So far, no area churches join sanctuary movement

Today, in cities from Seattle to New York, church groups will officially launch a new sanctuary movement to extend shelter and protection for illegal immigrants facing deportation.

But as of Tuesday, no church in the Puget Sound area had stepped forward to act as a residential safe haven. In some other cities, congregations that had committed to provide refuge had no families willing to live at the churches and make their stories public.

The challenges reflect how divisive the immigration issue is — even within the religious community.

St. Mary's in the Central Area, which has a large Latino congregation, was described by sanctuary organizers last week as a church that would be providing residential sanctuary. But organizers have since backed away from that, saying that the church and the Archdiocese of Seattle were still deciding what the church's involvement will be. Neither the pastor nor the spokesman for the archdiocese returned telephone calls.

The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, a strong advocate for illegal immigrants, said it had not taken a position on sanctuary and that such decisions were being made by local dioceses and parishes.

Today's launch comes as a divided nation struggles over how to reconcile the more than 12 million illegal immigrants in the U.S. The launch also comes as Congress prepares to debate a measure that would, among other things, create a legal path for many such immigrants.

In recent months, the sanctuary movement has gained momentum as stepped-up immigration enforcement has led to more raids and deportations.

Michael Ramos of the Church Council of Greater Seattle, an organizer of the movement, said that deciding whether to offer sanctuary takes time and that many churches are still determining their role.

Sanctuary families must have at least one member marked for deportation and be willing to talk openly about their own case and changes in the law that would help people like them.

In addition to housing, churches would help with legal and other support.

While immigration agents could legally enter a church to remove someone ordered deported, they are unlikely to.

In enforcing the law, Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials place a priority on national security and public safety, spokeswoman Lorie Dankers said. "When we carry out enforcement actions we do so at appropriate times and in appropriate places."

An echo of the 1980s

Ramos said he expects local congregations will step up. "I don't feel concerned about the congregations not having yet responded," Ramos said. "This is energizing congregations to take action that will benefit all families."

The new sanctuary movement echoes one in the 1980s, in which churches across the country opened their doors to people fleeing war and persecution in Central America. The churches disagreed with the U.S. government's refusal to classify them as political refugees eligible for asylum.

Eventually, many of them moved out of the sanctuaries and on with their lives.

Among those given sanctuary was Armondo Paxtor, who was kidnapped, tortured and left for dead along a street outside Guatemala City 25 years ago.

He found refuge at Seattle's University Baptist Church, where he was sheltered for two years.

At the height of the movement in Washington state, 11 religious organizations harbored about 100 Central American refugees.

Louis Desipio, an associate professor of Chicano/Latino Studies at the University of California, Irvine, said that while the argument for sanctuary two decades ago was more compelling, "even back then it was controversial; some churches chose to participate, and some didn't.

"The moral claim in the contemporary movement is different," he said. In putting a face on the movement, churches must select immigrants with compelling stories — U.S.-born children whose parents face deportation. "Breaking up the family — that's the way you tug the heartstrings in this contemporary movement."

But Ira Mehlman, a spokesman for the Federation for American Immigration Reform, which opposed the movement then as now, questions how churches can justify this as a charitable effort.

"It can only be charity if you're using your own resources," he said. "But they are asking everybody else to be charitable: It's somebody else's job they are prepared to sacrifice, somebody else's child's educational opportunity."

One man's story

Paxtor grew up poor in the Guatemalan countryside and moved to Guatemala City when he was 12 to live with an uncle.

Later he became involved with groups seeking basic rights for the poorest citizens.

One night in 1982, he and six others were kidnapped, blindfolded and tortured. Struck in the head with a rifle and knocked unconscious, he awoke the next day and went into hiding.

Friends helped him to the Guatemala-Mexico border. Eventually, he slipped into the U.S.

In Los Angeles, "I had no family," he said. "I was like a homeless person." He soon became an advocate for Central American refugees.

In July 1985, he and two other families rode in a caravan from Los Angeles to Seattle, stopping along the way to speak about why they'd fled their home.

Roberta Ray, then a member of Seattle's University Unitarian Church, said her congregation had spent the previous year debating involvement.

"Some of our members were simply opposed to it. Some were concerned about the legal ramifications of aiding people who were undocumented," she said. In 1987, Paxtor and Ray married. In 1995 he obtained his green card. The next year, he returned to Guatemala to visit his sick mother.

"I felt uncomfortable like I was going to a foreign country," he said, "like I no longer belonged there."

Lornet Turnbull: 206-464-2420 or lturnbull@seattletimes.com