Depending on your political views, Bishop Mariann Budde is either a saint or a sinner – a hero or a hater – for the remarks she made in her sermon at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., the day after Donald Trump was sworn into office.
“Have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now,” she told the president, referring to immigrants and members of the LGBTQ community caught in the crosshairs of the controversial executive orders he signed after his return to the Oval Office.
Ask those who work with these vulnerable populations and they will tell you fear does indeed seem to be the predominant emotion.
So much so that a local group working closely with immigrant families does not even want to put its name out there as this issue heats up and enflames an already bitterly-divided country.
Which surprised me because this is a well-established, well-respected nonprofit organization that has for decades benefitted from and appreciated the support of the Aurora community.
But these are different times, their leader tells me. Scarier times, for sure.
That’s why, as much as the executive director would like to publicly protest and raise awareness, “the safety of our students is most important,” she says, adding that this decision to change direction and “lower our profile” was made as the election played out and their concerns grew.
“We are not making ourselves publicly heard right now,” she insists, “because they do not feel safe.”
I could sense the conflict in this leader’s voice. Those who advocate for immigrants know the importance of a tough skin as well as a loud microphone.
But like the Episcopalian bishop of Washington, D.C., who sparked so much controversy, she and her volunteers are called upon to work intimately with those they are dedicated to helping.
That means they look directly into their faces. And what looks back is fear.
“They come here because they are more timid, they need to feel a little safer,” says the executive director, who describes the organization she heads up as “more like a neighborhood.”
What also has her unnerved is how this once-bustling building “has gone quiet.”
Usually the groups are exuberant. They all meet together so everyone knows each other.
“We have so much fun here,” she tells me.
This past week, the executive director quickly adds, “the tone has been very much somber.”
There is no laughter, only anxiety.
And suspicion.
“No one is sharing … no one wants to single themselves out because they don’t know who to trust … even the volunteers or other students.”
The nonprofit deals with “a lot of mixed status families,” she notes. “People are worried about a parent or a grandparent or a co-worker. The whole community is living on the edge.
“It gives you an idea of how hard it is to get through a normal day when this is hanging over their heads.”
This trepidation, she says, is also being felt by the volunteers.
Since the election, those who want to “dehumanize” many immigrants “are feeling emboldened,” the executive director maintains. ”The vitriol is more obvious, not just on social media but in personal conversations.”
And so, for now, the doors at this nonprofit, always locked even in less anxious times, no longer seem to offer peace of mind.
The executive director is grateful her group “is small and so close-knit that we are in a position to be able to stay under the radar and prioritize students above everything else,” she admits, but points out that local advocates for immigrants are all working together to take this battle on.
Her hope is that the president’s drastic executive orders – whether enforceable or even constitutional – are “waking up the consciousness of this nation” which was founded by immigrants, many who also felt marginalized and threatened by those who came before them.
“There is hate and fear, but also love and acceptance out there,” she declares. “We just have to roll up our sleeves and get to work.”
For now, however, they will do so in private.
dcrosby@tribpub.com
