News and Updates

We find ourselves in a moment of tension and uncertainty, as our federal government remains in a shutdown triggered by an impasse over health-care policy. Today, the Senate is moving toward a vote on a short-term funding bill that could reopen the government and keep operations running into January. But even if that measure passes, the underlying dispute over health-care support for low- and moderate-income Americans remains unresolved.

One side is insisting that the funding resolution be clean; the other side is saying they cannot yield unless health-care subsidies and protections, eliminated in the budget bill passed earlier this year, are restored.

At first glance, one might say this is Washington’s fight—a matter for politicians and policy experts. But the truth is that while this debate unfolds in the capital, its effects will not stay there. They have been rippling through homes, workplaces, and most certainly our congregations.

In the halls of power, the language being used to justify this shutdown is full of division and blame. Too often, leaders speak as if the poor, the immigrant, and even our youth are problems to be managed rather than people to be served. Yet the consequences are deeply human and deeply personal. The decisions being made—or delayed—will determine whether families can afford to see a doctor, fill a prescription, or keep health coverage at all.

For many Latino families, this shutdown is one more layer of worry added to the daily struggle to make ends meet. The people who worship in our churches and volunteer in our food pantries are among those most vulnerable when health care becomes unaffordable or when the safety net they rely on begins to fray.

And now, as deportations rise again in many states—including right here in Florida—the burden grows even heavier. Families who are already struggling to make ends meet are also living in fear of being separated. For many, the uncertainty of the shutdown is intertwined with the uncertainty of whether their loved ones will still be with them tomorrow.

And with funding for SNAP — the federal food assistance program that feeds 42 million Americans, including nearly three million Floridians — paused and in limbo, parents who already stretch every dollar will face empty cupboards. Food banks, stretched to their limits, will not be able to fill the gap. These are not abstract numbers; they are the families sitting in our pews, the neighbors who turn to the Church for help when public systems fail them.

I think of my own mother, an immigrant from Colombia, raising five children in the Bronx. There were nights when she wasn’t sure how she would put food on the table. Had it not been for a compassionate community and policies that offered a hand up instead of pushing us down, our story could have been very different. But because neighbors cared, and because the systems of care were working, we grew into five adults who now serve, give back, and contribute to this country we love.

That’s why we cannot see these issues as “distant politics.” When the government stops working for the people, the impact lands on the church’s doorstep. Congregations become the safety net—feeding the hungry, visiting the sick, helping families navigate the maze of health systems and immigration hearings.

Our faith teaches us that every person is created in the image of God, worthy of dignity and care. That truth does not change depending on who is in power. It does not belong to one party or the other. Whether it’s Republicans today or Democrats tomorrow, the moral test remains the same: how we treat those who are most vulnerable.

As Latino Pentecostals, we understand this reality deeply. We are a people of hard work and strong faith. We value family, community, and opportunity. Yet, too often, policies made without us—or even against us—threaten the very stability of our homes and churches. The health of our people—physical, emotional, and spiritual—is at stake.

For me, and for the Church, this moment is personal. We see the faces of those affected every day: pastors who comfort families at risk of losing health coverage, church leaders who open their doors to neighbors in fear of deportation, and young people who wonder what kind of future awaits them. Our youth are growing up in a time when the ground beneath them feels uncertain. They see adults arguing over budgets while their friends struggle with medical bills, anxiety, and disconnection. They are looking to the Church not just for words, but for an example of courage and compassion in action.

This is why Mission Talk does the work we do: to equip and unite Latino churches to stand for justice, healing, and community transformation. As we launch our statewide mobilization campaign, “For God So Loved the Immigrant,” we carry this purpose with renewed urgency—because faith without works is dead.

The government may be shut down, but the Church must not be. In solidarity with one another, may we remember the words of the Good Shepherd: “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.”(Mt 25:40). The shutdown, the budget impasse, the healthcare debate: they are not mere political footnotes. They are real storms that hit real people in our pews and our neighborhoods.

Just as compassionate policies helped my mother and our family find stability and hope, we now have a responsibility to do the same for others. Every time we stand with immigrants, families, and young people striving for a better life, we strengthen the moral foundation of our nation.

May we be the hands and feet of Christ during this time, offering comfort, steadfast presence, and a relentless commitment to courageous hope.