Minneapolis and the Courage to Ask for Mercy
This past weekend, I traveled to Minneapolis—not for the first time, but at a very particular moment in the life of the city. Over the past few weeks, Minneapolis has been carrying visible and invisible wounds: grief, tension, fatigue, and a deep longing for healing. My visit was not planned around events or headlines, nor was it intended to make a statement. It arose from something far more basic—and far more demanding: a desire to be present with people.
When I speak of the Church in moments like this, I do not mean only the institution, its structures, or its leadership. I mean the whole People of God—every member of the Body of Christ—living, working, praying, struggling, and hoping in a particular place. The Church does not stand apart from the city. She lives within it. She bears its wounds and carries its fears and hopes in her own body.
It mattered to me to be in Minneapolis this past weekend. When people are hurting, when emotions are raw, and when trust feels fragile, solutions are neither easy nor obvious. But these experiences must be encountered firsthand. The Church cannot always resolve what troubles a city, but she cannot be absent from it either. Not because she has ready-made answers, and certainly not because she looks to enter the narrow and often polarizing space of political debate. But because she exists in the polis. She is local. She is incarnate. She must be with people where they are.
I am aware that even this reflection carries risk. Words can divide; staying silent can divide as well. So, I offer this reflection not as commentary, not as argument, and not as a verdict—but as a pastoral witness to what I experienced, what I prayed for, and what I encountered in Minneapolis during this moment in time.
The Eucharist at the Center
The heart of my visit this past weekend was the celebration of the Divine Liturgy on Sunday, February 1st—the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee. It is no accident that the Church begins the journey toward Great Lent with this parable. Before we speak about fasting, discipline, repentance, or spiritual effort, the Church places before us a more fundamental question: How do we stand before God?
Everything returns to the Eucharist—the Sacrament of Love. God’s love for the world. God’s love not as an idea, a sentiment, or a slogan, but as a gift that is broken and shared, offered again and again “for the life of the world.”
The Publican stands at a distance. He does not justify himself. He does not compare himself to others. He does not negotiate. He dares to ask for something astonishingly intimate: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
This cry is woven deeply into our worship as Christians. We place it on our lips constantly, especially in the Divine Liturgy. And yet, we often miss how bold it truly is.
Mercy from the Depths
The Greek word for mercy—ἔλεος/eleos—is not abstract. It is visceral. It comes from σπλάχνα/splanchna, referring to the inner parts, the depths, the very “guts” of a person. When the Publican asks for mercy, he is not asking for tolerance or indulgence. He longs to enter God’s very inner life—into God’s depths, into God’s embrace.
What makes the Publican’s prayer so daring is that he asks for this intimacy as a sinner. He does not wait to become worthy or try to justify himself. He trusts—against all appearances—that nothing can ultimately separate him from God’s love.
That same Sunday, the Epistle reading comes from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Romans, where Paul asks the question so many people are asking today, often without words: “What can separate us from the love of God?” And then answers it with breathtaking clarity: Nothing.
The Other Temptation
The Pharisee’s temptation is not confined to the past. It is painfully familiar. He believes that closeness to God must be earned, protected, and measured—that mercy is a reward and righteousness a possession. Most dangerously, he believes that God’s love must be guarded from those who do not deserve it.
We fall into this temptation more easily than we care to admit. We judge motives. We sort people into categories. We decide—quietly or aloud—who is worthy of compassion and who is not. And in doing so, we sometimes place ourselves between others and God’s mercy, as if it were ours to control.
What I Encountered in Minneapolis this Weekend
During my time in Minneapolis this past weekend, I encountered both a deep longing for God’s mercy and a deep anxiety about it. I met people who are hungry to be seen, to be heard, and to be embraced by something stronger than fear and division. But I also sensed a fear that mercy might be extended too broadly—that it might include a neighbor who disagrees with them, sees the world differently, or carries wounds that feel threatening or unfamiliar.
This fear is not unique to Minneapolis, nor is it new. It is profoundly human. And it is precisely why the Church—meaning all of us, the whole Body of Christ—returns again and again to the prayer of the Publican.
Mercy is not scarce. Mercy is not fragile. Mercy is not diminished when shared. The tragedy is not that others might receive God’s mercy. The tragedy is when we convince ourselves that it is not large enough for all of us.
Remaining Where God Is
My visit to Minneapolis this past weekend reminded me that the Church does not need to shout in order to be faithful, nor retreat in order to remain pure. She needs to remain where God is: in the midst of the world, gathered around the Eucharist, proclaiming mercy, and trusting that love is stronger than fear.
I remain certain that, when people begin to believe—truly believe—that nothing can separate them from the love of God, the world begins to change. Slowly. Quietly. Imperfectly. But genuinely.
And that work always begins in the same place, with the same daring prayer: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
