leaders who claimed righteousness while inflicting fear and instability on the powerless.

​Micah said it plainly: “Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.” Actions that leave children pacing their kitchens in fear do not fit that call.

A Theological Witness: God's Heart for the Sojourner

Reformed theology sits in a long biblical stream that takes the treatment of the immigrant with utmost seriousness. The Old Testament’s commands are clear:

• “You shall love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deut 10:19)
• “Do not oppress a foreigner; you know the heart of a foreigner.” (Exod 23:9)
• “Leave the edges of your field for the immigrant and the poor.” (Lev 19:9–10)

These weren’t offered as optional acts of charity. They were baked into the shape of covenant life. Calvin understood this as part of God’s justice—rooted in the belief that every person carries the image of God.

And the New Testament carries this same heartbeat into the early church. Jesus identifies himself with the stranger--“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” (Matthew 25:31-46) Paul reminds us that hospitality is not just kindness but a core mark of Christian life (Romans 12:13). The Letter to the Hebrews goes even further: “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2)

This isn’t partisan commentary; it’s a moral and theological concern rooted in the Gospel’s clear priority for the vulnerable.

If that’s our lens, then what is happening around our nation right now—what is happening in Immokalee this week—is not simply unfortunate. It is contrary to God’s intent for human community.
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And these days, it’s even more blatant than it was when I lived in Southwest Florida. In Immokalee now, brown-skinned people riding in farmworker buses, or driving white contractor vans or landscaping trucks, know to keep their papers visible, because their very skin has become treated as probable cause in a nation that claims liberty for all.

The Children Who Wait

What I keep returning to is this: some kids came home today and found no one.

No explanation. No note. Just absence.

There is no version of this that isn’t traumatic. No version that doesn’t echo for years. And no version that aligns with the teaching of Jesus, who consistently disrupted systems that harmed the vulnerable and lifted up those who had been pushed aside.

No child should pay the price for geopolitical systems they had no hand in shaping, and no amount of “personal responsibility” rhetoric can justify policies that deliberately inflict suffering on the innocent.
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For Christians shaped by the conviction that all people bear God’s image, this must matter. If we want our proclamation of hope to carry any weight, we cannot look away from the suffering of our neighbors. Our calling is not to baptize the status quo. Our calling is to notice who’s being harmed and move toward them.

Remembering Immokalee

​Immokalee is a place that shaped me. It offered me glimpses of God’s reign in the generosity of farmworker families, in the tenacity of community leaders, in the laughter of children running and playing. It is sacred ground to me. And it deserves more than silence.

A Pastoral Word

Today I’m praying for the parents who were detained.
I’m praying for the children who are afraid and don’t know whom to trust.
I’m praying for the advocates and pastors on the ground, comforting neighbors while carrying their own grief.
And I’m praying for a nation that forgets too quickly what love of neighbor really demands.

But prayer is only the beginning.

Scripture calls us again and again to protect the sojourner, care for the laborer, uphold the dignity of the vulnerable, and refuse to remain silent when we witness harm.

And caring for immigrant families does not diminish care for anyone else; the well-being of communities rises and falls together.

If the Gospel means anything, it must mean this:
we do not abandon the suffering--
   we draw near.
We do not let fear decide who deserves care--
   we widen the circle.
We do not simply hope for a better world--
   we participate in God’s making of it.
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May we remember the children of Immokalee.
May we see clearly.
And may we act with courage, compassion, and a love stronger than fear.

Ways to Support the Community in Immokalee:

There are faithful, hardworking nonprofit organizations, community organizers, and mutual aid groups in Immokalee who are caring for families, advocating for justice, and providing direct support. If you feel moved, consider offering financial support to their work.

And if Immokalee feels far away, remember this: if you've eaten a tomato from a grocery store or fast food restaurant in the United States, you have almost certainly eaten a tomato harvested in Immokalee.  The people suffering today are the same people who help feed this nation every single day.

Organizations to Support: 

• Mision Peniel - weekly food distribution, pastoral care, and direct aid to farmworker families.
• Cultivate Abundance - Growing and sharing fresh food with migrant farmworker households.
• Coalition of Immokalee Workers - A human rights organization led by farmworkers, advancing justice, safety, and dignity in the fields. The CIW will also have contacts for mutual aid resources on the ground in Immokalee.