By: Rev. Katrena King
April 7, 2026
A colleague once told me that there was a need for more clergy to visit detention centers. That must have been 6 or 7 years ago, before COVID. To be fair, I always did have that thought in the back of my mind—in case I ever had the time. The truth is, if we believe that something is important to us, we will find a way to make the time. I didn’t. It’s not that I didn’t keenly sense the need; it’s not that I didn’t care. In a world so deeply marked by sin and harm, you often find yourself having to narrow your priorities in ways that make the most sense at the time. And yet, a seed had been planted. I needed to do this one day.
A number of years have since passed, and the world’s perception of detention centers and the people within them have shifted. At minimum, there is a higher scrutiny continuing to face those who come from different places, who do not look a certain way, who do not have names that are deemed “acceptable,” or who are simply different, for any number of reasons. “Difference” can be a scary thing. A lack of familiarity, an instinct of mistrust—we have all heard the worst-case scenarios, haven’t we? This unholy fearfulness grips at our very hearts through some twisted sense of self-preservation. We have begun to fear the stranger, and the stranger has become most everyone outside of the four walls we call “home.”
During 2025, there were a number of high-profile detentions across the United States. To my surprise, my home state, Louisiana, was suddenly ready and willing to accept these people into its private facilities. Throughout the year, I witnessed and interacted with many clergy and laity who felt called to do something about the injustice they saw. There were caravans to the detention centers for peaceful protests and prayer services. There was a sense of weeping and gnashing of teeth. And still I stood waiting in the wings. I had explored the possibility of visiting detention centers with immigration aid groups but never found the right opportunity to go in.
Last August, I was contacted by someone who regularly visits one of our detention centers, and they shared that there was a need for clergy to provide religious services on a regular basis. It seemed that perhaps this was what I had been waiting for. I went through an arduous application process, and I waited. For six months, I waited. And in January 2026, I was invited in for training so that I could begin participating in detention center ministry.
After training, I spent countless hours brainstorming how I might be able to bring a sense of peace to those in the detention center. This particular site houses only women, originating from across the world and speaking just as many languages. I was also told that most women in the center speak little to no English. What does communication look like without a common language? How can you share the peace and love of Christ across such stark barriers? How do you affirm people as children of God when you can’t even touch their hand? How can you make an institutional space feel holy? I wrestled with all of these thoughts until the very moment I got there.
When I arrived, I had been approved to bring in prepackaged communion servings, a plastic bottle of anointing oil, and my notes. I was received warmly by the Chaplain who helps coordinate these efforts, and he set me up in the space where the service was to happen. And of course, as time ticked by, there was a moment of doubt that all clergy have at some point in their lives: will anybody be here today? The words of a mentor, Rev. W. Craig Gilliam, rang out in my head, “The right people will show up.” I’ll be honest, I had a real sense of apprehension about the whole thing at first. I had doubts of many kinds, and fear of the unknown. However, I felt the stillness and the peace that passeth all understanding in that moment. I had looked up and seen the faces of women entering the room.
Under my breath I thanked God for the opportunity to be there. I was greeted meekly by women of all kinds. These were just normal women. Women who could have been my mother. Women who could have been my grandmother. Women who could have been my sister, or my daughter…just women. These were also women who had come to terms with their situation of being held in a place hidden away from the world, away from their loved ones, and away from places they might not ever return to. In this room of 25, only 5 of them spoke English. In truth, I could have been leading a women’s church service anywhere else in the world, and it would have felt normal. The only differentiating factor was their orange jumpsuits.
I began to introduce myself, and thankfully, two volunteers offered to do a live translation from English to Spanish, and we were off! The first thing I did was teach them a song. They seemed amused when I assured them it was only one word: Alleluia. Having consulted with a few experts (my brother, a Choir Director and Organist, along with my father, a United Methodist elder), this felt like the easiest choice for me to start with. This is one that may be familiar to you, found in the United Methodist Hymnal on p. 186:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia,
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
I sang it out in the hollow of a cavernous room, and everyone joined in. And we sang, and we sang—voices in tune, voices off key, voices with eyes closed, voices in praise and worship. Alleluia. Our a cappella song reverberated off the very walls of the place. It was then that I knew that the service would be okay.
