Hope Walz Sparks Outcry: Christmas Message Ignores Americans, Fuels Immigration Divide

Paul Riverbank, 12/26/2025Amid conflict, grief, and division, this year’s holidays reveal a global longing for hope, unity, and peace. From Bethlehem to Minneapolis, people find resilience and meaning—illuminating the season’s promise despite the world’s deepest wounds.

On a sodden morning in Rome, crowds pressed shoulder-to-shoulder around St. Peter’s Basilica, their umbrellas bobbing like bright mushrooms among the gray. From the wide steps, Pope Leo XIV looked out—his first Christmas Mass as pontiff—offering a message that echoed above the rain: “St Peter’s is very large,” he said with tired warmth, “but unfortunately it is not large enough to receive all of you.” For thousands huddled outside, his words drifted through the square, blending faith and a quiet insistence on hope. Leo called for the world to pause fighting for just twenty-four hours, but in Ukraine and other embattled places, the call was little more than a wish carried away on the wet December wind.

Contrast that with Bethlehem: For the first time in a while, laughter threaded through Star Street, spilling up to the doors of the Church of the Nativity. A rare truce in Gaza sounded a tentative, bittersweet note. The old church was alive—organ music bouncing off stone, people standing in the aisles or pressed against the walls. Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, hands raised in blessing, admitted, “The wounds are deep,” pausing to consider the faces before him. “Yet... their proclamation of Christmas resounds.” A teenager outside, snapping photos by a sunburst star with friends, captured the atmosphere: “We haven’t celebrated in a long time because of the war. This is joy.” George Hanna, another local, underlined the point: “Getting the world to notice is the only way.”

Up north, in Damascus, Christmas lights dared to flicker over doorways once battered by shelling. Fresh garlands looped above shopfronts, their red baubles a small act of defiance. Loris Aasaf, a university student whose voice had a practiced optimism, said, “Syria deserves joy and for us to be happy... to hope.” The street corners felt hesitant—celebratory, yes, but always with a wary glance over the shoulder.

Back in the U.S., the spirit of the season carried a distinctly American flavor, tinged with discord. Scrolling through TikTok, Hope Walz, daughter of Minnesota’s Gov. Tim Walz, filmed a message that zipped quickly beyond her circle: a wish for her neighbors, including those “ICE has been terrorizing,” as she put it, and for individuals experiencing homelessness or hardship. The reaction was quick and sharp-edged—some accused her of ignoring Americans hurt by immigration, others applauded her inclusivity. “Of course Hope completely ignores the American victims of illegals,” one angry reply read, encapsulating the rift playing out across comment sections.

These tensions are hardly abstract in Minnesota. ICE operations had recently drilled into the state’s Somali community, a group 80,000 strong and often in the news. Reports of fraud were everywhere—$1 billion lost, the Department of Human Services estimated, and the political fallout was fierce. Hope, no stranger to online storms, had publicly challenged President Trump’s rhetoric after he accused her father of letting Somali immigrants “take over” the state. Eventually, the backlash became enough that she announced a break from social media, simply saying it wasn’t “safe” to be visible right then.

If anything, these stories all underline what Dr. Marc Siegel and Erika Kirk would later reflect on: The holidays, always hyped as “the most wonderful time of the year,” can just as easily be a wound exposed. Empty chairs and quiet, skipped traditions haunt many. Siegel quoted the elder Martin Luther King—“Thank God for what we have left”—a simple, stubborn reminder that gratitude is sometimes a bitter discipline.

So, as the year closes, fault lines—between war and truce, belonging and exclusion, hope and exhaustion—cut through streets, dinner tables, and even Christmas Mass itself. Still, the essence of the season lingers: light spilling through a cold night, families piecing together imperfect celebrations, and strangers choosing compassion in spite of arguments or fear. In the patchwork of grief and festivity across continents, a core message remains, perhaps best distilled by Siegel’s words: “We still have breath in our lungs. We still have people to love and serve.” The world may not quickly heal its wounds, but holding onto hope—and one another—matters more than ever as another uncertain year approaches.

