As I reflected on the execution of Alex Pretti in Minnesota, the image of the weeping Jesus stayed with me. I could not shake it off each time I closed my eyes. In the Gospel of John, we find these simple words: “Jesus wept.” They sound simple, and yet they carry weight. In them, we see the sacred heart of Jesus—fully divine, and fully human.
Jesus weeps at the death of his friend Lazarus. He also weeps for Martha and Mary, whose grief is overwhelming. He does not rush to resolve the situation. Rather, he stands with them. He allows their pain to touch him. He weeps. In that place of tears, God’s life-giving power is revealed. From grief, new life emerges as Lazarus is called out from the tomb.
The death of Alex Pretti, like the shooting of Renee Good, confronts us with the reality of human cruelty. It reveals what happens when power forgets compassion—when authority is exercised without reverence for human life. These deaths weigh so heavily on each of us, and they should. My friends, lament is not weakness; it is a faithful response to suffering.
While Alex’s name has reached us, there are so many others whose names we may never know—people rendered invisible because of their race, their immigration status, or their gender identity. Many have died at the hands of ICE, first stripped of their humanity by labels such as criminal or domestic terrorist. Words matter. They shape how we see one another, and how we can allow violence to be justified.
In history, a dangerous pattern has taken hold. Policies are introduced by first dehumanizing the vulnerable. Images are circulated, narratives are formed, fear is cultivated. Slowly, compassion erodes. We begin to accept suffering as inevitable, even deserved. Yet, every person detained, every life lost, bears the image of God.
Communities of color have carried this pain. Many watched from a distance as Latinos, Asians, and Black people were targeted, arrested, and killed. Now we are witnessing others—white allies—suffering the same fate, labeled domestic terrorists for standing in solidarity. Like Jesus standing before the tomb of Lazarus, they step into the streets to share the grief of immigrants, to insist that our humanity is shared. Their witness is costly. Some pay with their lives.
Back to the image of the weeping Jesus. Was he weeping for Lazarus, or for Martha and Mary? Scripture suggests both. Perhaps that is how Jesus meets us now. He weeps for those who have died and for those who are grieving. He weeps for our fear, our exhaustion, our faltering hope.
Yet his tears are not the end of the story. Jesus does not abandon us in our sorrow. He remains present—when the streets are filled with smoke, when our hearts are heavy, when faith feels fragile. He shares our pain and stay close. In his presence, even amid tears, God is still at work, calling us toward life, dignity, and compassion.
Sunday
From the E-Crier of January 29, 2026. Subscribe to the weekly newsletter.