I read scripture, I shared a homily, and I was able to offer Holy Communion. As a deacon in the United Methodist Church, I feel particularly called to bridge the church and the world. I was so thankful, in that space, that I have been given the authority, nay, the opportunity, to share Communion with these women. I did my best to meaningfully place the cup in their hand, hold it there, and recite the words we take for granted as familiar: “The Body of Christ, broken for you. The Blood of Christ, shed for you.” There, in that holy place together, we were in communion with one another.
Following this, I was given the chance to offer an anointing to anyone that wanted one. I learned that this was relatively new, with recent approval being given for the imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday. As a child, my father carried a vial of anointing oil on his keychain for anointing on the go. I channeled my childhood imagery of these blessings and began with the intentionally-framed wording: “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, you are loved.” I will never know if they understood that last part, but I hope they took away meaning. I certainly did.
There were moments in the service that cannot be explained away as anything other than holy. There were times when translation gave us all the space to exhale. Who knew that the word “pit,” a main focal point of the scripture and my sermon, was practically untranslatable? “When is a pit, not a pit?” I continue to ask myself today. There was also a time when my word for “superhuman” was translated as “Supermano,” complete with hands on hips. Those brief moments of laughter evoked a sense of normalcy in an unforgiving time in these women’s lives.
Which brings me back to normalcy… When did society’s normalcy become undergirded by an unholy fear of neighbor? When did we lose our curiosity of others, instead locking ourselves away behind closed doors and shutting out the world? Jesus commanded us to love our neighbors;1 we don’t get to create loopholes by suggesting that we no longer have neighbors because we choose not to see them. Some of our neighbors are incarcerated. Some of them are in a detention center. And many others, they’re out there in the whole wide world, waiting for a meaningful moment of eye contact, or a mutual smile from a distance.
It is okay to have moments of fear; we are human, after all. However, we also know that we were not given a spirit of fear. God, has instead, given us a spirit of power and of love, and of a sound mind.2 In turn, God has commanded us, through Jesus Christ, to love our neighbor. There are no exceptions. What might it look like to take this unholy fear of neighbor, and turn it into a holy fear? How can we shift into a mindset of being courageous in love, and leaning into God for the peace that comes alongside us in those times of holy fear? There are moments when God has called us to do scary things. And in the end, God is right there with us. We don’t get to choose who our neighbors are, and Jesus did not say we get to pick and choose which ones we love. May God give us the confidence we need to be willing to try to love them all.
Through my work at the General Commission on the Status and Role of Women, I am called to challenge the church to achieve the full and equal participation of women. In short, I like to tell people that my job is to help empower women. What does empowering women look like, when everything they know has been stripped away from them? I have to settle with the idea that perhaps empowering them means sharing in a simple time of worship with them, if only for an hour.
A wise friend once told me, “[When I was in jail], people visited me. I will never be able to remember their names or faces, but I will always remember that they came.” I don’t know how to solve the world’s complex systemic problems. I don’t know what these women need to feel loved and valued as human beings. And yet, the one thing that I do know is that I’ll keep going back to see them. For now, I hope that is enough.
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An excerpt from my first service at the South Louisiana ICE Processing Center:
For the moment when I lie awake each morning, I thank you, God.
For the chance to open my eyes, I thank you, God.
For the sky that I can see, I thank you, God.
For the birds that I can hear, I thank you God.
For the silence in the evening, I thank you God.
For the quiet in the morning, I thank you God.
For the moments when I find myself weak, I thank you, God.
For the times when I feel your joy, I thank you God.
For your healing power and strength, I thank you God.
For your gifts of grace and love, I thank you God.
For the days that are too hard, I thank you God.
For what I have to look forward to, I thank you God.
In all things, I praise you God, in all things, I thank you.
Amen.
- Rev. Katrena King
King is the director of monitoring & resource development for the General Commission on the Status and Role of Women.