By Joshua Tosin Ogunsakin 
Amid rising concerns over mass deportation policies under President Donald Trump’s administration, churches across the United States are adapting to new challenges as they seek to protect their congregations.
In some places, attendance has dropped as fear grips immigrant communities, while other churches have seen increased participation as congregants rally together.
For Rev. Emma Lozano of Lincoln United Methodist Church in Chicago, the decision to move Spanish-language services online was not an easy one.
“Then, what we were waiting for was the vaccine — the vacuna, we called it, la medicina,” Lozano said. “Now we’re all wondering, what is the medicine? What is the vaccine for this? How long is it going to take?”
According to CNN, the move came shortly before Trump returned to office, as church leaders anticipated being targeted.
“We knew we would be a target. So why would we just be like sitting ducks and waiting for them?” Lozano said. “We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. And we are obligated to take care of each other.”
The fears intensified in early January when the administration rescinded a policy that had previously limited Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents from making arrests in churches.
Then-Acting Homeland Security Secretary Benjamine Huffman defended the decision, saying, “Criminals will no longer be able to hide in America’s schools and churches to avoid arrest.”
A coalition of Christian and Jewish organisations has since filed a lawsuit challenging the policy change, arguing it infringes on religious freedom.
Meanwhile, a similar lawsuit from Quaker groups has been met with government opposition, with the Justice Department asserting that a judge should not block the policy over “hypothetical future harms.”
Despite the uncertainty, church leaders remain vigilant. No raids inside places of worship have been reported, but a recent arrest outside a suburban Atlanta church has heightened anxieties.
For some congregants, the fear is too much to bear. Francisca Lino, who previously sought refuge in Lozano’s church, now prefers to join services remotely. “Not even that holy space feels safe,” she told The Chicago Tribune last month.
While some churches have opted for discretion, others are taking a more vocal stance. In Portland, Oregon, Rev. W.J. Mark Knutson of Augustana Lutheran Church has been clear about his church’s role.
“We are a sanctuary church. … If you’re afraid of being deported by hateful and unjust laws — let’s call them what they are — you are welcome to come find that safe space,” Knutson declared to his congregation, drawing cheers.
Public declarations of sanctuary status were more common during Trump’s first term, marking the resurgence of the Sanctuary Movement that began in the 1980s. But under what some are calling “Trump 2.0,” such announcements have been rarer.
Still, Knutson remains resolute. “If people of faith don’t take a stand now,” he said, “who is?” He revealed that immigrants have already sought refuge in his church, including long-time members with legal status who now fear for their safety.
“My immigrant members from other lands, they’re still shaken, even if they have green cards or citizenship now,” he said. “We have a woman from Japan, 40 years married to her husband, but she never became a citizen. Now suddenly she’s afraid. This is insidious.”
Knutson emphasised that if ICE agents attempted a mass action in Portland, his church would not only provide refuge but also alert the media and community to create a visible resistance. “And if it gets ugly, it’s going to be recorded. And that should really upset people all around the country,” he said.
For Lozano, the shift to online services does not signal defeat but rather a strategic move to protect her congregation. As she leads a virtual service, the wooden pews remain empty, the live music replaced by a laptop speaker. Yet, she finds hope in the 20 families joining via Zoom—her largest online turnout so far.
Acknowledging the fear in her community, Lozano likened their struggle to a boxer enduring all rounds of a fight. “We look at it like a boxer, you know. We’re hanging in there,” she said.
She also drew parallels to the pandemic, arguing that her community now requires a different kind of remedy. “We need to heal from the fear with a medicine of courage,” she said. “We need to fight hate with love and stand in solidarity.”
One such effort is a planned national economic boycott on February 28, which some are calling a response to corporations that have cut back on diversity and inclusion initiatives. Lozano sees it as a chance for the community to demonstrate its power. “Remember, a man can’t block the sun with his finger,” she said. “We can’t let the racist white supremacists paralyse us with fear to tell the truth.”
Lozano remains steadfast in her mission, insisting that the church will continue to uphold its spiritual and moral responsibilities. “The commandment clearly says ‘love thy neighbour as thyself.’ It doesn’t say ‘are you harboring illegals in your church?’ … We’re supposed to provide the sacraments for all the people and followers of Christ,” she said. “And that’s what we’re going to continue to do.”
Despite the uncertainty and fear, Lozano expressed confidence in her community’s resilience. “This ‘mass deportation’ has basically fallen short because we are so prepared,” she said. “Yes, there have been people deported…and we’re hurting from that. But we’ve been here before. We’re going to survive.”