Holiday gatherings have always carried a kind of complicated weight, but this year, that weight feels even heavier—charged not only with seasonal anticipation, but with the jagged edges of grief, uncertainty, and debate. From the cobbled streets of Bethlehem to the restless neighborhoods of Minneapolis, the holidays are both a salve and, for many, a stark reminder of what’s been lost or left unresolved.On a sodden morning in Rome, crowds pressed shoulder-to-shoulder around St. Peter’s Basilica, their umbrellas bobbing like bright mushrooms among the gray. From the wide steps, Pope Leo XIV looked out—his first Christmas Mass as pontiff—offering a message that echoed above the rain: “St Peter’s is very large,” he said with tired warmth, “but unfortunately it is not large enough to receive all of you.” For thousands huddled outside, his words drifted through the square, blending faith and a quiet insistence on hope. Leo called for the world to pause fighting for just twenty-four hours, but in Ukraine and other embattled places, the call was little more than a wish carried away on the wet December wind.Contrast that with Bethlehem: For the first time in a while, laughter threaded through Star Street, spilling up to the doors of the Church of the Nativity. A rare truce in Gaza sounded a tentative, bittersweet note. The old church was alive—organ music bouncing off stone, people standing in the aisles or pressed against the walls. Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, hands raised in blessing, admitted, “The wounds are deep,” pausing to consider the faces before him. “Yet... their proclamation of Christmas resounds.” A teenager outside, snapping photos by a sunburst star with friends, captured the atmosphere: “We haven’t celebrated in a long time because of the war. This is joy.” George Hanna, another local, underlined the point: “Getting the world to notice is the only way.”Up north, in Damascus, Christmas lights dared to flicker over doorways once battered by shelling. Fresh garlands looped above shopfronts, their red baubles a small act of defiance. Loris Aasaf, a university student whose voice had a practiced optimism, said, “Syria deserves joy and for us to be happy... to hope.” The street corners felt hesitant—celebratory, yes, but always with a wary glance over the shoulder.Back in the U.S., the spirit of the season carried a distinctly American flavor, tinged with discord. Scrolling through TikTok, Hope Walz, daughter of Minnesota’s Gov. Tim Walz, filmed a message that zipped quickly beyond her circle: a wish for her neighbors, including those “ICE has been terrorizing,” as she put it, and for individuals experiencing homelessness or hardship. The reaction was quick and sharp-edged—some accused her of ignoring Americans hurt by immigration, others applauded her inclusivity. “Of course Hope completely ignores the American victims of illegals,” one angry reply read, encapsulating the rift playing out across comment sections.These tensions are hardly abstract in Minnesota. ICE operations had recently drilled into the state’s Somali community, a group 80,000 strong and often in the news. Reports of fraud were everywhere—$1 billion lost, the Department of Human Services estimated, and the political fallout was fierce. Hope, no stranger to online storms, had publicly challenged President Trump’s rhetoric after he accused her father of letting Somali immigrants “take over” the state. Eventually, the backlash became enough that she announced a break from social media, simply saying it wasn’t “safe” to be visible right then.If anything, these stories all underline what Dr. Marc Siegel and Erika Kirk would later reflect on: The holidays, always hyped as “the most wonderful time of the year,” can just as easily be a wound exposed. Empty chairs and quiet, skipped traditions haunt many. Siegel quoted the elder Martin Luther King—“Thank God for what we have left”—a simple, stubborn reminder that gratitude is sometimes a bitter discipline.So, as the year closes, fault lines—between war and truce, belonging and exclusion, hope and exhaustion—cut through streets, dinner tables, and even Christmas Mass itself. Still, the essence of the season lingers: light spilling through a cold night, families piecing together imperfect celebrations, and strangers choosing compassion in spite of arguments or fear. In the patchwork of grief and festivity across continents, a core message remains, perhaps best distilled by Siegel’s words: “We still have breath in our lungs. We still have people to love and serve.” The world may not quickly heal its wounds, but holding onto hope—and one another—matters more than ever as another uncertain year approaches.