By Mary Vanderhoof
(Photo Credit: Jay Sorgi, CatholicPhilly.com)
“There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens….
a time to be silent, and a time to speak.” Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 7
I have been to several protests in the past year, all of them peaceful but raucous and noisy. Like so many of my fellow Americans, I have immigrant forebears to thank for my American citizenship, and I believe my Catholic immigrant heritage is largely responsible for both the passion I feel about defending immigrant rights and my dogged perseverance in my Catholic faith. So, when I learned about a Catholic protest for immigrant rights in front of the ICE field offices in Philadelphia on November 13th, I immediately began to reach out to my Catholic friends who are active in social justice, asking them to come along. I pictured us marching down the street together, chanting pro-immigrant slogans and carrying signs. But as I was soon to learn, this was not that kind of protest.
The prayer vigil and Eucharistic procession I participated in took place on the Feast of Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini, patron saint of immigrants. It was one of many “One Church, One Family” events held in cities throughout the United States, jointly organized and sponsored by the USCCB Office of Migration and Refugee Services, multiple congregations of women and men religious, and Catholic social justice groups. Instead of carrying signs and shouting slogans, I found myself processing through the busy streets of Philadelphia in total silence, accompanied by the Eucharist held high in a monstrance, followed by over 100 priests, women religious and fellow lay Catholics.
Our reverent silence spoke to our shared belief that Christ was fully present here, not hidden away in a tabernacle but present among us, being carried through the streets. Each step was an invitation to walk, reflect, and meditate on Jesus, who suffered and died for each of us and whose suffering is inseparably bound to the suffering of our migrant brothers and sisters.
More than anything, it was the profound silence that struck me, only occasionally interrupted by the distant sounds of a passing truck or the wail of an ambulance siren in the distance. As we moved together—over one hundred people—our footsteps created a gentle, rhythmic pattern, a quiet procession winding in single file along the busy sidewalks of Philadelphia. Our reverent silence spoke to our shared belief that Christ was fully present here, not hidden away in a tabernacle but present among us, being carried through the streets. Each step was an invitation to walk, reflect, and meditate on Jesus, who suffered and died for each of us and whose suffering is inseparably bound to the suffering of our migrant brothers and sisters.
The procession was steeped in tradition and reverence, yet when brought outside to the bustling streets of Center City Philadelphia during lunch hour, it transformed into a striking and sacred Catholic spectacle. Leading the way was a large processional crucifix, flanked by two candles and a thurifer carrying burning incense. Immediately following this was a grand, ornate canopy, suspended from four gold poles, sheltering the priest as he carried the Eucharist in an elaborate gold monstrance. Two staff members from Goodfaith, Stephanie Peddicord and Maggie Smith, were asked to help hold up the canopy while I served as one of the candle bearers.
All participants assisting in the procession were asked to wear full-length white albs over their clothing. At first, I felt somewhat awkward donning a vestment that is typically reserved for liturgical rituals inside a church. There was a certain irony and a touch of amusement in the fact that three women, including myself, were wearing garments traditionally designated for men within the Catholic Church. But as the procession assembled, I realized that the vestments and ceremonial items not only established an atmosphere of reverence and solemnity, fitting for a procession centered on the very Body and Blood of Christ, but also created a visually captivating scene that was essential to this public demonstration of faith.
The elaborate Catholic ritual and pageantry played a key role in capturing the attention of numerous pedestrians and bystanders. Many stopped in their tracks, some joining in silent prayer, while others took out their phones to photograph the extraordinary sight. Even the police officers assigned to monitor the event appeared drawn in by the unique combination of sights, scents, hymns, prayers, and the profound silence that marked the procession. It was like no other protest most had ever witnessed in this City of Brotherly Love.
As I moved in silence with the crowd that day, my mind was filled with the stories of countless migrants who have endured immense suffering as a result of America’s ongoing challenges in reforming its immigration policies. I recalled the many faces of men, women, and children I had met during my volunteer trips to McAllen and Brownsville, Texas — their expressions marked by sadness, exhaustion, and fear. I prayed deeply for our nation, asking that both citizens and leaders would find the compassion and wisdom to recognize the intrinsic worth and dignity of the immigrants living among us.
My thoughts extended to the many migrant families who, faced with violence and poverty in their home countries, made the painful decision to leave everything behind in hopes of finding safety and a brighter future for their children in America. Instead, many have been met with rejection and sent away with nothing. In those moments, I mentally entrusted each of these individuals and families to the loving, outstretched arms of Jesus, seeking comfort and hope for them in His embrace. And as I did, I began to grasp the profound significance of a Eucharistic procession as a response to the injustices unfolding in our cities.
The Catechism of the Catholic Church [1397]teaches that “The Eucharist commits us to the poor.” When we receive the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist, we are uniting ourselves to Jesus who chose to be born among the poor, live in their midst, and serve them throughout His life. The Eucharist is a powerful sign of Christ’s radical love and solidarity with all people, but especially with those who are poor and marginalized. This profound union with Jesus in the Eucharist requires us to recognize His presence in every person, particularly those who are suffering or living on the margins of society. The mandate is clear: to unite ourselves with Christ in the Eucharist compels us to see His face in everyone, and most especially in the poor and marginalized. As Scripture reminds us, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me…” (Mt. 25:35).
For decades Catholics, like most Americans, have found themselves deeply divided on the question of immigration. The Church teaches that a nation has the right to control its borders and regulate immigration for the sake of the common good. But as Catholic Social Teaching states, rights come with responsibilities. In their 2003 pastoral letter “Strangers No Longer: Together on the Journey of Hope,” the US Catholic bishops wrote, “Regardless of their legal status, migrants, like all persons, possess inherent human dignity that should be respected. Often they are subject to punitive laws and harsh treatment from enforcement officers from both receiving and transit countries. Government policies that respect the basic human rights of the undocumented are necessary.”
The raids recently being conducted in major American cities by ICE and Border Patrol are undoubtedly violating the basic human rights and dignity of thousands of immigrants. The scenes of families being torn apart are heart wrenching. Witnessing the dehumanizing treatment of these individuals as they are physically dragged, pushed, and wrestled into submission is unbearable. And hearing the increasingly hostile public discourse on this issue only intensifies my sense of despair.
How can we remain people of hope in the face of such injustice and suffering? I don’t have an easy answer, but as I walked with Jesus, present in the Blessed Sacrament, along with over one hundred other believers, I felt hope again for the first time in a long time. I’ve never been one to send “thoughts and prayers” in the face of injustice or suffering. I have always felt the need to take direct action, whether that is volunteering at a respite center, calling my legislators, or raising my voice at a protest. But I was reminded at the prayer vigil of the faith of Saint Frances Cabrini, who faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles in her efforts to provide food, housing, medical care, and education to the destitute and despised Italian immigrants of her day. She was certainly a woman of action, but it was her unwavering faith in God, persistence in prayer and regular reception of the Eucharist that gave her strength, perseverance and courage to succeed in her mission. May she serve as an example to all of us who are feeling despair in these dark days, inspiring us to persevere in faith and prayer as we work together for justice for our immigrant brothers and sisters.
