In the spirit of Rizpah: A litany of lament for recent ICE shootings

 

In 2 Samuel 21:1–14, we find the land of Israel stained with blood, suffering under the curse of famine. Seeking to end the crisis, King David makes a political bargain with the Gibeonites. To satisfy their demand for revenge, he hands over seven children of Saul's household—children who are not his own, including the sons of Saul's concubine, Rizpah. They are executed, and their bodies are left exposed to be consumed by birds and wild animals.

But with the reckless love that only a grieving mother can know, Rizpah refuses to look away. She sets up camp beside the bodies and, for months, endures the scorching sun, the cold nights, and the rain, driving away every bird and beast that would rob her children of their dignity. Her grief becomes a protest. Her vigil becomes a prayer.

When David hears of Rizpah's courageous witness, something in him changes. He gathers the bones of the dead and gives them an honorable burial. Rizpah's steadfast compassion pierces the humanity of a king who had become so dehumanized that he could exchange human beings for political expediency and leave them to die without remorse.

Bishop Desmond Tutu reminds us that true liberation comes only when all are set free and “the oppressed are freed from being oppressed, and the oppressors are freed from being oppressors.”

In that same spirit, we remember Joan Sebastián Durán Guerrero and Lorenzo Salgado Araujo – two men who were here properly in the US and recently killed by ICE agents. We speak their names because every child of God bears a sacred dignity, and because love of neighbor refuses to look away when that dignity is denied. Like Rizpah, we choose to bear witness. We choose to stand in solidarity. We choose to keep vigil until every life is honored.

I invite you now to stand with me in silence, in the spirit of Rizpah's faithful witness.