SACRED SANCTUARY
Dozens of Bay Area churches have declared themselves havens
When Julissa Oliva and Jose Manuel Flores first arrived at the Primera Iglesia Presbiteriana Hispana church last May, they had nothing to their names.
Fleeing what they described as months of extortion from gang members in Tegucigalpa — the capital of Honduras and one of the most violent cities in the world — the undocumented couple left with their two young children and $300 in their pockets, making a treacherous 30day journey through Mexico.
They eventually found refuge in Oakland, where Oliva has a sister and where the Presbyterian church on High Street offered them hope and the necessities they needed to survive in an unknown land.
“We’re starting at zero. Their support helps a lot, both morally and economically,” Oliva said in Spanish. “But we’re up in the air. I’m not in a detention center but I do feel as if I’m imprisoned because I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
Churches such as Primera Iglesia in largely Latino and immigrant communities are expected to take on a more significant role under the Trump administration, which has promised mass deportations and major changes in immigration policy. Already, dozens of Bay Area churches have declared themselves “sanctuary churches” in recent months, joining hundreds of others nationwide that have vowed to protect their most vulnerable parishioners — even if that puts them at odds with federal policy or law.
“For immigrant communities and emerging communities, churches, synagogues, mosques and gurdwaras are all safe places where immigrants naturally gather for resources,” said the Rev. Jon Pedigo, director of projects for peace and justice for the Diocese of San Jose. “So it’s only natural that an immigrant community would turn to their churches for support, counseling, rent assistance and food assistance.”
The Olivas are some of the more than 100 undocumented residents that Primera Iglesia has helped in the past two years, offering resources ranging from temporary housing to legal referrals. An estimated 400,000 undocumented residents live in Santa Clara, Contra Costa and Alameda counties combined, regions with some of the state’s largest undocumented immigrant populations, according to the Public Policy Institute of California.
In the South Bay, more than 30 congregations of different denominations are determining how they can help those seeking refuge when the time comes.
“The number of congregations seeking to help our network increases by the week,” Pedigo said.
John Rinaldo, director of parish partnerships for Catholic Charities in Santa Clara County, said that while the region’s 53 Catholic churches may not formally use the term “sanctuary,” they provide assistance to vulnerable populations any way they can, rarely turning away people in need.
The role of churches as refuges grew dramatically in the 1980s, when thousands of Central American refugees flocked to the United States during a devastating civil war. In what became known as “The Sanctuary Movement,” churches formed an underground railroad for refugees, arguing that God’s law to shelter and protect strangers outweighed civil law.
“Churches, mosques or synagogues offering sanctuary do so in the name of just law — a distinction at the heart of Dr. Martin Luther King’s nonviolent civil disobedience,” said Bill O’Neill, a professor at Santa Clara University’s Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley.
Not all faith communities are on board.
Pastor Dick Bernal of the Jubliee Christian Center in San Jose said that while he sympathizes with undocumented residents and hopes the Trump administration passes just immigration reform, he wouldn’t necessarily provide them sanctuary.
“I’m sure a lot of (our church parishioners) are not documented, and it’s not my business to interfere with that,” he said. “Would I hide them? No. Would I stonewall U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement? No. I’m a law-and-order guy.”
Bernal, whose ancestors emigrated from Spain, said he’s not opposed to the government using walls or fences to regulate illegal immigration.
“We need to know who is coming into this country,” he said. “It’s for security. But I also understand that people want to come here.”
Today, a rapidly growing modern Sanctuary Movement is giving churches a national platform. More than 400 faith communities have joined the movement, vowing to do “what Congress and the administration refuse to do: protect and stand with immigrants facing deportation,” the group said.
At a recent forum on immigrant rights at Primera Iglesia Presbiteriana Hispana, dozens of faith leaders and organizers from across the Bay Area brainstormed ways to become sanctuaries in their communities.
“The concept of sanctuary has been evolving because our times are evolving,” said the Rev. Deborah Lee, immigration program director for the Oaklandbased Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity, a member of the national Sanctuary Movement.
“It’s a time for us to come together to better organize ourselves, to prepare for what might be in store, and also to figure out how do we expand and invite others to join us.”
In the chilly, small church the group discussed how they would stand up for undocumented immigrants, with some participants saying they would be willing to hide them from federal officials to keep them in the country. Already, a Berkeley church has built a “sanctuary apartment” in its basement, ready to house an individual or a family.
“The families haven’t stopped coming. We need the churches around us to open their doors and take action,” said Irma Hernandez, a naturalized U.S. citizen who fled El Salvador during the civil war. She now assists other immigrants at the Presbyterian church.
“Praying is good. But sometimes words trail off. We need to do something concrete. We need to act,” she said. “The families outside our doors are crying, screaming out for help.”
Oliva and Flores said they were robbed during their journey to the United States. They recall begging for food, sleeping at bus terminals and narrowly avoiding other encounters with criminals who often prey on Central American immigrants passing through Mexico. Exhausted and out of options, they turned themselves in to immigration officials at the border crossing in Mexicali, where they were detained separately.
Oliva, 29, and her children, Liz, 5, and Hector, 1, were released after just a few days while Flores, 35, was detained for two months. They now await pending court dates.
The family lives in a house in the Fruitvale district, lent to them and another immigrant family by a local parishioner.
“Here, we live day-byday,” Flores said. “My next court date is in four years. Without a work permit and without any other aid, I’m not sure how we’re going to make it.”
But Oliva and Flores still hope to build a life here.
“We don’t come here to do harm to anyone. We immigrated from one country to another in search of better opportunities,” Oliva said. “There are lots of opportunities here, but there are also many difficulties. I don’t know what’s going to happen, what awaits us.”