Minneapolis Churches Respond to Renee Good’s Killing with Worship and Song

On a cold Sunday morning in Minneapolis, grief moved through church sanctuaries not in silence, but in words, melodies, and collective presence. Just days after the killing of Renee Good, a 37-year-old mother fatally shot by a federal immigration officer, worship services across the city became spaces where mourning blended with moral urgency.

At Calvary Lutheran Church, the guest preacher framed her sermon around the idea of power and domination, tracing a line from ancient empires to present-day realities in the United States. Her message challenged congregants to imagine a society where fear no longer shapes daily life — a place where families are not haunted by the presence of armed authorities or the threat of losing basic rights.

The sermon’s most arresting moment came with a reference to Good’s final words, spoken moments before her death. The congregation sat in stillness as those words echoed through the sanctuary, transforming personal tragedy into a collective reckoning.

Faith Communities as Centers of Protest and Care

Calvary Lutheran is no stranger to public witness. The church sits in a neighborhood marked by past uprisings, its exterior bearing imagery tied to earlier moments of racial injustice in the city. In that context, the service felt less like an isolated act of worship and more like part of a longer tradition of faith-based resistance.

The preacher suggested that another wave of moral action may be emerging, one led by people of faith willing to confront systems of power directly. She spoke of hope not as passive optimism, but as something forged through confrontation, courage, and persistence.

A few blocks away, a very different service carried a similar spirit. At St. Paul’s–San Pablo Lutheran Church, worship unfolded in both English and Spanish, reflecting the makeup of a congregation rooted in immigrant experience. Outside the building, volunteers stood watch, scanning the streets and ready to alert the community if immigration agents appeared nearby.

Fear, Organization, and Everyday Bravery

For members of St. Paul’s–San Pablo, heightened enforcement has altered daily routines. Some congregants rely on rides to attend services. Others avoid errands or medical appointments out of concern they could be stopped or detained. Children, church leaders say, are absorbing the stress in ways that leave lasting marks.

Yet the pastor rejected the idea that fear defines the community. What stands out instead, he said, is organization — neighbors coordinating quietly, offering protection and practical help, often without public attention. Participation in a faith community, he noted, has always carried risk. The difference now is that those risks feel sharper, more visible.

Choosing to show up for one another, he argued, is an act of courage in itself.

Song as Lament and Defiance

That courage took musical form later in the day. Following worship, the sanctuary at St. Paul’s–San Pablo filled with hundreds of people for a singing vigil. Though organized by a secular group, the event drew heavily from local church choirs and faith leaders from different traditions.

Before stepping outside, participants received basic guidance on how to respond if they encountered immigration officers. Then the singing began — simple, repetitive chants layered with harmonies, accompanied by drums. The music carried messages of protection, unity, and refusal to abandon neighbors.

As the group moved through residential streets, their songs drew honks and waves from onlookers. At moments, the atmosphere shifted abruptly when whistles pierced the air — a signal that unmarked vehicles suspected of federal activity were nearby. Even then, the marchers continued singing, voices overlapping, steady and loud.

For many participants, the vigil was not framed as activism but as an instinctive response to loss. Singing, they said, was how they chose to stand with families affected by detention and violence. As the march returned toward the church, one truth became clear: in Minneapolis, worship that Sunday was not an escape from reality, but a way of facing it together.