
I’ve been watching the fiftieth season of Survivor. I’ve watched this show for years, and if you pay attention from season to season, there’s a pattern that emerges. Again and again, there are immigrants or children of immigrants who talk about who they watch the show with, a grandmother, a dad, or a whole family gathered together.
This season, I’ve been rooting for Kamilia, whose family immigrated from Sri Lanka, and Rizgod, who is from Albania descent. Their stories aren’t just background, they’re part of what makes the show meaningful. They remind us that behind every person is a story of movement, sacrifice, and belonging.
As Hamilton reminds us: “Immigrants—we get the job done.” But it’s more than that. Immigrants don’t just “get the job done.” Their stories are still shaping our country—still shaping us—even in trying times.
This past weekend, I was back in Minneapolis for the first time since this past fall when I was visiting for a friend’s ordination. It was strange to be back in Minneapolis just a couple of months after the killings of Alex Pretti and Renée Good.
As we drove along Hiawatha Avenue, prior to our arrival, we had already heard reports that ICE still had a significant presence in the city. For our own safety, and for the work we do, it felt necessary to stay somewhere more secure.
And as we drove, the city felt different. A place that had once been bustling felt, at moments, like a ghost town. A Friday in downtown Minneapolis—once full of life—felt quiet in a way that was hard to name.
The fear is real. But what lingers even more than the headlines is the trauma.
I thought about an interview I once heard with a pastor. “Pastor Dan”,who said that in Minnesota, people had learned to live with ice. To outsmart it. To outlast it.
But you can’t outlast fear without being shaped by it.
Even if the visible presence has lessened, something deeper remains. The fear is still there. The trauma is still there. People move differently. Gather differently. Trust differently.
And that’s the tension I keep coming back to.
On one screen, I’m watching stories of immigrants—stories of resilience, family, and hope—on a reality show that brings people together.
And in real life, I’m walking through a city where immigrant communities—and those who stand with them—are carrying fear, grief, and uncertainty.
Both are true.
And maybe the question for us, as people of faith, is this:
What does it mean to honor the stories we celebrate…
while also standing with the people who are still living through fear?



