Renee Good was a 37-year-old mother of three, a poet, a writer. On January 7th, she was shot three times by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. She was monitoring immigration enforcement as part of a neighborhood patrol—bearing witness.
Alex Pretti was a 37-year-old ICU nurse at the VA hospital, a man who spent his days caring for veterans. Yesterday—January 24th—he was pepper-sprayed, wrestled to the ground by six federal agents, and shot at least ten times. Video shows he was holding a cellphone. He had been protesting the killing of Renee Good.
Two American citizens. Killed by their own government. In Minneapolis. This month.
And this Sunday, the Church hands us readings about light breaking into darkness, about the smashing of the oppressor's rod, about Jesus beginning his ministry in the shadow of state violence.
The lectionary doesn't know what week it is. But sometimes God's timing is unbearable.
When Jesus Heard That John Had Been Arrested
Pay attention to how Matthew's Gospel begins today:
"When Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee."
—Matthew 4:12
This is not incidental detail. John the Baptist—Jesus's cousin, his forerunner, the one who baptized him—has just been seized by state authorities. Herod Antipas has thrown him in prison for speaking truth to power, for calling out the ruler's unlawful marriage. John will later be beheaded at a birthday party, his head delivered on a platter.
This is the context in which Jesus begins his public ministry. Not in a time of peace and stability. Not when the authorities are friendly to prophets. Jesus launches his mission in the immediate aftermath of state violence against a truth-teller.
And what does he do? He goes to Galilee—the margins, the periphery, the place of mixed identities and imperial occupation—and he starts preaching: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."
THE PATTERN OF PROPHETS
The arrest of John the Baptist follows a pattern as old as prophecy itself. Prophets speak. Empires silence. And somehow the word survives.
Jeremiah was thrown into a cistern. Elijah fled for his life. Isaiah, according to tradition, was sawn in half. John lost his head.
The powers have always known that witnesses are dangerous. That's why they keep killing them.
The Yoke, the Pole, the Rod
Now listen to Isaiah, written seven centuries before Christ, speaking to a people who knew state violence intimately:
"For the yoke that burdened them, the pole on their shoulder, and the rod of their taskmaster you have smashed, as on the day of Midian."
—Isaiah 9:3
The yoke. The pole. The rod. These aren't abstractions. They're the instruments of oppression—the literal tools used to control occupied peoples, to extract labor, to enforce submission. Isaiah is promising liberation from imperial domination.
"As on the day of Midian." This references Judges 7, when Gideon defeated a vastly superior army with three hundred men, torches, and clay jars. The point: God doesn't liberate through superior firepower. God liberates through weakness that exposes the brutality of power.
Renee Good was in her car. Alex Pretti was holding a phone. Neither was a threat. That's the point. The overwhelming force deployed against them reveals something about the nature of the power being exercised.
"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone."
—Isaiah 9:1
What is the light? Is it just comfort? Is it merely spiritual reassurance? Or is it something that actually threatens the darkness—something the darkness tries desperately to extinguish?
Whom Should I Fear?
The Psalm for this Sunday asks a question that lands differently when federal agents are shooting citizens in the street:
"The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear? The LORD is my life's refuge; of whom should I be afraid?"
—Psalm 27:1
This is not a rhetorical question for people living under occupation. It's not abstract for communities being raided. When the Psalmist asks "whom should I fear?" he is naming real threats—armies, enemies, accusers. And he is making a theological claim: that no earthly power, however terrifying, is ultimate.
This is not naive. The Psalmist knows perfectly well that earthly powers can kill the body. He's choosing to fear something else more—or rather, to trust Someone else more than he fears the powers.
Renee Good went out to monitor ICE operations knowing it was risky. Alex Pretti went to protest knowing federal agents were in the streets. They weren't naive about the danger. They made a choice about what mattered more than their safety.
WHAT RENEE GOOD KNEW
Renee Good had done Christian youth mission work in Northern Ireland in 2005 and 2006. She knew what it meant to show up in places of conflict. She knew the ministry of presence—of simply being there, bearing witness.
