300 Faith Leaders and New Yorkers surrounded Federal Plaza on February 19th, 2026. (Courtesy: Angela James)
Fourteen people take a lap around 26 Federal Plaza on a Thursday morning, all in silence. Then, they take six more laps.
Three faith leaders guide the walk, rosaries dangling from their hands. Every time they get to the front of the building there is a brief pause: with their hands lifted towards the sky, they pray. Walkers have a wide range of ages—the youngest participant carries a backpack shaped like a Teddy Bear.
Nicknamed the “Jericho Walk” —the ritual of taking seven silent laps across New York’s immigration court — has become a weekly occurrence in the city. This weekly event is organized by the New Sanctuary Coalition, a non-profit, grassroots immigrant rights organization, a group of faith leaders and city residents that walk to symbolically stand with those facing arrests and deportations by United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
The Jericho walk is one of the many actions New York faith leaders have taken to protest recent ICE activity across the United States. The Episcopal Diocese of New York has been a leader in this mission. In the past year, this Diocese has launched a coordinated effort to provide shelter, legal services, and emotional help to undocumented communities and vulnerable parishioners across the city.
Rev. Margaret Rose from St. Michael’s Episcopal Church believes resisting ICE is an Episcopal’s “baptismal duty.”
“When we’re baptized,” Rose said in an interview, “we promise to respect the dignity of every human being, and what we’ve seen in ICE enforcement has been no respect for the dignity of every human being.”
One of their first initiatives was to declare the Episcopal Diocese of New York City a “sanctuary diocese” at its 2024 convention. In January of 2025, Bishop Matthew Heyd reaffirmed this status for the Diocese, shortly after President Donald Trump rescinded a policy declaring that churches were off limits to law enforcement agents. Mary Rothwell Davis, attorney for the Diocese, explained that this term is not a legal protection but rather an “an expression of ethos, an expression of our faith.” The diocese cannot prevent immigration arrests in its churches, as long as agents enter them legally, but it can help its congregants in case this happens.
A robust system of response to courthouse arrests is one of the main ways the Diocese offers help. This involves arranging for a lawyer to accompany an immigrant to court, partnering with programs such as New Sanctuary Coalition or Hands-Off NYC to train volunteers in accompaniment, or arranging for a clergy member to be in the courthouse as a witness, according to Davis. In case a parishioner has a court date adjourned, the Diocese coordinates to get an asylum attorney to help them fill out their application.
“It’s part of every single faith commandment: embracing the vulnerable, treating the needy, the hungry—it’s an absolute mandate in our faith,” said Davis about the motivations behind these efforts. “It’s an expression of recognizing God in everyone.”
“I hope it’s spiritual help, and spiritual help is sometimes very material,” said Rose. “You’re not there just to say ‘say your prayers,’ there’s action involved.”
Apart from the Diocese-wide effort to provide immigrants with legal services, each church has pioneered its own initiatives. St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery, a church in the East Village that has historically stood out for its activism, has increasingly become a hub for ICE resistance: parishioners have held vigils and rallies outside the church, participated in city-wide protests, and displayed murals honoring the victims of ICE actions in Minnesota.
“As people of faith we are called to speak the truth and protect our neighbors,” said Rev. Anne Marie Witchger. “At this time, this is seen as political, but we don’t see it as political.”
“At this time of violence and injustice, to be followers of Jesus is to do just that.”
This mission has placed the church under attack. Earlier this year, its murals honoring Minnesotan victims were vandalized three times in a row.
Even before the recent rise in tensions over ICE activities, Espicopal churches were already taking a forefront role in welcoming and caring for migrant communities. When thousands of migrants from West Africa arrived in New York by bus in early 2024, as reported by the New York Times and PBS, many Espicopal Churches created welcome centers where new arrivals would be offered food and water, shelter, and a place to charge their phones.
In this one specific welcome center, on a recent afternoon, a young man sat still. Surrounding him on the floor was a comb, a trimmer, and bits of his curly hair. Another man moved skillfully around him like a magician, trimming and shaving his hair until only a tuft remained.
“Next,” he screamed, lifting a cape with a tiger printed on its front to make all the remaining hairs fall on the floor. Another young man took his place, leaving a circle that formed around a single phone playing a football game.
Since 2024, the list of services offered at this welcome center has grown. Apart from haircuts, young men—most of them immigrants from West Africa—can get advice on their health insurance, help with their college essays, and a lesson from an English teacher. At other pop-up tables, the main purpose is simply to hang-out: young people typically play cards with recent arrivals in the city, and older volunteers offer life advice.
“Are you interested in college?” he asked. “If you are, the college counselor is here today.”
Mamadou, who asked for anonymity to protect his immigration status, came from Guinea in 2023, taking cars, trains, and boats to arrive in the United States. He left his country due to political and family conflicts. After three weeks in Atlanta, he came to New York.
“New York is freedom,” Mamadou said. “Muslims and Christians, they can be together here.”
Soon after arriving in New York City at 19-years-old, Mamadou came across this church’s welcome center, which he has now attended for over a year. During his first visit, he met Holly Rawlinson, who became his guardian. Rawlinson helped Mamadou apply for the Special Immigrant Juvenile Status (SIJS) program, a humanitarian pathway for children who were abandoned by their parents to stay in the United States, as well as to enroll in a local high school and move from shelters to a home.
“It changed my life completely,” Mamadou said about the church.
Now in his final year of high school, Mamadou is thinking of college. He dreams of going to Howard University in Washington D.C., to become a family lawyer and help children like he once was.
On a sunny Sunday morning, Mamadou sat outside the church. It was Ramadan, a month that includes a rigid schedule of fasting and praying. Mamadou talked about his journey to the United States, his family back home, and his future. He talked about other young people like him who are forced to escape their own countries, worried that they might not find the same opportunities in the U.S. under this new administration.
Mamadou dreams of going back to Guinea one day, and using his American education to become a leader in his country. But he vows to always return to visit the Episcopal church that sheltered, protected, and welcomed a young, Muslim immigrant.
About the author(s)
Claudia is a Stabile Investigative Fellow at Columbia Journalism School.