This is part of a series of stories about the United Methodist churches in Chicago that serve Hispanic-Latino communities immersed in areas plagued by ICE operations.
On this occasion, we visited the Franklin Park United Methodist Church. There, we met with members of the congregation and their leaders, and were able to discuss the situation they have been experiencing since ICE operations began, filling the communities with fear, confusion, and death.
For security reasons, all names used in this report are fictitious, to protect the identity of the people who agreed to speak with us amid this climate of persecution and fear.
Pain, fear, uncertainty, and death
In this community, ICE's actions have not only brought fear, family separation, street violence and economic paralysis, as in other areas of the city, but have also been accompanied by death.
It was a cold morning in Franklin Park when the news shattered the routine of community life and the church itself: an ICE operation had ended the life of a neighbor, Silverio Villegas González, just two blocks from the church. Silverio, a 38-year-old father and cook, was fatally shot by an immigration agent during a traffic stop on September 12, 2025, as part of the intense raids known as Operation Midway Blitz .
Amid all that pain, Silverio's death became a turning point. “That day everything changed. We found out through messages, calls, people crying. Suddenly, the fear we were already living with became real, concrete, with a body and a story,” one of the leaders, whom we will call Joshua, told us.
“When I arrived,” Joshua recalls, “there was a small group of people. My wife and I stayed with them. Then his fiancée, whom we’ll call Blanca, arrived. She was devastated. We hugged her and prayed together.”
Silverio's death did not occur in a vacuum. For weeks, ICE operations had intensified in the area. Unmarked vehicles circled schools, parks, and workplaces. Entire families stopped leaving their homes. The church pews, once packed every Sunday, began to empty.
On Friday, September 18—almost a week after the murder—they organized a community vigil. Neighbors, activists, and media came: “When we introduced ourselves as pastors from the Methodist church two blocks away, something changed. People asked us to come back every day that week to pray there. So we did. Morning and afternoon,” says Josué.
On that day of the White Vigil, Silverio's partner shared something that shook everyone, according to Josué's account: “On Wednesday, September 9, three days before he was killed by ICE, he and his partner were parked in the church parking lot. She said she told him, 'I want to go in, I want to come to this church, but I can't find the entrance.' And he replied, 'I'll bring you early this Sunday so we can go in.' That Sunday never came,” Josué recalls.
For the Franklin Park community, that story became a symbol. “Knowing they were about to enter this church reminded us why we exist. To open doors. To welcome. To accompany. To give life amidst so much death,” said Joshua.
“Before, we had more than 120 members and a regular attendance of 70 or 80 people. In recent months, sometimes only five of us would show up. The staff. That's it. Fear was emptying the church,” Moreno recalls.
Amidst the harassment, organization and clarity in the mission
José, one of the members present at the discussion, reflected on what this situation has meant for the church, as an opportunity to consolidate its community ties and see more clearly the mission to which God has called them.
“We organized ourselves, and our response came from an alliance between congregations. We started by going out into the streets to inform families about their rights. But when we saw ICE agents in our own neighborhoods, we knew we needed a stronger network,” explained Mateo, another of the church’s lay leaders.
A secure messaging group was created among churches. Volunteers were trained in community policing programs and civil rights. Patrols were organized to accompany people to school, work, or court to prevent them from being intimidated or detained along the way.
An emergency fund was also set up. “Many families were afraid to go to work,” they told us. “In just one week, we managed to raise thousands of dollars to help them pay for rent, food, and basic utilities.”
The crisis is not only economic; it is emotional and spiritual.
“What we are seeing is devastating. There is depression, anxiety, panic attacks. People are paralyzed by fear,” explained Maria, one of the church leaders who has been visiting and supporting affected people in her community.
In her experience, one of the cases that affected her most was that of a young man who lives a few blocks from the temple: “I didn’t know how serious the situation was; he was trembling. All he kept repeating was, ‘I’m so scared. I want to die, but I don’t want to leave my three daughters.’ The doctors told him that physically he was fine, but inside he was broken.”
She and other leaders prayed with him over the phone, connected him with the community, and invited him to return to the church. “No one can face this alone,” she told us.
The ministry also took to the streets. Teams of volunteers visited workplaces and residential areas, bringing food, nutritional supplements, and a message of hope: “We don’t just bring things, we bring the Word of God. We tell them: you are not alone,” one of them explained.
Many people, like a woman we'll call Gilda, came to the church because of that support. "We tell them: come, the church is a safe place. This is the time to activate your faith," she said.
Sometimes the calls come in the early hours of the morning. “At one in the morning, a woman called me crying. She told me she didn’t want to live anymore. She was afraid of being deported and returning to a country where her life would be in danger. We prayed together. The next day I went to visit her and invited her to church. There are so many people who just need a word of hope,” she recounted.
Currently, while operations continue in many parts of the country and fear still stalks the streets, the Franklin Park United Methodist Church has become a haven of resistance, faith, and solidarity. A church that, in the midst of terror, has decided not to close its doors, but to open them even wider.
*This report is a collaborative effort between El Plan, the Hispanic-Latino Ministry of The United Methodist Church, and the United Methodist News service. Rev. Gustavo Vásquez, Coordinator of Hispanic-Latino Relations for UMCOM. To contact UM News: (615) 742-5470, [email protected] or [email protected].