A few weeks ago, on my way to work, I drove through an Immigration and Customs Enforcement checkpoint. ICE had set up at a fork in a busy road, pulling over cars as they went right. They had stopped a number of work vans—many displaying Spanish-sounding company names—and a dozen or so men wearing masks and bulletproof vests were holding tight to their automatic weapons. My white skin gave me safe passage and I was waved through without issue, but so many others were detained at gunpoint. I was shaken by the unfairness and cruelty of the process.

As I drove through, I thought about what I might do to disrupt the cruelty, and I considered parking my car to block the way so no one else could be stopped. I decided against it, since I have kids who need me at home, and I had not made preparations to be arrested.

Renee Nicole Good, a white citizen and stay-at-home mom of three who was roughly the same age as me, and who was also concerned for her immigrant neighbors, had a similar experience that came to a tragically different end. Ms. Good was, according to Reuters, “active as a volunteer in a network of ‘neighborhood patrols’ comprising hundreds of community members and organized by local activists to track, monitor and record ICE operations in Minneapolis.”

During an ICE raid on a local block on Jan. 7, Ms. Good’s car blocked traffic and allegedly impeded ICE’s activity. After an ICE agent ordered her out of her car, she attempted to drive away. As she did so, an ICE agent who has been identified as Jonathan Ross shot her three times and killed her. Only a few hours later, Kristi Noem, the secretary of Homeland Security, called Ms. Good a “domestic terrorist” who was trying to run over Mr. Ross. But the video shows, as many experts who have reviewed the footage have concluded, that she was not putting anyone at risk at the time she was shot.

People like Ms. Good have taken action because immigrant communities and communities of color are enduring a heightened threat of violence and abuse. There were at least 21 recorded deaths in ICE custody in 2025, and every day more people are abducted; more families are torn apart. Mundane activities like grocery shopping, walking children to school or going to work have become high-risk. We cannot allow this to continue unchecked. 

Resistance can take many forms, including public protest; economic boycotts and worker strikes against the “pillars of support,” such as businesses and government agencies, that prop up those in power; and mutual aid and communal support. Many of these tactics hold some level of risk, and efforts that previously seemed safe now feel riskier. Certainly, the murder of Ms. Good makes me think twice about participating in protests and direct action: Had I chosen to stop my car to protect those coming after me at the checkpoint, would I be dead now? I am grappling with the moral question of what solidarity requires of those of us not yet directly under threat, who have (for now) the privilege of choosing our level of risk in resisting state-sanctioned violence.

The principle of solidarity gives Catholics a particular responsibility to affirm the dignity of our neighbors, try to protect them from harm, advocate for just laws and care for their immediate needs. These nonviolent, community-building actions are the best way to thwart an authoritarian government since authoritarians depend on divide-and-conquer tactics to maintain control.

As Pope Leo XIV reminds us in “Dilexi Te,” solidarity, “understood in its deepest sense, is a way of making history.” Our faith is full of such history-making. Shiphrah and Puah, Hebrew midwives during Jewish captivity in Egypt, refused to comply with Pharoah’s orders to murder baby boys during delivery. Many babies lived because of their noncooperation, and one, Moses, grew up to lead the people out of Egypt. In another example, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego refused to submit to King Nebuchadnezzar’s order to bow to an idol. Their civil disobedience led to the conversion of the king and his decree to “publish the signs and wonders which the Most High God has accomplished.”

We can think of more recent examples like Dorothy Day and Sister Antona Ebo, who led nonviolent resistance efforts against the injustice of the state. And Jesus, of course, went to the cross for the sake of the world, taking on the punishment of sin (expressed through the dominating power of empire) and holding all suffering and injustice with compassion and hope. His is the ultimate act of nonviolent resistance. 

Our faith tells us that “we are all really responsible for all.” So assuming some risk for the sake of our neighbors, in the hope that our collective efforts will thwart this administration’s violence, is an imperative aligned with the spirit of the Gospel. But how far must we go? 

Because we all have different capacities and responsibilities, discernment and training are crucial to ensure we are not taking unnecessary or irresponsible risks. (Protect Democracy and The Horizons Project have some great resources, and Georgetown’s Center on Faith and Justice, where I work, will be hosting a training series during Lent.)

My own discernment led me to acknowledge the disproportionate risk of stopping my car to impede ICE without the collaboration of others. To be honest, I am unlikely to volunteer for an activity with high risks of violence because of my responsibility to my children. Nevertheless, some risk is inevitable, and we must be ready to take it on. We have to recognize that no one is safe so long as anyone’s rights are subject to the whims of the powerful.

This is one reason why nonviolent movements throughout history have emphasized the importance of communal strategy. As more people show up, speak out and refuse to cooperate with the demands of those in power, the danger to them individually becomes more diffuse.

Not everyone holds the same privileges or is capable of assuming the same risks. It is helpful to discern as a community who is capable of bearing certain risks—who is likely to experience the least harmful consequences of a given action, and who might be more vulnerable. Evaluating your own acceptable risk measure is crucial to this work. 

Connecting with community networks ensures that no one takes risks without being sure of support when they endure the consequences, and that our diverse gifts, abilities and areas of influence are integrated for a robust effect. Whether we are acting directly to disrupt violence, praying and encouraging those on the front lines, organizing a mutual aid network at our parish, or bringing meals to a family whose parent has been arrested, there is a place for us all. 

Whatever our fears and vulnerabilities, we must support one another and act together with courage. As Pope Leo XIV exhorts us in “Dilexi Te,” let us infuse our society with the “moral energy that springs from including the excluded in the building of a common destiny,” knowing that the reward is worth the risks. Indeed, to act in communal solidarity is to touch the kingdom of God.


[Read next: “Baptizing the lie about ICE and the killing of Renee Nicole Good.”]

Kathleen Bonnette works at the Center on Faith and Justice at Georgetown University, where she also teaches theology. She is the author of (R)evolutionary Hope: A Spirituality of Encounter and Engagement in an Evolving World (Wipf and Stock).