Several years ago, I began attending a small Catholic church in East Los Angeles. It is open 24 hours a day — a place of refuge for anyone who needs safety, prayer, or simply a quiet place to breathe. On my first Sunday there, I was struck by how full it was. Mostly poor. Mostly immigrants. Families. Laborers. People carrying the weight of long days on their backs.
That morning, the overhead projector displayed the wrong hymn. The congregation chuckled as it was quickly corrected. It was a small moment, but it revealed something important: This was a community used to making do, to improvising, to caring for one another.
In front of me sat a family — a man, a woman, and four children. The man looked like someone who worked with his hands. When the collection plate came by, he placed a bill in, then made change for himself, taking a little back. What struck me was not the amount. It was the dignity. The absence of shame. He wanted to give, even as he ensured his family had enough. In that simple gesture, I saw faith lived honestly.
Last week, as images of killings in Minneapolis filled our screens and protests spread across the country, questions of justice, mercy and moral responsibility were no longer abstract. They were urgent. They demanded more from faith communities than comfortable words.
Scripture came alive in that small church:
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink. I was a stranger and you invited me in.” — Jesus.
I returned to that church many times. But on Sunday, June 8 of last year, something felt different. There was anxiety in the room. Fear. Quiet murmurs. A couple of people positioned near the doors, watching. During the service, the priest spoke about caring for one another in times when some might not be able to work or provide. It was not abstract theology — it was a response to real fear sitting in the pews.
After Mass, I drove home toward Santa Clarita, choosing surface streets instead of the freeway. When I turned onto Alameda Avenue, I froze. National Guard vehicles. Soldiers in green uniforms. Black rifles. A military presence in my city. My first thought was for the people I had just prayed beside — families who would soon travel those same streets.
Later that morning, I visited one of Santa Clarita’s large “mini-mega” churches. I arrived early and sat in the back. The stage was impressive: Plexiglas around the drum kit, polished lighting, a giant screen scrolling announcements. After the service began, people continued to stroll in — coffee cups in hand.
Then the pastor opened: “What a beautiful day. How blessed we are to live here in Santa Clarita.”
No mention of frightened congregations 30 miles away. No acknowledgment of neighbors living in fear. No call to care for the poor, the vulnerable, or the stranger — the very heart of the Gospel.
I stood up and walked out.
In the months since, things have only grown harsher. We have become comfortable with cruelty. And many justify that cruelty under the banner of faith. Many church leaders remain silent — or worse, supportive.
Scripture asks a timeless question: “Choose this day whom you will serve.”
The small church in East Los Angeles has already chosen. They feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Protect the vulnerable. They live the Gospel with humility and courage.
So, I ask: Pastors of Santa Clarita — have you traded the call of Christ for the call of political power? Have you replaced “love your neighbor” with loyalty to a man?
Because in the contrast between those two churches, I saw a question our community cannot afford to ignore.
Steve LePore
Santa Clarita
