Justice and Mercy in a Time of Turmoil

By Reverend Eric Thomas M. Randolph, Pastor – Peace Lutheran Church St. Charles

God’s answer to our cries for help is not to whisk us away from the world’s pain, but to call us deeper into it—with open eyes, open hands, and open hearts.

It is a strange and heavy time to be a pastor in the heart of our nation’s capital. The streets of D.C., especially around Union Station, pulse with a tension that is hard to name but impossible to ignore. In recent weeks, the city has witnessed the deployment of National Guard troops to “restore order,” a move that has left many of us wondering whether the line between public safety and political theater has been blurred beyond recognition.

At the same time, ICE agents have swept through neighborhoods and workplaces, their presence sowing fear among our unhoused and immigrant neighbors—many of whom have lived, worked, and worshiped alongside us for years. The anxiety is obvious: in the faces of restaurant workers who do not know if they will be able to return to work tomorrow, in the worried calls from parishioners asking how to help, and in the quiet, persistent ache of division that seems to grow deeper with every news cycle. Returning to the words of the Prophet Isaiah, especially those found in 58.9-14, are necessary:

⁹Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer;

                        you shall cry for help, and he will say, “Here I am.”

            If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil,

            ¹⁰ if you offer your food to the hungry

                        and satisfy the needs of the afflicted,

            then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday.

            ¹¹The LORD will guide you continually

                        and satisfy your needs in parched places

                        and make your bones strong,

            and you shall be like a watered garden,

                        like a spring of water whose waters never fail.

            ¹²Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;

                        you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;

            you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.

¹³ If you refrain from trampling the Sabbath,

                        from pursuing your own interests on my holy day;

            if you call the Sabbath a delight

                        and the holy day of the LORD honorable;

            if you honor it, not going your own ways, serving your own interests or pursuing your own affairs;

            ¹⁴ then you shall take delight in the LORD,

                        and I will make you ride upon the heights of the earth;

            I will feed you with the heritage of your ancestor Jacob,

for the mouth of the LORD has spoken.

Isaiah's words speak to a community that had been devastated by loss and uncertainty, a people who had returned from exile and were struggling to rebuild not only their city but also their identity.  Isaiah's message is not one of empty optimism or religious cliches. It is a call to the challenging, holy work of mercy and justice, which begins with admitting the pain all around us and not turning away.

Let us be honest: the deployment of military forces in D.C., ostensibly to address crime, has left many feeling less safe, not more. The presence of armed troops at the Washington Monument and the assertion of federal control over our local police force have raised deep concerns about the militarization of public life and the erosion of local autonomy. For some, these actions are a source of reassurance; for others, they are a reminder of how quickly power can be wielded to silence dissent or distract from deeper issues.

Meanwhile, the ICE raids have cast a long shadow over our region’s communities. The agents who visited more than a hundred businesses in D.C. did not make arrests on the spot, but their presence was enough to send waves of fear through the immigrant community. Workers stayed home, businesses closed, and families wondered if they would be torn apart. The majority of those targeted have no criminal records; they are our neighbors, our friends, our fellow children of God.

In the face of such upheaval, it is tempting to retreat into despair or to numb ourselves with distraction. But Isaiah’s words refuse to let us off the hook. They remind us of God’s answer to our cries for help is not to whisk us away from the world’s pain, but to call us deeper into it—with open eyes, open hands, and open hearts.

Isaiah 58 is a stinging critique of religious ritual divorced from justice. The prophet insists that God is not interested in our fasting, our prayers, or our worship if they are not accompanied by concrete acts of mercy: feeding the hungry, satisfying the needs of the afflicted, removing the yoke of oppression. In other words, true worship is inseparable from justice. Our faith is not a private refuge from the world’s troubles, but a call to stand in solidarity with those who suffer.

To be called “repairers of the breach” and “restorers of streets to live in” is to take up the work of healing—of mending what has been torn, of building bridges where there are walls.

This is not a new idea for us as Lutherans. Our tradition teaches that justice is what love looks like in public. We are called to serve our neighbors not just in word, but in deed—to advocate for the vulnerable, to speak out against injustice, and to work for the healing of our communities. The ELCA’s own statements on immigration and justice are clear: we are to welcome the stranger, to accompany those who are afraid, and to resist policies that sow fear and division.

Isaiah’s promise is that where justice and mercy prevail, the ruins will be rebuilt, and light will rise in the darkness. This is not just a metaphor for ancient Jerusalem; it is a vision for our own cities and our own time. The “ruins” are not only the broken buildings or fractured systems, but the relationships and trust that have been eroded by fear and suspicion. To be called “repairers of the breach” and “restorers of streets to live in” is to take up the work of healing—of mending what has been torn, of building bridges where there are walls.

This work is not easy. It means listening to those whose voices have been silenced, standing with those who are afraid, and refusing to participate in the pointing of the finger or the speaking of evil. It entails promoting laws that safeguard those who are powerless, lending support to groups that offer mutual aid and legal assistance, and establishing areas in our churches where everyone is genuinely accepted.

In times such as this may we answer God’s invitation––not with empty words, but with lives shaped by justice, mercy, and hope. May we, as the body of Christ, stand boldly with the vulnerable, speak truth in love, and dare to believe that even now, God is making all things new.

Amen.