Church Under Siege: Anti-ICE Protesters Spark DOJ Probe

Paul Riverbank, 1/19/2026Church protests, ICE tensions, and DOJ intervention ignite divisive debate across Minnesota communities.

In the center aisle, about a dozen demonstrators called out, their demand echoing through the vaulted ceiling: “Justice for Renee Good.” The group stood firm, refusing to be ushered out, intent on one message above all—a challenge to an alleged connection between a Cities Church pastor and local Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations. The focal point? David Easterwood, who shares his name with ICE’s acting field director in St. Paul. Church leaders wouldn’t confirm or deny if he’s the same individual, which added fuel to the already-tense speculation gripping Minnesota’s immigrant communities in recent weeks.

These disquieting church scenes didn't arise in a vacuum. Only days earlier, over in Willmar, patrons of El Tapatio saw a different kind of confrontation. Several ICE officers, after a seemingly routine meal, returned later and detained restaurant workers in clear sight of passersby, including children and churchgoers from the neighborhood. By lunchtime, the restaurant was shuttered without explanation, and nervous talk skittered between other local business owners. “You try to look after your neighbors,” said Brentt Fees, a Willmar resident passing by the empty storefront, “and suddenly it feels like nobody’s safe.”

This climate of uncertainty found its most tragic face in Renee Good, who was shot and killed in Minneapolis early last month during an encounter involving ICE personnel. Tensions exploded a week later when another shooting occurred, again with ICE agents at the center of the controversy. Demonstrations have been practically nonstop—some candlelit vigils, others marked by sharp words and impromptu marches through city streets. Minneapolis officials acknowledged the strain, urging calm even while promising steadfast support for immigrant communities: “We stand by all our neighbors,” the city’s written plea read, “and we demand an end to these heavy-handed tactics.”

Federal authorities, keenly aware of growing pushback, took a different tack. The Department of Homeland Security released a statement criticizing protests that have targeted federal agents at both their places of work and, now, at places of worship. The language was accusatory, with DHS officials blaming Minnesota’s governor and Minneapolis’s mayor for allowing “agitators” to disrupt civil order. “We won’t be deterred,” the statement concluded flatly.

As if to underline the divide, the Justice Department jumped in, announcing an investigation into the actions inside Cities Church. Assistant Attorney General Harmeet Dhillon referenced possible violations of the FACE Act, which makes it a federal crime to intentionally obstruct religious worship. “Desecrating a house of worship,” she posted, “is not mere protest, it’s a civil rights matter.”

Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey, for his part, didn’t hesitate to counter. In a national television interview, he spoke directly to claims of chaos in the city. “This isn’t about safety—it’s about thousands coming into our home and terrorizing people for being Latino or Somali,” Frey said. His voice was steady, but the emotion was clear. “People are standing up for Minneapolis. They care for their neighbors, and that’s not lawlessness. That’s solidarity.”

These words crystallize what’s at stake. Passions are running high on all sides: residents demanding humane treatment and due process, law enforcement officials insisting their mission is public safety, not intimidation. Meanwhile, ordinary Minnesotans—restaurant owners in Willmar, families gathering for Sunday service in St. Paul, immigrant parents riding out the next headline with a knot in their stomach—wonder where this standoff leads.

The lines dividing the debate seem, if anything, to be hardening. Official investigations are underway; protests have spilled beyond the city, seeping into suburban kitchens and even the most seemingly apolitical spaces. As the community wrestles with these events, the only thing clear is that this is no longer a distant policy debate—it’s daily life, lived and uncertain, in the eye of the storm.

A hush fell over Cities Church in St. Paul—then the chanting started. Sunday morning worship had just begun, but a group of protesters interrupted, striding into the sanctuary with handmade signs, and their voices rising together for “justice.” Congregants clustered at the pews, uncertain, as the scene rapidly unfolded. Some fumbled for phones to capture the moment, which quickly landed on social media and local news feeds.In the center aisle, about a dozen demonstrators called out, their demand echoing through the vaulted ceiling: “Justice for Renee Good.” The group stood firm, refusing to be ushered out, intent on one message above all—a challenge to an alleged connection between a Cities Church pastor and local Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) operations. The focal point? David Easterwood, who shares his name with ICE’s acting field director in St. Paul. Church leaders wouldn’t confirm or deny if he’s the same individual, which added fuel to the already-tense speculation gripping Minnesota’s immigrant communities in recent weeks.These disquieting church scenes didn't arise in a vacuum. Only days earlier, over in Willmar, patrons of El Tapatio saw a different kind of confrontation. Several ICE officers, after a seemingly routine meal, returned later and detained restaurant workers in clear sight of passersby, including children and churchgoers from the neighborhood. By lunchtime, the restaurant was shuttered without explanation, and nervous talk skittered between other local business owners. “You try to look after your neighbors,” said Brentt Fees, a Willmar resident passing by the empty storefront, “and suddenly it feels like nobody’s safe.”This climate of uncertainty found its most tragic face in Renee Good, who was shot and killed in Minneapolis early last month during an encounter involving ICE personnel. Tensions exploded a week later when another shooting occurred, again with ICE agents at the center of the controversy. Demonstrations have been practically nonstop—some candlelit vigils, others marked by sharp words and impromptu marches through city streets. Minneapolis officials acknowledged the strain, urging calm even while promising steadfast support for immigrant communities: “We stand by all our neighbors,” the city’s written plea read, “and we demand an end to these heavy-handed tactics.”Federal authorities, keenly aware of growing pushback, took a different tack. The Department of Homeland Security released a statement criticizing protests that have targeted federal agents at both their places of work and, now, at places of worship. The language was accusatory, with DHS officials blaming Minnesota’s governor and Minneapolis’s mayor for allowing “agitators” to disrupt civil order. “We won’t be deterred,” the statement concluded flatly.As if to underline the divide, the Justice Department jumped in, announcing an investigation into the actions inside Cities Church. Assistant Attorney General Harmeet Dhillon referenced possible violations of the FACE Act, which makes it a federal crime to intentionally obstruct religious worship. “Desecrating a house of worship,” she posted, “is not mere protest, it’s a civil rights matter.”Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey, for his part, didn’t hesitate to counter. In a national television interview, he spoke directly to claims of chaos in the city. “This isn’t about safety—it’s about thousands coming into our home and terrorizing people for being Latino or Somali,” Frey said. His voice was steady, but the emotion was clear. “People are standing up for Minneapolis. They care for their neighbors, and that’s not lawlessness. That’s solidarity.”These words crystallize what’s at stake. Passions are running high on all sides: residents demanding humane treatment and due process, law enforcement officials insisting their mission is public safety, not intimidation. Meanwhile, ordinary Minnesotans—restaurant owners in Willmar, families gathering for Sunday service in St. Paul, immigrant parents riding out the next headline with a knot in their stomach—wonder where this standoff leads.The lines dividing the debate seem, if anything, to be hardening. Official investigations are underway; protests have spilled beyond the city, seeping into suburban kitchens and even the most seemingly apolitical spaces. As the community wrestles with these events, the only thing clear is that this is no longer a distant policy debate—it’s daily life, lived and uncertain, in the eye of the storm.