Friends from those missions remembered her as "nurturing, gentle, and committed to community." She was doing what she'd been doing for twenty years: showing up where showing up was needed.
Is Christ Divided?
And then there's Paul, writing to a divided church:
"I urge you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree in what you say, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and in the same purpose."
—1 Corinthians 1:10
The Corinthians were dividing into factions: "I belong to Paul," "I belong to Apollos," "I belong to Cephas." Sound familiar? The American Church is carved into camps—traditionalist and progressive, MAGA and resistance, those who see these killings as tragedy and those who see them as justified.
Vice President Vance—a Catholic convert—called Renee Good "a deranged leftist." The National Catholic Reporter responded that his comments "are a moral stain on the collective witness of our Catholic faith." Archbishop Hebda called for prayers. Fr. Daniel Griffith at the Basilica of Saint Mary offered a Mass for her and her family.
Is Christ divided?
Paul's question was always impossible. But it has rarely felt more urgent. When Catholics cannot agree on whether shooting an unarmed mother is murder or justified force, what exactly unites us?
"For Christ did not send me to baptize but to preach the gospel, and not with the wisdom of human eloquence, so that the cross of Christ might not be emptied of its meaning."
—1 Corinthians 1:17
The cross of Christ emptied of its meaning. That's what happens when Christians side with the executioners. The cross was Rome's instrument of state terror—the empire's way of saying "this is what happens to troublemakers." When Christians defend state killing, we empty the cross. We switch sides. We join the soldiers casting lots for his garments.
Drop Your Nets
In the midst of all this, Jesus walks along the Sea of Galilee and calls some fishermen:
"Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men." At once they left their nets and followed him.
—Matthew 4:19-20
At once. Immediately. No deliberation, no cost-benefit analysis, no waiting to see how things play out. They just go.
James and John leave their father in the boat with the nets half-mended. They walk away from economic security, family obligation, and social respectability to follow an itinerant preacher whose cousin was just arrested by the state.
This is not prudent behavior. This is not how you protect yourself and your family in dangerous times. This is how you get yourself killed.
And yet.
ALEX PRETTI'S VOCATION
Alex Pretti was an ICU nurse. He spent his days at the VA hospital caring for veterans—people who had themselves served the government that would kill him. He chose a profession of healing, of presence at bedsides, of holding space for suffering.
His father said: "He cared about people deeply and he was very upset with what was happening in Minneapolis and throughout the United States."
He could have stayed home. He went out anyway.
What Does the Light Demand?
The readings don't tell us what to do. They never do, not exactly. But they tell us what kind of moment we're in:
A moment when Jesus begins his ministry in the shadow of state violence.
A moment when the light shines in darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it—though it will try.
A moment when the call comes: Follow me. Now. Not when it's safe. Not when the political situation improves. Not when following is cost-free. Now.
The fishermen left their nets at once. Renee Good went out to bear witness. Alex Pretti went out to protest. They all knew the risks. They went anyway.
What's your net? What's the thing you're holding onto, telling yourself you'll follow when the time is right? What would it mean to drop it?
For Minneapolis, For All of Us
Three homicides in Minneapolis so far in 2026. Two of them committed by federal immigration agents against US citizens.
This is the land of gloom Isaiah describes. This is the darkness into which the light shines. And the light doesn't shine by being safe or strategic or prudent. The light shines by being present—by showing up in dark places, by naming what is happening, by refusing to look away.
Renee Good was 37. Alex Pretti was 37. The same age. Both dead in the same city, killed by agents of the same government, in the same month. Both bearing witness in their own way.
The Psalm says: "I believe that I shall see the bounty of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD with courage; be stouthearted, and wait for the LORD."
Waiting with courage. Being stouthearted. That's the posture. Not passive waiting—active, courageous, stouthearted waiting. The kind of waiting that goes out into the street. The kind of waiting that bears witness. The kind of waiting that risks everything.
Renee Good, pray for us.
Alex Pretti, pray for us.
Lord, be our light and our salvation. Give us courage. Make us stouthearted. And when the call comes—whatever form it takes—help us drop our nets at once, and follow.